The Air Stewardesses' Footmen Ch. 04

"Gemma, I only wish I could..."

"And now that we are on a new footing, Mason, what I want you to do is to get yourself a second kneeling mat for home use."

"For home use, Gemma?"

"Yes, Mason. For home use. Because for as long as you so stubbornly remain in your job as a cabin crewman against my repeated pleading to find daytime work, what I have just watched you do for your female counterparts in your crew room, you will also do for me in our living room when I get home from work."

"Absolutely, Gemma. No problem at all."

"When you are home during my early-evening soaps, you will no longer sit on the sofa. Instead, and in the same strict silence that I saw you observe last night on Camilla's videos, you will kneel before me on your home-use kneeling mat and massage my feet. And yes, I will also use your conveniently positioned shoulders as a footrest for one foot while you massage my other foot. The arrangement looks exceedingly comfortable, and I am already looking forward to using my new soap-time footrest."

"As you wish, Gemma. Anything you want. I'll get one at work tomorrow. I am sure I will be able to buy another kneeling mat easily enough."

"Perhaps this new soap-time arrangement, on your home-use kneeling mat at my feet, will help you to reconcile giving up your job working unsociable and erratic hours as a cabin crewman with BlueSky Holidays and enable you to focus your attention and speed up your efforts on finding alternative, daytime employment. And the sooner, the better."

Relief swept through me at the realisation Gemma wasn't dumping me. Camilla hadn't succeeded in prising us apart with her photographic wedge, albeit that wasn't her primary objective. Our engagement still stood; our future happiness together, still on track. Gemma was still the future Mrs Mallard.

Reduced to the ultimate humbling of kissing the soles of her longtime antagonist Camilla's feet in her own home because of my weak-willed indiscretions last night at the dark nyloned feet of the returned air hostesses, not least my treacherous worshipping of Camilla, I was not surprised that Gemma wanted to impose such stern stipulations on the continuance of our courtship. And I had to concede that, given Gemma's self-sacrifice and the grievous damage to be inflicted on her self-esteem tomorrow lunchtime by Camilla, Gemma had every entitlement to set the terms of our future relationship.

Gemma might insist that we move house. Even if our relocation was only a few streets away or just down the road. And how could I possibly object? Because to Gemma, after the visit of Camilla tomorrow lunchtime, our living room would be irrevocably tainted, irredeemably defiled. A permanent painful reminder to Gemma of the scene of her formal-ceremony vanquishment at the feet of her bete noire Camilla. But no - Gemma would stay put. Gemma would not want to give Camilla the added cherry-on-the-cake satisfaction of driving her out of her home.

In my overwhelming heat-of-the-moment relief at our albeit heavily caveated continued courtship and my undying gratitude for Gemma's soul-crushing self-sacrifice, I gave Gemma my contrite promise.

"Of course, Gemma! Anything you say! And I mean anything! You've made me the happiest man in the world. And, my darling, my sweetheart, you needn't lift a finger to do a household chore ever again - only to write out my chore lists! I know I will never be able to make full amends, Gemma, for bringing about your dreadful downfall. So the very least I can do in the form of atonal reparation is to relieve you of your share of domestic duties and perform them all myself from this moment forward. There will be no more domestic drudgery for you! All of the tedious and tiring housework: cleaning, cooking, laundry, bedmaking, shopping - I'll do it! I'll do it all, Gemma, my sweet, while you put your feet up. Gemma, I'll be your obedient servant. At your beck and call. And please don't give me any arguments - because I insist! You want a nice cup of tea, you've got it! You want me to go to the shop any time for any little thing, you've got it! You want permanent control of the TV remote, you've got it! You want a snack: a toasted sandwich, a tuna salad roll, a bowl of your favourite raspberry ripple ice cream - snap your fingers, and you've got it!"

"Mason, all of that is a given! But my obedient servant would obey me in all things. So Mason, will you now promise me the one thing that I truly want? Will you give up your job as a cabin crewman at BlueSky Holidays?"

"Absolutely, I will, Gemma. Your wish is my command. That is a given, too. But, with the jobs market as it is, just now, well... it might take some time. Of course, I will look. But a suitable new job will take some finding."

"Mason, I am detecting distinct undertones of negativity from you, sensing nuances of evasive ambiguity. But trust me: You had better get it into your head now that I will not allow you to wangle your way out of your promise to me. Weak jobs market or not, you should be able to find something suitable within three months. I mean something with regular daytime hours, so we can start having the kind of social life I want. Hmnn... now that I think of it, maybe I could use my special influence with Mr Aspinal to persuade him to give you a job in the loading bay at the DIY superstore. I'll talk to him. Anyway, start looking for a new job this week."

"Gemma, I will. I will try. I will look. But you know it's a depressed jobs market, and..."

"And now, Mason..." Gemma said, suddenly springing up from the sofa with the lithe agility that had helped her to outmanoeuvre and get the better of her physically superior opponent Camilla so many times in their countless catfights, "... you will kiss my foot!"

Before I knew it, Gemma had grabbed my ankles, and with her vice-like grip and the wiry strength that belied her slight frame, she dragged me off our sofa and onto the carpeted floor. My breath whooshed out of me from what was hardly a soft landing, and I looked up to see Gemma looking down on me. Gemma had hopped onto the middle cushion of the sofa, and from the directions of her calculating gaze, I apprehended her intention; her on-the-spot supplementary punishment. But, immobilised by stunned surprise, I was too slow to react and roll safely out of her way as she leapt. Although I braced myself against the imminent impacts as Gemma directed her bare heels at her selected anatomical targets, it proved to be scant defence as Gemma left me gasping like a landed fish.

"A new footing, Mason," Gemma said as she then stood on my chest and looked down on me. "Yes, a new footing," Gemma repeated as if she liked the way the words rolled off her tongue.

Gemma tested her stability. Pushing herself up with her toes like a ballerina practising her daily en pointe exercises, her pulmonary pressurising impeded the recovery of my oxygen-deprived lungs.

"So, Mason. You say I have no rival, do you? I am talking, of course, about my conqueror: the ravishing Camilla. Naturally, I am disappointed. Our catfighting, as you call it, had to end sometime. But I had always imagined it would be Camilla who would finally come crawling to me, to ask me for my chosen terms to mark my ultimate victory over her. But still, I feel no dishonour at being conquered by Camilla. Because even I will admit that she is a demigoddess. We have both just seen how Camilla can not only excite you but inspire your disloyal foot-kissing adoration - and not only to her but also to her bitchy band of cohorts. So, Mason, convince me of your future devotion to me. I'll ask you one last time: Do you have any romantic inclinations, any emotional attachment, any feelings of the heart whatsoever, towards that beguiling bitch Camilla?"

"No, Gemma," I replied breathlessly. "I have none of those feelings for Camilla. Only... manly appreciations. Which, as you said yourself, are only normal. But you have no rival. You are my everything, and I will do whatever you ask to prove it. Gemma, I'll repeat it: You are my goddess."

"Well, in a minute, I will give you the chance to prove it to me. But, first..."

Gemma made a 180-degree turn, squishing my nipples under the balls of her feet in turning her back to me. Gemma then balanced left-footed on the left side of my chest, and she reached her right foot behind her to hover the tops of her toes just above my lips.

I gazed at Gemma's up-close dirty bare sole, my eyes attracted to the bottom of her grimy heel. "Kiss my toes, Mason. Kiss each of my toes. You kissed the feet of your female counterparts. So now I want my due. You will afford me the same worshipful reverence."

"Anything you say, Gemma," I said. "Whatever you want, my love."

Over her shoulder, Gemma looked down on me and watched as I kissed the tops of each of the expectantly proffered toes of her right foot to give Gemma her due: satisfy Gemma's equal-treatment demand for worshipful reverence.

"In some of Camilla's videos of you last night, Mason, some of your air hostess colleagues had you sniff their feet, especially under and in between their dark nyloned toes. Not that you resisted - anything but. Your female counterparts had you on your knees, and they had you sniff their stinky after-flight feet - and what a kick they got out of it! You willingly demeaned and diminished and degraded yourself at the feet of Camilla and her coterie of callous cronies. So now..." Gemma said, cupping my nostrils under her dirty bare toes, "... seal your lips! Because I want you to do the same for me! Sniff - under and in between my toes!"

I did not protest my girlfriend's righteous requirement of me, and having by now recovered my breath, I was again able to give Gemma her equal-treatment due: 'willingly demean and diminish and degrade myself'.

And, inhaling through my toes-encaptured nose, the uncontrollable excitement that I'd experienced last night in the crew room at the dark nyloned feet of the returned air hostesses was now of altogether another magnitude as while sniffing under Gemma's toes I beheld the bottom of her up-close dirty bare right heel.

Only yesterday, I had no inkling of the pulse-quickening pleasure that could be had from so closely beholding such a sight. No concept of the ecstatic thrill to be derived. No notion of the heart-lifting euphoria to be attained. And no idea of the urgency of desire that this filthy focal point could arouse in me.

"Yes, keep sniffing, Mason," Gemma told me. "I like it; it is a kick," Gemma said, still looking over her shoulder and down at me.

I kept on sniffing. And the urgent excitement that gripped me from inhaling under and in between Gemma's after-work toes as I gazed at the bottom of her inches away dirty bare heel eclipsed even the olfactory stimulus of Camilla's super-scented dark nyloned soles after her overrunning sixteen-hour flight duty.

"Keep sniffing," Gemma said as she looked down over her shoulder at me to see me comply. Gemma then turned her head to face forward, and she exclaimed, "Ah! So, what have we here, then? Hmm, Mason? What have we here?" Gemma said, looking down at the telltale bulge in my pants.

Gemma removed my under- and in-between-the-toes olfactory stimulus to crouch down on the balls of her feet and unzip my pants. Having done so, Gemma grabbed hold of and brought out Roddy. Or, as Gemma calls him: 'Little Mason', or sometimes 'Mason Junior'.

Gemma resumed her standing position with her back to me. This time, Gemma balanced right-footed on the right side of my chest, her left leg bent at the knee to cup my nostrils under the toes of her left foot. "You know what I want you to do, Mason. More of the same: Sniff! I want to watch Little Mason while you sniff under my toes. I think he likes it."

Gemma was right: 'Little Mason' did like it.

Gemma was heavier than she looked. But lying under her bare soles, it was a weight that I liked. And as now she stood right-footed on my chest, and I inhaled deep long whiffs from under and in between the toes of her left foot, I realised that I had memorised what my cabin crewman colleague Terry termed the 'signature essence'. Meaning I recognised Gemma's foot scent, discerned Gemma's uniquely individual identifiers.

"Mason, you have already promised me that when you are home when I'm watching my early evening soaps, you will kneel before me on your home-use kneeling mat and massage my feet in strict silence. But, if you want to prove your devotion to me beyond question, leave me in no doubt that I am your whole world, your everything, your one and only - your goddess... while I stand on you, you will lick clean my dirty feet."

"Gemma, I have already promised I will do anything you want me to; you only have to say the word. So, just this once, if that is what you want?"

"Yes, Mason, it is what I want. Because I want my due - and more. But not, just this once. No, not this once. Your act of disloyalty, your treachery, your infidelity to me in worshipfully kissing the sole of Camilla's foot must be appropriately redressed. Seeing you on your kneeling mat and kissing Camilla's stinky after-work foot in adoration has wounded me deeply. And having to go to my knees tomorrow lunchtime to kiss the soles of Camilla's feet to save your reputation, in our living room and with you present as her witness, will pain me much deeper still. Complying with Camilla's specified formal ceremonial-style foot-kissing rite to mark my irreversible submission and her ultimate triumph will humiliate me beyond description. And, not only will Camilla's final victory coup de grace haunt my nighttime dreams, but daytime flashbacks of my utter vanquishment will forever plague me. So, Mason: No, not just this once."

"Gemma, is there anything I can say? I only wish that I could turn back the clock. But really, it was insignificant. Kissing the sole of Camilla's foot was a moment of madness, that's all. An ill-considered action. An impulse that I couldn't help. A weak-willed lapse that meant nothing."

"Insignificant? But, Mason, it was a moment of madness, an ill-considered action, and a weak-willed lapse that was very significant. Because I have no doubt - and you have admitted - that you will be helpless but to go on repeating your unspeakable infidelity. Camilla has been my undoing, not yours. You have brought about not your own personal catastrophe but mine - again, that must and will be adequately redressed. So, Mason, this is the price of my forgiveness. This is not a one-time punishment, not a one-off penalty - it is the foot-cleaning precedent. If I am your goddess, Mason, from now on, you will prove to me your professed adoration and avowed devotion by worshipping me in the manner of my choosing."

"Gemma, if it will save our engagement, keep us together as a loving couple, keep us on track to becoming Mr and Mrs Mallard... I will agree to do whatever you want. So, Gemma, if you are adamant that I must do it?"

"Yes, Mason, I am decided. I see it as the perfect punishment to fit the crime: To accord me a higher form of worship than you accorded to Camilla and even bestowed upon her coterie of callous cronies. When you are at home during my early evening soaps, facing me on your home-use kneeling mat, you will massage my feet. You will intersperse your foot massaging with frequent kisses to the soles of my feet. Then, when my soaps have finished, you will perform your higher form of worship: my pre-shower foot-clean. Either, I will sit on the sofa, and you will remain on your kneeling mat while I watch more TV, and that way you can continue massaging one foot while you tongue-bathe my other foot; or, I will have you underfoot, with you lying on the floor on your back as you are now. I will decide on the day. Is all of that understood and agreed on, Mason?"

"Yes, Gemma. If this is what you want."

"Good! So come on, Mason. Let's start! Right now, like this, with you underfoot. I'll stand with my back to you. Get ready; I'll start with my left foot. Open your mouth nice and wide; I'm going to put my toes in there, all of them. Tongue-clean methodically and efficiently. The quicker you can perform your foot-cleaning, the sooner you will get my standing weight off you."

"Yes, Gemma. I will. And don't worry about your standing weight, Gemma. I'm sure I can handle it."

"I'm not worried about my standing weight, Mason. You will have to endure it - and I have no intentions of being gentle with you. Now listen. Starting with my little toe, suck on my toes individually, and lick between them meticulously before you move on to the next toe. When my toes are all clean and in between them too, lick clean the rest of my sole. Work upward, from the ball of my foot to the bottom of my heel."

"All right, Gemma. I've got it. I'll do that. I'm ready, Gemma."

"Mason, I'm still speaking... As you see, the bottoms of my heels and the balls of my feet are particularly grimy with floor dirt. But my arches are relatively clean, and so probably just a few firm up-and-down sweeps of your tongue will do it. When finally you reach the bottom of my heel, lick it and suck on it, just as you will have done first on the ball of my foot. Work your tongue until you have scoured and sponged away all of the all-day accumulation of workplace-floor dirt and ingrained grime."

"All right, Gemma. As you wish."

"You will then repeat the entire toes and sole cleaning procedure on my other foot. Again, you will do so until you have completed your tongue-bathing efforts to sparkling-clean perfection - I will accept no lesser standard. So your tongue will have to work hard, with industrious perseverance. To thoroughly cleanse the pads of my toes, the balls of my feet and the bottoms of my heels of the day-long accumulation of dirt pick-up from the bare wooden plank, linoleumed, smooth concrete, and flagstone flooring at the DIY superstore where I walk barefoot will take resolve, a lot of dogged determination. But Mason, to prove to me your adoration and devotion, you will diligently endure and do it. So now, tell me: Am I demanding too much of you, Mason? Or are you still in full agreement with our new early evening soap-time routine, culminating in your higher form of worship as your punishment to fit your crime?"

"Yes, Gemma, I am still in full agreement. You are not asking too much. The punishment fits the crime. I can see that you are firmly set on your chosen method of retribution, so I will take it like a man."

"Okay... it will be a little awkward. I might be a little bit wibbly-wobbly, but for today we'll have to manage as best we can. But soon, we'll arrange something workable. Set something up. A fixture for me to hold onto so I can walk on your body and stand on your face without worrying about slipping off... I know: retractable handhold loops! We'll suspend handhold loops from the ceiling. The loops will give me the security and freedom to walk back and forth on your body with confidence and allow me to stand on your face for as long as I want to. But for today, Mason, to aid my single-footed balance in the absence of helpful handholds, you can improvise by holding my standing leg firmly with both hands. Got it?"

"Yes, Gemma. I've got it."

"Now, Mason, begin! Tongue-bathe my dirty feet!"

I opened my mouth as wide as I could, but it wasn't enough. But upon Gemma finally and forcibly inserting all five toes of her left foot, she told me to start sucking and to start with her little toe.

I was about to do so without having to be told again. But Gemma, standing barefoot on me, had clearly enjoyed telling me to do it.

Gemma seemed to be relishing her own version of new-era empowerment. And just like Camilla, Gemma was already pushing the envelope. First, it was to kiss the tops of her toes, then to sniff under and in between her toes, then to tongue-bathe her after-work dirty bare feet as a higher form of worship than I had accorded Camilla. But now, she wanted to set up body-walking apparatus. Suspend handhold loops from the ceiling to enable her to safely trample my body and to stand barefoot on my face for however long it pleased her.