Community Service Ch. 01

According to their name tags, they were C.S.O. Karen, and C.S.O. Linda.

I looked across my street, and I saw neighbours looking through their front windows; others, standing at their front doors, even, in their eagerness to view these decidedly ignominious proceedings. I looked along my street, and I saw more residents standing at their doorsteps; their curiosity piqued, too, by the arrival of the A.F.P. van ... for it meant bad news, for someone.

The two Community Service Officers continued to smirk at me, and continued to chew their gum, and to blow bubbles with it, till they burst. Pop! Pop!

What disrespect! I thought. What cheek!

And, as the two C.S.O.'s noisily popped their gum, attracted by movement, my eyes were drawn downwards, to see that they had both slipped a foot out of their black, backless, thick rubber-soled, A.F.P. issue clogs. And, as I watched, they both flexed and scrunched their toes, in their yellow cotton ankle-socks.

It somehow seemed to me, in interpreting the meaning of their body language, as though this was an unconscious, absentminded expression of pleasure. Yes: it seemed to me, that C.S.O. Karen and C.S.O. Linda were ... luxuriating, in the performance of their despicable duties.

Pop! Pop!

At hearing the chewing gum bubbles burst, I raised my eyes again ... and saw that the two C.S.O.'s were smiling at me. Smiling broadly.

After what seemed to me to be an uncomfortably long time, but was probably less than a minute, one of the Community Service Officers formally addressed me.

"Are you David Smith?" asked the taller one of the two, whose name tag declared her to be C.S.O. Karen.

I felt an almost irresistible urge to say: 'No. You've got the wrong man', like a character in some woeful B movie. But, what would be the point?

"Yes, I'm David Smith," I replied, my voice betraying my displeasure and resentment.

"I am C.S.O. Karen, and this is C.S.O. Linda," she informed me, introducing themselves like two police women.

I didn't tell them I was pleased to meet them -- because I wasn't.

C.S.O. Karen smirked at me, as she then produced and unfolded a sheet of official-looking paper from a breast pocket of her green uniform blouse. Reading from the document, she intoned officiously: "I, C.S.O. Karen, by the powers vested in me by the Authoritarian Female Party, hereby serve a Community Service Order on you, David Smith, unemployed for six months."

As some of my neighbours came closer, the better to hear and see what was being said and done, I was grateful that Mum and Dad had already gone to work, and so were not here to witness this awful event.

Mum and Dad owned a small business in town. A florist shop, that they ran with the help of their eighteen-year-old niece (and, my cousin), Rose, who was their full-time employee.

C.S.O. Karen went on, importantly, "You, David Smith, are to accompany me to the Community Service Operations Centre. There, the Community Service Liaison Officer will assign you to your duties, as a community servant."

Now, some of my neighbours were openly smiling; others, actually rubbing their hands in glee. In a minute, I thought, they would actually start cheering. Might even hop, skip, and jump, in expression of their joy. Especially the woman who lived directly across the street, Mrs. Newlove.

Mrs. Norma Newlove: aged about twenty-six, a single mother, who had a houseful of horrible brats, and claimed every Social Security benefit allowance under the sun -- and then some.

Openly gloating, she was, as she stood on her front doorstep. Her long, black hair was piled on top of her head, and fastened with a yellow plastic scrunch. She was looking tanned, and wearing her Minnie Mouse dressing gown and her Bugs Bunny slippers; souvenirs of her recent holiday to Disneyland -- at the British tax-payers' expense.

"Do you understand, David?" asked C.S.O. Karen, thoroughly warming to her new role, and quickly finding herself very much at home in it. Finding it, right up her street, in fact.

C.S.O. Karen: who, just last week, was being paid £80 per week in Unemployment Benefit payments, the same as myself ... But now, she was a Community Service Officer, and being paid £400 per week: She was being paid £400 per week, for supervising me -- a community servant.

"Yes, I understand," I replied through gritted teeth.

Now, it was C.S.O. Linda who spoke, for the first time. She stepped up, very close to me; her attractive, arrogant, concave-bob-framed face so close to mine that I could smell her sweet, chewing gum breath. But there was nothing sweet about the authoritative tone of her voice, when she said to me, "From now on, you will use the term 'Miss', when you address Community Service Officers. I, am Miss Linda. And this," she said, gesturing to her C.S.O. colleague, "is Miss Karen. Do you understand, David?"

I could hardly believe my ears! Could hardly believe the way -- the tone -- in which this girl, this ... "I, am Miss Linda," C.S.O. Linda, had so arrogantly spoken down to me.

C.S.O. Linda: who, just last week, was being paid £80 per week in Unemployment Benefit payments, the same as myself ... But now, she was a Community Service Officer, and being paid £400 per week: She was being paid £400 per week, to lay down the law, to me -- a community servant.

The two C.S.O.'s watched my stunned, disbelieving expression.

And, as they waited for my reply, they switched standing from foot to foot and, each time they did so, they ... luxuriated: Absentmindedly, they slipped a yellow cotton ankle-socked foot from its clog, and flexed and scrunched their toes. This pair of vixens weren't just enjoying themselves, I realised -- they were loving this! Loving their dominance over me.

Pop! Pop!

I raised my eyes again, to see the now unsmiling face of C.S.O. Linda. "I just asked you a question, David. I said: Do you understand, as to how you are to address us? How you are to demonstrate your respect?"

I was flabbergasted. This could not be happening!

Some of my neighbours were chuckling in amusement. They were enjoying the show. Enjoying my shame. Seconds passed, and I remained silent ... and C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda began flexing their wicked-looking canes meaningfully.

Would they really hit me with those terrible things? I wondered. Would they? Right here, on my own doorstep? In front of my gawping neighbours? In front of Mrs. Newlove?

I only had to look at the arrogant, power-crazed faces of C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda, to know the answer: Yes, they would. With no hesitation. And with no compunction. But with enthusiasm. And with zeal.

Once again, I was immensely glad that Mum and Dad were at work, and not here to witness my humiliation, by these two young women; by these two arrogant, officious, power-going-straight-to-their-heads, Community Service Officers.

"Yes, Miss Linda," I said at last. "I understand."

I felt the almost irresistible urge, to run back into the house and slam the door in the two C.S.O.'s arrogant, concave-bob-framed faces ... but what would be the point? Instead, I pulled the door shut, and resigned myself to the inevitable. To the inescapable.

Without further ceremony, C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda each grabbed hold of one of my arms, and roughly forced them behind my back. And then they frogmarched me to the back of their van, as my neighbours looked on, taking in the highly ignominious scene. Especially Mrs. Newlove, who was grinning from ear to ear, she was so exultant.

"Hey!" I protested, outraged. "I'll come quietly. Let go of me! There's no need for this! Get off me!"

Upon opening the back doors of the van, which were marked with the black, capital letters: A.F.P., it was C.S.O. Linda who ordered harshly, "Shut up! Get in the van, David. Now!"

As I did as C.S.O. Linda had ordered, the shouted sentiments of my neighbours, of: "Yes! The lazy, sponging little sod!" And: "About time he did some work!" And, worst of all, the now gleefully cackling Mrs. Newlove's: "Ha ha ha ha! They will soon sort you out, David!" left me in little doubt that my neighbours had no qualms at all as to the rightfulness of my 'arrest'.

My sense of outrage soared, when I felt the palm of Mrs. Newlove's imperiously shoving hand, right in the middle of my back. I was incensed, at Mrs. Newlove's coming over; at her coming over the road, in her Minnie Mouse dressing gown, and her Bugs Bunny slippers, and having the impudence -- the audacity -- to actually help the two C.S.O.'s bundle me into the back of their A.F.P. van. But, I was absolutely livid, when Mrs. Newlove then imperiously echoed C.S.O. Linda's harsh order: "Yes! Shut up! And get in the van, David! Now!"

I had never felt so belittled. Had never felt so small. I was never, ever, going to live this down.

"I'm not idle!" I angrily shouted back at my denigrating neighbours; many of whom, I had formerly thought of as friends. "I just can't find a job, that's all!" I told them earnestly. "I've looked, and looked, and looked!"

The two C.S.O.'s evidently greatly enjoyed these reactions from my neighbours, and were pleased to see that they were obviously acting with the full backing and approval of the general public.

I was almost glad to get into the back of the A.F.P. van; at least it would be a refuge from my jeering, castigating neighbours. Especially, the gloating, insufferable Mrs. Norma Newlove.

C.S.O. Linda followed me into the back of the van and, as her colleague watched, C.S.O. Linda restrained me by my ankles, using the leather cuffs that were bolted to the floor of the A.F.P. van. C.S.O. Linda then slammed shut the back doors, and she sat on the padded bench-seat opposite me.

"This -- this is outrageous," I told C.S.O. Linda. "Twisting my arms behind my back, in front of my neighbours, and ..." I let my words trail off.

C.S.O. Linda was grinning at me. She chewed her gum, and blew bubbles with it, till they burst with a loud popping sound. Pop! Pop! Pop! "You haven't a clue, have you, David ... what you're in for?" she said. "You've no idea.

"Well, here's a small taster, David, of what's in store for you," said C.S.O. Linda, slipping her yellow cotton ankle-socked feet from her black, backless, thick rubber-soled A.F.P. issue clogs.

Before I knew what she was about, C.S.O. Linda had stretched out her shapely (I have to give her that), olive-skinned legs, and placed her feet on my bench seat, right between my cuffed apart legs. Grinning, she spread my thighs further apart, with her feet.

What the ...? How dare she? I thought. What a colossal nerve, the girl had!

C.S.O. Linda's arrogant, superior, power-crazed smile was infuriating. Absolutely galling.

Grinning at me, she raised both of her legs; the soles of her yellow cotton ankle-socked feet, now level with my chest.

Mere inches away, I could see the soles of C.S.O. Linda's yellow cotton ankle-socked feet, in all of their gross, unsightly detail.

The bright-yellow colour was still almost pristine, at her arch. But it was darkened; her foot sweat, staining the material a darker, yellowy-orange colour at her heels, at the balls of her feet, and around her toes, too: the pads of her toes, five distinct, individual yellowy-orange blobs.

Grinning even wider, C.S.O. Linda raised her legs even higher. The soles of her yellow cotton ankle-socked feet, were now level with my face. Mere inches away, I could now actually smell the decidedly unpleasant tang of their scent.

C.S.O. Linda then flexed, wiggled, and scrunched her yellow-cotton-socked toes at me, wafting her tangy foot odour right under my nose.

As though taunting me. As though goading me. As though provoking me, into saying something ... Something, that would land me in trouble. Something, that would give her the slightest excuse to take her cane to me -- already, I knew she wanted to. All the while, grinning at me. Chewing her gum, and blowing bubbles with it, till they burst ... Pop! Pop! Pop!

This was out of order! I thought. Well out of order! Where did she get off, roughly spreading my thighs apart with her feet, and then waving her sweaty-socked feet right in my face?

Grinning maddeningly, C.S.O. Linda continued to wave her sweaty-socked, stinky feet right in my face. Her toes; flexing, wiggling, scrunching. Chewing her gum, and going: Pop! Pop! Pop!

This was intolerable! I wasn't going to stand for much more of this ... this disrespectful treatment! After all, I still had rights ... Didn't I?

C.S.O. Linda's face was a picture of pure, arrogant, supreme confidence. Supreme confidence, that came from knowing there would be no come-back, as a result of her domineering actions over a community servant. On the contrary: as I later learned, C.S.O.'s were encouraged to actively -- aggressively, even -- exert their authority over community servants.

C.S.O. Linda's grinning, bubble-gum popping, concave-bob-framed face was infuriating, as she then ordered, "Start massaging my feet, David ... If you don't, I'll give you a taste of this," she threatened, meaningfully flexing her wicked-looking, A.F.P. issue cane: the C.S.O.'s instrument of chastisement.

I was appalled. She was going too far! Surely, this was an outrageous abuse of her powers! I couldn't believe this was actually happening. Things were rapidly getting out of hand here; quickly escalating from bad, to terrible.

This was abhorrent. I was nauseated. Nauseated, just at the very thought of handling C.S.O. Linda's sweaty-socked, stinky feet.

But, intuiting the true, dominant, and ruthless nature of C.S.O. Linda; the true nature of this new breed, of power hungry females, who had so enthusiastically answered the Minister of Employment's clarion call to sign-up to become Community Service Officers, and to supervise (and, as and when they deemed fit, to chastise) the male community servants under their authority, it was obvious to me that it would be sheer, self-destructive folly, to do otherwise than to obey the commands of the cane-wielding C.S.O.'s. And, to obey them promptly.

My choice was clear: Massage C.S.O. Linda's feet, as she had ordered me to, as a community servant under her authority ... Or suffer the painful consequences of noncompliance. Painful consequences, summarily administered by her!

It didn't bear thinking about ... C.S.O. Linda, making good her threat, and taking her cane to me.

Given my choices ... As loathsome as it was, to me, massaging C.S.O. Linda's sweaty-socked, stinky feet, was the lesser of the two evils.

And so I took hold of C.S.O. Linda's right, yellow cotton ankle-socked foot, in both of my hands and said compliantly, "Yes, Miss Linda."

And, to this day, I can still remember that sinking feeling. That depression of spirit. My sense of hopeless, helpless capitulation. In short: my submission.

As I began to massage C.S.O. Linda's right, yellow cotton ankle-socked foot, it was all I could do to hide my distaste -- my revulsion -- and my resentment.

This shouldn't be happening! No way, should it be happening! It just wasn't right! Being made to earn my Unemployment Benefit payments, was one thing, but ...

C.S.O. Linda's foot felt warm and clammy; unpleasantly moist, in my hands. And, at this extreme close-up range; at this literally, right-in-my-face nearness, I saw the sole of her sweat-stained, yellow cotton ankle-socked foot, even more clearly detailed and defined. Sweat-stained, particularly at her heel, the ball of her foot, and around her toes ... And the unpleasant, tangy smell was significantly stronger now, too.

C.S.O. Linda smiled, and sighed contentedly as she enjoyed the benefits of my reluctant attentions -- my forced ministrations.

As I massaged her right foot, she rested her left foot on my bench-seat, between my upper thighs, and within toe-touching distance of my groin.

Then, upon her noticing that her colleague had been watching these proceedings from the driver's seat, she said, to C.S.O. Karen, "Hey, Karen! Know something? I think I'm going to enjoy this -- working for the Authoritarian Female Party!"

C.S.O. Karen laughed. "Yeah, I'll bet!" she replied. "Me, too!"

Still giggling, C.S.O. Karen started the A.F.P. van, and set off for the Community Service Operations Centre, based in town.

* * *

It was only a short, ten-minute drive and, upon our arrival at the Community Service Operations Centre, C.S.O. Linda released me from my ankle restraints.

After locking up their van, C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda again roughly twisted my arms behind my back, and escorted me inside the building. Full of themselves, the two C.S.O.'s then frogmarched me to Reception, and presented me to the Community Service Liaison Officer, Harriet Harmman.

The Community Service Liaison Officer; a quite tall, thin woman in her early forties, and with her auburn hair cut in the C.S.O.'s distinctive concave bob style, looked down her nose at me, as she appraised me.

I found the Liaison Officer's gaze unsettling, intimidating. Her light-brown eyes, piercing, searching ... seeing. And she radiated authority. Powerful authority, that seemed to emanate from her like radio waves; scanning waves, that I could almost feel ... as if her signal was tuning in to me.

In fact, I found the Liaison Officer's seemingly all-seeing, all-knowing gaze so intimidating, that I couldn't meet her eyes; at least, I couldn't maintain eye contact with her for more than a few, highly disturbing seconds.

And so I gazed past her, at the full-colour posters adorning the wall.

The posters depicted various A.F.P. Cabinet Ministers -- I readily recognised the Minister for Employment, Helen Highwater. Most of the posters, though, were of Caroline Flynt, leader of the Authoritarian Female Party, and Prime Minister ... The woman who was, ultimately, responsible for my being here. The posters depicted her in various poses; mostly she was addressing audiences and party rallies, looking charismatic and authoritative ... And very attractive indeed.

The Liaison Officer then turned to my two escorts and, referring to me, she said in disdainful tones, "So ... what have we got here, then?"

C.S.O. Karen replied, "This is David Smith, Ma'am. He has been unemployed for six months, and so he is now eligible for duty as a community servant."

Armed with this information, the Liaison Officer turned around, and walked up to the shelves behind her. There, she looked along the rows of brown cardboard boxes, each of them marked with the A.F.P. insignia: a flag of blue, green, red and yellow quarters.

"Ah, here we are," said the Liaison Officer, upon spotting the cardboard box she was looking for, on a shelf just above her head height. Being just about tall enough to reach the box, without needing to resort to the step-ladders, she reached up to retrieve it. And, as she reached up on tiptoe, both of her tan-hosed heels popped out of her low-heeled, black office pumps, displaying her rather long and narrow soles.

Upon her noticing this, C.S.O. Karen said, "Can you manage, Ma'am?"

"Yes, thank you, C.S.O. Karen. It's a bit of a stretch ... but I think I've got it," the Liaison Officer replied.

Having successfully retrieved the relevant cardboard box from the shelf, the Liaison Officer brought it back to her Reception desk, placing it on the counter. On the top of the plain brown cardboard box, a white label read: 'Community servant David 007'.

This raised a laugh, from C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda, and an amused chuckle from the Liaison Officer, too. Though, this merely meant that I was the 7th David, so far, to become a community servant.

When their laughing and joke-cracking had subsided, the Liaison Officer informed me, "In this box, David, is your community servant's uniform: white T-shirt, and white shorts. You have five sets; one for each day of your working week. And, of which you must wash and press to a high standard, so that you are always presentable when you report for duty. Slovenliness will not be tolerated -- and is sanctionable. You are also being issued with two pairs of rubber flip flops, as there will be a lot of water where you will be working. You will put on your community servant's uniform before you leave this building.