Community Service - Part 1(New Version)

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


Part 1:  The Authoritarian Female Party are elected to rule Britain.  


I had voted for the Authoritarian Female Party, led by Caroline Flint ... It had seemed like a good idea, at the time.
My name is David Smith. And I live in Canford, south London.
I was an eighteen-year-old school leaver, and because I hadn't paid the kind of attention I should have, in school, I finished my education with poor grades. What can I say? I just wasn't much of a student. I just wanted to fool around, have a few laughs.
Which was the main reason I hadn't found a job, after almost six months on the dole.
Not from lack of trying. But, after almost six months of job searching; of writing to employers, e-mailing them, and knocking on their doors, and despite telling them that I was prepared to do anything, and prepared to work for minimum wage, for the privilege, I still couldn't find work. 
Job vacancies were thin on the ground as it was, and the job seekers out there chasing them surely had better CVs than I had: the phrase, 'Not worth the paper it's written on', just about covers it.
My job prospects bleak, to seemingly non-existent, I was almost in despair.
                                                              *                           *                         *
My parents, to whom I was the youngest of their four children, and the only one of the four siblings to be still living at home, weren't exactly over the moon either.
After all, they'd been telling me for years to buck up my ideas. Telling me for years, to do better at school; to apply myself and strive for improved exam results. In short: to knuckle down to learning.
Just like my brother John, nineteen, and my two sisters, Alison and Denise, twenty-one and twenty-three, respectively, had done. And, who all had good, well-paid jobs now, as a result of their knuckling down. 
John worked as a chef on the North Sea oil rigs. He was away from home a lot, but the money was great, he said. When he visited home, cash was practically spilling out of his pockets – and his pockets were deep. 
And Alison and Denise both held well-paid, and highly responsible positions, working for Canford's most eminent firm of solicitors, Black, Brown, and Grey. 
While, I ... All too late, I found myself wishing that I'd listened to my parents. Wishing that I'd paid more attention to what my teachers had been trying to drum into my head, for all of those attrociously wasted school years ... Wishing, that I had knuckled down.
But, I was where I was. And I just had to get on with it.  
Then, in early May, came the General Election ... and then things really started to get interesting.
                                                    *                        *                        *
The long suffering tax-payers of Britain wanted change, and were demanding change. A change from inept, incompetent governments. 
Above all, hard-working, hard-pressed citizens were crying out for a major crackdown against the idle, malingering, sponging ne'er-do-wells of the long-term unemployed. In particular, the hard core, parasitic 'career claimants'.
Britain's Social Security bill was astronomical, and the 'career claimants' were largely to blame. Making a career out of claiming for this, for that, and for something else – anything and everything they possibly could – they were bleeding the country dry.
It was, and had long been, an outrageous waste of the tax-payers' money.
Caroline Flint, leader of the Authoritarian Female Party, said that it had to stop. And it had to stop now.
Caroline Flint was a rising star in British politics, and the general mood in the country seemed to be right behind the highly charismatic leader, and her up-and-coming, all-female member party. A party of no-nonsense, highly capable, and very ambitious women.
And ... according to some rumours I'd heard, a party of ultra-feminist, man-hating ball-breakers. But, I thought, that had to be a load of tosh ... Didn't it?
In the Authoritarian Female Party's election manifesto pledges, via their Work Motivation Programme scheme, Caroline Flint was promising to eradicate male unemployment. Vowing, to make joblessness a thing of the past. In future, she said, there would be no such thing as male idleness.
All of the other political parties had laughed derisively. It couldn't be done, they had jeered. The A.F.P.'s promise was unattainable, it simply couldn't be achieved. Full employment, said the other parties, was a pipe dream. The stuff of fantasy.
For Britain's females, voting for Caroline Flint and the Authoritarian Female Party was a no-brainer. Females knew they were onto a winner, with the A.F.P. For them, it was win, win, win, all the way.
But the A.F.P. managed to raise a lot of support from the country's male population, too ... Including myself.
Because I wanted to work, and the A.F.P. were promising to put me to work. 
But, I was short-sighted. Blinkered. I was a one-issue voter. I didn't pay much heed to all of the other, female-friendly, not-in-my-interest policies that the A.F.P. were proposing. 
Having said that, I hadn't seen anything that should have raised a red flag, as it were, because I certainly had no gripe with females getting a better deal ... But, little did I know, that this was just the thin end of a very thick wedge.
And so it was to this background, this groundswell of nationwide support, for the A.F.P., that Caroline Flint and her all-female member party were swept to power. Swept to power in an all-time record, landslide victory.
The streets of Britain's towns and cities were filled to overflowing with joyful, celebrating crowds. Thousands of A.F.P. flags, banners and placards with their distinctive party colours of blue, green, red and yellow quarters fluttered and waved in a frenzy of happiness and new-found optimism ... mine, among them. 
Celebrations and revelry carried on late into the night. All over Britain the mood was positive and upbeat. A bright new future was dawning. A new, golden era.
On the evening of that fateful Friday, I celebrated quietly at home, with a bottle of red wine. Wine; a bottle of cheap, 3-for-£10 off-licence claret, that I could ill afford, but that I felt the occasion called for. 
On the other hand, Mum and Dad simply could not believe that I had actually voted for the A.F.P. "You silly, silly fool, David," Mum had sternly admonished. And Dad had agreed with her, shaking his head sadly, at my folly.
With my first glass of red wine, I had toasted Caroline Flint. And, at consuming my second and third glasses of wine, not only my sense of wellbeing had seemingly improved, but also my eyesight: for I was seeing, with 20/20 vision, through rose-tinted glasses ... I had done the right thing, in voting A.F.P.
Yes, it would be different now, I had thought, under this new government. Things would be different, under the rule of Caroline Flint and the Authoritarian Female Party.
But, before I had even finished my bottle of wine, my sense of optimism was fast waning. 
I finished my bottle of red wine; not because I was still enjoying it, but because I felt as if I needed a drink ... and then I raided my precious stash, and opened another bottle of my economy claret.
There would not be, I began to realise, a bright new future dawning. Not for me. Just one hell of a hangover.
My inattention at school had resulted in blighting my job prospects. And now, by the sound of things, my having listened to the A.F.P.'s election manifesto pledges with equal inattention, was going to blight my future. Voting for the A.F.P., I began to realise, had been a dreadful, dreadful mistake. 
Not that my single vote would have mattered a jot, one way or the other, in the great scheme of things. But, if I had voted differently, at least I would later have had the small consolation of being able to say, to males who had voted for the Authoritarian Female Party: 'I told you so!' Or: 'I knew, that something like this was going to happen!'
And, listening closely to the news on TV, and watching the various TV studio talk shows, and watching the A.F.P. political broadcasts over the weekend following their meteoric rise to power, I was gradually filled with a deep unease. A relentlessly growing sense of disquiet.
By the end of Sunday evening, I was experiencing trepidation. Dread.
Now that the Authoritarian Female Party were actually in power, they were moving fast. Over that weekend, the A.F.P. membership took up office; initiating their projects, and changing the face of Britain.
Galvanized into feverish, all-hands-on-deck purposeful activity, the all-female member party set about preparing for government. Set about the task, of installing their female-friendly governmental apparatus – their anti-male administration.
Over the weekend, as I watched the news updates, my sense of foreboding deepened, and deepened. 
My feeling of dread deepened, as I watched on TV the many A.F.P. broadcasts. Deepened, as I listened to the opinions of panel guests on countless TV studio discussions. And deepened, as I watched the more in-depth interviews of senior political figures, by TV station anchor-men and women, and by other journalistic luminaries.
I couldn't believe what I was seeing. What I was hearing. What was actually happening. And, what I had actually voted for ... Mum had been right.
Prime Minister Caroline Flint announced that, from Monday, all females would be exempt from paying income tax. Their earnings would be paid to them tax-free. Their tax burden, she said, would be passed on to the male workforce.
Caroline Flint went on, promising the country's females that the introduction of many more female-friendly changes were on the way, and would be implemented as soon as possible.
All of the other political parties were apoplectic, screaming that the A.F.P. would bankrupt Britain within a matter of a few short months. What the A.F.P. were proposing to do was simply infeasible, untenable – absolute, economic madness. 
I was astounded and shocked. 
Of course, although I'd paid them little heed, I'd heard about many of the A.F.P.'s female-friendly election manifesto pledges.
But this was the first that I had heard, of these ... more sinister, proposals. These, formerly kept-under-wraps, but now, completely overt, anti-male measures. 
Carefully, sneakily, craftily hidden away – cunningly secreted – in the 'small print'; in the clauses and sub-clauses of their election manifesto pledges ... maybe they were.
But these vague, ambiguous, open-to-interpretation, delicately nuanced clauses were there, nonetheless.
Somehow, the A.F.P.'s deeper, darker, underlying design just hadn't been picked up on. Just hadn't been spotted, by the people who usually so closely scrutinized these things.
And, although the A.F.P. members had kept studiously quiet about these slyly hidden anti-male measures, before the election, their Cabinet Ministers were certainly giving them a good airing now. 
Now, that the Authoritarian Female Party were safely in power. Safe, to show their true colours. To flaunt them, flying them high and proud.
But the worst bombshell was Caroline Flint's announcement, that the A.F.P. would be introducing their Community Service Programme scheme.
For, Britain's male long-term unemployed (over six months), immediately upon their being unemployed for six months, would from now on be sent a Letter of Notification. Promptly followed, by the serving of a Community Service Order.
Until they found gainful employment, all male long-term unemployed would be made to earn their weekly Unemployment Benefit payments, by means of working as community servants. 
And school leavers, who had no job or training to go to upon their leaving education, would be assigned to Work Motivation Programme placements. Placements, that were specifically designed to 'motivate' them into finding gainful employment.
This was the biggest bombshell, because I was just one week away from reaching the six-month limit.
The Minister for Employment, Helen Highwater, announced an immediate recruitment drive. 
Females, aged between eighteen and fifty, were invited to apply for jobs as Community Service Officers. Their role: to supervise – and, as and when they deemed fit, to chastise – the community servants under their authority. 
The Community Service Officers (C.S.O’s) would be armed, with the symbol of their authority: their A.F.P. issue cane. And C.S.O.'s would be free to use their canes, to chastise community servants at their own discretion.
Helen Highwater announced that females signing up as Community Service Officers would earn £10 per hour. A standard 40-hour week, would pay a wage of £400. And then overtime would often be available, and rates would be very generous, she said.
Helen Highwater said that Job Centres all over Britain would be open all over the weekend, and she urged females who thought this line of work appealing, to visit their local Job Centre now ... Because these jobs were sure to be snapped up quickly.
And the one week, crash-course induction training for Community Service Officers, was to start on Monday.
All other unemployed females, not wishing to avail themselves of this exciting new employment opportunity, would, with effect as of Monday, have their Unemployment Benefit payments tripled, to £240 per week. Until employment opportunities more to their liking, might become available to them.
Most unsettling of all was Helen Highwater's announcement that: all males who had been unemployed for six months or longer, must remain at their home address on Monday week.
These A.F.P. broadcasts were repeated frequently throughout the weekend. And the faces of the new Prime Minister, Caroline Flint; the Minister for Employment, Helen Highwater, and various other Authoritarian Female Party Cabinet Ministers, were never absent for long from my TV screen.
With only one more week left in which to find a job, I was fearing the worst ... And my fears were duly vindicated. For, despite all of my energetic last-minute endeavours to find work, at the end of that final week I was still jobless.
And so, on Saturday morning, delivered by courier, I duly received my Letter of Notification from my local Job Centre. Their terse instruction: "Dear Mr. Smith. You are to remain at home on Monday."
I did not sleep well, on Sunday night. My fevered mind would give me no peace. I either tossed and turned with worry ... or just lay awake, wondering what might be in store for me.
For, according to the TV news, all over Britain: England, Scotland, Wales – and, as it came under the jurisdiction of the UK government, Northern Ireland too – much of the A.F.P.'s female-friendly governmental apparatus was now up and running.

                                                                         *                        *                        *   
In accordance with my local Job Centre's terse, "You are to remain at home on Monday." instruction, I remained confined to barracks, as it were.
The TV news programmes and talk shows were still being dominated by one topic: the winning of the British general election by the Authoritarian Female Party.
The ramifications of the A.F.P.'s rise to power were discussed endlessly; the items of discussion, seemingly inexhaustible. The political pundits were having a field day.
And, I couldn't help but notice, that the (predominantly) female contributors to these TV studio discussion panels, could not keep the excitement out of their voices ... or the new, manic light, that seemed to shine out from their eyes.
At exactly 8 a.m., just as the national news was coming on TV, looking out of the window I saw a white van stop outside the house. The side of the van bore the now familiar Authoritarian Female Party insignia: a flag of blue, green, red and yellow quarters.
So, then. This was for real. This was really happening ... They were actually coming for me.
I continued to gaze through the living-room window; the TV news, now just some white noise in the background.
And then I saw two young women emerge from the A.F.P. van, both of whom, I estimated (correctly) to be only slightly older than myself; at maybe nineteen or twenty.
The two young women were, of course, Community Service Officers. 
The two C.S.O.'s both had blonde hair. And, as an integral part of their C.S.O. uniform, their hair was cut in the distinctive 'concave bob' style: with a straight fringe, coming to just above the eyebrows; straight at the back, and cut to just above the nape of the neck; and hanging straight at the sides, the cut slightly angled to follow the jawline, and with the hair teased to curve inward under the jaw.
The two C.S.O.'s were both quite attractive, I thought. Their faces were pleasing to the eye, and their figures were shapely and curvaceous; a pleasing picture of blossoming womanhood. But, for all of that, I had a feeling I wasn't going to like them very much. 
As well as their distinctive hair style, the uniform of the C.S.O.'s was very distinctive, too, and incorporated each of the four colours of the Authoritarian Female Party (to which, C.S.O.'s automatically became members upon their being employed by the party). 
Community Service Officers were unmistakable; if they were approaching you in the street, you could have absolutely no doubt as to who was walking towards you ... And, if you had any sense, you would turn around and walk the other way – and quick.
The two C.S.O.'s who were now unlatching the front gate, were dressed in their uniform of blue blazer, green blouse, short, red skirt, and yellow cotton ankle-socks. On their feet, they wore the black, backless, thick rubber-soled clog-like shoes that were the standard C.S.O. issue footwear. Around their waist, they wore their C.S.O.'s Velcro-fastened, nylon utility belt. Their utility belts were pouched; the pouches' contents hidden from view. But, clipped onto their utility belts, among other things I saw a bunch of keys, a walkie-talkie, and a pair of handcuffs. 
And if a further clue as to the C.S.O.'s identity was needed, one was readily provided. For, in their hands they brandished the dreadful symbol of their authority – their A.F.P. issue cane.
The A.F.P. issue cane was fearsome to behold; inspiring dread. The C.S.O.'s implement of chastisement, was of a flexible bamboo, and gradually tapering, so as to be almost whip-like neat its tip. 
When the two C.S.O.'s saw me watching them through the living-room window, one of them pointed her finger at my front door, in an unmistakable command: Open up! And the two of them casually sauntered – arrogantly swaggered – towards the front door; the power and authority vested in them, by their new positions, quite obviously having already gone straight to their concave bob framed heads.
Turning from the window, I walked towards the TV, intending to turn it off. 

On TV was the new Prime Minister, Caroline Flint. She seemed to be never off the screen. Yet again, she was assuring the British public that her government would not fail to keep their promises, but would vigorously pursue the speedy implementation of their female-friendly election manifesto pledges. 
My finger hovered over the TV's Off button ... Caroline Flint was an attractive woman, I thought. Very attractive, actually. How old was she ... late thirties ... early forties? It didn't matter. With her shoulder-length black hair, dark brown eyes, full lipped, sensual looking mouth, and her very attractive figure, she was a real eye-catcher. Certainly, she caught my eye. Even if she was, probably old enough to be my mum!
But, for all of that, this was all her doing: My undoing. Ultimately, she was responsible for my predicament. Caroline Flint, and her Authoritarian Female Party, were—
I was startled out of my reverie by the two C.S.O.'s, rattling their canes against the front door in their impatience ... And, to this day, I can still remember the highly unsettling sound they made.
I finally turned off the TV, and I hastened to open the front door to the two C.S.O.'s ... I had a feeling they wouldn't take too kindly to me keeping them waiting.
Upon my opening the front door to them, the two Community Service Officers regarded me for long moments, without speaking; chewing gum, and blowing bubbles with it, till they burst with a loud popping sound. Pop! Pop!
As they stared at me, the corners of their mouths formed a smirk of amusement, and of mockery, as they enjoyed my obvious discomfiture. Clearly, the two C.S.O.'s were revelling in my humiliating predicament. 
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, blowing bubbles with it, till they burst. Pop! Pop! 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 start cheering, whistling, and hop, skipping and jumping. Especially the woman who lived directly across the street – my neighbour-from-hell, Mrs. Newlove. 
Mrs. Norma Newlove: who was aged about twenty-six, was an attractive (I have to admit it) 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 hair-slide. 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, in fact, right up her street.
C.S.O. Karen: who only last week, had herself been unemployed, and claiming Unemployment Benefit payments of £80 per week, 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 only last week, had herself been unemployed, and claiming Unemployment Benefit payments of £80 per week, 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, refusing to play the part they expected of me, in this monstrous charade ... 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 superior, 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! Get off me – there's no need for this!" I yelled. In response, C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda forced my arms up behind my back even further.
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 tersely, ”Shut up! Get in the van! 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 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 the gloating, insufferable Mrs. Newlove then imperiously echoed C.S.O. Linda's terse order: "Yes! Shut up, David! And get in the van! Now!"
I had never felt so belittled. Had never felt so small. I would never, ever, 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, gleeful 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 pulled 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. Pop! Pop! Pop! "You haven't a clue, have you, David ... what you're in for?" she gloated. "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 clog-like shoes.
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 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 arrogantly ordered, ”Start massaging my feet, David ... If you don't, I'll give you a taste of this,” she threatened, 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. 
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. My submission.
As I began to massage C.S.O. Linda's right, yellow cotton ankle-socked foot; rotating the pads of my thumbs, and firmly working them into her arch, the ball of her foot, and her heel, it was all I could do to hide my distaste. And my smouldering 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, even more clearly detailed and defined, the sole of her sweat-stained yellow cotton ankle-socked foot. 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; nestled 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!" And then, giggling, she 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 was a quite tall, thin woman in her early forties, and her auburn hair was cut in the same distinctive concave bob style, as was worn by the C.S.O.'s. As I stood before her, my arms firmly pinned behind my back, she 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 many full-colour posters that were adorning the walls. 
The posters, I saw, were mostly of A.F.P. Cabinet Ministers – I readily recognised the Minister of Employment, Helen Highwater. But most of them were of Caroline Flint, leader of the A.F.P., and Prime Minister ... The woman who was, ultimately, responsible for my being here. The posters depicted her in various poses. Mostly she was pictured 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, importantly, ”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 large 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 cardboard 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, revealing 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, and placed 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 reporting 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.
"From now on, David," the Liaison Officer went on, "until you find gainful employment, you will be working for your eighty pounds per week Unemployment Benefit payments. Your hours of duty, will be from eight a.m. to five p.m., Monday to Friday. You will be entitled to two, fifteen-minute breaks: one in the morning, and one in the afternoon. And half an hour for your lunch break.
"This means that, working a standard forty-hour week, you will be earning two pounds per hour, by way of earning your eighty pounds.
"Now, community servant David double oh seven, I am assigning you to your work duties: in the Sock Room."
Indicating to C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda, the Liaison Officer continued, "Community Service Officers Karen and Linda, here, have been detailed to supervise you. C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda will monitor you. They will inspect your work regularly, to ensure that you perform your assigned duties diligently, and that you consistently achieve the high standard of results that will be expected of you.
"And, I am giving you due warning now: As and when they consider the results of your labours to be less than satisfactory, C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda are fully authorised to chastise you. They will chastise you, by administering to your bare bottom, as many strokes of their canes as they might deem the occasion to warrant."
I was absolutely speechless. This was totally outrageous! I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. What I'd just been told, by the Community Service Liaison Officer, Harriet Harmman – a senior figure in local government. 
C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda were fully authorised to cane me – to 'chastise' me! As many strokes of their canes, as they deemed fit! To my bare bottom!
The Liaison Officer then said, "Now, C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda, please get community servant David double oh seven into his uniform, and ready to begin his assigned duties ... He has been idle, for quite long enough.” 
“Yes, Ma'am, right away!” replied C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda simultaneously, and with great zeal.
"Your clothes, community servant David double oh seven – take them off. All of them!" snapped C.S.O. Karen authoritatively.
I couldn't believe my ears. This was incredible! An absolute nightmare!
"Are you hard of hearing, community servant David double oh seven?" asked C.S.O. Linda sarcastically. "Miss Karen just gave you an order: Your clothes! Get them off! Now!! Strip naked!" barked C.S.O. Linda, now flexing her cane meaningfully, as was C.S.O. Karen.
This just could not be happening! No! No! I refused to believe it! I was going to wake up any second, and this would all just be a horrible, diabolical nightmare.
The Liaison Officer smirked, as she handed me a large white plastic carrier-bag and said, "I have put your other four sets of uniform in this bag. Put your clothes in here, with them, and someone will bring the carrier-bag to you later, at the Sock Room."
I was red-faced from my acute embarrassment, at having to fully undress in front of the Liaison Officer and C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda. It was incredibly ... belittling.
The three of them smirked at me, as I covered myself with my hands, the best that I could.
As soon as I was fully unclothed, C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda presented me with my community servant's uniform. And, as if I was a small child, still clumsy at putting on his own clothes, C.S.O.’s Karen and Linda dressed me themselves: "Pull your arms through," said C.S.O. Karen, as she pulled the white, short-sleeved T-shirt over my head. And: "Put your feet though," said C.S.O. Linda, instructing me to step into my white, elasticated-waist shorts, when she then pulled them up to my waist.
"Oh, I do like a man in uniform," said the Community Service Liaison Officer, Harriet Harmman, sarcastically. Facetiously fluttering her fingers goodbye at me, she said, "Well, toodle pip. Off you go then, double oh seven ... Go and save the world."
Oh, she was a right barrel of laughs, the Liaison Officer. She was a laugh a minute.
C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda then escorted me out of the Community Service Operations Centre.
As they frogmarched me across Canford town square, C.S.O.’s Karen and Linda enjoyed watching the smiling, waving, approving reactions of female members of the general public, upon their seeing us. That is, upon their seeing a community servant being so roughly manhandled, by two no-nonsense, assertive – dominant – C.S.O.'s.
C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda nonchalantly chewed gum, and they blew bubbles with it, till they burst: Pop! Pop! Pop! as they escorted me, community servant David 007 (as my white uniform T-shirt announced, front and back, to the world), across the town square, to my workplace.
To where I had been duly assigned, by the Community Service Liaison Officer, Harriet Harmman, to earn my weekly Unemployment Benefit payments, until I found gainful employment.
The Sock Room.
Community Service continues, in Part 2.   

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