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

Tea, Coffee, and Me - Ch. 2 of 3.

Ch. 2: David Manners must mind his manners.


I felt that Miss Tonya Tomkins, who yesterday had been my school-leaver's Job Centre interviewer and as such was empowered to decree the direction my career path should take, had callously thrown me in at the deep end; given me a sink or swim introduction into the world of work.

But that was not the last that I would see, was in fact only the beginning of my involvement, with the ardent Authoritarian Female Party apparatchik and fanatical 'female-friendly' idealist.

Miss Tomkins, who to all intents and purposes had supplied me as an emergency replacement to my now employer Mrs Hilary Harper of Harper's Conference Catering, was now my Case Worker, whose desk I must report to on a fortnightly basis for my Male-Worker's Conduct Revue.

And, as in due course I would come to find out, Miss Tonya Tomkins would have other ways, by which she would make me tread water to keep my head above the surface.

***


While we'd tableclothed and prepared the serving tables in the set-aside Pavilion Lounge of the Brighton City-Break Hotel and Spa, Mrs Hilary Harper had told me that if I could hang in there and endure in my 'specialised' role until the end of next Saturday, I will indeed have survived a baptism of fire.

Upon her mentioning that next week's catering contract duration was Monday - Saturday and would be at another Brighton promenade hotel venue, I'd asked her for a bit more info regarding our upcoming clients; asked who they were and what they were about?

But as to that, she had been decidedly unforthcoming.

Cagey, reluctant to enlarge, seemingly guarding against imparting to me any further information and risking let slip something that for the moment she'd rather keep from me, my employer said she'd tell me after work today who was next up in her diary on Monday.

But that was a long way off.

Today was only Friday; the first day of my full-time employment with Harper's Conference Catering, which served small- to medium-size all-female staffed businesses - and I was yet to face my opening skirmish.

For now, gathered for their final 10:00 - 10:30 coffee break of the week, twenty-nine SPOILT! Boutique manageresses looked on with interest and anticipation as their replacement refreshments break 'little something extra' obediently and compliantly and with eyes respectfully downcast followed at the heels of the thirtieth - their Head of Conference representative, Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish.

At least, I thought, as resignedly I followed Miss Connaught-Cavendish to where her coffee drinking colleagues were circling to create an arena, it was of some consolation to know that with the windowless privacy of the Pavilion Lounge that had been set aside by hotel management for the Monday - Friday duration of the SPOILT! Annual Conference, I wouldn't need to worry about being gawked at by hotel guests and other perambulating patrons.

Not that I didn't have other, niggling worries; discomposing concerns, other than those in the 10:00 - 10:30 coffee break immediacy.

Sarah, one of the hotel's commis chefs, had instructed me to report to the chefs' changing room later to give her a post-shift foot massage.

When they had finished work, I was then to afford the same post-shift pleasurable and relief-giving attentions to the Lunch Shift waitresses.

Also, sometime in the afternoon, I was to report to the office of the hotel manageress, Miss Honeywell.

Thus, as free time permitted between refreshments break intervals, through my foot services to female hotel staff I would satisfy my employer Mrs Hilary Harper's side of her quid pro quo understanding; her reciprocal favour agreement with the hotel manageress Miss Honeywell, for her exclusive SPOILT! Boutique Annual Conference five-day durational use of the capacious Pavilion Lounge.

Of course, then there was the other, little matter, of which above all else was getting me in a tizzy as relentlessly it played on my mind.

The first, of my upcoming "frequent" foot massages for Mrs Harper's two nineteen-year-old junior partner five-percent-of-company-net-pr ofits-sharing assistants, Amanda and Zoe: the frequent foot massages, which were one of my job-condition duties and their at-work fringe benefit.

All of these thoughts, though, of the imminent line-up of nerve-wracking bargain-fulfilling assignations and dutiful co-worker attentiveness, were all but displaced from my mind by the even more unsettling matters in the immediacy; by what was about to ensue in the here and now.

As, I supposed that in their line of business it would be a definite plus, all of the thirty Annual Conference attending SPOILT! Boutique manageresses were above-average attractive; many of them, most appreciably so.

But, at least from these initial impressions, I thought that, with her blonde hair and blue eyes, flawless olive complexion, terrific figure and, from my leg man's perspective, her fabulous legs, Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish was perhaps the most glamorous as well as the most standout, charismatic personage.

For a moment, I regarded with awed admiration bordering on adoration the woman standing with her back to me and who, in her heels, stood way taller.

Rarely, if ever, had I set eyes upon a pair of legs so perfect as these; Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish's high-fashion high heels, setting her golden-toned calves off to breathtaking advantage.

Seeing her dressed in her final-day-of-conference skin tone complimenting golden-yellow T-shirt, and her SPOILT! Boutique fashion items of which as a store manageress she enjoyed a generous personal allowance: above-the-knee red skirt; and, of the same bright-red colour as her stylishly-cut short skirt, a pair of expensive-looking high-heeled pumps - I almost felt honoured to be her 'attendant'.

Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish did not deign to give me my cue by word of mouth but merely expected me to interpret it by dint of her now stationary stance, which, indeed, did seem to suggest a particular expectancy.

Like the proverbial light bulb flash of sudden understanding, belatedly the explanation dawned on me now in all of its glaring obviousness as to why my Job Centre interviewer Miss Tonya Tomkins had looked me over with that air of speculative appraisal, before finally permitting me to sit. The reason for her calculating look, that, other than piquing my curiosity, I had thought it nothing of portent; of ill omen.

Which just goes to show how wrong; just how naively unsuspecting a person can be, of a Job Centre interviewer's agenda.

For I understood, all too well, now, the whys and the wherefores of Miss Tomkins's apparent but, to me, inexplicable pre-interview thoughtful considerations and mental box-ticking assessments.

Looking back at it now from Miss Tomkins's viewpoint, I could see it all.

Standing at 5' 4", the short but stocky stature of the intimidated and therefore easily manipulable eighteen-year-old school leaver and Career Classification Assessment interviewee standing before her, satisfied to a rare nicety the optimum physical requirements of the just-in urgent job vacancy that she was especially keen on filling as expeditiously as possible.

It all made sense now.

So, this was it, then.

I looked back, at my employer Mrs Hilary Harper, and at her two junior partner assistants, Amanda and Zoe.

The three of them, each stationed behind one of the four white-tableclothed and pushed-together tables of our makeshift but presentable serving counter to pour cups of coffee or tea for our lady clients, smiled back at me.

Mrs Harper's smile of encouragement seemed a little strained, and I understood why. She had a lot riding on what was going to happen in the coming thirty minutes - or rather: how I reacted, to what was about to ensue.

Amanda's smile was more confident, reflecting her previously professed intuitive certainty as to my suitability for their company's key, male-worker role: provider of their niche selling-point attraction 'little something extra'.

Zoe's smile, as usual, made me thrill to it. There was something in her smile that I couldn't read; couldn't define, couldn't decipher, but seemed full of suggestion, of innuendo.

I remembered sitting next to Zoe on the bench seat of Mrs Harper's catering van on our short journey across town to the hotel.

Zoe, telling me all about her eighteenth-birthday present she'd received last year from her prison officer cousin, Geraldine ("Gezza"): her authentic AFP-funded no-expense-spared leading-technology designed and manufactured Greystone Prison issue flip-flops, as worn by the notorious institution's infamous all-female prison officer staff, the 'Jailhouse Blues'.

Zoe, her left leg crossed over her right knee, the toe of her left flip-flop resting against the side of my left knee. And my eyes, captured by her darkish-pink ('Cerise Sensation') painted toes, sending pulses of tingly sensation right through me as with an almost hypnotic resonance they caused her birthday-present thin flexible foam-rubber soled flip-flop to slap against the bottom of her bare heel - slap, slap, slap, slap, slap ...

Zoe was growing on me, and fast.

By now, more than anything I wanted to win Zoe's approval and earn her regard: not just do what was expected of me anyway, do my bit to help boost her junior partnership's entitlement five percent share of Harper's Conference Catering's net profits, but to please her for pleasings' sake.

Stirred by these motivating imperatives, thus I was galvanised; fortified with the resolve to compliantly assume my 'key-role' position - not just with the good graces of a sense-of-duty stoicism but with a readiness born of a fast-growing emotional goal aspiration that barely an hour ago pre-Zoe I would have laughed off as pie-in-the-sky preposterous.

My loins thus girded, I walked forward, closing the gap between myself and the charismatic Head of Conference; close enough, to discern and to appreciate Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish's subtle yet heady fragrance - no doubt, one of her selections from the SPOILT! Boutique perfumery range.

And now, directly behind the fragrance-exuding expectantly standing conference-heading SPOILT! Boutique manageress, I sat down on the carpet of the set-aside Pavilion Lounge of the Brighton City-Break Hotel and Spa and, spreading my legs wide apart in an accommodating 'V', thus made myself conveniently available and my face easily reachable - as her refreshments-break facial footrest.

Upon seeing my white-shorted bare legs and trainered feet dutifully opened accommodatingly on either side of her, London's Oxford Street's premier everything-under-one-roof SPOILT! Boutique manageress adjusted her standing position in preparing to avail herself of the niche selling-point attraction 'little something extra' creature comfort of which it was now incumbent upon me to provide for my employer Mrs Hilary Harper's female clientele.

It appeared, though, from her tottery unsteadiness of balance that Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish's ensuing extrication of her right foot from the confines of her rather tight-fitting spike-heeled shoe was not just less than easeful but positively perilous.

It struck me that merely making myself conveniently available and my face easily reachable might still leave something to be desired; that in fact there was much room for improvement. And, occurring to me also that my critically observing employer Mrs Hilary Harper and her two closely watching junior partner profits-sharing assistants Amanda and Zoe would expect me to use my initiative and not just sit there and extend every courtesy out of reverent politeness but offer every assistance to prevent disaster, I did precisely that.

I took it upon myself, to take hold of and hold down for Miss Connaught-Cavendish, not just for easefulness' sake, but for the in-the-balance safety of her off balance person too, the four-inch spike-heel of her red leather pump until safely she'd eased free her heel.

If Miss Connaught-Cavendish approved of my unprompted assistance or appreciated my thoughtful and considerate attentiveness in her interests, this was unevidenced in that she neither verbally expressed or in any way gave the slightest gestured indication.

Having extended, said thoughtful off-my-own-bat stance-stabilising facilitation, I sat still.

Sat stock-still, and watched as the freshly unshod pale-olive complexioned sole of the SPOILT! Boutique Head of Conference manageress's right foot reached behind her and upward, towards my resigned if not reconciled and compliant if not wholly amenable face, which would, nonetheless for all of my heretofore reluctance and reserve, now almost willingly, for Zoe, serve as her refreshments-break 'little something extra' facial footrest.

Unsighted and unguided, the navigational guesswork of Miss Connaught-Cavendish's approach was unconfident and clumsy but, albeit, on a decidedly wayward course, she got there in the end.

And, after minutely adjusting the sole of her resting right foot on my conveniently positioned face for surer purchase and maximum comfort upon said eventual successful completion of her blind 'docking', sighing with pleasure, Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish leant back into me in blissful relaxation.

From the other twenty-nine closely encircling and avidly observing SPOILT! Boutique manageresses, I heard their unmistakable murmurings, amused chuckling and even excited exclamations of vicarious enjoyment in anticipating their own, imminent participation.

Because unquestionably they, too, were immensely looking forward to taking their turn with their refreshments-break facial footrest. And if not now, during the 10:00 - 10:30 coffee break, then I was given to believe, from the manageresses' candidly expressed sentiments and frankly disclosed intentions towards myself, those who missed out now would be sure not to during their 3:00 - 3:30 tea break.

In my head, I quickly did the math.

With two thirty-minute refreshments breaks totalling sixty minutes, this meant that the personal facial-footrest allowance of each of the thirty SPOILT! Boutique manageresses averaged out at two minutes.

On the face of it, as it were, perhaps, not a lot of time; indeed, the clock would be ticking a lot faster for the users of said service than for its provider.

Presiding over my initiation at the suggestion of my employer Mrs Hilary Harper, Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish, the first of the Annual Conference attending SPOILT! Boutique manageresses to avail herself of their emergency replacement refreshments-break 'little something extra', settled in-situ.

Obliging me to discern, if not appreciate - and albeit not, actually deliberately and intentionally and hence meanly and maliciously, but merely incidentally and consequentially and therefore blithely and indifferently - the decidedly less subtly fragranced and even headier aroma of her under- and in-between-the-toes foot scent.

Though she occasioned me to strain my neck muscles to do so, I supported her steadily testing weight and increasingly relaxing posture as sturdily and as accommodatingly as any item of non-olfactory sensory footrest furniture.

And I might well have been just an unusual piece of footrest furniture, for all the notice that the coffee-breaking high-end fashion store manageresses and fashionistas themselves, took of me from that moment on as they resumed their chitchatting, drank their coffee and ate their fancy sandwiches.

As I sat there, listening to them talk, catching snippets and snatches of multiple conversations on a variety of girl-talk topics but mostly to do with their fashion-world work, almost all of my sight was taken up by the pale-olive complexioned sole of Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish's rather broad right foot:

The bottom of her bare heel, planted in the centre of my forehead; her arch, right in front of my eyes; the ball of her foot, pressing down on the bridge of my nose; and the undersides of her nose-clutching and nostril-encapturing toes, ensuring her a steadier if not rock-steady single-footed stance.

But I was not so entirely blinkered and my vision so completely limited by the bronzed breadth of Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish's facial-footrest availing right foot, that I could not see two of her colleagues when they took up very similar positions close to either side of her and with their backs to me. The one to her left, wearing a final-day-of-conference electric blue T-shirt, the one to her right, a crimson T-shirt. Due to my considerably compromised vision, though, further, more elaborate details of description at that time as to the SPOILT! Boutique skirt and shoe numbers the two of them wore, were somewhat obscured.

Carefully, not to risk upsetting the potentially precarious nature of their Head of Conference's single-footed stiletto-heeled stance, syncing their movements, the two high-end fashion store manageresses reached their now unshod foot behind them and upwards. The one on Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish's left, to rest the top of her right foot on my left shoulder; the one on her right, to similarly rest her left foot, sole-up, upon my right shoulder.

Because the three of them were in such close, side by side proximity, it was quite apparent that, if it came to the two shoulder-footrest availing manageresses wishing to rest their other foot, they would need to swap positions.

The lower leg of the two shoulder-availing manageresses was approximately level with the floor: the lower leg and foot of the electric blue T-shirted manageress, sloping slightly downward; the lower leg and foot of the crimson T-shirted manageress, sloping slightly upward.

Ultimately, I realised, these upward- or downward-sloping angles would be resultant of interdependent twin factors: the shoulder-footrest availing female client's height; and the amount of elevation afforded by the heels of her shoes.

One thing I noticed straight away, and with no small measure of relief, was that at least to some degree I was now able to relax my straining and already by now tiring neck muscles. For such was the anchoring/stabilising effect of the combined settled weight on my shoulders of the two manageresses' resting legs and feet, which were surprisingly heavy.

Nonetheless, moments later my head lunged forward precipitously as I was instantly relieved of all said neck muscle stress and strain entirely when with unexpected suddenness Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish removed her right foot from her facial footrest and returned it to its shoe.

But I knew my reprieve would be very shortlived: this, merely preparatory to Miss Connaught-Cavendish's switchover; standing on her right foot, and repeating the restful and relaxing refreshments-break 'little something extra' ritual, continuing with her left foot.

Taking the opportunity this brief change-over interval afforded, I looked first to my left shoulder, and then to my right shoulder. Took a moment, to look at the shoulder-perched, sole-upwards foot of each of the two foot-resting manageresses who were, albeit inadvertently, helpfully anchoring me in position and, albeit incidentally, mercifully mitigating the wearisome workload of my primary function.

The manageress to Miss Connaught-Cavendish's left, who was wearing the electric blue T-shirt, and resting her right foot sole-upwards on my left shoulder, was wearing seam-reinforced stockings of a thick, elaborately patterned navy blue material, of which the plain dark unpatterned sole almost invisibly veiled the bottom of her slightly downwards-sloping foot.

Her similarly single-footed postured colleague, wearing the crimson T-shirt, and who was resting her left foot sole-upwards on my right shoulder, wore stockings of a type I would describe as starkly contrasting. Unadorned, white, almost transparent material, so gossamer thin as to lay bare and reveal as though naked every last little detail of her scantily enshrouded slightly upwards sloping sole.

With my head thus craned to my right, I was slightly unsettled to observe that at just after ten o'clock in the morning, the crimson T-shirted manageress's ultra-thin white stocking was already showing the first signs of perspiration. The places of discolouration: the heel, the ball of the foot, and the under-the-toes area; shades of grey, varying from off-white at the arch, to a sweat moistened dove-grey under the toes.

I was occasioned further unease, at the thought that, come the SPOILT! Boutique manageresses' 3:00 - 3:30 tea break in another five hours' time, I might be pressed into her refreshments-break footrest service again - and she might not use one of my shoulders ...

From her end of their coffee-break conversation, as, seemingly oblivious to me by now as in her pleasantly lilting Welsh tones she chatted with Miss Connaught-Cavendish and the electric blue T-shirted manageress, it emerged that the name of the wearer of the crimson T-shirt and the gossamer thin, almost see-through white stockings, was Julie. Apparently, she ran Cardiff's SPOILT! Boutique.

And, similarly gleaned from eavesdropping on the threesome's fashion-world insiders' surprisingly interesting discussion, I also learned that Julie's co shoulder availing colleague, wearing the electric blue T-shirt and the expensive-looking seam-reinforced navy blue stockings, was Maxine, and she ran the Bristol store.

I was then distracted by a movement below.

Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish, having reinserted her right foot into her shoe, was apparently having the same difficulty again in easing free now the heel of her left foot from its rather tight-fitting red leather pump.

Bearing in mind the stability and therefore the safety of the two shoulder-footrest utilising manageresses Maxine and Julie, carefully, I leaned forward ... and then leaned forward a little bit more.

And, upon finding that the two shoulder-footrest availing manageresses' resting legs and feet were of a minimal impediment to my forward-leaning movement and, more importantly, said movement was not perilous to themselves, again I took it upon myself to take hold of and hold down for Miss Connaught-Cavendish her shoe's four-inch spike-heel. Repeating, said off-my-own-bat employer-pleasing, dutiful initiative-taking, solicitous assistance-extending, disaster-preventing single-footed stance facilitation.

My thoughtful, considerate, proactive attentiveness, again eliciting from her no sign of acknowledgement and still less indication of thanks, the manageress of London's Oxford Street's premier SPOILT! Boutique now reached her bare pale-olive complexioned left foot behind her and upwards, to once again avail herself of her refreshments-break facial footrest.

By now I was starting to get the hang of this aspect of my new job and, this time, I didn't constrain Miss Connaught-Cavendish to do all of the work herself, post-switchover.

Watching the uncertain, haphazard approach this time of Miss Connaught-Cavendish's unsighted and unguided left bare sole, it occurred to me that there was still much room for receptive improvement.

From a glance at their faces, I was given to believe also that my anxiously watching employer Mrs Hilary Harper and her two critically observing assistants Amanda and Zoe, having witnessed me use my initiative once, were expecting me not just to sit there but to respond proactively again and implement improvements unsupervised.

And so, in another act of employer pleasing self-initiative, I took it upon myself to lean forward and, manoeuvring my forehead to receive early and to accommodate with pinpoint exactitude the arrival of the bottom of the Head of Conference's erratically oncoming bare heel, I thus facilitated her blind 'docking'.

Just as she'd done first with her right foot, with exaggerated care Miss Connaught-Cavendish now centred the ball of her left foot on the bridge of my nose; her clutching, nostril encapturing toes, testing and retesting for optimum stability, ensuring maximum security of single-footed balance, pre-commitment.

And upon seeing, after repeated trial-testing, the minor and fussy but crucial pre-commitment adjustment performed to their Head of Conference's complete contentment (and to their own, peace of mind), considerately the two shoulder-footrest availing manageresses Maxine and Julie safely ceded their positions to two impatiently waiting colleagues.

Following the synced, risk-avoidant example of their colleagues Maxine and Julie, promptly these two acceding manageresses eagerly assumed their shoulder-footrest availing positions.

Simultaneously the lime green T-shirted manageress, on Miss Connaught-Cavendish's left, rested her right foot on my Maxine-vacated left shoulder; and the lemon T-shirted manageress, on Miss Connaught-Cavendish's right, similarly rested her left foot, sole-up, on my Julie-rescinded right shoulder.

I then felt two grasping, tugging hands, yanking the tail of my shirt right out of my community servant-style elasticated-waisted white work shorts. (These, the distinctive, demeaning workwear issued to me at the Community Service Liaison Centre, where I'd reported to upon leaving the Job Centre after my Career Classification Assessment interview and consequent career-path decree by Miss Tonya Tomkins).

I then felt two presences: the owners of those shirt-snatching hands, who were backing into me; settling into their positions right up close to me in a manner that in any other circumstances would strike one as an intimacy of unseemly nature. And, in my peripheral vision, albeit imperfectly I could see two more SPOILT! Boutique manageresses, positioning themselves just as close, on either side of me.

It occurred to me that, surely by now, if fourteen of her colleagues were to partake equally and fairly of their morning coffee-break 'little something extra', Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish was overrunning now and by a considerable margin her allotted two-minute allowance in this, their favourite and most coveted of refreshments-break footrest positions.

Either the Annual Conference attending SPOILT! Boutique manageresses hadn't done the math, or they weren't rigid timekeepers: I'd seen no stopwatch in evidence and, from what I could see, none of the other twenty-nine manageresses seemed eager to raise the equal-opportunity time allowance issue with their Head of Conference and pull her up about her selfish overrun.

Insinuating their way under the tail of my untucked shirt, I felt the invasive soles of two feet, both of them bare and both of them startlingly cold, as, gratefully warming them on their side of my spine, the two shirt-pulling manageresses took up their bare-back availing footrest/foot-warming positions.

The other two manageresses to either side of me were not barefoot but wore what felt to me like nylons or tights. As, contenting themselves with resting their foot in the natural recesses of my sides: the bottoms of their heels, taking advantage of the yielding but supportive flesh beneath my ribcage; the ball of their foot and their toes, aided by the slight foothold bumps of my hips, they partook of their coffee-time indulgence.

To my surprise - no: to my absolute, flabergastation - I now wondered if I would, after all, prove Amanda's intuitive assertion correct and realise my employer Mrs Hilary Harper's fervently stated hopes that, at last, they had found their missing team player.

Wondered, if I could, find it within myself, if unable to radically change my entrenched AFP-antipathetic attitude, then to at least put on hold my female-friendly ideological disagreements and disgruntlements.

Pondered, if, rather than follow in the ill-fated footsteps of my long string of short-serving sullen and begrudging runaway forerunners, I could put aside my resentments and reservations and learn to - to use my employer Mrs Hilary Harper's word: "adapt".

Considered, if in fact I actually could, occupy with the composure of mind on my part and an agreeable consistency of submissive attitude and satisfactory quality of performance on theirs, the position of their key, male worker. Be the compatible male employee, who unlike all of my inherently unsuited and ultimately unadaptable predecessors would not flee and let them down but remain and serve them well.

Reflected, if through both the good offices and the as yet unrevealed but naked self-interests of their sympathetic contact and my ulterior-motived now Case Worker and figure of authority liaison at the Job Centre, Miss Tonya Tomkins, it was problem solved, for my employer and her two five-percent-of-net-profits sharing junior assistants, Amanda and Zoe.

Wondered - if aided by the motivating factors of my employer's promised protective patronage which would shield me from the worst downsides for a male of AFP governance, and my fast-growing desire to please Zoe, I could, acquire the non-rebellious reconciled commitment and the willingness of temperament prerequisite to my male-worker role:

Assume the heretofore unsatisfactorily tenanted mantle of my employer Mrs Hilary Harper's catering company's niche selling-point attraction 'little something extra': Be her reverently polite, unfailingly compliant, assistance-extending facial-footrest 'docking' facilitator and general use footrest/foot-comforter to her refreshments-breaking female clientele.

For the sensations, engendered by the two manageresses standing behind me and rubbing their bare feet on 'their' side of my bare back and of the other two manageresses' nyloned feet on my sides with their heels digging in and their toes clutching my hips for enhanced surety of foothold, were far from unpleasant.

In fact, the combination of the two manageresses' cool, exploratively roaming and luxuriating bare feet rubbing on either side of my back and the other two manageresses' warm, nyloned soles on my flanks - not least, their absentminded toe-scrunching on my hips as they chitchatted - were of an undreamed-of sensual pleasure.

So much so, that it was all I could do not to laugh; not to giggle like a fool into the pale-olive complexioned bare left sole of the facial-footrest availing Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish.

The SPOILT! Boutique manageress and Head of Conference was undoubtedly by now seriously overrunning to the diminution of her twenty-nine store manageress refreshments-breaking colleagues her allotted two-minute time allowance, selfishly far exceeding her fair and equal share and thereby iniquitously reducing theirs.

But what business was that of mine? I was just their foot furniture, capable of accommodating sturdily and comfortably up to seven.

I was dismissing these disrespectful ideas and re-establishing in their stead my Zoe-inspired acceptance-of-purpose mindset, when, as though reading with utmost reproval my albeit fleeting thoughts and responsively admonishing me to keep a civil tongue in my mind, Miss Connaught-Cavendish suddenly removed her left foot from her facial footrest.

As before, when preparatory to her standing-foot switchover she'd removed her relaxing right foot with similar sudden heedlessness, despite the stabilising influences of my two shoulder-availing 'anchors' my head lunged forward as instantly my neck was relieved of the constant stress and strain of sturdily and comfortably supporting her single-footed luxuriating posture.

Albeit reluctantly, the two shoulder-footrest availing manageresses now considerately relinquished their positions, too. The left-shoulder footrest availing, lime green T-shirted manageress (who, from eavesdropping I learned was Samantha, manageress of Sheffield's SPOILT! Boutique); and the right-shoulder footrest availing, lemon T-shirted manageress (Sonia, manageress of Edinburgh's SPOILT! Boutique), making said shoulder-footrest facilities available to other coffee-breaking colleagues.

Finally relinquishing the facial footrest, Miss Connaught-Cavendish found it necessary to put her hand on top of my head and grab a good fistful of my hair to help keep her balance as now she reinserted her left foot into her four-inch heeled red leather pump.

As she did so, the Head of Conference ran her eyes over the gathering of refreshments-breaking manageresses and, spotting the one she apparently sought, said brightly, "Martina! Come over here now and take your turn, of our little something extra. I must say, there's no comparison with his absconded predecessor, Neville, who, clearly his heart wasn't in it in that he would sullenly and begrudgingly try to avoid rather than pleasingly and welcomingly receive. In wonderfully pleasing contrast you'll find David, our emergency replacement, who Mrs Harper did ever so well to procure for us at such short notice through her sympathetic Job Centre contact, Tonya, uncommonly amenable and incredibly well-behaved!"

"Hazel, I don't mind if I do!" eagerly replied the local agent deputed to organise this year's Annual Conference's facilities, same-hotel accommodation, and refreshments-breaks provision - the manageress of Brighton's SPOILT! Boutique, Miss Martina Morris.

Stepping inside the accommodating 'V' of my widely spread apart white-shorted bare legs and trainered feet, Miss Martina Morris, wearing her final-day-of-conference orange T-shirt, and her above-the-knee navy blue skirt and kitten-heeled white mules, items that, as a SPOILT! Boutique fashionwear store manageress she enjoyed a generous personal allowance, prepared to take up her facial-footrest availing position.

Unlike her prized-position availing predecessor, Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish, Miss Martina Morris had no such difficulties in extricating first her unconfined right foot from her kitten-heeled white mule and therefore was not in need of my heel-holding balance steadying assistance.

But, unsighted and unguided, as Miss Morris waywardly reached her right foot behind her and upwards in the general direction of my conveniently positioned and compliantly waiting face, the receptive inadequacy was apparent again and, it was evident that she, as well, would benefit from my proactivity.

And so, in my employer-approving and Amanda-gratifying and Zoe-pleasing demonstration of assistance-extending self-initiative, carefully I tracked the uncertain approach of Brighton's SPOILT! Boutique manageress's pale-complexioned sole and, leaning forward, I manoeuvred my forehead to facilitate with pinpoint precision the 'docking' with the bottom of her erratically oncoming bare heel, thus aiding her blind, haphazard navigation.

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Miss Martina Morris delightedly at such pleasing ease of 'docking' after I'd eased my way back to a straight-backed, sturdily supportive posture; though as yet, she was not ready to fully commit the relaxed weight of her single-footed stance.

"I see exactly, what you mean, Hazel!" Miss Morris enthused.

"Didn't I tell you, Martina!" gushed Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish. "Isn't he just a perfect sweetie?"

Well, well, well, this was a turn up for the books! I could hardly believe my ears. Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish, who up until a moment ago had neither even remotely suggested, let alone, expressed such sentiments, heaping such fulsome praise on my head!

"Steady on, Hazel, don't get carried away. He is, after all, here to do a job of work and provide a good service," said Miss Martina Morris, deflating my balloon.

Some of the gathered encircling refreshments-breaking manageresses spoke up to express their agreement with Miss Morris:

"It was this - or in all likelihood, he would have gone to Greystone Prison, enroled on a female-friendly course. And, compared to the Jailhouse Blues, we're pussycats," said one manageress, who was wearing a pink final-day-of-conference T-shirt, and who as yet I was unacquainted.

"It was this - or perhaps he would have been Placemented; possibly here, in our Brighton boutique under Martina, as an in-store pedicurist," said another manageress with whom I was yet to make acquaintance, and who was wearing an emerald green T-shirt.

"It was this - or maybe he would be put on attachment to one of the most critically undermanned female-friendly programmes, projects, or schemes," - this, suggested by one of the shoulder-footrest availing manageresses: the wearer of the crimson T-shirt and the ultra-thin, almost see-through white stockings, the Cardiff SPOILT! Boutique manageress Julie. "So, let's not go overboard with our praise, just yet," she cautioned in her pleasantly lilting Welsh tones. "He'll have to earn it!"

"Oh, absolutely right, Julie!" agreed Miss Morris. "I do have to say, though - and far be it from me too, Julie, to cheerlead our footboy - I must concur with Hazel and give credit where credit is due: his reception skills are exemplary. And the added, bonus: David must be a good four, maybe five inches shorter than his runaway predecessor, Neville. And so, in addition to the new boy's apparent self-undertaken facilitation, thanks due to the perfect combination of his short stature and, as I've been witnessing, the assuring steadfast reliability of his upper-torso strength, the difference in the level of in-situ comfort, too, is so appreciable."

"Yes, you are right, Martina. Mrs Harper's new male employee David is the ideal height and build; the perfect footrest, for refreshments-breaking businesswomen such as ourselves."

"But of course, it always helps to wear heels, for the extra elevation afforded to one's standing foot," commented Miss Morris matter-of-factly.

Miss Morris looked down at her standing left foot and regarded her kitten-heeled white mule.

"Even these kitten heels put one to advantage, compared to wearing flats," added Miss Morris sagely, to the nods and murmurs of agreement of her encircling spectating colleagues.

Miss Martina Morris then proceeded to make the minor but essential single-footed postured adjustments. Testing and retesting to her complete satisfaction that the ball of her foot was positioned correctly and supported firmly upon the bridge of my nose; the undersides of her clutching, nostril encapturing toes, ensuring her an enhanced surety of purchase and thereby her easiness of mind, pre-commitment.

Their own, peace of mind now assured, two more footrest-availing manageresses came forward from the gathered coffee-breaking SPOILT! Boutique representatives to claim my shoulders and to, albeit inadvertently, helpfully 'anchor' me in position and, albeit incidentally, mercifully ameliorate my wearisome workload with the stabilising influences of the combined weight of their resting legs and their gratefully unshod foot. The left-shoulder footrest availing manageress to Miss Morris's left, wearing a lilac T-shirt; the right-shoulder footrest availing manageress to Miss Morris's right, an amber T-shirt.

No sooner had they taken their places beside their local agent and conference organiser Miss Morris, when from the peripheral vision of my once again compromised eyesight, imperfectly I saw, taking up their positions on either side of me, two more footrest-availing manageresses. The one to my left, wearing a purple final-day-of-conference T-shirt; the one on my right, a mauve T-shirt.

And, behind me, I sensed another two presences - another two manageresses. These, insinuating the bare soles of their invasive exploratory feet under the pulled-out tail of my shirt to take advantage of the foot-comforting next-to-the-skin warmth of my back, while they chatted, ate their sandwiches and drank their coffee.

Miss Martina Morris's pre-commitment preparations, all checked and ticked off, in-situ, she opened a coffee-time conversation with her two shoulder-footrest availing colleagues.

Mostly, it was girl talk.

But again, as with Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish's conversation with the Bristol and the Cardiff SPOILT! Boutique manageresses, Maxine and Julie, a lot of what they said was to do with their fashion-world work and, as fashionistas themselves, enthusiastic interests.

I listened with interest to the three manageresses in front of me, for their conversation was indeed intriguing. And most enlightening, too, as to the sorts of things that went on in their high-end fashion and personal services stores - particularly, with regards to their Placemented male pedicurists.

Also revealed to me, was the SPOILT! Boutique representatives' conference agenda for their final afternoon's session.

Apparently, this too would revolve around issues regarding their stores' Placemented male pedicurists.

Each of the thirty SPOILT! Boutique manageresses would stand up, taking their turn to raise their points of discussion regarding and in response to the most popular of suggestions, recommendations, and requests put forward by their female customers of discernment.

Eavesdropping, I learned that the left-shoulder availing manageress, wearing the lilac T-shirt and, from who's slightly upwards sloping sole perched upon 'her' shoulder, I saw was wearing tan tights, was Dianne, and she ran the SPOILT! Boutique, in Manchester.

While it emerged that the right-shoulder footrest availing manageress, wearing the amber T-shirt and, from who's also slightly upwards sloping sole perched upon 'her' shoulder, I saw was barefoot, was Felicity, who ran Newcastle's SPOILT! Boutique.

I gleaned this tan tights/barefoot information during Miss Martina Morris's quick, unassisted standing-foot changeover.

Which was when I saw, too, that both of the shoulder-footrest availing manageresses wore flats, which, through the resultant lack of elevation as described by Miss Morris, accounted for their slightly upwards sloping soles perched upon 'their' shoulder, duly corroborating her sound reasoning and vindicating my idle speculation.

I had the decided sense that Miss Martina Morris too now was going to seriously overrun, to the diminution of her remaining twenty-eight manageress colleagues, her two-minute time allowance with their emergency replacement 'little something extra'. Selfishly far exceeding her own, fair and equal share, to the unfair and unequal reducement of theirs.

I had the decided sense, too, that none of the other coffee-breaking SPOILT! Boutique manageresses would step forward and complain; would not pull the local agent up, as to her self-centred hogging of their facial footrest.

Would not air their resentment.

Would not make a fuss.

Would keep the disappointments of their denied pleasures, their thwarted anticipations, their unrealised refreshments-break treat, to themselves.

Would not address their Head of Conference's selected replacement, Miss Martina Morris, as to her selfish excesses at this, their favourite and most coveted of footrest positions, while the luckier of them made do with availing themselves of my relatively ungratifying shoulders, back, and sides.

But, what in the blazes' business was it of mine?

I was just their refreshments-break foot furniture.

Capable of accommodating up to seven.

And anyway - what of, all of that?

When with two SPOILT! Boutique manageresses' invasive and explorative bare soles on 'their' side of my back, and two manageresses' nyloned soles foot-resting on 'their' sides; scrunching their toes absentmindedly on the convenient protuberances of my hips as they drank their coffee and chatted - it was all I could do not to giggle idiotically.

Not to giggle idiotically, in the throes of such undreamed-of sensual pleasure, into the pale-complexioned left bare sole of the facial-footrest availing conference organiser and manageress of Brighton's SPOILT! Boutique.

*


It was not 10:30, as scheduled, but almost eleven o'clock when the Head of Conference, Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish, announced that she and her twenty-nine high-end fashion store manageress colleagues would now return to their conference suite.

I returned to the side of my employer Mrs Hilary Harper, at the four white tableclothed pushed-together serving tables where she and her two assistants Amanda and Zoe were now clearing them for resetting for the SPOILT! Boutique manageresses' 15:00 - 15:30 refreshments break.

"I am extremely pleased with you, David," Mrs Harper told me. "You conducted yourself exactly how I would expect: with self-initiative. Your off-your-own-bat facilitations, in particular, were highly pleasing to watch. Keep that up, this afternoon, and Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish will be sure to pass on some truly marvellous references and recommendations throughout her circle of business colleagues and hopefully to her wider orbit of associates."

"Didn't I say he'd be fine, Mrs Harper?" questioned Amanda. "That, at last, we'd found our missing team player?"

"You did indeed, Amanda. And though of course as yet it is still very early days and I'd hate to get my hopes up for nothing, I think we've all just witnessed enough evidence to suggest that you have been proved correct."

Zoe didn't say anything; she let her smile speak for her.

All business again, Mrs Harper turned to me and said," But our busy day has just started. So now go and get our vacuum cleaner, David. And take it for a walk around the Pavilion Lounge - before you report to the office of the hotel manageress, Miss Honeywell."


Tea, Coffee, and Me continues (and concludes) in Ch. 3.