The Footsore Flight Attendants Ch. 03

First, I'd felt utterly crushed, remorseful and inconsolable at so carelessly letting Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling and her three colleagues down and occasioning their disapprobation and displeasure.

But, at being sternly scolded and by her very own hand brought to book for the cretinous ineptitude of my spoons-forgetting oversight, incredibly I was uplifted and transported, consoled and contented beyond measure in the manner and means of my sharp remonstrance and harsh chastisement.

So affected was I, that, to me, Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling, perched high upon her barstool-like seat and attired so splendiferously in her predominantly green coloured sarong, had all of the regal and authoritative presence and appearance of a queen upon her throne.

In the manner of a suppliant, penitent serf, I went to my knees before Yi Ling and bowed humbly.

In her woven, backless and open-toed slider-style flight duty shoes, Yi Ling's feet were resting upon the rounded rim of her height-adjustable barstool-like seat's circular chrome footrest.

Looking down, I beheld the exquisite perfection of Yi Ling's red-painted toes, encased in their virtually transparent, pantyhose.

Eager to at least make some small amends; keen to atone - desperate to please - I self-undertook to kiss, individually, the bright-red painted toes of each of Yi Ling's light tan pantyhosed feet.

My penitent, supplicant, forgiveness-seeking gesture duly performed, I then looked up to Yi Ling, my eyes glistening in rapture.

And, my impassioned, heartfelt words imbued with all of the sincerity of my apology, regret and remorse, I said, in the succinct economy-of-words manner expected of the Comfort Station foot masseur, "Miss Yi Ling ... I'm sorry!"

"How pathetic!" cried Flight Attendant Diyanah, who sat opposite Yi Ling and was watching me from around her side of their red Formica-topped table.

Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling gazed down at me, as though mulling things over, as though considering my immediate fate. Her Far-Eastern features were inscrutable, giving away nothing of her thoughts and intentions.

"I-I'm very sorry, Miss Yi Ling!" I blurted, the building tension soon getting the better of me.

"I forgot - but it won't happen again!" I blurted further, far overstepping the prescribed parameters of my foot masseur's parsimony-of-words permissions.

"I'll just go back and get some spoons, shall I? I won't be a-"

"No - footboy! I'll go and get them," interjected Flight Attendant Mira. "You stay here - and begin performing your primary function!"

"Yes!" agreed Mira's co cane-advocating, Standard-Six recommending, Flight Attendant Diyanah.

"You will begin, with our flight supervisor, Chief Stewardess Serene. Remove her batik slippers for her, and minister to the soles of her bare feet."

"Yes, Miss Diyanah," I said respectfully.

And I did feel, a new, heightened respect for Diyanah, and for Mira too, in knowing that they would not hesitate to cane my bared bottom for the slightest reason.

I felt another, and more intense, rush, of that indescribable thrill.

So great and so urgent was Chief Stewardess Serene's need, though, after endlessly working the aisles of her Jumbo Jet on her fourteen-hour flight, literally walking all the way from Singapore to London, that she had no patience for adhering to the usual formal observances.

Dispensing with the standard protocol - a measure designed to preserve and further instil into the mind of the Comfort Station foot masseur his sense of place - Serene kicked off her batik slippers and, reaching back her legs she rested her feet upon the rounded rim of her barstool-like seat's circular chrome footrest, soles up.

Flight Attendant Diyanah then said further, in commanding tones, "Footboy: Go to your knees, and tend the tired and achy soles of your mistress!"

"Yes, Miss Diyanah," I said, obediently and succinctly, readopting the Comfort Station foot masseur's bounden parsimonious expenditure of words.

Upon going to my knees to the rear of Chief Stewardess Serene's barstool-like seat as directed by Flight Attendant Diyanah, it is impossible for me to describe what I saw with any justice the intensity of the feelings engendered and sensations of pity and tenderness evoked, and that swept through me.

Coursed right through me, upon observing close up, both the pity-inspiring, small signs, and the more distressful to behold, tenderness evoking proofs, of the work-begrimed weariness and desperate post-flight neediness of Serene's overworked feet.

Such pity!

Such tenderness!

Feelings and sensations of such pity, and such tenderness, for Chief Stewardess Serene's sweat-stained, work-begrimed, tired and achy long-haul reddened bare soles.

I pulled off my community-servant style uniform white T-shirt - emblazoned not with a community servant's ID but instead, with bold red letters declaring 'FOOTMAN' on the front and denouncing 'LITTER LOUT' on the back - and I folded it to use as a cushion.

Carefully, I lifted first Serene's right foot and then her left and inserted under them my improvised makeshift foot comforter onto the hard and unyielding rounded rim of her barstool-like seat's circular chrome footrest.

Serene did not go as far as to say thank you, for my thoughtful T-shirt divesting consideration. But from her murmurings, I knew that using my initiative in prioritising and promoting her comfort had met with her approval and was most agreeable to her.

It would not be an overstatement to say that it was nothing short of awe, now, that I stared down at Serene's side-by-side upturned olive-complexioned bare soles.

Had I ever seen feet, that were so perfect? So, shapely? So ... pretty?

I heard extraneous airport environment noises as the Comfort Station's glass entrance doors opened. Dolly trollies were being wheeled in, accompanied by the chattering voices of post-flight end-of-shift air hostesses - but I didn't look up.

Didn't look up, because here, now, sitting right in front of me with her sarong-garmented back turned to me was Serene: the most needful, desperate - and, to me, deserving - recipient to date of my primary function.

More and yet more chatterbox air hostesses both domestic and foreign came bustling in through the Comfort Station's glass entrance doors with their dolly trollies in tow, but I hardly heard them.

I barely heard the latest Comfort Station entrants speaking to colleagues in their various native tongues, as wholly voluntarily and non-compulsorily I precursive-kissed Chief Stewardess Serene's sweat-stained, work-begrimed bare toes and soles, not missing anywhere.

All but oblivious, as off my own bat and non-statutorily I concentrated my efforts and paid particular attentions to the reddened balls of her feet and the bottoms of her heels, ministering my tongue with industrial endeavour upon Serene's work-wearied post-fourteen-hour-flight feet.

Chief Stewardess Serene of Singapore Airlines did not go as far as to say thank you, for self-undertaking to respond as desired to her tacit, implicit, unvoiced proposal of decided construct, that, might - just might, possibly - be worth an extra mark or two.

But, from the contentful sounds, she made I knew that my decision to compliantly provide extra-obligatory personal foot service for her was the right one.

*

Flight Attendant Diyanah of Singapore Airlines had been right.

It was hours.

Hours, before the fog further north cleared.

Hours, before the granting of their awaited clearance, when Diyanah and her three colleagues were finally able to rejoin their male-steward colleagues and their male Flight Deck crew (who had all remained aboard the aircraft) and prepare to reposition their diverted Jumbo Jet to Heathrow Airport.

And hours, that, between giving me up to share and share alike with other needy air hostesses, Chief Stewardess Serene, Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling, and Flight Attendants Mira and Diyanah, availed themselves and made the fullest possible use imaginable of my Comfort Station foot masseur's services, both obligatory and non-obligatory.

And in between repeatedly serving the four of them at (and under) their table while they awaited their clearance notification upon which they could return to their aircraft and rejoin the rest of their crew, I 'mingled'.

I used my judgement and acted on my initiative to provide post-flight end-of-shift succour first, to the footsore flight attendants who, as evidenced by both the harder to spot telltale signs I'd trained myself to look for and recognise besides the more obvious, were most in need of my relieving, relaxing and reviving ministrations.

But I was also on high alert, on the lookout for any air hostesses who were sending me 'messages' ...

An Air France air hostess, seated between two of her colleagues on one of the padded red leather banquette-style bench seats, was sitting with one dark-pantyhosed leg crossed over her other leg and from the toes of which foot she was dangling her flight duty pump.

But the question was: Was the Air France air hostess just simply glad to have at last taken the weight off her feet and now she was just gratefully cooling her heels and airing a tired and achy post-flight foot - or was she sending me a 'message'?

Because, she seemed to be implying, by a suggestive look, that she might not be averse to awarding me an extra mark or two in return for a moment or two of extra-obligatory personal foot service attentions.

Self-programmed to respond primarily to the perceived intentional, I took a chance on taking the Air France air hostess up on what I took to be her insinuated, unverbalised intimation of decided construct.

I went to my knees before her and, seeing from her Air France ID that her name was Nicolette, I said, respectfully and with the economy of words succinctness required of the Comfort Station foot masseur at all times, "Mademoiselle Nicolette."

Nicolette did not deign to reply but dangled her flight duty pump in front of my face, in what appeared a meaningful manner.

And then, upon her working her toes to cause her pump to swing up and down continually and to depend from her toes ever more precariously, I knew her allusion was no illusion - her unspoken implication was clear.

It was a 'message'.

So there was no mistake.

No error of judgement.

No room for doubt.

I had not misinterpreted the signals.

I had not misread the signs.

Nicolette had confirmed her tacit 'invitation'.

Sat to either side of Nicolette, her two Air France colleagues - who from their name tags I saw were Isobel and Vicki - smiled, as they watched Nicolette fanning her French foot fragrance into my passive, 'willingly' accepting face.

I was now three weeks into my six-week foot masseur assignment, and an ever-growing number of both Gatwick-based and long-haul hotel-stopover foreign, air hostesses' faces were becoming familiar. Some of them, such as the EasyJet air hostess, Pearl, I'd been serving several times a week.

But only now, was I making the acquaintance of these three stunningly attractive young ladies - but perhaps, just like Chief Stewardess Serene and her three Singapore Airlines colleagues, they too had been bound for Heathrow, and that was their usual route.

Now for the first time, I heard Nicolette's sexy-sounding, fruitily nuanced voice as she addressed me in her heavily accented English.

"Take off my shoe," Nicolette instructed - as quite rightfully she was entitled to, of the obligated sentence-serving Cabin Crew Comfort Station's foot masseur.

"Yes, mademoiselle Nicol-"

I got no further.

Because, not caring to hear the further utterance of my albeit respectful but superfluous words, immediately upon my doing her shoe-removal bidding Nicolette had stilled my voice - her officially unentitled but unofficially permitted foot, forcibly tilting my head back to the optimum angle for using the front of my face as her footrest.

Showing that she was no Comfort Station novice, Nicolette then made a minor adjustment; the one that all but the greenest air hostesses always made, taking care that the undersides of her dark-pantyhose covered toes were covering my nostrils, ensuring my olfactory attentions.

I heard Isobel and Vicki giggling.

But I hardly heard them.

Was barely aware, of Isobel and Vicki's giggling and chuckling - because yet again, the richly aromatic scent of yet another footsore flight attendant's post-flight feet was stirring up that strange turmoil within me and taking over my mind to the exclusion of all else.

I leant my face into the sole of Nicolette's dark-pantyhosed foot, returning her own, considerable pressure with interest.

But it wasn't enough.

I wanted more.

I wanted to feel Nicolette's warm, somehow excitingly fragrant pantyhose-encased sole-of-the-foot flesh pressing more and more firmly into my face; wanted to inhale deeply, of those heady, previously un-partaken of under- and in-between-the-toes scents.

I reached forward with my hands, about to place them on the top of her foot, and-

"Non!" admonished Nicolette, upon registering my intent. "I am comfortable."

Immediately, I withdrew my hands and put them safely away behind my back: For the moment, providing Nicolette's chosen comforts was my sole concern.

Isobel and Vicki said something to each other in French and then tittered again.

I understood none of Isobel and Vicki's words, but I discerned much from their tone.

I tried to look at them, but Nicolette immediately tilted my head back to her most comfortable footrest angle, and then it hurt too much to roll my eyes down so far, so I gave up on it.

"Now take off my other shoe, footboy," ordered Nicolette, placing her still shod foot on my lap so I'd know where it was. "My feet are both very sore, but this foot is hurting more," Nicolette told me, exerting a little pressure with the point of her heel for emphasis. "Massage firmly, but carefully."

So ... here was yet another air hostess calling me 'footboy'.

Perhaps it was universal, in all of the UK's Cabin Crew Comfort Stations?

But I'd long since got over it and stopped taking offence at the air hostesses who addressed me by the title - if I ever had, really minded.

Nicolette removed the sole of her foot from my face and rested it against my bare chest - bare because Serene was still using my folded-over uniform white T-shirt for padding to rest the tops of her feet on the rounded rim of her barstool-like seat's circular chrome footrest, leaving her feet soles-up for my ongoing attentions.

Nicolette's flight duty pumps were well-worn, but they fitted snugly.

And so it was that with a little careful exertion, Nicolette's other shoe came free from her foot with a whoosh of escaping trapped warm air that smelled of leather, but not predominantly.

The insole, I saw, was well-worn, too.

From the looks of things, the once-white original insole had seen a lot of long, hard service. It was work-worn a very dark, charcoal-grey colour - apart from at the arch, or mid-shoe, section, where a fading idea of the insole's original bright white colour still lingered.

No sooner was Nicolette's other warm to the touch dark-pantyhosed foot in my hands and I had begun to massage as directed when, Isobel and Vicki, still shod, appropriated my shoulders for footrests, thereby completing the three-on-one multi-use utilisation of the Comfort Station foot masseur as advocated during times of high demand.

The resting, relaxed weight of Isobel and Vicki's dark-pantyhosed legs and feet now bearing down on my shoulders, I was firmly anchored and stabilised on my knees in front of Nicolette; the sole of one pungently fragrant dark-nylon encased foot again pressing firmly into the front of my compliant and cooperative face as before.

As best as I could, I lavished Nicolette's warm and aromatic dark-pantyhosed sole with reverent kisses, which with equanimity Nicolette accepted as her due.

Nicolette then shared and shared alike.

Nicolette gently pushed the bottom of her heel against my lips, and, getting the 'message', I self-undertook to open my mouth accommodatingly in 'willing', extra-compulsory acceptance.

I watched the undersides of Nicolette's toes, right in front of my eyes; watched them, as behind the gauzy dark veil of her dark pantyhose they scrunched, spread and wiggled.

And, resting their feet cross-ankled on my shoulders, Isobel and Vicki followed Nicolette's earlier example - nonchalantly working their, toes to casually waft into my face from their, well-worn flight duty pumps regulated samples of their, French foot perfumes.

My head: enveloped in the invisible cloud of the heady olfactory complexities of their amalgamating post-flight foot scents; my mouth: extra-compulsorily but 'willingly' accommodating the bottom of Nicolette's dark-nylon encased heel and my tongue, licking and sucking on and swallowing the reduced concentrated essences of the work-begrimed thin mesh's entrapped salt-rich deposits; and my eyes: mere inches away from the thinly veiled undersides of Nicolette's playful toes and, on my shoulders, watching in turn and extra-obligatorily self-undertaking to self-subject myself to the nonchalant pump-dangling and casual foot-scent fanning of Isobel and Vicki - understanding nothing but interpreting everything from their nuanced asides, I listened to the three inconveniently diverted and probably never to be seen again Air France air hostesses chatter away in their native tongue ...

By 09:05 on the Comfort Station's clock, in addition to all of the usual Gatwick-based and the long-haul hotel-stopover air hostesses, ever more, deplaned air hostesses, from more diverted Heathrow-bound flights, were coming in through the Comfort Station's entrance doors to pass the time in comfort pending clearance to reposition.

Accustomed to the splendid hospitalities, the inconveniently diverted air hostesses promptly made themselves at home in the Comfort Station.

Availing themselves: of the generous offerings of food and beverages, regularly replenished by deliveries of the contracted quality catering firm; of the comfortable seating, when available; and of me, when available.

But until the next airport services bus arrived at 09:15, when the present contingents of Gatwick based and long-haul hotel-stopover air hostesses lucky enough to have seats vacated them and boarded the bus with their dolly trollies and relieved the overcrowding, a lot of the footsore flight attendants were still having to stand.

Due to all of these flight diversions - and from one of my quick peeks at the Comfort Station's Arrivals monitor, I'd noticed that some flights bound for Luton and Stansted airports were being diverted here to Gatwick too - I was seeing a lot of unfamiliar air hostess uniforms.

The situation was unprecedented in my three-week experience as Comfort Station foot masseur.

During normal times, the Comfort Station's seating provision was more than adequate.

But now, with air hostesses sitting shoulder to shoulder on the two padded red leather banquette-style bench seats and occupying all of the red leather and chrome barstool-like seats as well, for the moment, there was standing room only for newly arriving Comfort Station entrants.

As per Mrs Jepson's standing instructions, I 'mingled'.

Roaming the Comfort Station, my eyes peeled and my antennas attuned for detecting any of the myriad telltale signs she'd told me to look out for - and also, for the little tip-off giveaways, that I'd taught myself to recognise - it wasn't long before I spotted a possible 'messenger'.

An air hostess, standing among a group of four, was displaying one of the classic giveaway signs of PSD: post-flight soles-of-the-feet discomfort.