This story is written by David, please send comments and appreciation to voondave@yahoo.co.uk

Community Service - Ch. 10.

Ch. 10: David Smith goes along to get along.


I, eighteen-year-old David Smith, had now been Canford town's Sock Room community servant for two months.

It felt like two years.

Though for the last few weeks, I had been working all day Saturday (with no extra remuneration on my weekly Unemployment Benefits payments), at least for now, and despite the importunate clamourings of the Sock Room 'regulars' in
particular, the sock-changing facility wasn't yet open on Sundays.

So, although I could no longer enjoy that Friday feel-good factor (and today was Friday) with the whole of the weekend to look forward to, I knew that things could be even worse. A lot worse.

And soon, they probably would be.

*


Things weren't too great now, of course.

Ms Harriet Harmman, the Community Service Liaison Officer and local Authoritarian Female Party representative, as a means of making me 'earn my keep', and giving me a powerful incentive to find gainful, tax-paying employment, had
assigned me to Canford town's Sock Room to hand-wash the females of Canford's dirty socks.

But, as diabolical a day job it was, I wished with all of my heart and soul to be just left alone, not picked on and antagonised and preyed upon by sock-changing girls and women, and just allowed to get on with my dreadful drudgery in
peace.

Because now, my repugnant remit was no longer confined, to just hand-washing and steam-ironing the dirty socks that the civic-minded females of Canford went out of their way to deposit at their town's Sock Room.

Now, the sock-changing females of Canford wanted, expected - and, were getting - much more, from their Sock Room community servant.

Foot massages, now, were almost de rigueur.

My across-the-road neighbour from hell, Mrs Norma Newlove, had set that ball rolling.

Even that, in the scheme of things, wouldn't have been so bad.

But Mrs Newlove had set another, and a much bigger ball rolling.

Because when a few weeks ago, Norma Newlove had also occasioned my having to respectfully and apologetically kiss, and reverently and remorsefully lick and suck clean her Sock Room crony Cheryl Chubb's days' unwashed, filthy dirty,
stinky feet - her Monday-morning feet - 'tongue-bathing', had become all the rage.

I was now spending at least half of my time, at the on-demand service of whomsoever Sock Room attending females happened to be occupying the twelve well-padded black leather 'Lazy Girl' recliners sited on the 'Spectators' Gallery'
overlook.

Stopping immediately, whatever I was doing, and standing against the five-foot high bare brick wall beneath the overlook's two-barred safety rail to attend at the foot of the recliner of whomsoever sock-changing female had summoned me.
Either, to massage (in the traditional sense), or to tongue-bathe her feet.

But, as hideous, as heinous, and as humiliating an imposition as it was, I knew I had to go along, to get along.

*


And, speaking of heart and soul, in truth, all that was keeping them together, and was holding me together, during my turbulent times of trials and travails, was my girlfriend Tina - the heaven, of Burger Heaven.

Tina and I were going steady. And ... well, let's just say we were now past the hand-holding stage.

But I was worried about Tina. Worried sick.

Tina Marshall and her Burger Heaven counterperson colleague and friend Janice Middleton, who was also her flatmate, had several times now been brought before Ms Harmman for publicly protesting against the Authoritarian Female Party and
their 'female-friendly' policies.

Night after night, Tina and Janice were out on the streets, decrying everything the AFP stood for and espoused. Demanding the revocation of their female-friendly doctrine, the immediate dismantlement of their community servant
exploitative apparatuses, and the discontinuation and absolute abandonment of all of their Placement schemes.

Above all, Tina, and Janice - who'd helped Tina tend me back at their flat after I'd assumed upon myself Tina's Standard Six public bare-bottom caning punishment in the High Street Stocks - were demanding the prompt and permanent closure
of all of the country's Sock Rooms.

But, as laudable and benevolent and self-sacrificing as their motives and actions were, for their own, sakes, I wished they would throw away their anti-AFP placards and banners and their loudhailers, and just keep their noses clean.

Because Ms Harriet Harmman, the Community Service Liaison Officer and local Authoritarian Female Party representative, had warned them that they'd now exhausted her patience. She had given them every chance and every opportunity to
reform and conform. But now their continued troublemaking and dissent, as exemplified by their rigid and intransigent anti-AFP stance, had left her with no alternative but to give them their final warning and her unequivocal ultimatum:
Behave - or else!

Behave. Or Ms Harmman would have no recourse other than to use her AFP vested summary jurisdictional powers to have Tina and Janice arrested, stripped of their female-friendly rights (which anyway they'd spurned - denounced and
rejected), and interned at the recently opened and already infamous Correctional Centre, down near Brighton - Greystone Prison.

I'd heard about the place ... The disturbing descriptions. The unsettling stories. The disquieting rumours.

From the Governor to the Staff Canteen pot washer, Greystone Prison - originally a male-inmate-only prison, but would now soon be admitting female prisoners too - was staffed entirely by females.

The prison officers (some of them man-hating lesbians, if the rumours were to be believed), who wielded canes and were reputed to be a law unto themselves, were all glamour-model gorgeous and wore skimpy, deliberately provocative pale
blue uniforms. And because of this, they were known as the Jailhouse Blues.

And the reason I was so worried - worried sick - about Tina and Janice, was because I knew that when it came to Prime Minister Caroline Flynt, her all-female member government and their so-called female-friendly policies ... Tina and
Janice wouldn't go along, to get along.

*


Because I was now spending at least half of my time, either massaging or tongue-bathing the feet of whomsoever sock-changing females happened to be occupying the twelve black leather 'Lazy Girl' recliners sited on the 'Spectators'
Gallery' overlook, my dirty-sock workload was just getting more and more out of hand.

Dirty socks were just left to pile up on the floor beside their respective colour-coded wheelie bin receptacles.

The greater part of my dirty-sock workload consisted of the long, white sport and leisure socks: the sock of choice, of the majority of the Sock Room attending females of Canford.

As and when I was able, via the automated hydraulic apparatus I emptied one of the overflowing wheelie bins of dirty white socks into the industrial sized hopper signed: 'White Socks Only!' But even that giant hopper was overflowing too.

Sock-changing females, upon seeing the wheelie bins over-capacitated, just casually tossed their pairs of dirty socks onto the ever growing piles.

Some of the Sock Room attending girls and women glowered at me disapprovingly. Others would go further, verbally berating me with hurtful haranguing admonishments and strongly worded adjurations to greater sock-washing efforts.

But just as long as there was a clean pair of socks waiting for them on the shelves, most Sock Room attending females would leave it at that.

But the sock-changing females of Canford were beginning to kick up a stink about their stinky socks left lying around and stinking the place up.

Why should they have to put up with it? Why wasn't I earning my Unemployment Benefits handouts? Why wasn't I keeping my dirty-sock workload overspill down to an acceptable level? In short: Why wasn't I pulling my finger out?

Some of the Sock Room attending girls and women would ask me these questions and put other related queries to me while I was actually in the midst of massaging or tongue-bathing the feet of a reclining female who'd summoned me from my
work.

Sunday opening was inevitable - and it was bound to happen soon.

The only reason there were sufficient pairs of socks on the shelves, was because the female Socks r Us delivery van driver Stella from Heeling was delivering two big consignments per week, on Mondays and Fridays.

Two weeks ago, in front of an enthused Sock Room audience, retrospectively Stella had administered the Standard Six caning punishment to my bared bottom for my offence the week before of Talking out of Turn - a sanctionable violation of
the female-friendly Crimes Against Females Act legislation.

Responding to the clamorous urgings and egging on of the Sock Room attending females who'd been present, Stella had taken her sweet time, prolonging the punishment proceedings pitilessly.

Stella certainly knew how to use a cane. And man did she let me have it!

Stella hadn't left it at that, though - she said she wanted me to learn a valuable lesson: A community servant didn't Talk out of Turn to her, without incurring severe and long-lasting repercussions - no siree!

Stella from Heeling had told me that from now on, she would no longer be troubling her own, Sock Room community servant with her dirty socks. No: She would in future be depositing her days'-worn dirty white sport and leisure socks with
me to hand-wash - on Mondays and Fridays.

Once again, another sock-changing female had left me wondering why I couldn't keep my fool mouth shut.

*


In fact, since then things had gotten even worse.

For the last three weeks, it wasn't only that Friday feel-good factor, I'd lost.

Because on Fridays now I also had other, after-work duties to fulfil: Serving in a town centre theme-pub popular with office girls and other female 9 to 5ers, during the 5:30-6:30 Happy Hour - as Footboy.

CSOs Karen and Linda had told me that if I offered to serve as Footboy, I would be doing so purely on a voluntary basis - I'd fully acquitted my obligated 'keep-earning' duties for the day.

CSOs Karen and Linda said I didn't have to. And that they couldn't make me. It was totally up to me. It wasn't incumbent on me. There was no onus. And if I preferred, I was absolutely free and at perfect liberty to just go home, and
report to the Sock Room as usual on Saturday morning.

But what CSOs Karen and Linda had said, and what they meant, were two entirely different things.

What my two young Sock Room supervisors didn't say, but I knew damn full well they meant ... was that if I wanted to get along, I'd better go along.

*


At 5:25, when CSOs Karen and Linda escorted me into the town centre venue of my post-work 'voluntary' service, the Foot Bar theme pub was already heaving. Alive with loud, thumpy music, and with the shriller cacophony of alcohol
influenced girl-talk chatter and letting-their-hair-down giggly laughter: The weekend started here - and it was well underway.

"CSOs Karen and Linda! How nice to see you!" exclaimed Jacqueline, all bubbly and welcoming. "Two Bacardi and Cokes, coming right up! On the House, of course!"

Jacqueline, in her mid-thirties, was the stunningly attractive, dark-haired and olive-skinned proprietress of the female-patrons-only establishment Foot Bar.

"Thanks, Jacqui - Lindz and I could do with one, after supervising this bozo all day!" said CSO Karen seriously.

The nerve!

"And Community servant David double-oh-seven!" said Jacqueline. "My barmaids will be glad to see him - he's a sight for sore feet! Ha ha ha!"

Her barmaids?! As if she, didn't avail herself of a frequent 'foot rub'.

"Thank you for volunteering for Happy Hour again, Community servant David," said Jacqueline. "You are becoming quite the regular!"

"Um ... not at all, Miss Jacqueline," I said respectfully. "You are ... quite welcome. I mean, what would I be doing otherwise?"

CSO Karen shot me a look. But she decided not to respond - for now.

"Just a quick one, Jacqui, before we shoot off home," said CSO Linda (though I hadn't yet seen CSOs Karen and Linda turn down the offer of a second on-the-House Bacardi and Coke). "I'll just put double-oh-seven in-situ."

I looked around the Foot Bar, to see where I might be "put in-situ".

And I saw that unless any other drafted-in community servants were already in attendance at the partitioned four-seater booths, I was the first Footboy to be brought in.

Upon their becoming aware of my arrival, some of the 9 to 5er females - both, seated in the twelve partitioned, banquette style four-seater booths, or seated loftily and comfortably upon the long row of plush red leather and chrome high
barstools - brazenly gave me the once-over.

Some of the females, depending upon how intoxicated they already were, smiled, laughed, giggled, or whispered into a friend's ear something about me.

Selecting two of the 'unattended' barstool-perched young ladies, who were seated midway along the bar, and whom from their dress I took to be legal secretary type office girls, CSO Linda nodded towards them and told me, "Come on, you -
over there. You know what to do."

Sitting on their high, well-padded red leather barstools and facing each other, the two early-twenties office girls both sat with one leg crossed over the other; the foot of their supporting leg, resting on the barstool's chrome circular
supporting bar.

"And remember the rules!" adjured CSO Linda, hissing in my ear.

"Yes, Miss Linda," I said respectfully.

The two young ladies, upon seeing me approach them, on my way to 'attend' them, bent over their tall glasses of what I took to be either vodka or gin and tonic with ice and lemon sitting on coasters on the bar top, and snickered to each
other.

Classic signs of early-onset inebriation, I thought. This pair had downed one or two already.

Both slim and very eye-catching attractive, one of the two office girls had long, blonde hair, and blue eyes, while her companion, green-eyed, was a particularly striking redhead.

Straight from work, they both wore their office attire thin-pinstriped jackets, above-the-knee navy blue skirts, dark pantyhose, and three-inch heeled black pumps.

The in-service protocol (or "rules") for 'attending' community servants was to remain silent unless required to speak, and not to look the females you served directly in the eye. (The latter, observation of protocol was easier to comply
with for community servants stationed under the tables in the booths - just as I had been, last Friday, in 'attendance' of four post-work shop assistant, letting-their-hair-down females, at booth No. 5.)

"Down, double-oh-seven! Sit!" commanded CSO Linda, asserting her authority in the tone and manner of someone impatiently bringing their slow-to-respond dog to heel.

The two barstool-perched trainee solicitor types giggled tipsily.

So I was right: Obviously, the drinks before them on the bar top weren't the first ones to wet their lips this evening.

They were already liquored up a little. Which was bad news for me, if they were becoming uninhibited. But they were sitting in a bar and drinking alcohol - so what else was going to happen?

The two office girls then turned to look at me directly, appraisingly. And under their smug, haughty, superior gaze, as they pointedly took in my ID, as emblazoned in black print on my white uniform T-shirt - Community servant David 007
- they made me feel two inches tall.

Sipping their refreshing and reviving post-work thirst quenchers, over the rims of their highball glasses the two fledgeling legal eagles regarded each other, a silent message seemingly transmitting between them.

Simultaneously, and as if on cue, the two immoderately imbibing barstool-perched barrister types popped a heel from the three-inch heeled black office pump of their resting, crossed-over leg, and allowed their shoe to dangle.

I thought: Here we go ...

Compliantly I sat on the floor between the two loftily seated office girls, with my back against the bar. To either side of me, at my head height, their three-inch heeled black office pumps dangled precariously from their dark-pantyhose
covered toes.

And promptly, as though guarding against the possibility that I might suddenly treacherously spring up and try to do a runner, CSO Linda crouched down beside me and pulled out from the bar, the pull-out, well-padded red leather footrest
used to enclose the attending community servant's neck, pinning him conveniently in-situ.

I then heard the distinct 'click' of finality as CSO Linda snapped shut the clasp of the imprisoning if well-cushioned necklace ... Now, I wasn't going anywhere.

Ostensibly, until the end of Happy Hour at 6:30.

But, in reality (if my experiences of my first and second Fridays here were any guide), I would be left in 'attendance' at these two barstools at the feet of Blondie and Ginger - and at the feet of whomsoever, other successive 9 to 5er
females might occupy their vacated barstools - until someone decided to spring the catch to release me from my imprisoning if well-cushioned necklace. Either Jacqueline herself or one of her barmaids.

Patting my face, CSO Linda said pleasantly, "That's you sorted, double-oh-seven. And now, with your leave, I'll go sit with Karen and catch up on all the goss with Jacqui."

With that, CSO Linda stood up, smiled cheerily at the two sharply dressed office girls, and went off to enjoy her freebie Bacardi and Coke with CSO Karen.

As though oblivious of my presence at their feet, Blondie and Ginger proceeded to chat about some hunk of a guy in their office; the three-inch heeled black pump dangling from the foot of their crossed-over leg, toing and froing and shoe
playing, right next to my protocol adhering facing-forward face.

I couldn't put my finger on it, but the name of the hunky office guy they were talking about, seemed to ring a bell ... I almost had it-

But I then heard the green-eyed, particularly striking redhead, perched upon the high barstool to my right, say pleasantly, "Same again, please, Joy! When you've got a min."

Joy was one of Foot Bar proprietress Jacqueline's barmaids.

I heard Joy reply familiarly, "Gotcha. Two vodka martinis, coming right up, Beryl!"

So, the green-eyed, particularly striking redhead's name was Beryl.

A minute later I heard the pleasant-sounding chink of ice cubes tinkling against the sides of highball glasses of vodka martinis, as Joy set Blondie and Ginger's- Beryl's, fresh drinks down on the bar top.

And then Blondie, perched upon the high barstool to my left, casually, with her shoe dangling foot, turned my 'attending' face toward her and rested the roughened leather sole of her three-inch heeled black leather office pump against my
forehead.

Through the leather sole of her shoe, I could feel the pads of Blondie's toes, repeatedly pressing; the action causing her pump to keep popping on and off her heel, causing her toing and froing shoe to keep wafting her foot scent right
into my face like a warm unaromatic prevailing wind.

Facing hard to my left, I was soon feeling the strain.

The careless and gradually increasing pressure of Blondie's resting shod foot was inexorably pushing my head back, and I had to proportionally lean forward, into it, in such a way as was calculated to support and maintain her comfortably
relaxed posture at zero inconveniences to herself.

It was as if I was nothing but an inanimate, insentient object; my face, just some convenient, unfeeling footrest. And Blondie - resting the roughened, scuffed and scarred leather shoe sole of her repeatedly heel-popping foot against my
forehead and absently fanning her all-day-confined foot fumes in my 'attending' face - and Ginger- sorry: Beryl, resumed their conversation right where they'd left off.

Blondie, having already put away at least two tongue-loosening vodka martinis, was now speaking uninhibitedly and with extreme frankness about her lustful attraction for their hunky office guy, and expounding graphically on some of her
sexual aspirations in that direction.

It was as if I wasn't even there - well, not really, in any meaningful way: I was just part of the furniture.

"Go for it!" Blondie's office colleague and friend Beryl exclaimed encouragingly. "You only live once!"

Warming to the salacious conversation and its juicy details, Beryl had now kicked off her dangling shoe - well, not kicked it off, exactly; she'd hooked the heel over her high barstool's chrome circular supporting bar, where it made for
easy retrieval. And, resting her now shoeless foot on my imprisoning if well-padded 'necklace', with her dark pantyhose covered toes she began toying with my right ear. Her toes were warm, and the sounds of her probing, absently
exploring and playful nylon covered toes were raspy in my ear.

Blondie was now making absolutely no bones, as to the degree of her predatory bedroom ambitions with regards to the hunky office guy at the centre of her libidinous attentions. Making no secret, as to the extent of her amorous aims,
should she manage to manipulate and machinate such a lecherous lustful liaison to come about. She said that if she could get Rory between the sheets, she would give him a night he would never forget. She would-

And then it hit me: Hunky guy's name was a name I knew!

The hunky office guy - Rory - I knew I'd heard his name somewhere before!

And it had to be him: There couldn't be many Lothario-like Rory's, roaring about the office and getting the legal secretaries all of a tizz.

I'd heard his name mentioned in such much-lauded terms before, by my two older sisters, Alison and Denise, who were both employed by the same town centre firm of solicitors: Black, Brown and Grey.

Which meant, so were Blondie and Ginger!

I then heard Blondie say pleasantly, her by now slightly slurred voice accompanied by the sounds of half-melted ice cubes rattling in the bottom of her proffered and now drained highball glass, "Same again, please, Belinda! When you get
a sec."

It was Blondie's round: So, she and Beryl, the parched pair of post-work paralegals, were having yet another, winding-down, thirst quenching tipple.

Belinda was another of Foot Bar proprietress Jacqueline's hardworking, run-off-their-feet barmaids.

I heard Belinda reply familiarly, "Righto! Two vodka martinis, coming right up, Meryl!"

So ... Blondie and Ginger were Meryl and Beryl.

You couldn't make it up.

*


Friday - 11 pm.

"Come on, you! You're needed behind the bar - desperately!"

"Yes, Miss Crystal," I said respectfully, as crouching down beside me she sprung the catch of my imprisoning if well-cushioned 'necklace'.

At last, after sitting there on the floor between those two high barstools for five and a half hours, 'attending' at the feet of a succession of barstool-perched female imbibers - Blondie and Ginger (Meryl and Beryl) had left at about 7
o'clock - someone was freeing me from the blasted thing!

5:30 to 6:30 Happy Hour - my hat!

Crystal was another of Foot Bar proprietress Jacqueline's hardworking, rushed-off-their-feet - and, by now, footsore to distraction - barmaids.

Crystal opened the access flap at the end of the bar, waved me through, and followed after me.

Jacqueline and her other two barmaids were all busy at the pumps and optics, struggling to keep pace with the incoming drinks orders of their parched patrons - the Foot Bar was swinging.

At that moment, Joy, who wasn't much over five feet tall, happened to be reaching up, at the back of the bar, pressing a glass against the Bacardi optic. And, while she watched the dispenser automatically measure the clear liquid into
the glass - a double - Joy took the opportunity to shake free from her right foot her four-inch heeled red leather pump, and I watched as she wiggled and scrunched her bright-red painted toes in grateful momentary relief.

"Oh! Thank heaven for you, Community servant David," said Joy feelingly, looking over her shoulder and catching the direction of my gaze.

"Er ... thank you, Miss Joy," I said respectfully.

"I could have done with you, a lot sooner!" Joy told me. "My feeeet!"

"A little impatiently, Crystal said, "Well, Community servant David, come on then ... you know what to do."

"Yes, Miss Crystal," I said respectfully.

Jacqueline's female bar staff, all of them somewhere in their early- to mid-twenties, were all real lookers. Not least, her three barmaids on duty tonight: Joy, Crystal and Belinda.

And yes, I knew what to do: Sit on the bar floor, cross-legged, positioned right up against the bar's raised serving platform, directly behind and facing toward the most-used pump - Foster's lager.

And if what had happened the last three Fridays was any guide, I knew that here I would remain until last orders were called, at 01:30, and served.

Crystal did a bit of precision fine-tuning of my positioning until she was satisfied I was stationed exactly right.

"Oh, thank Gawd - I need this! My feet are damned well killing me, Community servant David," Crystal told me.

"I', er ... I'm very sorry to hear that, Miss Crystal," I said respectfully.

"Two halves of Foster's lager, please, Crystal, if you're free!" called a decidedly sozzled-sounding female voice, yelling to make herself heard over the loud and thumpy music.

Standing on the other side of the bar, customers couldn't see me, and I couldn't see them. Which, even though the female patrons knew precisely where I was, and knew exactly what I was doing there, at least was a blessing.

Turning to me, Crystal said, "Now don't move an inch, Community servant David! Stay put, exactly as you are. And get ready for me!"

"Yes, Miss Crystal, " I said respectfully.

"Two halves of Foster's, coming right up!" responded Crystal brightly to the customer, stepping up onto the bar's raised serving platform, right in front of me.

Directly in front of me, the footsore Crystal slipped her right foot from her Foot Bar uniform four-inch heeled red leather pump, preparatory to availing herself of her much-needed first 'foot rub' of the evening.

The arch of her bare foot looked very pale when contrasted with the bottom of her rather red and rubbed heel, the ball of her foot, and even the pads of her toes - her killer pumps were murder on her feet.

I got ready ...

But, before Crystal could put the first of the two half-pint schooner glasses she'd picked up to the Foster's tap, Foot Bar proprietress Jacqueline intervened, piping up, "That's okay, Crystal - I'll see to those! Would you go and
collect some empty glasses for me, please? And tidy the tables? There's a love!"

"Um ... yes, Jacqui. Of course," said Crystal, obediently, slipping her right foot back into her four-inch heeled red leather pump.

But, stepping down from the bar's raised serving platform to go and do her boss's glass-collecting and table-tidying bidding, Crystal's face was like thunder. Like thunder, at being usurped and deprived, right on the very point of
blessed, almost giddying relief, of her by now desperately needed 'foot rub'.

And now it was the Foot Bar proprietress Jacqueline, herself, who stepped up onto the bar's raised serving platform, right in front of me, at the Foster's pump.

Again, I got ready ...

Jacqueline pulled down on the Foster's tap.

And as soon as the famed amber nectar was flowing and slowly filling the first of the two half-pint schooners, the Foot Bar proprietress shoogled her foot from her apparently rather tight-fitting right, four-inch heeled red leather pump.
And, raising her shapely, olive-complexioned leg behind her, she sought my 'attending' face with the sole of her bare bronzed foot.

Sitting directly behind her, from this distance, and at this height, my 'attending' face was ideally placed for Jacqueline (and her footsore barmaids) to enjoy frequent, relieving and reinvigorating 'foot rubs' while serving at the
most-used drink tap - the Foster's lager.

Jacqueline had been on her feet for hours, and, just like her three barmaids on duty tonight - Joy, Belinda and Crystal - the Foot Bar proprietress was more than ready for a 'foot rub'.

I'd done this before. So I knew exactly what was coming - and I knew exactly what was expected of me ...

And so when the olive-skinned sole of Jacqueline's bearings-finding right foot; at first, settled and came to rest, but then with gained confidence in my support and stability began pressing urgently into the relief-giving and comforting
contours of my 'attending' face, I responded as required. I leant forward, into the community-servant-exploiting Foot Bar proprietress's marauding, advantage-taking sole, taking up the not inconsiderable strain of providing her at-the-
Foster's-tap 'foot rub'.

The first of the half-pint schooner glasses now filled, Jacqueline placed the cold refreshing foam-capped drink on the beer towel on the bartop.

Now again, Jacqueline pulled down on the Foster's tap.

And, again, I got ready ...

And as soon as the Foot Bar's most popular brand lager was flowing and slowly filling the second of the two half-pint schooner glasses, the Foot Bar's proprietress shook and shuffled and jiggled free her foot from her left, rather
tight-fitting four-inch heeled red leather pump. And, raising her lightly-tanned leg behind her, sought my 'attending' face with the sole of her bare foot.

Once again, I was obliged to lean in to take the not inconsiderable strain, as urgently and vigorously as she served the drink from Down-Under Jacqueline gratefully availed herself of her at-the-Foster's-tap 'foot rub'.

Firmly, the footsore Foot Bar proprietress rubbed her bare left sole into the relief-providing and sensually pleasing plains of my 'attending' face; her olive-skinned foot flesh, all hot, and sticky, and insatiably ... needy.

Jacqueline always hurt me - I don't think she meant to, or even realised it - but the Foot Bar proprietress always hurt me.

Carelessly crushing my nose with the bottom of her bare heel, and mindlessly mashing my lips with the ball of her foot, albeit (maybe) unintentionally and (possibly) unwittingly, with the soles of her footsore-to-distraction, rampaging,
ravaging bare feet, Jacqueline brought tears to my eyes.

The second of the two half-pint schooner glasses now filled with amber nectar, Jacqueline placed the foam-topped, finding-the-spot drink along by the first, on the beer towel on the bar top.

With inexpressible relief, I watched Jacqueline now forcibly insert her bare, olive-complexioned foot back into her left, rather tight-fitting four-inch heeled red leather pump, take payment for the two halves of amber nectar, pay the
money into the till, and then wander off to serve another customer, further down the bar.

But I knew my relief would be short-lived.

Crystal, who by now was halfway through washing the glasses she'd collected at the tables, was eyeing me longingly ... as it were.

I knew it wouldn't be long before another female patron ordered a Fost-

"Hey, Crystal, are you free?" called another pie-eyed sounding female. "Can I have two halves of Foster's, please?"

"Absolutely!" said Crystal, quickly towelling her hands dry of sudsy glasswasher water.

"Absolutely," repeated Crystal, stepping up onto the bar's raised serving platform, right in front of me, at the Foster's tap. "Two halves of Foster's, coming right up!"

Looking behind her and downward, Crystal said, "Get ready for me, Community servant David!"

"Yes, Miss Crystal," I said respectfully.

And, again, I got ready ...

Got ready, to take up the not inconsiderable strain, of providing a Foot Bar barmaid's at-the-Foster's-tap 'foot rub'.

Crystal pulled down on the Foster's tap.

And as soon as the amber nectar began to flow, slowly filling up the first of the two half-pint schooner glasses, the footsore-to-distraction Crystal gratefully eased free her right foot from her Foot Bar uniform four-inch heeled red
leather pump, preparatory to availing herself of her first of the evening, at-the-Foster's-tap 'foot rub'.

If anything, the sole of Crystal's bare right foot now looked even more, sore and tender. The bottom of her heel, the ball of her foot, and even the pads of her toes, even more, red and rubbed. Hotter. Stickier. And ... needier.

I suppose I could have refused.

I suppose I could have denied Crystal, her much-needed and long-awaited at-the-Foster's-tap 'foot rub'.

I suppose I could have just got up, and walked right out of the Foot Bar.

I suppose I could have said: No, Miss Crystal. I will not, Miss Crystal, sit here on the floor, for you to rub the soles of your hot and sweaty, sticky, stinky feet in my face. I will not, Miss Crystal.

But instead, I got ready ...

Because, the way things were going, under the 'female-friendly' rule of Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's Authoritarian Female Party government, it would work out better for me, not to refuse.

For, as hideous, as heinous, and as humiliating an imposition as the at-the-Foster's-tap 'foot rub' was ... it was just easier to go along, to get along.


Community Service continues in Chapter 11.