Community Service - Part 11 (New Version)

This story is written by David, please send comments and appreciation to


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