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Chapter 5: C.S.O.’s Karen and Linda put their foot down … and their feet up.
I knew I was in trouble — big trouble — as I listened to the vengeful tone of my two supervisors’ running dialogue as they frogmarched me across Canford town square, heading towards the Sock Room …
“Can you believe it, Lindz,” said Community Service Officer Karen, in tones that were more of wonder, than of outrage, “that Sock Boy actually told us to sod off? Oh, I’m going to make him regret those words — the little squirt!”
“Double-oh-seven told us to go and take a running jump, too, Karen. Don’t forget that!” Community Service Officer Linda, reminded her colleague. “And, what about him telling us that he was refusing to come back to work in the Sock Room, that he was going back to sleep, and then just throwing the bedclothes back over himself and telling us to close his bedroom door on our way out — if we didn’t mind? Eh? You know, the way he said it, and all? All sarcastic, like. I mean, how insolent is that? Oh, I told you the little pipsqueak was incapable of keeping a civil tongue in his head, didn’t I? But he’s even more mouthy than I thought … Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Karen: I am determined to cure him of that!”
“I thought Polly Pardew had brought him to heel, Lindz. She certainly made him cry buckets, the way she caned his bare bum, didn’t she? Reminding him of all of his insolent offences; pressing home her points, ticking them off one by one, with each and every stroke of the cane. My god, she made him wail!”
“Oh, didn’t she just — she certainly knows how to use a cane! She must have made him cry enough tears to fill up one of the blue soaking tubs — ha ha ha! But, to be honest, Karen, I don’t know what made him blub the most: Miss Pardew thrashing him, or being so humiliated by Norma Newlove — not to mention, Gina Stainham and Cheryl Chubb … Ha ha ha! Tormenting him with their stinky feet, while he was handcuffed to the foot of Mrs Newlove’s recliner— oh, and Mrs Newlove! Ha ha ha ha! Forcing double-oh-seven to ‘pre-wash’ her dirty socks! Oh, she’s got a wicked sense of humour, has Norma Newlove.
“In fact … I got a real kick out of it. Didn’t you, Karen? Watching the show? I was getting off on it — big-time! I was getting really turned on. It was making me, you know, all … all wet. I couldn’t stop, you know … touching myself.”
“Ha ha ha ha! Oh, I know, Lindz! Me, too! It’s not called a … ring finger, for nothing — ha ha ha! Yes, it was a real buzz, wasn’t it, Lindz? It really put me in the mood, made me come over all … romantic — ha ha ha! Simon said I was like a sex-starved nymphomaniac, last night, the way I tore his clothes off him when he came over — ha ha ha! Simon said, ‘Weh hey! What’s come over you?’ And Simon laughed his head off, Lindz, when I told him!
“And, the beauty of it all, Lindz, is that we are actually getting paid four hundred pounds a week — four hundred pounds a week, Lindz! — for something that we would gladly do for nothing! I mean, the … fringe benefits, are reward enough in themselves, aren’t they?
“And, if I was a betting girl, Lindz, I’d say that Sock Boy, here, is in even more dread of the attentions of the … of the Sock Room girls — ha ha ha! — than he is of our canes. Something we should remember, in future, when we consider his chastisement.”
“Hmm … I think you might be right, Karen. Let the girls and women in the Sock Room have some fun with him, you mean? Let them do what they want, with him … whatever, they want? Oh, Norma Newlove would love that — ha ha ha! Can you imagine …? She seems to really have it in for double-oh-seven, doesn’t she? You just might have something there, Karen. That’s definitely something we should bear in mind.”
“You know what’s bugging me most, though, Lindz? Something that Norma Newlove said this morning, before we realised that David wasn’t going to show up at the Sock Room, and we set off in the van to pick him up at home … Now, okay, we know that there’s obviously some sort of history there, between David and Norma Newlove, and that she seems hell-bent on getting him into trouble, at every opportunity … But, what she said about her and Gina Stainham seeing David in the Lord Nelson last night, with his brother John … I can’t help thinking, that—”
“Ah, yes, right. I think I know where you’re coming from, Karen. Now I get it. It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? Double-oh-seven, wouldn’t—”
“That’s right, Lindz. David wouldn’t have had the guts to rebel against us — not right off his own bat. He’s obviously had some moral support. This must be the work of his brother, John. John is at the bottom of this. John is the one, who’s been putting ideas into David’s head, getting him all uppity … Well, Lindz, I’ll teach John Smith to meddle. I’ll soon scupper him, the brass-necked, interfering, trouble-causing—”
I had deemed it wise to keep shtum, so far. To … put a sock in it, as it güvenilir canlı bahis siteleri were. To remain silent, no matter what my two supervisors said about me.
To keep it zipped … even when I heard, to my profound shock, C.S.O.’s Karen and Linda so brazenly telling each other that they had found it a “real buzz”, and that they had derived sexual satisfaction — no, sadistic gratification — from seeing me brought to tears of pain and humiliation.
To keep it zipped … even when I heard, to my utter incredulity, C.S.O.’s Karen and Linda saying — enthusing! — that they had been “turned on”, and that they had been “getting off on it — big-time!”. From, not only the sadistic thrill of caning me themselves, but also, from the excitement — the dark titillation — of seeing their former PE teacher, Miss Polly Pardew, mercilessly and energetically caning my bare bottom (“Your manners are not at all, what they ought to be — for a community servant!”), after they had handcuffed me to the foot of my neighbour-from-hell Mrs Newlove’s recliner, and pulled down my white, community servant’s uniform shorts, in accordance with the C.S.O.’s chastisement manual.
To keep it zipped … even when I heard, to my sense of mortifying shame and belittlement, C.S.O.’s Karen and Linda, gushing — positively purring — that they had been “touching” themselves, as they watched “the show”. That they had actually been … pleasuring themselves (“It’s not called a … ring finger, for nothing!”), while I was simultaneously being devastatingly caned, by Miss Pardew, and being comprehensively humiliated, at the tormenting, stinky feet of Mrs Newlove, and by two of her ghastly Sock Room cohorts, Gina Stainham and Cheryl Chubb.
To keep it zipped … even when I heard the final, icing-on-the-cake revelation of depravity; my sheltered mind, screaming TOO MUCH INFORMATION! C.S.O.’s Karen and Linda saying, all giggle-voiced, that as a result, of such … stimulation, they had both got … “all wet”.
I had resolved to remain silent. To keep my own counsel, even as I learned of each of these shocking new insights into my two young supervisors’ inner characters. Insights, into C.S.O.’s Karen and Linda’s … sexual proclivities. Insights, into their lustful, licentious leanings. Insights, into their sadistic, pornographic predilections.
But, now that C.S.O.’s Karen and Linda had sussed out the truth of the matter, and had brought my brother John into the equation, I was impelled to break my silence — impelled to intervene, in my older brother’s defence.
“No! Please! Please, Miss Karen! Leave our John out of this!” I pleaded. “It was, all off my own bat! John had — had nothing to do with it! He … he—”
“John had everything to do with it!” yelled C.S.O. Karen. “He did — didn’t he? You wouldn’t have dared, David, to defy me and Miss Linda! Would you? John put you up to your little game! Didn’t he …?” demanded C.S.O. Karen. “Yes, I thought so,” she said in satisfaction when, red-faced with guilt, I made no reply.
“So, David … you thought you could thumb your nose at us, did you?” admonished C.S.O. Linda.
“Well, Karen, I knew double-oh-seven was as thick as two short planks,” said C.S.O. Linda. “But now, on top of everything else, he is fibbing to us — lying to our faces — when he knows we can see right through him! I mean, how stupid is he?”
“And, for all of his bluster and bravado, Lindz, David is just a quiet little mouse … Who hasn’t lost his virginity yet. I can tell. Can’t you, Lindz? Eighteen years old, he is, Lindz. Eighteen years of age, and you are still a virgin, David … aren’t you? And in this day and age! Aren’t you …?” goaded C.S.O. Karen. “Yes, I thought so,” she said in satisfaction when, red-faced with innocence, I made no reply.
“Ha ha ha ha!” laughed C.S.O. Linda gleefully. “Yes! Now that you mention it, Karen, I can tell! Ha ha ha ha! Oh, this has made my day! The secret agent’s secret: Double-oh-seven — a virgin! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
And then the double-door entrance to the Sock Room was before us.
And, at just the very sight of those doors, I was dismayed, dispirited, despondent. Deeply depressed, just at the very thought, of … what awaited me, behind them.
Not least, because Mrs Newlove, my neighbour-from-hell, was evidently here again.
She’d been here for all of yesterday, too, on the opening day of the Sock Room … She’d actually had a ‘day out’, at the Sock Room. She’d actually come to gloat, and to watch me earning my Unemployment Benefit, as a community servant. “Mum’s got the kids,” she’d told me as she relaxed shoe-less on her recliner, her trainers on the floor, beside her.
And, not content with making just my life, a misery — a waking nightmare — she had, apparently, maliciously blabbed to C.S.O.’s Karen and Linda, hoping to get my brother John in dire trouble as well.
Upon C.S.O. Linda opening the double-door entrance to the Sock Room, C.S.O. güvenilir illegal bahis siteleri Karen said harshly, “Go on, then! Get yourself in there … Sock Boy.”
* * *
It was now 09:30.
The Sock Room was getting busy … and my work was getting out of hand.
Maybe ten or fifteen of the girls and ladies of Canford — some of whom, I’d seen present here yesterday — were helping themselves to a clean pair of socks from the shelves, after depositing their dirty socks into the receptacles provided: either dropping them into one of the colour-coded wheelie bins, or leaning over the two-barred safety railing and tossing them directly into the large, open-topped hopper, marked: ‘White Socks Only!’
At their seeing me being frogmarched into the Sock Room by my two supervisors, some of the sock-changing females stopped what they were doing, and smirked at me, mockingly. Others sneered at me, derisively. While yet others, of them, smiled from ear to ear, in delighted wonderment at the Sock Room’s — and, their sock washer’s — very existence.
I’d told my brother John, last night, that the Sock Room brought out the bitch, in many of the town’s females … And, looking at their mocking, derisive, sneering and contemptuous faces now, I saw no reason to change my mind. The great majority of them, had an arrogant, haughty air, about them. Smug, in the knowledge that I was being brought here — all but dragged here, kicking and screaming — to hand-wash their dirty socks.
Under the female-friendly rule of the Authoritarian Female Party government, led by Caroline Flynt, a Sock Room had been installed in every town and city in the UK. And I spared a thought, now, for all of the other community servants who were in the same shoes as myself … well, flip flops. (“There will be a lot of water, where you will be working, community servant David double-oh-seven.”), the Community Service Liaison Officer, Harriet Harmman, had told me as she issued my uniform.
The Sock Room floor was littered. Strewn, with the cardboard and plastic packaging that the sock-changing females of Canford had simply discarded. Carelessly (many of them, deliberately!) dropping the sock-related debris to the floor, when it was just as easy for them to drop the rubbish into the large black plastic bin provided for the purpose. And it would be for me, to come back up here later and bag it all up … as if I wouldn’t have enough, to be getting on with.
Upon our having descended the six wooden steps, that led down into the basement level of the Sock Room, where all of the laundering apparatus was situated, my two supervisors steered me to the right. “The office, David,” instructed C.S.O. Karen. “You know the way … down the short corridor, after your ironing station.”
I was surprised, at C.S.O. Karen’s instruction. My work was piling up by the minute, and starting to get way out of hand. Two or three of the colour-coded wheelie bins’ lids, I saw, couldn’t close; the excess of girls’ and women’s dirty socks, overflowing, and spilling untidily onto the floor.
I had thought that my two supervisors would have immediately put me to work: Emptying some of those over-full wheelie bins into the large, open-topped hopper — clearly signed: ‘White Socks Only!’ — and filling up the laundry boiler tank with the dirty white socks, for their two-hour minimum soak.
And then, as soon as I’d done that, have me urgently cracking on with their former PE teacher Miss Pardew’s “little job” for me: hand-washing Canford High’s Year Five schoolgirls’ sports socks … 100 pairs of them. Because she’d said she would be coming back to the Sock Room today, this afternoon at four o’clock, to collect them. And, Miss Polly Pardew was definitely not going to be a happy bunny, if I didn’t have them perfectly laundered, and all ready and waiting for her when she arrived. And, hell, I certainly had my work cut out, if I was going to achieve that.
But, before I had even set one foot in front of the other, towards C.S.O’s Karen and Linda’s office, a sock-changing female’s voice called out, halting our progress … a voice I knew.
The voice came from the vicinity of the black padded-leather recliners — of which there were four: two, on either side of the six wooden steps, and situated behind the two-barred safety railing, beyond which there was a sudden, five-foot drop-off to the basement floor.
As one, C.S.O.’s Karen and Linda and I looked up … towards the voice.
“And, what time do you call this, then, community servant David double-oh-seven?” demanded the highly indignant voice … And from the same recliner she had occupied yesterday: the one just to the left of the six wooden steps (as seen from the upper level), and that was situated opposite the dull grey, industrial standard laundry boiler tank, in which the dirty (white) socks had their high-temperature, two-hour minimum soak.
It was the voice … of the woman who had yesterday so fiendishly güvenilir bahis şirketleri turned inside out her dirty, white cotton socks, and maliciously stuffed them into my mouth. Pushing them in; her non-too-gentle fingers, poking and prodding them in place, cruelly positioning the revolting, gag-inducing, tangy-cheese flavoured soles against the taste-sensitive roof of my mouth, and over my tongue … my palate.
It was the voice … of the woman who had then gleefully splayed, wiggled and scrunched her bare, Florida-tanned toes, mere inches from my eyes. Goading me, as I had gagged and retched on her stinky, sweat-stained socks; my eyes, watering freely and copiously, in my acute distress and abject humiliation. Laughing at me, as I had stood, helplessly captive, on the basement floor where my two supervisors had handcuffed me: to the foot of her recliner, that was situated on the upper level of the Sock Room, just inside the two-barred safety railing.
It was the voice … of the woman, who, in the ecstasy of her undreamed-of triumph, had wickedly cupped my nostrils in her noisome, blue cheese odoured bare toes, forcing me to inhale the foul and fetid fumes of her in-between-the-toes foot stink, comprehensively crushing my spirit.
It was the voice … of the woman who had so blissfully savoured my hideous torment. And who had so revelled, in her utter, devastating humiliation of me, as …
Activated, by my taste buds’ sensing and registering those rancid and revolting flavours, like a programmed washing machine, my mouth had ‘automatically’ began to fill with saliva … So as to “pre-wash” her dirty, disgusting, turned inside out, ripened mature cheese flavoured white socks.
And, I’d had absolutely no control, over the ‘automatic’ … cycle process.
I’d had absolutely no control. And so I’d had absolutely no choice … as she had laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and wiggled and splayed and scrunched her smelly bare toes in triumphant glee, right in front of my eyes … but to swallow.
And, to continue to swallow.
No choice, as, to my absolute horror, of its own volition my throat had started to convulse; had started to open, and close … open, and close … open, and close … in a reflex, uncontrollable — unpreventable — ‘automatic’ gulping action.
I’d had no choice, but to swallow down and ingest, the resultant vile and viscous, rancid and revolting, stomach-churning liquid.
I’d had no choice, but to swallow down and ingest, the concentrated … effluent, that, as the dissolving ‘active ingredient’ of my “pre-washing” saliva acted upon it, was seeping out of the dirty cotton fibres of her stinky, tangy cheese flavoured, turned inside out white socks.
It was the voice … of the woman who knew a thing or two, about laundry: My neighbour-from-hell … Mrs Newlove.
Mrs Norma Newlove. Who, in being eagerly and enthusiastically egged on and abetted by “Sock Room girls” Gina Stainham and Cheryl Chubb, had actually used my mouth, as her own, personal … ‘automatic’ washing machine, to “pre-wash” her dirty white socks.
I hadn’t realised, that my two supervisors had been watching my face, and gauging my reactions. And, when I then saw a flash of … something, in their eyes, passing between them … I was filled with dread.
Because I knew exactly what they were thinking.
Whatever else they might be, my two young supervisors were certainly not a pair of proverbial dumb blondes. Far from it. In a streetwise, quick-on-the-uptake, sort of way, they were both … canny. Quick-witted, sharply observant, astute and perceptive. Nothing much got past them. You could rarely pull the wool over their eyes … at least, I couldn’t. It was as if they both had finely-tuned mental radars, that were always on red-alert, and that would instantly ping! … ping! … ping! … ping! … in warning, whenever I ‘tried it on’.
It was like a constant game of cat and mouse. And, there would always be … consequences, when they caught me trying to ‘get one over’, on them … When the cats, caught their mouse.
C.S.O. Linda, had just said, before we’d entered the Sock Room: “He is fibbing — lying to our faces — when he knows we can see right through him!”
This was, I knew, a bit of ‘Thought Police’ amateur psychology, on C.S.O. Linda’s part. Designed to make me stop … and think twice. Designed to make me Walk — Don’t Run! Designed to keep me on the straight-and-narrow … Designed, to deter me from ‘wrongdoing’.
I realised that. But C.S.O. Linda had planted the seed. And I would often wonder, if my two supervisors actually could, “see right through” me. Because C.S.O. Linda had planted her seed in fertile soil. And, whenever I was thinking of ‘trying it on’, there was always a little voice of warning at the back of my mind, piping up, Don’t do it — they’ll know! … Don’t do it — they’ll find out! … Don’t do it — they’ll cane you!
But, especially … insightful, was C.S.O. Karen, who seemed possessed of the highly disturbing ability to unerringly home in on my weaknesses. To find the chinks in my armour. To discover, my … vulnerabilities.
Not to mention, that she had, somehow … divined, my ‘shameful’ secret: “Double-oh-seven — a virgin!”
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