This
story is written by David, please send comments and appreciation to
voondave@yahoo.co.uk
Community Service Ch. 11.
Ch. 11: Community servant David Smith makes
a mind-shattering discovery.
I, eighteen-year-old David Smith, had now
been Canford town's Sock Room community servant for three months.
In the past month, both my 'work' related and
my personal situations had taken further turns for the worse.
As well as 'volunteering' to serve as
Friday-evening Footboy in the town centre Foot Bar theme pub, and working
all day Saturday in the Sock Room for no recompense, now I was working in
the Sock Room all day Sunday, too, for absolutely no monetary addition to my
weekly Unemployment Benefits allowance.
But, putting all of that into the shade, was
that my girlfriend Tina - the heaven of High St burger bar Burger Heaven -
along with her counterperson colleague and friend, Janice, who was also her
flatmate - were both now incarcerated indefinitely, pending
'rehabilitation', in Greystone Prison.
*
It was the Friday before last, when things
had finally come to a head ...
It had been at about 11 pm when, serving as
Footboy in the Foot Bar, and while right in the middle of 'providing' an
at-the-Foster's-tap 'foot rub' to Foot Bar proprietress Jacqueline, that to
my inexpressible dismay Tina and Janice had come into the
female-patrons-only establishment with their loudhailers.
Behind the bar, and stationed sitting
cross-legged on the floor, I'd been out of sight to my girlfriend Tina and
her best friend Janice, who, while voicing their anti-AFP protestations at
deafening decibels, had thus been totally unaware of my subjugated and
profoundly ignominious presence there.
Totally unaware of my put-upon presence -
thank the stars - as the footsore Foot Bar proprietress Jacqueline
gratefully eased free her foot from her rather tight-fitting Foot Bar
uniform four-inch heeled red leather pump, and vigorously availed herself of
her first of the evening and by then desperately needed at-the-Foster's-tap
'foot rub' ... Massaging the olive-skinned sole of her right foot into my
conveniently positioned face, as one-legged she stood and filled the first
of two half-pint schooner glasses with the famed amber nectar. And then
switching to her left foot, to again carelessly crush my nose with the
bottom of her bare bronzed heel, and absently mash my lips with the ball of
her foot as again she pulled down on the Foster's lager tap and slowly
filled another half-pint schooner glass with the drink from Down Under.
But of course, while Jacqueline had duly
dispensed successive orders of the Foot Bar's most popular drink, I'd heard
every dissenting, disparaging, AFP-denouncing word that Tina and Janice had
said. Every single word, that Tina - the girl who by now I loved and adored
- and her close friend Janice Middleton - who albeit upon short acquaintance
I also thought the world of - had yelled through their loudhailers.
Crystal, one of Foot Bar proprietress
Jacqueline's glamour-model gorgeous barmaids, at this intolerable intrusion
had got straight on the phone to complain, urgently summoning a couple of
Community Service Officers to come and remove the two "anti-social
nuisances" from the premises.
Within minutes, two CSO's had arrived in
response to Crystal's frantic phone call. And at taking in the by then
chaotic situation, the two AFP-employed young women promptly placed Tina and
Janice under arrest for Gross Disorderly Conduct and took them into custody.
Sitting on the floor behind the bar, with the
olive-complexioned soles of footsore Foot Bar proprietress Jacqueline's
at-the-Foster's-tap 'foot rub' availing feet alternately making the most of
my perfectly positioned face, I was all broke up, at hearing Tina and
Janice's being arrested again.
But that was the least of it.
Tina and Janice were to face further, and far
more severe charges. And there were to be no more lenient tellings off. They
had both now used up all of their 'second' chances.
On the following Saturday morning, after
their uncomfortable overnight stay in one of the Town Hall's holding cells,
two CSO's escorted the handcuffed Tina and Janice to the Community Service
Liason Centre to be brought before the Community Service Liaison Officer and
local Authoritarian Female Party representative, Ms Harriet Harmman.
For Ms Harmman, who had already made her
position clear on numerous previous occasions and in no uncertain terms, to
the thin-ice treading pair brought before her, this was the proverbial final
straw.
Ms Harmman had ordered that Tina Marshall and
Janice Middleton be detained, pending her considered decision on sentence,
until Monday.
And so it had transpired, that last Monday (a
week ago today), for their repeated seditious transgressions, Ms Harmman had
told Tina and Janice that she had now lost all patience with them and that
they had finally exhausted her leniency.
Ms Harmman now had no recourse, after Tina
and Janice had not only repeatedly flung back in her face her outreaching
'second' chances to reform and conform and to toe the AFP line, but instead
had committed yet further egregious offences against the Female-Friendly
Code legislation, other than to put her foot down.
To have Tina and Janice sent, forthwith, and
indefinitely, to the by now infamous 'rehabilitative' correctional centre,
near Brighton: Greystone Prison.
*
Trying to distract my mind away from the
belittling business at hand: attending at the foot of Sock Room 'regular'
Cheryl Chubb's recliner, and tongue-bathing her days' unwashed, dirty
filthy, stinky bare feet - her Monday-morning feet - I pondered my imagined
perils of Tina and Janice's prison-cell predicament.
My mind was a whirl. A maelstrom of
pernicious possibilities of the dreadful degradations that might be
befalling my sweetheart and her best friend was continually playing across
my cinematic mindscape.
I'd heard some deeply disturbing rumours
about Greystone Prison, which I'd learned was run entirely be females.
To all intents and purposes, Greystone Prison
was a male inmate prison. But the AFP government had decided that the
all-female run correctional centre would be an excellent place to
incarcerate pending 'rehabilitation' the growing number of anti-AFP female
dissidents.
Both of them beautiful young women, I feared
that Tina and Janice would be perfect prey, to the predatory lesbian element
of the infamous 'Jailhouse Blues' prison officers.
Last week, via the offices of Ms Harriet
Harmman, I had applied for a Greystone Prison Visitor's Pass. Hopefully, it
would arrive soon.
Tina and Janice were now starting their
second week's indefinite-duration incarceration in Greystone Prison, I mused
miserably. And I was wracked with worry, fretfully thinking about them.
Distressed, anguished, overwrought, at contemplating what they both might or
might not be going through, right now, and-
"I think you need to be using that tongue of
yours more energetically - Community servant David double-oh-seven!" piped
up my across the road neighbour from hell, Mrs Norma Newlove. "If you are
going to lift all of that dirt and grime!"
The bane of my life (well, the main one) was
relaxing in the well-padded black leather recliner to (my) left of Cheryl's,
in the Sock Room's 'Spectators' Gallery' overlook. "Come on - get that
tongue of yours working!" Norma snapped harshly.
I was never going to get used to this! I
thought miserably.
Cheryl Chubb, lying on her front, and in a
state of ecstasy as alternately I licked from toes to heels the soles of her
days' unwashed, dirty filthy, stinky feet - her Monday-morning feet - said,
"You tell him, Norma! Tongue-lash my foot slave to greater efforts! Ha ha
ha! The harder he licks, the better I like it."
Every Monday morning now, it was like this.
"I wish it could be Monday every day ..."
said Cheryl Chubb wistfully.
Although the Sock Room was now open all day
Sunday as well as Saturday, Cheryl Chubb had kept up her Friday to Monday
sans clean socks 'tradition'.
"Concentrate on sucking my toes now,
Community servant David," ordered Cheryl; her words muffled a bit from
resting her face on her crossed forearms. Mumbling casually, almost
dreamily, Cheryl added, "And lick all in between them."
I wish I could get the hell out of this
damned Sock Room! I thought wretchedly.
But, try as I might, I just couldn't find a
job.
All of my job applications, these last three
months, had resulted in rejection. Typical, was: 'We are sorry to inform
you, Mr Smith, that our company has no suitable vacancy to offer you at this
present time ...'
My employment-finding endeavours were all for
nought. They were just a waste of time. An exercise in futility - but I had
to keep trying!
Trying, to find gainful employment: my ticket
out of the Sock Room.
I had no actual evidence - and in my hearing
they had never said anything incriminating for me to latch onto - but
nevertheless by now and as ridiculous as it sounds I more than very strongly
suspected that it was my two young supervisors, CSOs Karen and Linda, who
were kiboshing all of my employment-finding chances.
Somehow, I knew, that the domineering, cruel,
cane-happy pair were personally responsible for my demoralising job seeking
zero success rate, compromising my every bid to escape the Sock Room.
Somehow, I was certain, that CSOs Karen and
Linda were impeding my increasingly desperate efforts to find paid,
tax-paying employment.
Somehow, I was beyond doubt, that CSOs Karen
and Linda were derailing my job applications, deliberately and purposefully
frustrating me.
Somehow, I was convinced, that for whatever
reasons my two young, blonde concave bob hair-styled supervisors were
intentionally foiling my every attempt:
To be free, of the unmatched miseries of my
now seven-days-a-week Sock Room servitude.
To be free, of the trials and travails of the
tyranny and torment - the sadistic, inventive afflictions both mental and
physical - of malevolent Sock Room 'regulars' my neighbour from hell Mrs
Norma Newlove and her cronies and cohorts in cruelty Cheryl Chubb and Gina
Stainham.
To be free, of the attentions of and my
responsibilities to, all of the other malicious Sock Room attending,
sock-changing females, of whom the Sock Room seemed to bring out the bitch
in them.
And, of course, to be free of them - CSOs
Karen and Linda!
"Yes, Mrs Chubb," I said respectfully,
obediently coming to heel again - literally.
As per the next stage of what was now our
established Monday-morning routine, I first took all five chubby toes of
Cheryl Chubb's left foot, into my mouth - just the way she liked it, and as
she had specifically instructed me. And compliantly and obediently I began
sucking on her dirty digits, and licking "all in between them" as
unhurriedly I progressed from toe to toe.
Maybe, I thought, hoping against hope, when
I've finished tongue-bathing Cheryl Chubb's dirty filthy feet, perhaps I
would be allowed to crack on for a bit with trying to reduce my still
ever-increasing (despite my now hand-washing the females of Canford's dirty
socks, seven days a week) dirty-sock workload.
Maybe I could empty one of the overspilling
white wheelie bins of dirty white socks into the big, industrial sized
hopper marked: 'White Socks Only!' Or maybe I could put a few dozen pairs of
the CSOs' uniform thin cotton yellow ankle socks into their colour-coded
plastic laundry bowls to pre-soak. Or maybe I could pre-soak some tubfuls of
the long black, and long navy-blue socks, that the students of St
Esmerelda's and St Kate's Girls' Schools wore. Or, maybe I could-
"You can tongue-bathe my feet for me, next,
Community servant David double-oh-seven," said Gina Stainham. "When Cheryl
has finished with you."
Or, then again, maybe I couldn't.
*
I was up to my elbows in the
temperature-controlled mad-hot sudsy water of the three-feet deep
stainless-steel hand-washing sink, vigorously washing out the ingrained
stubborn dirt, sweat, and the dry flakey dead skin of yet another of the
females of Canford's dirty white socks, when-
"Come on, Sock Boy. Leave those for now,"
said CSO Karen.
"Yes, Miss Karen," I said respectfully,
peeling back and removing my pink, gauntlet style thick rubber washing-up
gloves, that were a part of the Sock Room community servant's toolkit.
"We're going to the cafe over the road for a
latte and a Danish, Lindz and me, for our mid-afternoon break."
How nice for you, I thought but didn't say.
"While we're gone, double-oh-seven, tidy the
office," ordered CSO Linda. "It's an absolute tip."
And whose fault's that? I thought but didn't
say.
"Yes, Miss Linda," I said respectfully.
"Well, go on then - Sock Boy! What are you
waiting for? Chop chop! Go and make yourself useful."
"I'm on my way, Miss Karen," I said
respectfully - through gritted teeth!
*
Letting myself in the unlocked office door, I
immediately saw that CSO Linda wasn't exaggerating: the office was "an
absolute tip". In fact, it was an absolute shambles.
Hell - but they were a messy pair of witches.
But then they had me, didn't they, for their tidier-upper, I thought
resentfully. As if I didn't have enough to do!
Better to stop the negative thoughts, and to
just crack on with it, I told myself - the office wasn't going to tidy
itself up. The sooner I got on with it, the sooner I could get back to the
hot-and-soapy-water sink.
I'll start with their desks, I thought - just
look at the state of them!
Snack wrappers everywhere - except in their
wastepaper bins! - I thought in annoyance as I deposited said litter in said
receptacles. How hard was it for them to do that themselves? And look at all
of these coffee cups! Couldn't my two supervisors even rinse out a used
coffee cup? No, of course, they couldn't. Not while they had their own
personal servant and factotum to do it for them.
The used coffee cups will be a lot easier to
wash out, I thought, if I soak them in hot and soapy water first, in the
sink in the kitchenette at the back of the office. Leave them soaking, while
I crack on with the rest of the tidying up, and finally vacuuming the
carpet, and ...
My eye was caught, by the small, flat brown
packet on CSO Karen's desk. Or rather, it was held by the payslip protruding
from it. Or rather, it was snagged, by the staggering four-figure sum, where
it said: Net Pay.
Disbelieving, I extracted CSO Karen's payslip
from its manila envelope pay packet, and incredulously I stared at the
numbers.
This can't be, I muttered to myself. This ...
just can't be.
I went back over to CSO Linda's desk and ...
sure enough, there was her manila-enveloped payslip, too. I opened it out
... the numbers were the same.
Stunned? Astounded? Flabbergasted? I was all
of them.
While I was working in the austere and steamy
environs of the Sock Room, hand-washing the females of Canford's dirty socks
on Saturday and on Sunday for absolutely no monetary addition to my weekly
Unemployment Benefits allowance ... CSO's Karen and Linda were sitting in
their office, amusing themselves on their computers, and 'earning'
triple-time for 'working' Saturday, and quintuple-time for Sunday. And it
was all tax-free. Because under the governing Authoritarian Female Party's
taxation laws, females (should they choose to work, because they didn't have
to) were exempt from paying income tax.
I just could not believe it - but I was
holding the evidence in my hand. Evidence, of CSOs Karen and Linda's
staggering take-home, pay. Signed off, by Ms Harriet Harmman.
Dazed - stunned, astounded, flabbergasted - I
set about collecting the used coffee cups and saucers from CSO Linda's
carelessly cluttered desk.
Now I had negative thoughts aplenty - and it
wasn't so easy to ignore them.
My mind was in such a turmoil of incredulous
outrage and bitter resentment, that if CSOs Karen and Linda were to walk
back into their office now, right this minute ... I didn't know what I might
say!
Ah, what the hell, I told myself, trying to
calm down.
I already knew that CSOs Karen and Linda must
be pulling in a good wedge. So just because now that I happened to have
accidentally discovered my two young supervisors' exact salary details, what
was the point of getting all in a lather about it?
When CSOs Karen and Linda returned from their
mid-afternoon, Danish and latte consuming break, it would be better not to
let on. Better to pretend, that I hadn't inadvertently discovered the
obscene extent of their weekly wealth.
Fortunately, the thick white coffee cups were
of a style designed to conveniently stack. So it was just a matter of
moments to pile the saucers, and to ...
My eye was caught, by a white windowed
envelope that the removal of a cup and saucer had just uncovered, and of
which, the enclosed letter, addressed to 'CSOs Karen and Linda, Sock Room,
Canford, South London', was protruding.
Or rather, my eye was caught by the familiar
logoed notepaper stationary of a company I remembered applying to for a job,
sometime recently, and who had written back to me politely informing me that
unfortunately my application had been unsuccessful.
Or rather, my eye was caught, by the
bold-printed words at the top of the letter, which to my unmitigated
amazement I could see read:
R.E. Notification of Mr David Smith's
application for employment with our company - Finlay's Fabrications.
In compliance with your Standing Instructions
Directive, under Authoritarian Female Party memo: No. AFP 0136 - DS 007 - we
have politely declined to avail ourselves of the services of job seeker Mr
David Smith, who's application we have received for an advertised position
of employment with us as trainee fabricator.
What, the ...? I thought.
On an impulse, finding it left unlocked I
pulled open the top drawer, to the right of the kneehole of CSO Linda's desk
... to discover a very thick, rubber-banded stack of what appeared to be
many other, such letters.
Fearing the worst, I went back over to CSO
Karen's desk and, finding it also left unlocked, I pulled open the same top
drawer of her desk ... to find another very thick, rubber-banded stack of
ominous-looking letters.
Filled with dread, I slumped into CSO Karen's
office swivel chair, pulled free the top envelope, removed the letter, and
read:
R.E. Notification of Mr David Smith's
application for employment with our company - Ferguson's Ferrous Metals.
In keeping with your Standing Instructions
Directive, under Authoritarian Female Party memo: No. AFP 0136 - DS 007 - we
have politely turned down the job application of Mr David Smith, who has
responded to our local newspaper advertisement for the post of General
Labourer.
I couldn't believe it - just couldn't believe
the evidence of my own eyes.
I pulled free the next topmost envelope from
the rubber-banded stack, secretly stashed away in CSO Karen's desk drawer. I
took out this next letter, again recognising with shock the familiar logoed
notepaper stationary of a company I had applied to for an advertised job
vacancy, and read:
R.E. Notification of Mr David Smith's
application for employment with our firm - Taylor's Tailored Textiles.
Conforming with your Standing Instructions
Directive, under Authoritarian Female Party memo: No. AFP 0136 - DS 007 - we
have rejected the job application of Mr David Smith, who has expressed to us
his keen interest in our advertised position as Assembly Line Worker.
Now, I wasn't just dazed, stunned, astounded,
flabbergasted - I was shocked to my absolute core.
Yes, I'd certainly had my suspicions - and
more than strong, suspicions ... But this!
How could CSOs Karen and Linda do this to me?
The pair of ... witches!
Ha! And I'd believed I knew the limits of
their malicious machinations. Their cruel capabilities.
I pulled free at random another envelope from
the thick, rubber-banded stack of letters I'd found secreted in CSO Karen's
top desk drawer ... and then another ... and another ... and another ... And
the letters were all the same; all of the same, treacherous ilk - not that I
in any way blamed any of the employers. They were all merely complying with
an AFP Standing Instructions Directive.
As the real extent of my hopeless situation
began to sink in, my feelings of incredulous outrage and bitter resentment
began to pale, as another, totally overwhelming emotion became king:
Despair.
I despaired, as I perused letter, after
familiar logoed company notepaper stationary letter, duly reporting to CSOs
Karen and Linda, that, in compliance with AFP Standing Instructions
Directive, memo: No. AFP 0136 - DS 007-
"Double-oh-seven!" yelled CSO Linda angrily,
spitting fury upon entering the office and seeing me sitting at CSO Karen's
desk, and reading through the stack of letters - the incriminating
correspondence! - I'd found in the top drawer.
"What's up, Lindz? Hasn't Sock Boy finished
tidying our office yet?" said CSO Karen, following behind and sounding all
contented after her latte and Danish mid-afternoon snack. "What's - ah ..."
she said, upon seeing for herself.
"The little whippersnapper's been reading
official AFP correspondence, Karen! Can you believe it? He's going to be in
big trouble for this!"
Holding out one of the damning, familiar
logoed letters, I said, "Why, Miss Karen? I'm not lazy. I'm not idle. I
don't want to claim Unemployment Benefits. All I've ever wanted is to find a
job and pay my own way in society. So ... why?"
Smiling and shrugging a careless,
It-was-fun-while-it-lasted-but-the-Game's-up, gesture, CSO Karen said, "Why?
Because we've got used to having you around, Socky. And we'd only have to
train up some other shmuck of a community servant, wouldn't we? If you
actually did find yourself a job."
Still holding out the incriminating letter,
one of dozens, I said, "But that was never going to happen, was it, Miss
Karen?"
"Lindz and I were a bit concerned that on the
balance of probability, one of your dozens of job applications might somehow
slip through our net ... But no: it was probably never going to happen. We
had you sewn up pretty tight. It's funny you should find out like this;
it'll teach Lindz and me to keep our desk drawers locked in future when we
send you in here to tidy up for us ... So, now that you know, you had just
better learn to come to terms with it. And look on the bright side: you can
stop wasting so much of your time, and save all of that stationary and
postage money you've been spending every week."
"Anyway, double-oh-seven, what's the
problem?" said CSO Linda, mock mystified. "Anyone would think you don't like
us. Anyone would think you don't enjoy working in the Sock Room. Anyone
would think, that ..."
"What's up, Lindz?" said CSO Karen, upon
seeing the sudden reappearance of the angry red flush on her colleague and
friend's cheeks, at noticing something untoward on her desk.
"I don't believe this!" yelled CSO Linda
furiously, picking up said spotted untoward item from her desk and waving it
at CSO Karen. "Not only has he been reading private, official AFP
correspondence, but the little scrote has actually been reading our
payslips, as well! Can you believe it, Karen?"
"No, Lindz. I can't. It is above and beyond."
"Double-oh-seven: Out of that chair! How dare
you disrespect us, still sitting there? Up - now!" shrieked CSO Linda.
My outraged incredulity, my bitter
resentment, and even my overwhelming despair, all of these I now put to one
side, as a full and fearful dread of the consequences of my opportunistic
actions finally gripped me.
I had seriously underestimated the true
extent of the malevolent mindsets of my two young Sock Room supervisors.
Before I could obediently lever myself up,
miserable, soul-crushed, defeated, from CSO Karen's swivel chair, the blonde
concave-bob hairstyled pair descended on me first and hauled me up by my
ears. "I said: Up - now!" shrilled CSO Linda, right in my face. "I'll teach
you to go rooting in our desk drawers!"
"When we get you back to the Sock Room, we're
going to announce a free-for-all," CSO Karen told me. "We're going to
restrain you at the foot of Mrs Newlove's recliner. We'll leave you there
for the rest of the afternoon. And any female who wants to will be allowed
two strokes of the cane at your bared bottom."
But first," said CSO Linda, "let's go see
what Ms Harmman has to say."
*
Handcuffed to each of them, CSOs Karen and
Linda escorted me the short distance across town, to the imposing edifice of
the Community Service Liaison Centre.
And the closer we got, the more the familiar
fear rose in me, at the prospect of being brought before the intimidating
presence of the Community Service Liaison Officer, Ms Harriet Harmman.
So much so, that I barely noticed the
titters, the chuckles, and the jeers of the shopping, about-town females who
stopped and put down their shopping bags to just stand and smilingly and
contentedly observe my handcuffed progress.
When three months ago I had first been
brought before Ms Harmman, to be issued my community servant's uniform, she
had told me that the less I saw of her, the better.
And I wasn't arguing.
Ms Harriet Harmman's intelligent, watchful
pale-blue eyes never for a moment left mine, as CSO Linda, still barely
containing her fury, fully apprised her of my latest wrongdoings.
Yet surely it was I, who had been so
egregiously wronged?
When CSO Linda had finally completed her
indictment, I said respectfully, "Ms Harmman ... madam ... all I've ever
wanted to do, is to find a job, and to pay my own way in society, and-"
Whoo. Whoo ... Crack! Crack!
Searing, agonising burning pain filled my
calves, as my two supervisors let me have it with adroitly administered
strokes of their wicked-looking AFP issue whippy bamboo canes.
"Who gave you permission to speak,
double-oh-seven?" demanded CSO Linda.
"Thank you, CSO Linda," said Ms Harmman.
Ms Harmman then turned to me.
For long moments, silently regarding me with
her intelligent, unwavering pale-blue-eyed gaze, Ms Harmman troubled me,
intimidated me - stressed me out.
"Community servant David double-oh-seven,"
intoned the Community Service Liaison Officer finally. "I have here,
forwarded to me by Governor Meredith Monroe of Greystone Prison, your
Visitor's Pass to visit prisoner Miss Tina Marshall."
A wave of euphoria swept through me. I had a
pass to see Tina!
Whatever else happened to me now - even the
heinous "free-for-all" back in the Sock Room, when CSOs Karen and Linda
would restrain me to the foot of Mrs Newlove's recliner for the rest of the
afternoon and invite whomsoever Sock Room attending, sock-changing female
who wanted, to administer two strokes of the cane to my bared bottom - I
would still have my precious Visitor's Pass.
"Thank you, Ms Harmman. I'm very grateful.
I-"
Cutting me short, Ms Harriet Harmman,
Community Service Liaison Officer, and Authoritarian Female Party
representative for Canford, said: "Consider it rescinded."
Community Service continues in Ch. 12.
This
story is written by David, please send comments and appreciation to
voondave@yahoo.co.uk