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Thread: The Footsore Flight Attendants (Fictional foot fetish story).

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    Apprentice Footsniffer
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    Dec 2011

    The Footsore Flight Attendants (Fictional foot fetish story).

    The Footsore Flight Attendants.

    Ch. 1 of 3: Warren's world is rocked.

    I was not in the best of moods in the first place.

    I was short on sleep, had a nagging headache, and having to wait for nearly an hour now at the baggage carousel for my single piece of luggage wasn't helping - wasn't helping at all.

    Come on ... come on! I silently implored as I stood and watched items of luggage from later flights arriving on the belt and wondered when in hell mine would show up.

    My Flight from Alicante, in southern Spain, had landed at five a.m. and so I'd thought at least I would beat the rush-hour traffic. But in the state I was in, I'd quite forgotten about it being Sunday - the roads would be quiet for a while yet anyway so at least that was something.

    All of my mates had collected their luggage a good half-hour ago, and after saying our farewells and arranging to meet up in the pub next Saturday they had all gone their own ways, leaving me to wait for my missing suitcase.

    But as miserable and annoying as things were, they were just about to get a whole lot worse ...


    People seemed to think nothing of it these days, taking advantage of such cheap airfares.

    Flying off to short-haul destinations in continental Europe or Scandinavia with EasyJet or Ryan Air or some other budget airline for their stag parties and hen parties - or even just for a party.

    And so it was, that I had just arrived back at Gatwick Airport having returned from Steve's stag party in Benidorm.

    Steve was my best mate; we went way back, right back to our earliest school days.

    After work on Thursday, a bunch of us had piled over to the Spanish resort. And then on Friday, we'd certainly done justice to the time-honoured tradition in the time-honoured fashion.

    Me and the lads had all mercilessly ribbed Steve about the proverbial 'Ball and Chain' he would soon be wearing. His lovely wife-to-be, Rachel, holding the key to the metaphorical husband-constraining device - which to be honest wasn't the worst fate in the world.

    We'd all enjoyed a great, Friday-night drinkathon, knocking back pints of lager as if there was no tomorrow.

    Now though, the day after 'tomorrow' was here and I was still paying a price for my foolish Saturday-night hair-of-the-dog excesses.


    With my belatedly arrived suitcase, I was just about to board the airport service bus to the Long Stay car park, when I felt a firm, staying hand grip my right shoulder.

    What the ...? I wondered irritably. What now?

    I turned around, to see a man of about forty wearing the dark green jacket and trousers uniform of his 'calling', that I instantly recognised. The badge on the front of his peaked cap read: Litterman.

    "Just a moment, sir. Would these ... happen to be yours?"

    In his hand, the Litterman was showing me five or six sweet wrappers of a sort I recognised: barley sugars.

    I'd heard that they were good for settling the stomachs of travellers prone to airsickness and so I'd taken some along with me and tried them and yes, they seemed to work.

    I doubted though that the stomach-settling sweets could do much about the sickly feeling that was settling in the pit of my gut now, as I realised that the wrappers I'd been meaning to bin must have inadvertently fallen from my pocket when I'd been rummaging about looking for my Long Stay car parking ticket.

    "Um ..."

    The Litterman waved the bus driver on his way.

    "I'm afraid, sir, that now you must come with me."


    Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's Authoritarian Female Party government's 'Keep Britain Tidy' initiative - ostensibly to crack down on the nuisance problem and anti-social behaviour of litter louts in towns and cities' public places, but in reality more so to find more males to man all of their so-called female-friendly programmes, projects and schemes - was from today being implemented at all UK airports too, the Litterman informed me.

    My entreaties falling on deaf ears, the Litterman, not being persuaded or moved by my truthful excuses and earnest pleading, escorted me into the building where I would be formally brought to book for my offence.

    Upon entering the drab building, with his firm, staying hand on my right shoulder the Litterman guided me down a narrow dismal corridor and past a number of doors to either side until we arrived at a white-painted office door at the end.

    On the office door was a brass plaque which read: 'Gatwick Airport Authority Litter Department - Administrator: Mrs J Jepson'.

    The Litterman knocked politely on the office door, and upon a no-nonsense sounding female voice calling to him to enter, he opened the door and gestured for me to go in first.

    "I beg your pardon, Madam," said the Litterman respectfully to the woman dressed in a Litter Department-green short-sleeved blouse and above-the-knee skirt, who was sitting with her feet propped up on her desk with her ankles crossed as she drank her cup of coffee; the heel of her dark pantyhosed uppermost foot repeatedly popping free from her well-worn black leather office pump.

    The not unattractive woman whose name was engraved on the plaque on her office door was in her late twenties, had a curvy figure and shapely legs.

    Her casual, laid-back demeanour though was deceptive, for she emanated an unsettling and in fact menacing air of natural authority.

    But what lent her air of natural authority an added potency was that she wore her blonde hair in the adopted but AFP-adapted militarist-like concave bob style, that was a part of the AFP employee uniform but was also worn by many affiliated personnel like herself as a visible outward sign of party loyalty and enthusiastic support.

    But for that matter, in these still early months of Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's Authoritarian Female Party's governmental realm, the symbolic hairdo was becoming increasingly popular with ordinary civilian females, worn as a sort of demonstrative wearing-their-heart-on-their-sleeve allegiance to the AFP and a declaration of wholehearted backing and solidarity for their female-friendly ideological values and ideals.

    After looking me up and down appraisingly, the Administrator of the airport's newly opened Litter Department addressed the Litterman authoritatively. "Yes, Arnold? Are we up and running, then? What do we have here?"

    "He dropped these, Madam ... there are six of them, in total." the Litterman informed his superior, in tones befitting the gravity of the situation as he displayed the damning evidence in the palm of his hand.

    "I see. Well, that didn't take long, did it?" said Mrs Jepson, looking at her wristwatch. "Your first collar. Well done, Arnold. Good job!"

    "Thank you, Madam. But really I was only obeying my orders to the letter. And if I might be permitted to speak in mitigation for the gentleman ... quite clearly he did not drop litter to the pavement intentionally, but inadvertently. I could see that he was unaware of his having dropped the offending articles to the pavement."

    "But as you know, Arnold, ignorance is no defence. And besides, and as you also know, the AFP are ever in need of more manpower for all of their female-friendly services. What on earth do you think we are here for?"

    "Of course, Madam," said the Litterman, his face reddening at the mild rebuke. "I beg your pardon, Madam."

    "Apology accepted. But perhaps this would be a very good time to remind you, Litterman, just so that we know with unambiguous, perfect clarity right from the get-go, where the two of us stand.

    "This assignment is a very soft touch that you've landed on, Arnold, a very cushy number, for your One-year-Probation Government Support Worker conditional release from prison.

    "But if I find your heart isn't in it, I shall have no qualms and no compunction about putting the wheels in motion for having you re-assigned to other female-friendly related duties - and duties, that I will make certain you will find decidedly less agreeable.

    "A more AFP-supportive, more sympathetic - more deserving - male, Arnold, shall have your cushy little number ... He dropped them 'inadvertently' - indeed!

    "Now let me make myself clear: You will continue obeying your orders to the letter, and you will not presume upon yourself the leave to speak in mitigation on behalf of litter-dropping 'gentlemen' - or I'll make you sorry that you ever crossed my path!

    "Now here, make yourself useful: go and refill my coffee cup again from my cafetiere. Milk and two sugars, in case you've forgotten."

    I felt embarrassed and somewhat sorry for the Litterman, receiving such a telling off and such a put-down - and such a disconcerting warning - right in front of me.

    Mrs Jepson opened one of her desk drawers and took out a small, transparent polythene bag and wrote something on the label.

    The chastised Litterman returned with his superior's refilled coffee cup and handed it to her. "Your coffee, Mrs Jepson, Madam. Milk and two sugars, just as you ordered," gushed the Litterman obsequiously. "And ... I won't forget."

    Inclining her head towards the six offending articles he'd put down on her desk, she instructed her unfortunate underling, "Put them in here, please."

    Handling the clear Cellophane air sickness sweet wrappers with exaggerated care, as though dealing with the most fragile and crucial exhibits of painstakingly recovered crime scene evidence, the Litterman did as instructed.

    The Litterman's superior sealed the clear polyethene evidence bag, deposited it in another of her desk drawers and locked it.

    Mrs Jepson then held out her hand to me expectantly. "Identification, please. Give me your passport."

    Not wishing to make matters any worse than they already were, I handed the requested document over to Mrs Jepson without demur.

    The airport's Litter Department Administrator recrossed her ankles, took another couple of sips from her freshly topped-up coffee cup and then put it down on her desk to free her hands.

    Resuming repeatedly popping free the dark pantyhosed heel of her other, now uppermost foot from her black leather office pump, she opened my passport and gleaned my personal details.

    "Litter louts - Mr Warren Williams, aged twenty-one, from Horsham in West Sussex - as you have just discovered to your cost, are no longer tolerated at Gatwick Airport. Those days are gone," Mrs Jepson told me.

    My protestations of innocence - or, at least, of accidental and therefore 'mitigated' litter dropping, as the apparently fair-minded Litterman himself, had unfortunately self-detrimentally phrased it - fell upon deaf ears. Had no effect whatsoever, on the uncompromising, stern-faced, absentmindedly heel-popping Mrs Jepson.

    "Save it!" said Mrs Jepson, cutting me off.

    "Look on it, Warren, as paying now, all in one go, for all of your many previously unpunished littering offences."

    I felt outraged.

    I was always (well, nearly always ...) so meticulous in disposing of my litter: considerately and correctly disposing of it in the receptacles provided for the purpose.

    But now, just because of one, innocent little slip ...

    But Mrs Jepson was just getting started.

    Upon learning that I was currently unemployed and claiming Unemployment Benefit since being made redundant from my job, just last week, Mrs Jepson told me that my out-of-work circumstances made her penalty decision all the easier for her since she had all the less to consider.

    Under the AFP government's 'Keep Britain Tidy' initiative, Mrs Jepson, as Administrator of the Gatwick Airport Litter Department and empowered to penalise litter louts at her discretion, sentenced me to six weeks of Cabin Crew Comfort Station Attendance.

    "Probably as an air passenger yourself, you have never even given it so much as a moment's consideration before, Warren, have you, that after a hard, demanding shift of traipsing up and down an aircraft cabin catering to their passengers' every needs and wants and demands and entitlements in their flight-duty pumps - pumps, very similar to mine ... the hardworking air hostesses' feet are tired and achy to distraction?"

    "Er ..."

    "Well, they are. As a former senior British Airways hostie myself of both extensive long-haul and short-haul experience, I can most certainly assure you.

    "As I know myself, from again drawing from personal experience, after a long-haul flight, air hostesses can get quite distressingly footsore.

    "But of course, because there's so little rest or respite, a work shift pattern of short-haul, quick turnaround fights can be just as and even more demanding and discomforting on their poor overworked feet.

    "And so, Warren, every day for six weeks, from six a.m. to six p.m., attending in the Cabin Crew Comfort Station you - and you alone - will provide foot massages to any and all air hostesses who require them.

    "Any and all, meaning foreign as well as British air hostesses, since the AFP are keen to extend this female-friendly airport facility as a welcoming courtesy."

    Whatever I thought my penalty for littering might be, I never imagined this.

    Being made to massage air hostesses' end-of-shift stinky pantyhosed feet!

    "But, Mrs Jepson!" I protested, panic-stricken at being unable to think of a way of worming my way out of Mrs Jepson's penal single-provider Pedi-care predicament.

    "I've never done that before! So I don't think I'd be any good, or be of any use-"

    "You'll be plenty of use in the Comfort Station, Warren, don't worry about that.

    "Because of the inevitable high demand on your services and the obvious time constraints, the air hostesses will be glad to instruct you in the art of performing a mini, minute-massage.

    "You'll soon learn, as you become more experienced and your fingers more expert, that you can work a lot of wonders in just one minute.

    "Often, it's really just a matter of compliantly applying firm but gentle circular kneading pressure with the pads of your fingers and thumbs to the particularly troubled areas of the soles of the feet as indicated to you.

    "For instance, it may be the heels and the balls of the feet, the impact and weight-bearing areas of the feet, that some hosties may ask you to focus your attentions and ministrations.

    "But having said that, and again as I know from long experience, post-flight foot massages are always extremely welcome, and some hosties will be happy enough to just simply let you do your own, mini-massage thing - a sort of amateurish yet reasonably effective relieving, reviving and relaxing reflexology routine that gradually you yourself will develop and hone.

    "I have no doubt at all, Warren, that with the post-flight, footsore flight attendants you will be a most welcome and very popular Comfort Station fixture.

    "The times we are living in now! Oh - I wish we'd had attractive footboys like you in my day!"

    And all of this was happening because of an offence that I hadn't even knowingly committed - and wouldn't commit!

    Mrs Jepson again addressed the Litterman authoritatively.

    "And just so you know, right from the get-go, Arnold: If you hope to keep your cushy little Litterman assignment, as well as making and serving my coffee and doing all of the attendant washing-up, that's another little job I'll be expecting you to come and do for me in my office - frequent foot massages.

    "Oh, and every day, before you go home you can clean and polish my pumps for me too - I'll leave them under my desk for you."

    I didn't know if he was bowing in cowed, brought-to-heel obeisance before Mrs Jepson or just staring down at his shoes forlornly.

    But I strongly suspected both.

    Since I had never before seen a man's face burning so redly and so brightly with humiliation as the Litterman's.

    Especially when the Litter Department Administrator Mrs Jepson then demonstrably lifted her feet from her desk and heel-popped and dangled from the tips of her dark pantyhosed toes, her footwear that I now believed were a pair of the former British Airways air hostess's well-worn and comfy three-inch heeled black leather flight-duty pumps.

    Mrs Jepson promptly confirmed it, heel-popping one pump and dangling her other from her dark nyloned toes as she told her hapless underling the Litterman, "I've got five or six pairs of these, Arnold. From my own days as a BA hostie. They are just perfect for the office. As you can see, they are old and very well-worn, but so very supple and blissfully comfortable ..."

    What were the odds, I wondered dubiously, of Arnold the Gatwick Airport Authority's Litterman successfully seeing out his One-Year-Probation Government Support Worker conditional release assignment's 'other' duties - as his subjugating superior Mrs Jepson's respectful, obedient and compliant coffee-making, pump-polishing, frequently-attending foot masseur ...

    The Cabin Crew Comfort Station, Mrs Jepson informed me, was sited at the bus stop right outside Concorde House, where many of the Gatwick-based airline's crew rooms were sited and where the airside buses dropped off non-Gatwick based air crews.

    The Comfort Station was a large, Portacabin-like carpeted and comfortably appointed shelter, with capacity for accommodating up to fifty just-landed, bus-catching air hostesses.

    As the airport service buses were every fifteen minutes, there was little danger of overcrowding apart from when, due to delays, several flights came in clustered together.

    Male air stewards were not allowed into the Comfort Station.

    To enter it was a sackable offence - along with its attendant automatic sanction consequences: Immediate assignment as a community servant, to providing or helping to provide as part of a team, one of the AFP's female-friendly services.

    Such as working in a Sock Room. Supervised by two female cane-wielding Community Service Officers (CSOs), detailed to monitor and inspect the hand-washing of his town's females' dirty socks.

    Or, more likely, a six-month Placement of serving aboard passenger aircraft as a so-called Air Purification Technician. The demand for that particular female-friendly service was already very high and increasing rapidly, its novelty showing no signs of wearing off but quite the opposite.

    Possibly, though, should an affronted air hostess choose to demand it, even a 'short sharp shock' stay in one of the AFP's new purpose-built prisons, could precede his community servant assignment, or Placement.

    In that case, an intensive course of daily doctrinal teachings and relentless female-friendly ideological inculcation at the feet of his compassionless, cane-happy and overzealous female prison officer instructors, could be the fate for the foreseeable future of the egregiously trespassing male air steward.

    Mrs Jepson said that I would see when I got there that the male air stewards had their own, conventional, windswept perspex-windowed bus shelter, just adjacent to their female colleagues' well-insulated luxury version 'waiting room'.

    At the Cabin Crew Comfort Station, Mrs Jepson elucidated further, the air hostesses could sit in comfort as they awaited the arrival of the next airport services bus. And as they waited, avail themselves of the excellent and plentiful refreshments provided for them - free of charge, fully funded from the proceeds of the Male Passenger Airport Tax.

    The airport services buses took the flight crews to where they wanted to go after having completed their flight duty - and, where Gatwick-based crews were concerned, debriefing: staff car park, rail station, bus station, airport hotel ... as the bus meandered along its route via its designated drop-off points.

    To my surprise and dismay, Mrs Jepson ordered that the sentence she'd decreed would begin tomorrow - Monday.

    I still couldn't believe it:

    Massaging air hostesses' post-flight stinky nyloned feet for twelve hours a day, seven days a week - for six weeks!

    Mrs Jepson issued to me a large white carrier bag.

    Printed on it in bold red letters was the singularly unglamorous legend: 'Gatwick Airport Authority Litter Department'.

    Printed on the capacious white carrier bag also was the Litter Department's official stylised logo: a smiling, holding hands five-member family considerately and correctly disposing of their litter in a receptacle provided for the purpose.

    Contained within the voluminous bag were the following items:

    A travel warrant, valid for both bus and rail travel for six weeks from tomorrow; a pair of heavy-duty knee pads; and a polyethene bag of a week's supply of seven community-servant style white shorts and white T-shirts - but the T-shirts emblazoned not with a community servant's ID but with bright red capitalised letters the words 'LITTER LOUT' on the back and the word 'FOOTMAN' on the front.

    What the ...? 'Footman'?


    This couldn't be.

    No ... no!

    "Surely there's some other way, Mrs Jepson? Surely, there must be some other way, for me to-"

    "No, there isn't - my mind is made up. And my decision is final."


    "Just shut up and listen, Warren - this is important," interjected Mrs Jepson, shrugging aside my protestations and complaints.

    Mrs Jepson then enlarged upon the nature of my forthcoming 'attendance' duties.

    Expanded, as to how I was expected to conduct myself in the Cabin Crew Comfort Station for the duration of my six-week sentence.

    "At the end of your six-week sentence, I will perform my Final Assessment Test: I will read and evaluate all of the comments made by the footsore flight attendants you attend, as officially recorded on your Footman's Daily Record Sheet."

    What the ...?

    The 'Footman's Daily Record Sheet'?!

    "To pass my Final Assessment Test, Warren, you must achieve a very high, overall air hostesses' Satisfaction of Conduct Rating: A minimum of eighty percent. Based upon their awards to you on a marks-out-of-ten system.

    "Anything less than eighty percent, and ..."

    Mrs Jepson paused a moment to let me imagine what the consequences of falling short of an overall air hostesses' Satisfaction of Conduct Rating of eighty percent might be.

    "In addition to your foot massage duties, you will be responsible for keeping the Cabin Crew Comfort Station clean and tidy - spick and span. You will have to make a start on that, the moment a bus departs, and crack on with it until your services are again required by more newly arriving air hostesses.

    "You must always - and I mean always - address the air hostesses as 'Miss' ... Got it?"

    "Yes, Mrs Jepson," I said.

    "But, above all, you must - and I mean must - accord the air hostesses the highest respect, compliance and obedience at all times.

    "This is crucial, Warren, if you are to complete your six-week Cabin Crew Comfort Station Attendance sentence satisfactorily: If you are to achieve the minimum, eighty percent 'Satisfaction of Conduct Rate', as awarded to you by the air hostesses.

    "Anything less, Warren, than eighty percent, and ..."

    Again, Mrs Jepson left her unspoken, implied threat hanging in the air.

    But Mrs Jepson didn't need to spell it out for me.

    Implicit in her threat was that score an overall average air hostesses' satisfaction rating of less than eight out of ten, and I'd fail. And then she would sentence me again - and to a longer term.

    "You may go now. Arnold will see you out," said Mrs Jepson in dismissal.

    "Don't forget, Warren: Six a.m. tomorrow, at the Cabin Crew Comfort Station - and don't be late!"


    Concerned that I might still be over the limit, I abandoned the idea of retrieving my car from the Long Stay car park and driving myself home.

    I would pick it up tomorrow evening, after my first 'attendance' shift in the Cabin Crew Comfort Station.

    Anyway, quite apart from the blood-alcohol level aspect, I had no business getting behind the wheel of a car in my present condition.

    How was I supposed to concentrate on what was happening on the road?

    Thinking about, worrying about - stressing about - my six-week Cabin Crew Comfort Station Attendance sentence, starting tomorrow at Gatwick Airport?


    When I got home, I fibbed to Mum and Dad (who I still lived with) that tomorrow and every day for the foreseeable future including Saturdays and Sundays I would be out of the house bright and early in the search for a new job, and that they weren't likely to see me back home until about seven p.m.

    Apart from raising their eyebrows in surprise at my apparent sudden zealous enthusiasm for job-seeking, they made no other comment other than smiling and nodding their heads in approval.


    Fortunately, living in Horsham was handy for catching the Gatwick Express train, and from where I lived it was less than a ten-minute walk to the station.

    Nonetheless, I had to get up early to be on the train I wanted that would get me to Gatwick Airport shortly before six a.m.

    But when my radio alarm clock woke me at a much earlier than accustomed five a.m. and in coming awake I remembered the adjuring tone of Gatwick Airport Authority Litter Department Administrator Mrs Jepson's admonishment - "And don't be late, Warren!" - I had no problem in scrambling out of bed and getting a move on.


    Having followed Mrs Jepson's instructions, I looked at my wristwatch to see that I had arrived in good time: 05:50.

    The airport services buses were every fifteen minutes, and so the next bus was due in ten minutes' time, on the hour at six a.m.

    Through the perspex windows of their own, conventional bus shelter I could see that there were no male air stewards waiting for the six a.m. bus.

    But looking through the glass entrance doors of the Cabin Crew Comfort Station, I saw a sleepy-eyed air hostess, who appeared to be the only occupant.

    She was attired in the distinctive orange-liveried uniform of an EasyJet air hostess.

    I was surprised. I could be wrong but I didn't think EasyJet flew any of their routes during the night time.

    In fact, I'd more than half expected the Comfort Station to be full of air hostesses back from their overnight long-haul flights.

    But then the airport services buses were every fifteen minutes. And so maybe the post-flight, end-of-shift air hostesses were coming and going all the time - and possibly a bus full of them had left just five minutes ago.

    The EasyJet air hostess looked to be in her early twenties. And although she was obviously very tired and so not looking her best, it was clear that she was very attractive, with blue eyes and neck-length blonde hair.

    She was sitting on one of the two padded red leather banquette-style benches, her black leather flight-duty pumps, lying on their sides nearby where apparently she had kicked them off.

    Her right foot was resting on her left knee; her work-shift begrimed, apparently sweat-dampened tan pantyhosed sole facing towards me. She was flexing and scrunching her toes repeatedly, as though deriving much-needed relief and reinvigoration from doing so.

    Sipping from a cup of coffee, the EasyJet air hostess was staring ahead into the middle-distance as though lost in reflective thought.

    Now that it had come right down to it, I was very nervous.

    I didn't know if I was glad that there was just a single occupant in the Comfort Station or wished that the place was full of such obviously footsore post-flight, end-of-shift air hostesses.

    This was all so very unsettlingly one-to-one.

    Strictly speaking, I didn't have to go in there until six a.m.

    I could wait until she'd boarded the bus ...

    Instead, wanting to make a good first-impression (and hoping to score high marks-out-of-ten), before I lost my bottle and changed my mind again I pushed open the glass entrance doors of the Cabin Crew Comfort Station and said, "Good morning, Miss - would you like a foot massage?"

    Instantly, the EasyJet air hostess, whose nametag informed me that she was Pearl, came out of her coffee-sipping reverie and stared at me warily.

    The now on her guard EasyJet air hostess Pearl said, "What are you ... some kind of perve?"

    "I beg your pardon, Miss," I apologised. "I should have introduced myself," I said, unzipping my jacket to reveal, emblazoned in bold red capitalised letters on the front of my community-servant style white T-shirt uniform - FOOTMAN.

    "Oh - of course! How could I forget!" exclaimed Pearl, at once recovering herself and relaxing again.

    "Everyone was talking about it yesterday when we heard the news. You are the litter lout, aren't you? Sentenced by Mrs Jepson to be our footboy for the next six weeks?"

    "Yes, Miss Pearl," I replied respectfully, feeling my face turning just as red as Arnold the Litterman's had back in Mrs Jepson's office, as I turned around to show her what was similarly redly emblazoned on the back of my uniform white T-shirt - LITTER LOUT.

    "Well, I'd better sign you in then," Pearl said, now nonchalantly taking all of this in her stride, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary.

    But then, it wasn't - these were the 'female-friendly' days of the AFP.

    "Thank you, Miss Pearl," I said respectfully.

    Now I pulled off my trousers, underneath which I already wore my white uniform shorts and, velcro-fastened around my knees, the pair of heavy-duty knee pads that Mrs Jepson had issued to me in her office.

    "Hmmm ... nice legs," commented Pearl.

    Retrieving a red-plastic backed clipboard from the Comfort Station's cork bulletin board, Pearl the EasyJet air hostess formally signed me in on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet at 05:54.

    The 'Footman's Daily Record Sheet' was the official document upon which the air hostesses would write their appraising remarks, along with their marks-out-of-ten awards, with regard to the respectfulness, compliance and obedience of my conduct, and as to the satisfactory - or otherwise - application, quality and efficacy of my foot massage services.

    As Mrs Jepson had explained to me in her office, the Footman's Daily Record Sheet would facilitate her Final Assessment Test of my overall Satisfaction of Conduct ratings at the completion of my six-week sentence ... ("Anything less, Warren, than eighty percent, and ...")

    "Well, come on then, Warren - you can start with me," said Pearl the EasyJet air hostess, her tone now turning rather bossy.

    "The bus is due at six - I've got five minutes," Pearl said, returning to the red leather banquette, but this time propping her feet up on one of the many padded red leather footstools.

    "Kneel just there, facing me."

    "Yes, Miss Pearl," I said respectfully.

    "Ah ... my feet are absolutely killing me," she told me, scrunching and flexing her tan pantyhosed toes.

    "Um, I'm ... very sorry to hear that, Miss Pearl," I consoled respectfully.

    Kneeling at her feet, I was pleasantly surprised at how much give there was to the Comfort Station's plush deep-pile carpeting. I'd been worried it was going to be hard on the knees - heavy-duty knee pads or not.

    Pearl raised her right foot from the footstool and scrunched and flexed her toes at me. "Do this foot first, please, Warren."



    This EasyJet air hostess Pearl really wasn't a bad sort at all, I thought.

    "Yes, Miss Pearl," I said compliantly.

    I took hold of Pearl's proffered right foot in both hands, and I felt the increase in weight as now I was obliged to hold up and support her completely relaxed leg.

    "Work your thumbs into my arch, please, Warren. Firmly, but not too hard. And then slowly work your way up to the ball of my foot and work your thumbs there, a bit harder, for a minute."

    "Yes, Miss Pearl," I said obediently and began following her specific instructions to the letter.

    In circular motion with the pads of my thumbs, not too firmly I kneaded her arch through the work-stained and slightly damp material of her tan pantyhose.

    It was just like Mrs Jepson had said: Some air hostesses would tell me what to do; instruct me to focus my attentions and ministrations upon the particularly troubled areas of the soles of their post-flight, tired and achy feet as indicated to me.

    Pearl leant back on the red leather banquette, closed her eyes and sighed. "Ah ... this is heaven ... I can't tell you."

    I didn't know if that was an invitation to speak, so I didn't take the liberty.

    Mrs Jepson had made it plain that in the Cabin Crew Comfort Station I was not an equal, but a servant.

    Holding it in my hands from barely a foot away, it was impossible to avoid smelling and inhaling the decidedly pungent fumes emanating from the sole of the EasyJet air hostess Pearl's work begrimed, slightly sweaty tan pantyhosed foot. But I found that the rather strong cheesy scent wasn't bothering me in the slightest.

    "I'm absolutely shattered," Pearl said. "I've been stuck in Geneva for most of the night - and that was after I'd already worked for ten hours.

    "Geneva to Gatwick was to be the last leg of my pattern. But there was a technical fault with our aircraft. One of our engineers had to be flown out from Gatwick to come and fix it, along with two fresh pilots because the other two would be out-of-hours."

    Pearl scrunched her toes, and I noticed now through her tan pantyhose that her toes were painted red.

    "I flew back with them in the empty plane. They don't like flying empty like that but the aircraft needed to be repositioned," resumed Pearl.

    "The rest of the crew flew back earlier with Swiss Air, but there weren't enough spare seats for all of us and I drew the short straw."

    If that long speech wasn't an invitation to speak myself, I didn't know what was.

    "I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Pearl," I condoled respectfully. "But that explains it: I thought it was odd that a member of EasyJet cabin crew would be here at this time of day."

    "Yes. But at least Crewing have stood me down from the ... oh, can you work your thumbs just a little bit more firmly there, please, Warren, right in the middle of the ball of my foot ... from the twelve-hour work shift pattern I was due to operate today."

    "I must say, Miss Pearl, it sounds like very hard work - and such long work shifts! Mrs Jepson, who used to be a senior British Airways air hostess, told me something of what it was like. But, hearing it from you, Miss Pearl ..."

    "Oh, you have no idea, Warren - other foot now, please - just how hard it is on our feet. But at least now we've got a footboy!"

    "Yes, Miss Pearl," I said respectfully.

    I now took and held Pearl's expectantly proffered left, tan pantyhosed foot in both of my hands, and once she'd relaxed her leg and let me take the strain, I proceeded to work my thumbs exactly as per her previous specified instructions.

    Again, this time with Pearl's left tan pantyhosed foot held in my hands and barely a foot from my face, the strong cheesy scent radiating from her sole and wafting more pungently from her repeatedly scrunching and luxuriating toes hit me full force anew, but I didn't mind a bit.

    Once again, Pearl relaxed back on the banquette and sighed. "Ah ... heaven. Absolute, perfect ... heaven."

    I did not interpret this as an invitation to speak this time so I remained silent. So that Pearl could enjoy the rest of her "reviving, relieving and relaxing mini-massage" in peace and quiet.

    "Ah, I can hear the bus coming," Pearl said, a minute or so later.

    Pearl got up from the red leather banquette and went over to her kicked-off flight-duty pumps and slid her feet into them.

    She then strode over to the Comfort Station's cork bulletin board and took down from its hook the red-plastic backed clipboard upon which she had signed me in at 05:54 - only a few minutes ago but the time had gone so fast.

    Hurriedly writing something down on the clipboard with its attached ballpoint pen, Pearl said, her bossy tone returning, "When I've gone, have a tidy-up in here, Warren - just look at the state of the place!"

    "Yes, Miss Pearl," I replied compliantly.

    Standing in front of the bulletin board, with her right leg bent at the knee while pausing to consider what to write down next, Pearl eased her right foot from her flight-duty pump and rested her toes on the heel of her shoe. Exerting repeated downward pressure, she caused the toe end to lift up and down as she pondered her next words.

    Another quick burst of writing, and then finally Pearl returned the clipboard to its hook on the bulletin board.

    "Well, at least now I know I've got something to look forward to when I get back from a long, demanding pattern."

    "Yes, Miss Pearl, I said respectfully.

    The six a.m. airport services bus was stopped outside, its front entrance door open.

    Pearl then pulled up the handle of her wheeled 'dolly-trolley' carry-case and headed for the Comfort Station's entrance/exit double doors.

    I got there first and politely held one of the glass doors open for her.

    Pearl stepped through the door, pulling her wheeled case after her.

    "Lift my case onto the bus for me and stow it, please, Warren. It's heavy - I've got a lot of Duty-Free in there."

    "Of course, Miss Pearl," I said compliantly.

    At seeing what was emblazoned in bold red capitalised letters upon my community-servant style uniform white T-shirt, the bus driver stared at me pityingly.

    Pearl followed her ubiquitous piece of cabin crew luggage onto the bus.

    The bus driver was about to set off with his single passenger when Pearl gestured for him to wait.

    "Do you remember what I told you to do, Warren?"

    "Yes, Miss Pearl: You told me to have a tidy-up."

    "Yes - so get cracking!"

    "Yes, Miss Pearl," I replied obediently.

    Now, at Pearl's assenting nod to the smiling bus driver, he pushed a button to close the automatic doors.

    Before I turned around to re-enter the Comfort Station, through the narrow vertical glass panes of the bus's folding automatic door, I saw Pearl laughing as she shared a joke with the greatly amused driver.


    But now that I was alone in the Comfort Station, one thing was uppermost in my mind: What had Pearl the EasyJet air hostess written on my Footman's Daily Record Sheet?

    I went over to the Comfort Station's cork bulletin board and retrieved from its hook the red-plastic backed clipboard.

    Affixed to the clipboard were about twenty sheets of A4-sized white paper.

    Printed at the top of each page was: 'Footman's Daily Record Sheet - Day 1 of 42.

    Otherwise, all of the pages were blank, except the top sheet.

    Suddenly I'd come over all jittery and my heart was almost in my mouth - here were Pearl's hastily handwritten words.

    I read ...

    My opinion of our new footboy, Warren, is of the highest.

    He is respectful, compliant and obedient, and shows what I have no doubt is a genuine eagerness to please.

    Not once, did he fail to address me as 'Miss'. Following my specified foot massage instructions to the letter, he was compliant in every regard. And his perfect obedience and obeisance to me throughout was nothing short of slavish.

    True, it is quite obvious he doesn't have a clue what he's doing, but it is equally clear that he is giving his best - and yes, he did quite relieve and revive my poor, tired and achy hostie feet!

    Most notably, he didn't flinch or evince the slightest distaste or unwillingness to massage my pantyhosed feet that, after at last finishing my shift after being delayed, were most definitely dirty, sweaty - and stinky!

    And - almost equally important - without me having to tell him, Warren seemed to know when to remain silent and let me relax and enjoy his attentions and ministrations in peace.

    It would be unfair of me to nitpick a fault with our new footboy Warren.

    As I say, he is new, and I'm sure that with our guidance and instruction he will quickly improve.

    Given all of these considerations, I award Warren 10/10.

    Pearl - EasyJet.

    It was impossible to describe the flood of emotions and sensations that shook me, rocked me, upon reading Pearl the EasyJet air hostess's comments.

    The Footsore Flight Attendants continues in Ch. 2 - of 3.

  2. #2
    God Of Footsniffing sacurason's Avatar
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    Dec 2011
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    Hmm, I kind of like reading about super-compliant Warren. He's certainly a departure from the majority of males caught up in the AFP. And not minding the smell? Is a foot fetish awakening in him? I do hope some of the flight attendants ensure he only breathes through the nose!
    "It's an indulgence to sit in a room and discuss your beliefs as if they were a juicy piece of gossip." -Heinlein

  3. #3
    Administrator ergleburgle's Avatar
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    Aug 2011
    London, England
    Has anything like this ever happened before in erotic fiction? An author creating a whole universe, building it up over a period of years across a number of different, separate stories?

    Class act, as always.

    (Though I will say that I do the Geneva run on Swiss Air fairly often and most of the attendants are miserable French men with attitude problems...)
    Every thought you produce, anything you say, any action you do, it bears your signature.
    -- Thich Nhat Hanh

  4. #4
    Fledgling Footsniffer
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    Awesome first chapter! Can't wait for the next installments I'm with sacurason, hope some nose-only breathing is mandated!

  5. #5
    Apprentice Footsniffer
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    Quote Originally Posted by sacurason View Post
    Hmm, I kind of like reading about super-compliant Warren. He's certainly a departure from the majority of males caught up in the AFP. And not minding the smell? Is a foot fetish awakening in him? I do hope some of the flight attendants ensure he only breathes through the nose!
    In my other flight attendant story - Flight SH 123 to Corfu - 'Air Purification Technician' Danny Dawson isn't doing too badly living under the rule of the AFP.

    But I take your point, mate.

  6. #6
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    Quote Originally Posted by ergleburgle View Post
    Has anything like this ever happened before in erotic fiction? An author creating a whole universe, building it up over a period of years across a number of different, separate stories?

    Class act, as always.

    (Though I will say that I do the Geneva run on Swiss Air fairly often and most of the attendants are miserable French men with attitude problems...)
    Thanks, Ergle.

    And thanks for the heads-up about the Swiss Air cabin crew!

    Sounds like you are well settled now in your new job, then. I'm really glad to hear that.

  7. #7
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    Quote Originally Posted by Sweetness3456 View Post
    Awesome first chapter! Can't wait for the next installments I'm with sacurason, hope some nose-only breathing is mandated!
    Oh, there will be - and glad you are enjoying the story!

  8. #8
    Apprentice Footsniffer OneAuthor's Avatar
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    Nov 2016
    That was very good indeed. Warren being forced to massage stinky stewardess feet for 12 hours a day, 7 days a week...for 6 weeks...that was certainly an overpunishment for accidentally littering at the airport. But given what transpired with his first client Pearl, perhaps it won't be a punishment after all. Of course, there are many more clients and two more chapters to go. I am excited to see how it turns out. :-)

  9. #9
    God Of Footsniffing sacurason's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by davidmuleguy View Post
    In my other flight attendant story - Flight SH 123 to Corfu - 'Air Purification Technician' Danny Dawson isn't doing too badly living under the rule of the AFP.

    But I take your point, mate.
    Ah yes, I had almost forgotten about Danny, silly me!
    "It's an indulgence to sit in a room and discuss your beliefs as if they were a juicy piece of gossip." -Heinlein

  10. #10
    Fledgling Footsniffer
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    Oct 2015
    Can't wait to see whats cooking up!!!

  11. #11
    Apprentice Footsniffer
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    The Footsore Flight Attendants.

    Ch. 2 of 3: Warren's world is rocked - again.

    In Gatwick Airport's Cabin Crew Comfort Station I stood there, stunned.

    My world, rocked, by what Pearl the EasyJet air hostess had written in the Footman's Daily Record Sheet.

    Having assisted Pearl onto the 06:00 airport services bus, lifting her heavy Duty-Free laden wheeled 'dolly trolly' aboard and stowing it for her as instructed, for the moment until more post-flight end-of-shift air hostesses showed up I was all alone in the Comfort Station.

    Other than a state of shock, I wouldn't know what else to call it as I stood at the Comfort Station's cork bulletin board, the red-plastic backed clipboard shaking in my hands as I re-read and absorbed the footsore flight attendant Pearl's comments.

    Her thoughtful remarks.

    Her insightful observations.

    Her considered opinions.

    And her conclusions - about me.

    But I felt a foolish grin spreading across my face as I read again, the marks out of ten that Pearl had awarded me: 10/10.

    Something akin to a warm glow flooded through me at the sense of proud achievement.

    On this, Day 1 of 42 of my six-week, seven days a week, twelve hours a day sentence for dropping litter, Pearl the EasyJet air hostess had been the first post-flight end-of-shift footsore flight attendant to avail herself of my AFP-enforced Comfort Station foot masseur's attentions and ministrations.

    The first air hostess, to contribute her hand-written comments on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet. And the first, to award her marks-out-of-ten Satisfaction of Conduct rating.

    An excellent start, then.

    The EasyJet air hostess Pearl had given me the best possible start.

    The best possible platform, and the best possible encouragement, to spur me on to achieving Gatwick Airport Authority Litter Department Administrator Mrs Jepson's highly set overall average minimum 8/10 target and passing her Final Assessment Test.

    ("Anything less, Warren, then eighty percent, and ...")


    Pearl had instructed me to tidy the Cabin Crew Comfort Station.

    Respectfully, I'd replied, "Yes, Miss Pearl."

    And there was no question about it if I was truthful with myself: I did feel a sort of eagerness, a kind of compulsion - an imperative - to carry out her authoritatively expressed order.

    There was something I liked, about her assertiveness.

    I hoped to be of use to her again soon.

    I don't know why.

    I just did.


    But before I began Pearl the EasyJet air hostess's bidding and made a start on the much-needed tidy-up of the Cabin Crew Comfort Station, I took a moment to go and look at the two refreshments tables.

    They were situated end to end at the far end of the Comfort Station and took up almost all of the spacious room's width. Two vending machines, offering hot and cold drinks, and two microwave ovens and a six-slice toaster, were sited on their own, small tables at either end of the two long tables.

    I could almost hear the two refectory-type tables groaning under the weight of the wide variety of mouthwatering breakfast-time fare on display - a generous offering of tasty-looking snacks, light meals, health foods like muesli and berries, and much more. Stacked on these tables too was everything required to tuck into it all: disposable white paper plates; clear plastic bowls, cups and glasses; sealed packets of white plastic cutlery, and catering-size packages of serviettes and wet-wipes. For post-flight air hostesses in a rush, there were also plenty of small takeaway eat-on-the-bus items - cereal bars, packets of biscuits and crisps, a variety of chocolate bars and small bottles of fruit juices and mineral water.

    Not feeling hungry, I'd had nothing to eat before leaving home for Horsham rail station to catch the Gatwick Express train that would get me here shortly before 06:00.

    It was a mistake I wouldn't make again.

    Because making my empty stomach grumble now, was the sight and smells of the baskets and trays of recently delivered fresh bread, croissants, bagels and doughnuts; small pots of yoghurt and large bowls of fresh fruit; glass-display-cased selections of cheeses, meats and pates; and microwavable breakfasts.

    All of it AFP-provisioned as an all-airline hospitality to post-flight end-of-shift bus-catching female members of cabin crew - from proceeds of the Male Air Passenger Tax.


    I'd made a decent start with my tidying-up chore - collecting and putting in the small wheelie bin the detritus left behind on the Comfort Station's half-dozen tables by earlier post-flight air hostesses - when at 06:03 on the Comfort Station clock, in breezed four British Airways air hostesses.

    "Leave that for now - footboy," came the imperious voice of the first entrant. "You've got more important things to do."

    Wiping down a table I'd just cleared, I turned to see that the nametag of the haughty-toned BA air hostess who'd addressed me read: Lavinia.

    "He most definitely has!" endorsed the second entrant in emphatic tones and meaningful innuendo. From her nametag, I learned she was Bettina.

    By now all four of the dark-blue uniformed BA air hostesses had filed through the entrance doors with their 'dolly trollies' in tow.

    And all four of them were staring, at the word emblazoned in capitalised red letters on the front of my community-servant style uniform white T-shirt: FOOTMAN.

    In their early- to mid-twenties, all four of them were very attractive in their own, different ways, but they all emanated the same unendearing superior attitude. Although two of them were yet to speak, from their manner and bearing I sensed that all four of them were peas from the same pod.

    I also sensed that it was going to be a long twelve minutes until the next airport services bus arrived at 06:15 and bore them all on their way.

    "Footboy: Before you start, bring us two cartons of chilled orange juice and two cups, and two Americano coffees from the vending machines - both black; no sugar in mine, four sugars in the other. And hurry up!" Lavinia ordered.

    "Yes, footboy! As much as we'd like to linger and make more use of you after our long and tiring flight, we've all got train connections to make and so we can only avail ourselves of your novel services for a few short minutes. So get a move on - time is of the essence!" admonished Bettina.

    Wasn't it enough that I had FOOTMAN emblazoned right across my chest, I thought, that they had to make a thing of calling me 'footboy' as well?

    "Yes, Miss Lavinia. Yes, Miss Bettina," I said respectfully.

    I'd pushed the button of one of the two vending machines for the first of the two Americanos, and I was getting two cartons of chilled orange juice from the other vending machine, when from the padded red leather banquette-style bench where they'd gone to sit, I heard the BA air hostess Lavinia say to her three BA colleagues, "All shift, I've been waiting for this moment!"

    And I knew that the BA air hostess Lavinia wasn't talking about the coffee ... it seemed that the news had travelled fast, about today's installation of their new Comfort Station foot masseur.

    Bettina replied, her tone petulant, "I know that footboys are now being issued nationwide to airport Cabin Crew Comfort Stations. But what I fail to comprehend, is why footboys haven't been installed in Comfort Stations long before now - I mean, as a priority scheme. It seems to me, the AFP have been uncommonly slow, in launching and implementing this particular female-friendly facility."

    Up on the wall beside the 24-hour clock was the Arrivals monitor, and I saw that a BA flight from New York had landed at 05:35 ... so, the four of them had just operated a trans-Atlantic flight from the Big Apple.

    Studying the Arrivals screen further, I saw that several other long-haul flights had landed a short while ago too and that five more flights were estimated to arrive before 07:00 ...

    Soon, I realised, the Cabin Crew Comfort Station was going to be full to the gills with transient multinational gatherings of post-flight end-of-shift footsore flight attendants.

    Many of them, though, perhaps with their return long-haul flights tomorrow or the day after and who would be staying over at the airport's hotels and were in no particular hurry to check in and go to bed, might linger in the Comfort Station over their breakfasts.

    Already arrived or landing soon was an Air India flight, from Goa; Emirate Airlines, from Dubai; South African Airways, from Johannesburg; Air Pakistan, from Karachi; a Quantas, from Sidney, and a Thailand-

    "Footboy! What on earth is keeping you? I told you to hurry up! What are you doing? Where's our orange juice and coffee?" the BA air hostess Lavinia called crossly.

    "Really - it won't do, footboy!" concurred Bettina.

    Quickly I loaded the hot and cold beverages and two disposable clear plastic cups onto a small wooden tray and carried them over to where Lavinia and Bettina and their two colleagues were seated.

    "And about time!" berated Bettina, glaring at me in annoyance.

    Pointing at the two Americanos, Lavinia said, "Which of these two black coffees is mine; the one without sugar?"

    "Um ... that one, Miss Lavinia."

    Lavinia's colleague Bettina took the other Americano, and the other two BA air hostesses, who from their nametags I now saw were Gemma and Joanna, helped themselves to the two orange juices.

    I waited ...

    "Ah - this is full of sugar!" cried Lavinia, her face contorted in revulsion. "You idiot! Can't you even get that right?"

    Yup, I knew I'd get it wrong - the fifty-fifty chances never seemed to go my way.

    After getting distracted and becoming absorbed with viewing the recently landed and incoming flights on the Arrivals monitor, I'd completely forgotten which of the two automatically dispensed coffees in the two identical disposable white plastic cups had four sugars and the other one none.

    "I'm very sorry, Miss Lavinia! Miss Bettina has your unsugared coffee, still untouched. I'll go and get Miss Bettina another one, shall I? It'll only take me a-"

    "No - there's no time now!" interjected Lavinia. "I want you to massage my feet!"

    "And so do I!" said Bettina plaintively, looking at the Comfort Station clock and seeing that time was a-ticking. "The bus is due in ten minutes!"

    "Well, get on with it then - footboy! Do what you are here for!" ordered Lavinia. "You've wasted far too much time already with your incompetence and laggardness!"

    "Of course, Miss Lavinia. Right away. I am at your service. And I apologise again, for-"

    "Stop wasting time with your prattle! On your knees at my feet - footboy! Now!"

    "Make him smell them, Lavinia!" urged Bettina, who had just narrowly escaped drinking coffee with no sugars instead of four. "That'll teach him!"

    "Yes! In fact, we all should!" rejoined Gemma, scowling crossly, her right dark-pantyhosed leg crossed over her left and her uniform, dark blue leather flight-duty pump dangling from the toes of her to-and-froing foot as she watched me position myself on my padded knees facing her stern-faced BA colleague Lavinia.

    "Yes, let's do that," agreed Joanna. "After all, he's left us with insufficient time - insufficient time, at any rate, in which to provide each of us with any sort of worthwhile foot massage after our long flight duty. All the way across the Atlantic I've been looking forward to this - and look what happens.

    "The main concern for me now, in fact, is that I can think of something seriously damaging if not catastrophic to write in his Footman's Daily Record Sheet ...

    "Unless, through his obedient and compliant behaviour and the quality and satisfaction of his foot service to me during the next few minutes, he can somehow worm his way into my good books and sway me to change my mind about that. Somehow redeem himself, and alleviate to some degree my disappointments and disapprobation with his unacceptable shortcomings and abject failings. Somehow persuade me, to rethink and reassess my extremely negative first-impression opinions of him.

    "I mean, I'm not unreasonable."

    "Footboy - move closer to me! Don't make me have to stretch!" snapped Lavinia irascibly.

    "Yes, Miss Lavinia," I said respectfully.

    On my knees, I inched closer to Lavinia until with a show of the palm of her hand she let me know that I was positioned agreeably.

    "Let him have them, Lavinia!" encouraged the retributive Bettina. "Come on - but don't hog him - we all want our turn!"

    I knew what was coming next.

    Nonetheless, what happened came as a disbelieving blur of unreality and a mind-shattering shock to my senses as Lavinia eased her feet from her dark blue leather flight-duty pumps, raised her dark-pantyhosed legs, and with an exclamation of utmost gratification she planted the soles of her post-flight end-of-shift Atlantic-crossing feet on my perfectly-positioned face.

    "Yes!" exulted the coffee-deprived Bettina, at witnessing the first stage of her and her three BA colleagues' unanimously decided upon olfactory-oriented reprimand. "Yes! Yes!"

    The gauzy material of her dark pantyhose was warm and damp yet still rustled in my ears as Lavinia exerted herself in rubbing the soles of both of her tired and achy post-flight feet on my face in endeavouring to relieve, revive and reinvigorate them.

    The initial force of her urgent, energetic pressure having taken me somewhat by surprise, I was at once engaged in a desperate and relentless struggle, obliged to counteract even more urgently and energetically by leaning determinedly into Lavinia's using, misusing and abusing dark-pantyhosed soles to avoid being pushed right back off my knees.

    "Hey - this is even better than a proper foot massage!" announced Lavinia with surprised delight, the soles of her self-relieving feet marauding my face mercilessly as I battled doggedly to remain in-situ.

    And then while one dark-pantyhosed foot continued rubbing one side of my face and chin vigorously, the toes of her other foot became still, firmly cupping my nose. "You'll get my coffee right, and you'll be quick about it too, in future - after this!" predicted Lavinia. "Now sniff!"

    I could only accept with good grace, promptly and without demur, what I considered was after all in the circumstances a fair and commensurate comeuppance.

    The four BA air hostesses waited ...

    "Hmm ... he doesn't seem too bothered, to me," commented the still precariously pump-dangling Gemma.

    "No, he doesn't, does he?" agreed Bettina, sounding disappointed but intrigued at the same time.

    "In fact ..." observed Joanna, "... I think he's actually enjoying sniffing Lavinia's stinky feet."

    "Oh, and who are you, Joanna, calling my feet stinky?" said Lavinia in mock-umbrage. "Wait until he gets a whiff of yours, in a minute. I mean, Jo, your feet hardly smell of roses and lavender, do they?"

    Gemma interjected, interrupting her colleagues' time-consuming badinage, "Since time's so short, Lavinia, why don't Bettina and I share him with you?"

    "Share him, Gemma?"

    "Yes. Bettina and I can sit right next to you on either side for a couple of minutes, and we'll rest our feet on his shoulders; you'll have noticed, they're at a very comfortable height for footrests. And then Joanna can have him all to herself, for a few minutes, while the three of us write our comments in his Footman's Daily Record Sheet and award him our marks out of ten."

    "Good idea, Gem," approved Lavinia. "Come on, then, you two. Put your feet up. And along with me, make the time-wasting cretin sniff them!"

    Before doing so, Gemma leant toward me from her sitting position. Her very attractive face now just inches from mine, and her superior persona coming fully to the fore, Gemma demanded of me, "What are you?"

    "Miss Gemma, I'm a time-wasting cretin who is no good at serving coffee, and I deserve to be made to smell air hostess' feet after their long flight-duty as a telling-off."

    "Ah - your answer has earned you two marks: one mark for your honesty, and one mark for your evident remorse at so deservingly incurring the disapprobation of my colleagues and me."

    Thank you, Miss Gemma," I said respectfully.

    The resting, completely relaxed weight of Gemma and Bettina's legs when they crossed their ankles on 'their' shoulders was considerable and uncomfortable. But their legs' combined down-bearing weight also had the more positive effect of firmly anchoring and stabilising me in my on-my-knees position, so at least now I was relieved of the stressful necessity of leaning my face forward into the dark-pantyhosed soles of Lavinia's forcibly and forcefully self-massaging feet.

    Joanna looked on, studying me with interest.

    Joanna had declared herself more than happy with the going-solo arrangement.

    Joanna had said it would be well worth the wait if it would mean having me all to herself for the final few minutes. When after having taken their simultaneous turns with me, her three colleagues went over to the Comfort Station's cork bulletin board and the Footman's Daily Record Sheet.

    "See ... I told you he wasn't bothered, didn't I?" observed Gemma, after sealing up my nostrils with the warm and damp dark-pantyhosed toes of her uppermost cross-ankled foot and obliging me to inhale the aromas of her under- and in-between-the-toes scents.

    "I actually think you are right, Gem," agreed Bettina, a note of incredulity in her voice.

    Never taking her feet from my face for a moment, Lavinia, sealing my mouth with the firmly pressing toes of one foot, joined Gemma and Bettina in wafting a dark-pantyhosed foot in my face in a waving frenzy of wiggling and scrunching and flexing toes.

    The commingling foot odours were like nothing I could have imagined.

    The combined scents of the BA air hostesses Lavinia, Gemma and Bettina's dark-pantyhosed warm and sweaty post-flight end-of-shift Atlantic-crossing feet were almost eye-watering in their compounded pungency.

    Heavy, heady, and intoxicating.

    "Now we're getting something," commented Bettina, in satisfaction.

    "Yes," agreed Lavinia. "Look - his eyes are nearly popping out!"

    "But I think Joanna's right," observed Gemma. "He is enjoying it. Can you believe it? He actually likes the smell of our stinky feet."

    "The bus is due in four minutes," said Bettina. "And Joanna hasn't had her turn with him yet."

    "Come on," said Gemma. "Let's write our comments and award his marks out of ten on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet."

    "He's all yours, Jo," said Lavinia, smiling.

    Now it was the going solo having-me-all-to-herself Joanna, who promptly assumed her BA colleague Lavinia's vacated seated position directly facing their on-his-knees-in-a-perfect-position Comfort Station foot masseur and servant.

    "Footboy: My default position with your Satisfaction of Conduct rating, both now on this first occasion and in future, is to award you marks of zero out of ten."

    For some, unknown reason, as had been the case too with the EasyJet air hostess Pearl, I found that I sort of liked the no-nonsense authoritative tone the BA air hostess Joanna adopted when addressing me.

    "That said, as I said earlier, I am not unreasonable ... And so I offer you the latitude to improve on your default score," continued Joanna in the same on-her-high-horse tones.

    "Just how much you can improve on it, is largely dependent upon you. Upon your powers of persuasion. Upon your ability to influence.

    "The respect you accord me, and your obedience and compliance in following to the letter any and all regulatory and obligatory instructions and orders I give you as befits your position, I take for granted.

    "And so the marks out of ten, that ultimately I will arrive at and award you, will rest largely upon the values of merit I place upon each of any additional actions of influence, as are undertaken and performed for me extra-obligatorily - entirely at your behest and of your own volition."

    At that moment Lavinia called over, waving the red-plastic backed clipboard in her hands. "Hey, Jo! We are not the first. And you won't believe it. An EasyJet hostie named Pearl has already written a glowing report about the footboy - his name's Warren - and awarded him marks of ten out of ten!"

    "But I'll cause him a major setback - I'll ruin his averages!" said Bettina. "That'll teach him, the time-wasting buffoon! He'll remember to give me the right coffee in future - if he doesn't want me to award him zero out of ten again!"

    Gemma laughed amusedly at the vilifying rantings of Bettina, her unforgiving, vindictive and vengeful coffee-deprived colleague.

    "So ... it looks as though you've got it all to do, doesn't it, Warren?" said Joanna meaningfully.

    "Yes, Miss Joanna," I said respectfully.

    "As a punishment for wasting valuable foot-service time, and also for your display of dire ineptitude at beverage service, my colleagues Lavinia and Bettina - and Gemma too, probably, if purely as a matter of moral support - are sure to comment most disparagingly about you.

    "And, for added emphasis, award you very low, damaging - and perhaps, ultimately, decisively detrimental - marks-out-of-ten Satisfaction of Conduct ratings.

    "Well, assuming Lavinia can make the bus driver wait for me, you've got about four minutes, Warren, to endeavour to damage-limitation your disastrous downturn and improve on your now decidedly inauspicious situation ...

    "Start, by carefully removing my pumps, and then, while supporting the weight of my relaxing right leg and massaging my right foot; firstly, by rotating your thumbs firmly into the bottom of my heel ... Well, from there on I shall leave the rest of it, up to you, Warren."

    I was careful, as admonished, but though rather well-worn, Joanna's dark blue leather flight-duty pumps were still quite tight-fitting and didn't come off easily. An audible whoosh of suddenly released warm odorous trapped air accompanied the removal of each of her work shoes.

    Joanna raised her right leg, and I took my cue.

    Supporting the not inconsiderable weight of her relaxing right leg, I took her right foot in my hands and began massaging as directed.

    No sooner was I firmly rotating the pads of my thumbs into the bottom of Joanna's right heel, when she raised her left leg, and very slowly, she directed the bottom of her foot towards my face.

    I understood that Joanna was giving me an eleventh-hour option to rescind from offering to 'voluntarily' perform non-regulatory personal services.

    But as I watched the continued slow progress of the sole of Joanna's freshly unshod left foot my mind was already made up: I was resigned and resolved to do whatever might be necessary to try and earn from her a better marks-out-of-ten Satisfaction of Conduct rating.

    And so there was nothing for me to do other than to contemplate the inexorable approach of Joanna's pantyhosed left sole and await its arrival and, once it arrived, compliantly accept and accommodate it - indeed, welcome it.

    Prior to her first carefully placing and then firmly pressing her freshly unshod work-begrimed left foot into my accepting and accommodating face, I saw every work-stained hot and sweaty detail of Joanna's portentously looming dark-pantyhosed sole.

    A moment later, replicating the earlier nose cupping actions of her BA colleague Lavinia, from the same sedentary position Joanna's toes also now, were effectively sealing my nostrils as she used my face as her footrest.

    As Joanna had stated, her two coffee deprived colleagues Lavinia and Bettina (and Gemma too, if only as a gesture of her moral support) had ordered me to sniff their post-flight end-of-shift stinky feet as a punishment.

    Joanna now, though, was leaving it up to me to decide: Whether, or not, to demonstrate my apologies and remorse by the self-undertaken self-imposition and rigorous self-infliction of the four BA air hostesses' unanimously-decided-upon foot-sniffing chastisement ordeal.

    I now stopped massaging the bottom of Joanna's right heel, and I resumed my rotating thumb ministrations on her arch; not as firmly though, since I noticed right off that there was much more give here.

    Joanna did not say a word to me now. But nonetheless, her implicit proposition was crystal clear.

    Responding to the BA air hostess Joanna's unspoken proposal, with my mouth firmly closed I took a long, deep sniff under the post-flight end-of-shift dark-pantyhosed toes of her left foot ...

    The powerful, pungent intensity of Joanna's under- and in-between-the-toes scents came as a real shock.

    Like a new smoker taking the first draw of his second cigarette, I gasped and choked on the as yet unaccustomed noxious and obnoxious fumes contained within and emanating from the toe area of the thin gauzy material, that - Joanna, leaving me to decide whether to avail myself of this implicitly offered marks-out-of-ten-improving opportunity to self-submit to this act of self-punishment - 'voluntarily' I'd inhaled deeply.

    "A bit rich for you, footboy?"

    "Just a little, Miss Joanna."

    "With what time remains let's see what else you can do for me, to further improve the marks-out-of-ten Satisfaction of Conduct valuation I award you ..."

    'Further, improve'? I thought, my hopes rising.

    Because from the sound of that, after sniffing her stinky post-flight left foot entirely off my own bat, Joanna was now scoring me better than her stated initial default marks-out-of-ten rating for me of 0/10.

    Implicitly, Joanna was again offering me the chance, via 'voluntary', self-undertakings of "extra-obligatory" personal services, to recover somewhat my battered overall average marks-out-of-ten rating and improve on my Lavinia/Bettina/Gemma-scuttled score-to-date.

    Throughout these proceedings, I'd maintained support of Joanna's relaxing right leg and continued without cessation my thumb rotating ministrations, first on the bottom of her right heel, and then on her arch. Now, I again changed the focus and transferred these attentions to the ball of her foot, the pads of my rotating thumbs resuming their initial firmness.

    And maintaining my supportiveness and my unceasing ministrations, I now self-undertook to press my lips into the sole of Joanna's warm and sweaty dark-pantyhosed left foot, in a reverential, non-compulsory kiss.

    My surprise - my astonishment - can be imagined as I soon realised that I loved the sensations of feeling the slight give of Joanna's dark-pantyhosed foot flesh beneath my reverentially kissing lips.

    Within seconds, my kisses were not merely reverential but became ardently adoring as with growing abandon I kissed everywhere.

    I kissed, and kissed, and kissed.

    And kept on, kissing.

    Amazingly I wasn't mortified - I didn't feel the least bit embarrassed, shamed, or ashamed.

    Gently now I returned Joanna's right foot to the floor so as to be able to take her left foot in my hands.

    And then before I knew what I was doing, extra-mandatorily I was licking the sweat-encrusted dark-pantyhose material, licking and licking again, the sole of Joanna's left foot from heel to toes.

    I couldn't believe I was doing this.

    But much harder to believe, was that I was starting to get a taste for the dreadful amalgam of salty flavours as, extra-compulsorily, I licked.

    My saliva released yet more flavours, some of which were an even more atrocious assault on the taste buds. But to my even greater amazement, I began to find these even more immensely appealing, and I licked all the more.

    I licked and licked and licked.

    And kept on, licking.

    Gemma had earlier observed that I hadn't appeared to be "too bothered" about being made to sniff hers and her colleagues' Lavinia and Bettina's feet as a mild chastisement.

    No doubt, Gemma would be even more firmly possessed of the same mind and the same sentiments now.

    As now, right in front of her eyes, her inchoate, incipient suspicions about my apparently latent but now slowly awakening 'condition' were fast growing and hardening into vindicated and validated convictions.

    Because now Gemma, along with Lavinia and Bettina, having all recorded their comments and awarded my marks-out-of-ten ratings on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet, had come over to watch their colleague Joanna finish her going solo having-me-all-to-herself four-minute turn with me.

    Her suspicions vindicated and validated incontrovertibly, as by now, acting in a purely self-undertaking, wholly voluntary extra-statutory offering of personal service, avidly Gemma watched, as carefully and gently I took all five toes of Joanna's post-flight end-of-shift tired and achy sweat-encrusted dark-pantyhosed Atlantic-crossing left foot into my mouth - and sucked.

    The understandably terrible but unaccountably tasty saliva-released intermingling flavours were far more intense now.

    And in probing exploration of this new wonder my excitement escalated and my desire burgeoned as I rolled and worked my now craving tongue along each and in between all five dark-pantyhosed toes of Joanna's left foot in devouring these new, more complex flavours.

    I sucked, and sucked, and sucked.

    And kept on, sucking.

    "Here's the bus!" exclaimed Gemma. "Oh - what a pity!"

    "Jo, I can see exactly just how much you are enjoying yourself, but you'd better hurry if you want to get on this bus," cautioned Bettina.

    Lavinia said, "Go on, Jo. I'll tell the driver to wait, while you write your comments and award your marks out of ten on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet."

    "Something tells me you're going to score the footboy better than we did, Jo," said Gemma.

    Gemma went on, "Lavinia and Bettina have both awarded him marks of zero out of ten: Because he messed up a simple little job getting their two coffees mixed up, causing Lavinia to drink heavily sugared coffee when she can't stand sugar at all. And because he wasted a lot of valuable time, too, doing goodness knows what, when that time should have been spent attending to us at our feet. The fact that he obediently sniffed their feet and mine as a punishment, without the slightest complaint or protest, was merely expected of him.

    "I've felt it necessary to deduct some marks for each of those things, too, just on principle," resumed Gemma. "Yes, he got off on the wrong foot ... as it were. But otherwise, the footboy Warren has impressed me. I can see why Pearl, the EasyJet hostie who was the first to avail herself of his services earlier this morning, awarded him full marks. Everything considered and taken into account, I've awarded him marks of six out of ten."

    Joanna replied, "And it's strictly on principle, too, Gem, that I've deducted one mark each for those two transgressions. Otherwise, I cannot fault him.

    "I'm happy to say - and to report as much on his Footman's Daily Record Sheet - that my expectations of our new footboy, Warren, have been quite exceedingly surpassed.

    "His Comfort Station conduct, I've found, is as impeccable as one would hope. Equally, his services at one's feet - both of an obligational, and ... extra-obligatory, nature - are satisfactory indeed.

    "Which is why I shall be awarding Warren my marks of eight out of ten.

    "Eight out of ten: The overall average marks-out-of-ten Satisfaction of Conduct rating, that our new footboy Warren will need to achieve if he is to free himself from our clutches, upon passing Mrs Jepson's Final Assessment Test's eighty-percent-minimum requirement."

    Again, Joanna looked at me appraisingly as she slipped her freely-offered, self-undertaken, extra-obligatorily serviced dark-pantyhosed feet back into her well-worn but rather tight-fitting flight-duty pumps, preparatory to going over to the Cabin Crew Comfort Station's cork bulletin board.

    To write her comments about me.


    It was just as the BA air hostess Joanna had said.

    She was not unreasonable.


    In the coming days, directly resultant of performing similar other, wholly voluntary, self-undertaken, extra-obligatory marks-out-of-ten-influencing actions of servile self-effacing self-employments, I would find that many more post-flight end-of-shift bus-catching footsore flight attendants, too, would be reasonable.

    The Footsore Flight Attendants continues - and concludes - in Ch. 3.

  12. #12
    Apprentice Footsniffer OneAuthor's Avatar
    Join Date
    Nov 2016
    Very nice. He started off with them "on the wrong foot", but then ended with a flourish. Let's see what happens in the conclusion.

  13. #13
    Fledgling Footsniffer
    Join Date
    Feb 2015
    Thank you for returning to this! I always fear that these chapter by chapter stories will end up being abandoned.

    I like seeing like minded writers who know that GOOD writing involving EFFORT and an attempt to decribe as much as possible makes a good story great. As long as there are a few like you on the internet the foot story universe is alive and kicking - maybe on life support, but alive.

  14. #14
    Fledgling Footsniffer
    Join Date
    Jan 2012
    Amazing chapter! I can't wait to read the conclusion!

  15. #15
    Fledgling Footsniffer
    Join Date
    Oct 2015
    Is part 3 coming soon? so excited

  16. #16
    Apprentice Footsniffer
    Join Date
    Dec 2011
    Quote Originally Posted by FootGuy2000 View Post
    Is part 3 coming soon? so excited
    Coming soon, yes.
    I wouldn't like to say exactly when yet because I'm still working on it as time allows.

    Glad you are enjoying the story!

  17. #17
    Apprentice Footsniffer
    Join Date
    Dec 2011
    The Footsore Flight Attendants. Ch. 3 of 3.

    Ch. 3 of 3: Warren bows to the Singapore Girls.

    I would come to find that Sunday mornings were one of the busiest times for me in the Cabin Crew Comfort Station.

    Of course, the early-morning periods at Gatwick Airport were always lively.

    But Sunday mornings were hectic.

    With many holidaymakers returning overnight from their far-flung destinations, there was an even greater number of long-haul flight arrivals.

    Which meant an exponentially higher number, of post-flight bus-catching footsore flight attendants in the Comfort Station.

    Even more, air hostesses with overworked, tired and achy feet, whose anticipation of availing themselves of the services of their Comfort Station's foot masseur, would soon be realised.


    But of the six Sundays of my six-week sentence, it would be the standout incident of the third Sunday - Day 21 - that, had I not been either too obdurate or too unwilling to acknowledge its earlier manifest signs, would have told me all I needed to know about my dormant 'condition'.

    Day 21 of 42: The Sunday morning when, due to bad visibility because of heavy fog at Heathrow Airport, about twenty-five Heathrow-bound flights were diverted to Gatwick Airport.

    Among them, was a Singapore Airlines flight.

    And aboard it, was Serene.


    Word had spread fast among the Gatwick-based flight attendants, that in an ongoing effort to offset damaging reversals to his 80%-minimum Satisfaction of Conduct pass rate requirement, their recently installed foot masseur was amenable - pliable, malleable and easily prevailed upon - to performing extra-obligatory foot services in hopes of being merited a higher marks-out-of-ten rating.

    ('Extra-obligatory': A phrase meaning non-compulsory, coined on Day 1 by the British Airways air hostess, Joanna).

    Joanna: Who's, implied, unvocalised overtures I had that day accurately interpreted.

    And of which, I had self-undertaken to respond.

    And, for 'wholly voluntarily' performing for her extra-obligatory personal foot services, Joanna had rewarded me as tacitly promised.

    Implicitly, the BA air hostess Joanna had given me to understand that she had set the extra-marks-for-going-the-extr a-mile ball rolling.

    That, responding voluntarily to other such implied, insinuated, unvoiced proposals and self-undertaking to reverently kiss, precursive to tenderly tending, non-compulsorily, the fresh from the pumps soles of her and her air hostess colleagues' overworked, tired and achy post-flight feet, might - just might - be worth my while.

    Given me to understand, that it was for me to sniff out my 'opportunities':

    Whether appearing purposely contrived - done for my 'benefit' - and therefore done deliberately and intentionally and so with a manipulative, decided construct; or done apparently absent-mindedly, seemingly shoe-playing unconsciously merely for relief and therefore done to no discernible design ...

    Whenever seeing: An air hostess, easing an achy foot from her flight duty pump; seeing her foot partially unshod from dangling a pump while seated; or indeed meaningfully proffered - I should regard any and all of these signs and signals not as unverbalised statutory instructional promptings but as implied messages and unspoken invitations. Which, as the case may be, my self-undertaken reverent attentions might then either be accepted gladly and eagerly or met with annoyance and spurned irritably.

    The implication being, that wholly voluntarily and non-statutorily precursive-kissing the soles of their implicitly proffered tired and achy post-flight feet to evince the height of my reverent regard and to demonstrate the depth of my willing submissive servitude at their needful overworked feet, might - just might - be worth a mark or two.

    And possibly - just possibly - be worth a good word from them, too.

    When, before leaving the Comfort Station and boarding the airport services bus, the thus reverently attended and extra-mandatorily treated footsore flight attendants awarded their marks-out-of-ten ratings and recorded their Satisfaction of Conduct comments on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet.


    The airport services bus came by every fifteen minutes, and so the Cabin Crew Comfort Station was vacated with frequent regularity.

    What also kept the Comfort Station from becoming overcrowded, was that most post-flight air hostesses either had onward travel connections to make or through sheer overtiredness they just simply wished to retrieve their cars from the staff car park and get home to their beds asap, and so they would board the first bus to come along.

    But when there was an unusually heavy demand for the Comfort Station foot masseur's services - perhaps due to a cluster of flight arrivals landing slightly off schedule and resulting in larger than usual contingents of post-flight, in-no-hurry air hostesses lingering over their AFP-provisioned fare - time was at a premium.

    And so because among air hostesses there was an unwritten rule that on these high demand occasions their Comfort Station foot masseur not be monopolised or dominated either by individuals or small groups in times of greater need, it was expected of me that, of my own accord, I 'mingle'.

    Expected of me, to use my judgement and act on my initiative to provide emergency post-flight succour first, to those footsore flight attendants who, as evidenced by their foot favouring weight bearing stances, foot-weary actions and myriad other tell-tale signs, I judged most needful of my relieving, relaxing and reviving ministrations.

    During these especially busy, high demand periods, air hostesses would go to the refreshments tables themselves for their food and beverages.

    So anathema to the footsore sisterhood was the idea of squandering my (their!) time, serving them as a waiter - instead of serving them with my relief-giving principal function and satisfying more urgent and much greater needs than the ingestion and imbibing of food and drink.

    Which was why it was only when the current batch of post-flight end-of-shift air hostesses had boarded the bus with their dolly trollies and before yet others arrived, that, before my routine quick tidy-up between buses, I could sneak a peek and keep tabs on the incoming flights on the Comfort Station's Arrivals monitor.

    Which, long before now, had become a source of unwavering interest.


    Looking at the Arrivals monitor, I noticed that the flight arrivals that were supposed to be Heathrow-bound, but because of the thick fog further north over London were being diverted here to Gatwick, were coming in thick and fast.

    The foot masseurs, then this Sunday morning at Heathrow Airport's two Comfort Stations would be having an easier than usual time of it, I mused.

    Though I very much doubted they would be allowed to sit there twiddling their thumbs, when there was still plenty other female airport staff who could be allowed into the two Comfort Stations for them to serve, given the circumstances.

    Tea-breaking baggage check-in; airline information desk receptionists; security; currency exchange, shop and boutique staff - who, I could well imagine, would be only too pleased to take advantage of such an opportune chance of availing themselves of the services of the temporarily idle foot masseurs.

    In all of the UK, it was only Heathrow Airport and Manchester Airport that warranted the provision of two Cabin Crew Comfort Stations.

    Despite persistent vociferous petitioning by the Gatwick-based flight attendants - and albeit that Gatwick was the UK's second-busiest after Heathrow in passenger number terms - with just its two, North and South terminals, the provision of a second Comfort Station at Gatwick, at least for the moment, was deemed-


    A bucket of ice-cold water thrown over my head could not have roused me from my reverie more efficiently - I almost jumped out of my skin at the summons.

    For instantly I'd understood it could be nothing other, such was the note of accustomed confident authority in the voice of this latest Comfort Station entrant.

    Her voice was slightly high-pitched, sing-song yet not lacking in a stentorian quality, and the way she wrapped her tongue around the word 'boy', somehow she made the single syllable word trisyllabic.

    "Your services are required - immediately!" she further adjured in her sing-songy, yet obedience-inspiring voice.

    I stood gazing in admiration and adoration at the stunningly beautiful air hostess who'd addressed me.

    Heaven knows I'd seen some real heart-stopping beauties walk in through those Comfort Station entrance doors during the last three weeks, but ...

    In her mid-twenties she was olive-complexioned, slimly built, and her black, waist-length hair was regulation-tied in a French twist.

    I imagined her lustrous black hair untied, falling loosely over her dusky shoulders.

    "My colleagues and I require foot massage service - now!"

    She was attractively uniformed, in a sarong, which had an underlying pattern or design but was predominantly red-coloured.

    And, shod in a pair of woven, backless and open-toed shoes, I could see that, peeking out under the hem of her ankle-length garment her feet were bare, and her toes were painted the same shade of eye-catching bright red as her fingernails.

    "Boy - did you hear me?"

    Now that she'd fully entered the Comfort Station, her Singapore Airlines-logoed 'dolly trolley' in tow, I saw from her name tag ID that she was a Chief Stewardess and her name was Serene.

    Serene was indeed beautiful, and what struck me and greatly impressed me about her also was her carriage: her dignified manner and elegant bearing - her natural nobility.

    But then, similar personal complimentary accreditations and regal-like descriptions could also be attributed to her three colleagues, who were now filing into the Comfort Station.

    Serene didn't appear to be serene, though.

    She looked irritated and fatigued, tetchy - ready to fly off the handle at the slightest thing.

    As did her three similarly garmented and shod colleagues, who by now had filed into the Comfort Station with their dolly trollies.

    Similarly garmented - excepting that, while their uniform sarongs had the same generic design, one of Serene's colleagues wore a predominantly green coloured sarong. From her name tag ID, I gleaned that she was a Leading Flight Attendant and that her name was Yi Ling.

    While the other two, air hostesses wore predominantly blue coloured sarongs. Their name tag IDs identified them both as Flight Attendants, and their names were Mira and Diyanah.

    Similarly shod - excepting that, while they wore the same woven, backless and open-toed footwear as Serene their Chief Stewardess, Yi Ling, Mira and Diyanah were not barefoot but wore almost see-through light tan pantyhose.

    The gauzy mesh material was light enough to see that, peeking out from beneath the hem of their long garments, their toes, too, were painted in the same bright red colour, and that-

    In a lightning-quick strike, Chief Stewardess Serene's left olive-skinned palm and long slim fingers exploded on my right cheek with a resounding slap.

    "Have I been talking to myself? You will obey at once - boy!"

    "Such disobedience!" exclaimed the predominantly green coloured sarong-uniformed Singapore Airlines air hostess, Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling.

    To say that this physical expression of chastisement came as a shock would be the grossest of understatements.

    On this, Day 21 of 42 and the midpoint of my six-week sentence, though many times I had been talked down to, shouted at and denigrated by air hostesses both domestic and foreign for both good reasons and for none, this was the first time that one of them had laid a finger on me.

    I was stunned, shocked - reeling.

    And ... overwhelmed, by mind-shattering new emotions.

    My right cheek, stinging like the blazes, I said, "I ... I'm sorry, Miss Serene - very sorry! I ... I was ... I-"

    And then I was rubbing away at my left cheek, hurting like mad from a second quick-as-a-flash slap.

    At receiving this second slap, from the olive-skinned palm and bright-red painted long slim fingers of Serene's right hand, these newly experienced sensations bloomed - blossomed - as now I was rocked to my core.

    "Once given, I do not expect to have to repeat an order to a footboy!" snapped Serene.

    "Of- of course, Miss Serene. That- that goes without saying! Please, why don't you and your colleagues make yourselves comfortable until the next bus comes?"

    "Very kind, I'm sure - footboy!" returned Serene sardonically. "And besides, we're not likely to be boarding a bus anytime soon."

    "Yes, why don't we - make ourselves comfortable - Serene?" agreed Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling. "Let our gracious host the footboy fetch us all some breakfast. Some of the fresh fruit on those two tables look delicious - especially those big crystal glass bowls of fruit salad. And until we must give him up, to share and share alike with other needy flight attendants, the footboy can serve us at our table as we eat."

    "We've got plenty of time, after all," said one of the two Singapore Airlines air hostesses in the predominantly blue coloured sarongs, Flight Attendant Mira. "And as and when the footboy becomes available each time a bus leaves, he can return to serve us, time and again."

    "Yes," concurred Mira's colleague of the same rank, Flight Attendant Diyanah. "We're here for the duration: It's going to be hours before we get the all-clear; hours, before we are given clearance to reposition to Heathrow, check into our Four Seasons hotel and then finally get some rest. So after being on my feet for almost all of our fourteen-hour flight at the beck and call of demanding, rude and pesky passengers, during this interlude due to our unfortunate and inconvenient diversion to Gatwick, the footboy will be of considerable consolation to me."

    Chief Stewardess Serene turned to address me authoritatively again.

    "Footboy: Work quickly. Apportion bowls of fresh fruit salad for myself and my colleagues, and bring us mineral water too; room temperature, for me, not chilled - and I mean work quickly!"

    "Absolutely! Four fresh fruit salads and four bottles of mineral water - I'm on it, Miss Serene!"

    I felt tears springing from my eyes.

    But not from self-pity, because Serene was browbeating me and had slapped my face twice very hard; the former hurting my feelings, the latter hurting my cheeks - but from gratitude, because she was giving me this opportunity to redeem myself somewhat.

    Though I'd railed against acknowledging it - and so then must, as a corollary process the inevitable far-reaching implications and face the unavoidable life-changing ramifications - as my days in the Cabin Crew Comfort Station had turned into weeks, I knew that I was becoming more and more 'amenable'.

    Increasingly malleable.

    Progressively pliable.


    More easily preyed-upon.

    More ... user-friendly.

    I was responding not just obediently and compliantly, but with an ever greater eagerness, to instructions, both verbal/compulsory and implied/non-compulsory.

    I wanted to do more, than was merely expected of me under the terms of my six-week sentence - and therefore, obligatory.

    Despite knowing that each self-effacing extra-statutory personal foot service 'favour' that I self-undertook to perform for the air hostesses would be at the expense - at the forfeit - of another layer of what remained of my daily-diminishing dignity, I so wanted to please.


    Off my own bat.

    I wanted to give of myself.

    To be, of, and to fulfil, whatsoever services, functions and uses as might be required or requested of me (whether instructed verbally/regulatorily or intimated implicitly/non-regulatorily), by the footsore flight attendants.

    I began to care less, and less, that my sense of self-esteem was diminishing daily.

    And now, as curtly commissioned by Chief Stewardess Serene, I worked quickly, ladling generous portions of fresh fruit salad into four disposable clear plastic cereal/fruit bowls.

    Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling was right: the fruit salad did look very delicious. And mouth-watering, as I could attest.

    But I knew better than to help myself to anything from the two refectory-type tables. With the Comfort Station's CCTV camera recording my every move, I never knew when Mrs Jepson might be watching ...

    I didn't hang about; cajoled by Serene to put a spurt on I put the four bowls of fruit salad and four bottles of mineral water on a wooden tray and carried it over to the table where the four Singapore Airlines air hostesses had taken their seats.

    Chief Stewardess Serene and Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling had availed themselves of a couple of the Comfort Station's height-adjustable chrome and padded red leather barstool-like seats. Flight Attendants Mira and Diyanah sat opposite their two seniors, on one of the padded red leather banquette-style bench seats that lined either side of the rectangular-shaped Comfort Station's length.

    It was a simple enough food and beverage order to fill, but I was feeling ridiculously pleased with myself for remembering that Chief Stewardess Serene wanted her bottle of mineral water at room temperature and not chilled - I was getting better at remembering things.

    I remembered, back on Day 1, when I'd confused the British Airways air hostesses Lavinia and Bettina's respectively non-sugared and four-sugared Americano coffees, resulting in them both awarding me marks of 0/10.

    I'd tried to atone, making self-abasing attempts to make at least some small amends, but my increasingly self-demeaning damage-limitation efforts were all made in vain.

    And I wouldn't like to repeat, the unforgiving and vindictive Lavinia and Bettina's Satisfaction of Conduct comments on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet ...

    "There you go, Miss Serene!" I said brightly, placing the small wooden tray of bowls, cups and bottles on the table. "Four bowls of delicious fresh fruit salad, and four bottles of mineral water; yours, Miss Serene, room temperature, not chilled-"

    Chief Stewardess Serene snapped, "Where are our spoons?"

    "Spoons? Um ... I, er ..."

    This time, alighting from her barstool-like seat it was the predominantly green coloured sarong-uniformed Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling, who first administered a chastising right-handed face-slap to my left cheek, instantly followed up by the left-handed delivery of an equally stinging face-slap to my right cheek.

    "Idiot!" berated Yi Ling. "Are we to eat with our fingers?" she demanded, her voice all sing-songy but still cutting me to the quick as she pointed her finger accusingly at the four bowls of fruit salad sans spoons on the tray.

    My bottom lip, trembling, I had no words.

    "See, Mira?" said Flight Attendant Diyanah, with feeling, to her colleague of equal rank. "This is why Comfort Stations should be equipped with canes - to punish ill-disciplined footboys! Forgetting to bring us spoons? For that, I would administer the Standard Six to his bared buttocks."

    "Yes, Diyanah, I know - and so would I," agreed Mira fervently. "It is the only way they will learn!"

    I watched Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling gracefully resume her seat. And at seeing her manner and bearing so utterly unruffled and composed after chastising me, all of those newly experienced blooming - blossoming - emotions and sensations of a few moments ago returned with cataclysmic force.

    If anything, Yi Ling had meted out, arbitrarily; dished out, summarily; administered, on the spot - an even harder, more punishing, more expert and efficacious double face-slap than had Serene.

    Disbelievingly I touched my fingertips to my stinging cheeks ... felt the heat.

    Awed, I trembled, in the grip of an indescribable thrill.

    First, I'd felt utterly crushed, remorseful and inconsolable at so carelessly letting Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling and her three colleagues down and occasioning their disapprobation and displeasure.

    But, at being sternly scolded and by her very own hand brought to book for the cretinous ineptitude of my spoons-forgetting oversight, incredibly I was uplifted and transported, consoled and contented beyond measure in the manner and means of my sharp remonstrance and harsh chastisement.

    So affected was I, that, to me, Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling, perched high upon her barstool-like seat and attired so splendiferously in her predominantly green coloured sarong, had all of the regal and authoritative presence and appearance of a queen upon her throne.

    In the manner of a suppliant, penitent serf, I went to my knees before Yi Ling and bowed humbly.

    In her woven, backless and open-toed slider-style flight duty shoes, Yi Ling's feet were resting upon the rounded rim of her height-adjustable barstool-like seat's circular chrome footrest.

    Looking down, I beheld the exquisite perfection of Yi Ling's red-painted toes, encased in their virtually transparent, pantyhose.

    Eager to at least make some small amends; keen to atone - desperate to please - I self-undertook to kiss, individually, the bright-red painted toes of each of Yi Ling's light tan pantyhosed feet.

    My penitent, supplicant, forgiveness-seeking gesture duly performed, I then looked up to Yi Ling, my eyes glistening in rapture.

    And, my impassioned, heartfelt words imbued with all of the sincerity of my apology, regret and remorse, I said, in the succinct economy-of-words manner expected of the Comfort Station foot masseur, "Miss Yi Ling ... I'm sorry!"

    "How pathetic!" cried Flight Attendant Diyanah, who sat opposite Yi Ling and was watching me from around her side of their red Formica-topped table.

    Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling gazed down at me, as though mulling things over, as though considering my immediate fate. Her Far-Eastern features were inscrutable, giving away nothing of her thoughts and intentions.

    "I-I'm very sorry, Miss Yi Ling!" I blurted, the building tension soon getting the better of me.

    "I forgot - but it won't happen again!" I blurted further, far overstepping the prescribed parameters of my foot masseur's parsimony-of-words permissions.

    "I'll just go back and get some spoons, shall I? I won't be a-"

    "No - footboy! I'll go and get them," interjected Flight Attendant Mira. "You stay here - and begin performing your primary function!"

    "Yes!" agreed Mira's co cane-advocating, Standard-Six recommending, Flight Attendant Diyanah.

    "You will begin, with our flight supervisor, Chief Stewardess Serene. Remove her batik slippers for her, and minister to the soles of her bare feet."

    "Yes, Miss Diyanah," I said respectfully.

    And I did feel, a new, heightened respect for Diyanah, and for Mira too, in knowing that they would not hesitate to cane my bared bottom for the slightest reason.

    I felt another, and more intense, rush, of that indescribable thrill.

    So great and so urgent was Chief Stewardess Serene's need, though, after endlessly working the aisles of her Jumbo Jet on her fourteen-hour flight, literally walking all the way from Singapore to London, that she had no patience for adhering to the usual formal observances.

    Dispensing with the standard protocol - a measure designed to preserve and further instil into the mind of the Comfort Station foot masseur his sense of place - Serene kicked off her batik slippers and, reaching back her legs she rested her feet upon the rounded rim of her barstool-like seat's circular chrome footrest, soles up.

    Flight Attendant Diyanah then said further, in commanding tones, "Footboy: Go to your knees, and tend the tired and achy soles of your mistress!"

    "Yes, Miss Diyanah," I said, obediently and succinctly, readopting the Comfort Station foot masseur's bounden parsimonious expenditure of words.

    Upon going to my knees to the rear of Chief Stewardess Serene's barstool-like seat as directed by Flight Attendant Diyanah, it is impossible for me to describe what I saw with any justice the intensity of the feelings engendered and sensations of pity and tenderness evoked, and that swept through me.

    Coursed right through me, upon observing close up, both the pity-inspiring, small signs, and the more distressful to behold, tenderness evoking proofs, of the work-begrimed weariness and desperate post-flight neediness of Serene's overworked feet.

    Such pity!

    Such tenderness!

    Feelings and sensations of such pity, and such tenderness, for Chief Stewardess Serene's sweat-stained, work-begrimed, tired and achy long-haul reddened bare soles.

    I pulled off my community-servant style uniform white T-shirt - emblazoned not with a community servant's ID but instead, with bold red letters declaring 'FOOTMAN' on the front and denouncing 'LITTER LOUT' on the back - and I folded it to use as a cushion.

    Carefully, I lifted first Serene's right foot and then her left and inserted under them my improvised makeshift foot comforter onto the hard and unyielding rounded rim of her barstool-like seat's circular chrome footrest.

    Serene did not go as far as to say thank you, for my thoughtful T-shirt divesting consideration. But from her murmurings, I knew that using my initiative in prioritising and promoting her comfort had met with her approval and was most agreeable to her.

    It would not be an overstatement to say that it was nothing short of awe, now, that I stared down at Serene's side-by-side upturned olive-complexioned bare soles.

    Had I ever seen feet, that were so perfect? So, shapely? So ... pretty?

    I heard extraneous airport environment noises as the Comfort Station's glass entrance doors opened. Dolly trollies were being wheeled in, accompanied by the chattering voices of post-flight end-of-shift air hostesses - but I didn't look up.

    Didn't look up, because here, now, sitting right in front of me with her sarong-garmented back turned to me was Serene: the most needful, desperate - and, to me, deserving - recipient to date of my primary function.

    More and yet more chatterbox air hostesses both domestic and foreign came bustling in through the Comfort Station's glass entrance doors with their dolly trollies in tow, but I hardly heard them.

    I barely heard the latest Comfort Station entrants speaking to colleagues in their various native tongues, as wholly voluntarily and non-compulsorily I precursive-kissed Chief Stewardess Serene's sweat-stained, work-begrimed bare toes and soles, not missing anywhere.

    All but oblivious, as off my own bat and non-statutorily I concentrated my efforts and paid particular attentions to the reddened balls of her feet and the bottoms of her heels, ministering my tongue with industrial endeavour upon Serene's work-wearied post-fourteen-hour-flight feet.

    Chief Stewardess Serene of Singapore Airlines did not go as far as to say thank you, for self-undertaking to respond as desired to her tacit, implicit, unvoiced proposal of decided construct, that, might - just might, possibly - be worth an extra mark or two.

    But, from the contentful sounds, she made I knew that my decision to compliantly provide extra-obligatory personal foot service for her was the right one.


    Flight Attendant Diyanah of Singapore Airlines had been right.

    It was hours.

    Hours, before the fog further north cleared.

    Hours, before the granting of their awaited clearance, when Diyanah and her three colleagues were finally able to rejoin their male-steward colleagues and their male Flight Deck crew (who had all remained aboard the aircraft) and prepare to reposition their diverted Jumbo Jet to Heathrow Airport.

    And hours, that, between giving me up to share and share alike with other needy air hostesses, Chief Stewardess Serene, Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling, and Flight Attendants Mira and Diyanah, availed themselves and made the fullest possible use imaginable of my Comfort Station foot masseur's services, both obligatory and non-obligatory.

    And in between repeatedly serving the four of them at (and under) their table while they awaited their clearance notification upon which they could return to their aircraft and rejoin the rest of their crew, I 'mingled'.

    I used my judgement and acted on my initiative to provide post-flight end-of-shift succour first, to the footsore flight attendants who, as evidenced by both the harder to spot telltale signs I'd trained myself to look for and recognise besides the more obvious, were most in need of my relieving, relaxing and reviving ministrations.

    But I was also on high alert, on the lookout for any air hostesses who were sending me 'messages' ...

    An Air France air hostess, seated between two of her colleagues on one of the padded red leather banquette-style bench seats, was sitting with one dark-pantyhosed leg crossed over her other leg and from the toes of which foot she was dangling her flight duty pump.

    But the question was: Was the Air France air hostess just simply glad to have at last taken the weight off her feet and now she was just gratefully cooling her heels and airing a tired and achy post-flight foot - or was she sending me a 'message'?

    Because, she seemed to be implying, by a suggestive look, that she might not be averse to awarding me an extra mark or two in return for a moment or two of extra-obligatory personal foot service attentions.

    Self-programmed to respond primarily to the perceived intentional, I took a chance on taking the Air France air hostess up on what I took to be her insinuated, unverbalised intimation of decided construct.

    I went to my knees before her and, seeing from her Air France ID that her name was Nicolette, I said, respectfully and with the economy of words succinctness required of the Comfort Station foot masseur at all times, "Mademoiselle Nicolette."

    Nicolette did not deign to reply but dangled her flight duty pump in front of my face, in what appeared a meaningful manner.

    And then, upon her working her toes to cause her pump to swing up and down continually and to depend from her toes ever more precariously, I knew her allusion was no illusion - her unspoken implication was clear.

    It was a 'message'.

    So there was no mistake.

    No error of judgement.

    No room for doubt.

    I had not misinterpreted the signals.

    I had not misread the signs.

    Nicolette had confirmed her tacit 'invitation'.

    Sat to either side of Nicolette, her two Air France colleagues - who from their name tags I saw were Isobel and Vicki - smiled, as they watched Nicolette fanning her French foot fragrance into my passive, 'willingly' accepting face.

    I was now three weeks into my six-week foot masseur assignment, and an ever-growing number of both Gatwick-based and long-haul hotel-stopover foreign, air hostesses' faces were becoming familiar. Some of them, such as the EasyJet air hostess, Pearl, I'd been serving several times a week.

    But only now, was I making the acquaintance of these three stunningly attractive young ladies - but perhaps, just like Chief Stewardess Serene and her three Singapore Airlines colleagues, they too had been bound for Heathrow, and that was their usual route.

    Now for the first time, I heard Nicolette's sexy-sounding, fruitily nuanced voice as she addressed me in her heavily accented English.

    "Take off my shoe," Nicolette instructed - as quite rightfully she was entitled to, of the obligated sentence-serving Cabin Crew Comfort Station's foot masseur.

    "Yes, mademoiselle Nicol-"

    I got no further.

    Because, not caring to hear the further utterance of my albeit respectful but superfluous words, immediately upon my doing her shoe-removal bidding Nicolette had stilled my voice - her officially unentitled but unofficially permitted foot, forcibly tilting my head back to the optimum angle for using the front of my face as her footrest.

    Showing that she was no Comfort Station novice, Nicolette then made a minor adjustment; the one that all but the greenest air hostesses always made, taking care that the undersides of her dark-pantyhose covered toes were covering my nostrils, ensuring my olfactory attentions.

    I heard Isobel and Vicki giggling.

    But I hardly heard them.

    Was barely aware, of Isobel and Vicki's giggling and chuckling - because yet again, the richly aromatic scent of yet another footsore flight attendant's post-flight feet was stirring up that strange turmoil within me and taking over my mind to the exclusion of all else.

    I leant my face into the sole of Nicolette's dark-pantyhosed foot, returning her own, considerable pressure with interest.

    But it wasn't enough.

    I wanted more.

    I wanted to feel Nicolette's warm, somehow excitingly fragrant pantyhose-encased sole-of-the-foot flesh pressing more and more firmly into my face; wanted to inhale deeply, of those heady, previously un-partaken of under- and in-between-the-toes scents.

    I reached forward with my hands, about to place them on the top of her foot, and-

    "Non!" admonished Nicolette, upon registering my intent. "I am comfortable."

    Immediately, I withdrew my hands and put them safely away behind my back: For the moment, providing Nicolette's chosen comforts was my sole concern.

    Isobel and Vicki said something to each other in French and then tittered again.

    I understood none of Isobel and Vicki's words, but I discerned much from their tone.

    I tried to look at them, but Nicolette immediately tilted my head back to her most comfortable footrest angle, and then it hurt too much to roll my eyes down so far, so I gave up on it.

    "Now take off my other shoe, footboy," ordered Nicolette, placing her still shod foot on my lap so I'd know where it was. "My feet are both very sore, but this foot is hurting more," Nicolette told me, exerting a little pressure with the point of her heel for emphasis. "Massage firmly, but carefully."

    So ... here was yet another air hostess calling me 'footboy'.

    Perhaps it was universal, in all of the UK's Cabin Crew Comfort Stations?

    But I'd long since got over it and stopped taking offence at the air hostesses who addressed me by the title - if I ever had, really minded.

    Nicolette removed the sole of her foot from my face and rested it against my bare chest - bare because Serene was still using my folded-over uniform white T-shirt for padding to rest the tops of her feet on the rounded rim of her barstool-like seat's circular chrome footrest, leaving her feet soles-up for my ongoing attentions.

    Nicolette's flight duty pumps were well-worn, but they fitted snugly.

    And so it was that with a little careful exertion, Nicolette's other shoe came free from her foot with a whoosh of escaping trapped warm air that smelled of leather, but not predominantly.

    The insole, I saw, was well-worn, too.

    From the looks of things, the once-white original insole had seen a lot of long, hard service. It was work-worn a very dark, charcoal-grey colour - apart from at the arch, or mid-shoe, section, where a fading idea of the insole's original bright white colour still lingered.

    No sooner was Nicolette's other warm to the touch dark-pantyhosed foot in my hands and I had begun to massage as directed when, Isobel and Vicki, still shod, appropriated my shoulders for footrests, thereby completing the three-on-one multi-use utilisation of the Comfort Station foot masseur as advocated during times of high demand.

    The resting, relaxed weight of Isobel and Vicki's dark-pantyhosed legs and feet now bearing down on my shoulders, I was firmly anchored and stabilised on my knees in front of Nicolette; the sole of one pungently fragrant dark-nylon encased foot again pressing firmly into the front of my compliant and cooperative face as before.

    As best as I could, I lavished Nicolette's warm and aromatic dark-pantyhosed sole with reverent kisses, which with equanimity Nicolette accepted as her due.

    Nicolette then shared and shared alike.

    Nicolette gently pushed the bottom of her heel against my lips, and, getting the 'message', I self-undertook to open my mouth accommodatingly in 'willing', extra-compulsory acceptance.

    I watched the undersides of Nicolette's toes, right in front of my eyes; watched them, as behind the gauzy dark veil of her dark pantyhose they scrunched, spread and wiggled.

    And, resting their feet cross-ankled on my shoulders, Isobel and Vicki followed Nicolette's earlier example - nonchalantly working their, toes to casually waft into my face from their, well-worn flight duty pumps regulated samples of their, French foot perfumes.

    My head: enveloped in the invisible cloud of the heady olfactory complexities of their amalgamating post-flight foot scents; my mouth: extra-compulsorily but 'willingly' accommodating the bottom of Nicolette's dark-nylon encased heel and my tongue, licking and sucking on and swallowing the reduced concentrated essences of the work-begrimed thin mesh's entrapped salt-rich deposits; and my eyes: mere inches away from the thinly veiled undersides of Nicolette's playful toes and, on my shoulders, watching in turn and extra-obligatorily self-undertaking to self-subject myself to the nonchalant pump-dangling and casual foot-scent fanning of Isobel and Vicki - understanding nothing but interpreting everything from their nuanced asides, I listened to the three inconveniently diverted and probably never to be seen again Air France air hostesses chatter away in their native tongue ...

    By 09:05 on the Comfort Station's clock, in addition to all of the usual Gatwick-based and the long-haul hotel-stopover air hostesses, ever more, deplaned air hostesses, from more diverted Heathrow-bound flights, were coming in through the Comfort Station's entrance doors to pass the time in comfort pending clearance to reposition.

    Accustomed to the splendid hospitalities, the inconveniently diverted air hostesses promptly made themselves at home in the Comfort Station.

    Availing themselves: of the generous offerings of food and beverages, regularly replenished by deliveries of the contracted quality catering firm; of the comfortable seating, when available; and of me, when available.

    But until the next airport services bus arrived at 09:15, when the present contingents of Gatwick based and long-haul hotel-stopover air hostesses lucky enough to have seats vacated them and boarded the bus with their dolly trollies and relieved the overcrowding, a lot of the footsore flight attendants were still having to stand.

    Due to all of these flight diversions - and from one of my quick peeks at the Comfort Station's Arrivals monitor, I'd noticed that some flights bound for Luton and Stansted airports were being diverted here to Gatwick too - I was seeing a lot of unfamiliar air hostess uniforms.

    The situation was unprecedented in my three-week experience as Comfort Station foot masseur.

    During normal times, the Comfort Station's seating provision was more than adequate.

    But now, with air hostesses sitting shoulder to shoulder on the two padded red leather banquette-style bench seats and occupying all of the red leather and chrome barstool-like seats as well, for the moment, there was standing room only for newly arriving Comfort Station entrants.

    As per Mrs Jepson's standing instructions, I 'mingled'.

    Roaming the Comfort Station, my eyes peeled and my antennas attuned for detecting any of the myriad telltale signs she'd told me to look out for - and also, for the little tip-off giveaways, that I'd taught myself to recognise - it wasn't long before I spotted a possible 'messenger'.

    An air hostess, standing among a group of four, was displaying one of the classic giveaway signs of PSD: post-flight soles-of-the-feet discomfort.

    As was the case with many other air hostesses on this Sunday morning of diverted flights, the air hostess upon whom my attentions were now focusing wore a uniform of which airline I was unfamiliar. And her uniform's most notable feature - for being so unusual - was the semi-transparent white pantyhose.

    Just like her three colleagues, who she was standing with and talking to, she was blonde.

    Her silvery-blonde hair was very long. And so for at-work practicality, it was done in a silken-threaded rope, that reached all the way down her back, and was adorned with a twist of pale blue ribbon tying it off at the end in an attractive finishing touch.

    With her back turned to me, I hadn't seen her ID, and so as yet I didn't know her name or for who she walked the aisles.

    But what I did see, was that such was the grievous consternation of her post-flight discomfort, she was switching from foot to foot with a telltale frequency; the white-pantyhosed foot of her non-standing leg, resting sole-up in her black leather flight duty pump for a momentary respite before alternating her standing leg again.

    Looking at and scrutinising each of her briefly displayed upturned white-pantyhosed soles, in turn, as relievedly she scrunched and flexed the toes of each foot, the reasons for her distress were readily discernible.

    Reliably evidenced by the stark discolourations of her white pantyhose's thin gauzy nylon fabric: dark-grey and damp-looking at the impact areas of the heels, the balls of the feet, and under the toes; tinged a pale yellow at the arch - the resultant ravages of her long, arduous, on-her-feet shift were apparent.

    Some of those feelings and emotions that I'd felt earlier, upon beholding the obvious desperate post-flight neediness of Serene of Singapore Airline's overworked, reddened bare soles, now swept through me anew.

    Feelings and emotions of such pity and such tenderness, for the all too apparent, sufferings of the as yet unknown inconveniently diverted long blonde-haired footsore flight attendant.

    Such pity!

    Such tenderness!

    Her poor feet!

    Her poor, egregiously overworked, post-flight feet!

    It pained me to see them.

    But as usual, the question was: Were things just merely as innocent and free of innuendo and insinuation as they appeared, on the surface - or was the footsore flight attendant sending me a 'message'?

    Was she wordlessly implying, that she might - just might, possibly - think about awarding me an extra mark or two on to my marks-out-of-ten rating, in exchange for self-undertaking to perform for her a moment or two's extra-obligatory personal foot service attentions?

    Well, there was one way to find out.

    I went to my knees directly behind her and, carefully and gently, I took hold of her presently upturned white-pantyhosed sole, raised it from her black leather flight duty pump, and-

    "Aweg!" she said, loudly, irritably spurning my unrequested reverent attendance and unrequired 'willing' extra-mandatory attentions.

    And, there was my answer:

    She was not, then, a tacitly-implying, non-verbalising 'messenger'.

    She had not, then, been sending me an unspoken 'invitation'.

    Hers, were not, deliberate, intentional, manipulative actions of decided construct.

    Hilde - I'd seen her name tag, upon her turning around to glare down at me in annoyance - had connected solidly with a back-heel kick.

    She'd caught me a good one; I would have a right old shiner by tomorrow morning.

    But it went with the territory - it had happened before, and it would happen again.

    "Sorry, Miss!" I apologised. "My mistake!"

    Hilde's colleague - the air hostess standing next to her and also with her back turned to me - said something to Hilde in German and from the way she said it, loosely translated, I interpreted her words to mean: 'Well ... if you don't want him ...'

    Because now Friede - I'd seen her name tag when she'd turned to see what was annoying her colleague, Hilde - looked down on me. And, with deliberate slowness, Friede eased free her right foot from her black leather flight duty pump, and then rested her white-pantyhosed foot on the thickly-carpeted floor, sole-upward.

    This time, there could be no misunderstanding the insinuated signal.

    No misinterpreting, the suggestive sign.

    No mistaking, the tacitly implied, unvoiced 'message'.

    Friede was sending me an unverbalised 'invitation'.

    There was no question about it: in my three weeks to date as the Cabin Crew Comfort Station's foot masseur, this was a footsore flight attendant's clearest implicit indication yet, of decided construct.

    I had sniffed out an 'opportunity'.

    At my being given the non-verbalised, tacitly implied extra-marks-for-extra-service go-ahead, I went to my knees directly behind Friede.

    And, sealing the unspoken quid pro quo 'deal' and setting the extra-obligatory ball rolling, carefully and gently I took hold of and raised Friede's freshly unshod right foot to my lips, and non-statutorily but 'willingly', I kissed her work-begrimed and sweat-stained white-pantyhosed sole.

    I kissed everywhere, repeatedly, until at last, in a gesture of obeisance and a demonstration of homage, my lips finally lingered reverentially on the bottom of her heel.

    My reverence, duly demonstrated; my 'wholly voluntary' submissive obedience, established; my non-compulsory, self-undertaking intentions, verified - more in hope and less in expectation of being awarded an extra mark or two in exchange for a moment or two's extra-obligatory personal foot service attentions, I proceeded.

    Friede - who's for-at-work-practicality silken-threaded rope of long flaxen hair was adorned and tied off at the end with a pale green ribbon - returned to her conversion with her three colleagues, and I proceeded with the implicitly sanctioned tongue-bathing of her overworked, tired and achy, post-flight feet.

    The encrusted, dark grey and damp-looking, already semi-transparent thin white gauzy material, cleared ever more, with each tongue-scrubbing saliva saturated lick.

    Cleared ever more, with each dirt-loosening, sweat-dissolving lick, revealing new details of the topography of the bottom of Friede's foot.

    Revealing new details, until, eventually, the thin gauzy material of her pantyhose, tongue-washed and repeat-rinsed to full see-through clarity, Friede's pale-skinned sole was invisibly veiled.

    Indicating that I had now served her purpose and that she was dismissing me, Friede pushed back my face with the ball of her extra-mandatorily attended and super-serviced foot.

    After all, there was an unwritten rule to observe, among the air hostesses.

    To share and share alike.


    It was at about 10:45, on that Sunday morning of diverted flights, that the Comfort Station was at its busiest and liveliest.

    At its most bustling and hectic, with tired and hungry, Gatwick based or diverted or long-haul hotel-stopover, air hostesses.

    A lot of the newly arriving Comfort Station entrants were irascible, tetchy, upon discovering there was standing room only.

    But that was one of the great things about the Comfort Station: with no passengers to consider, and me, of no account, the bad-tempered air hostesses were free to let off steam. Free, to show their true selves.

    I'd seen from the Comfort Station's Arrivals monitor that flights were no longer being diverted here to Gatwick because of fog.

    Still, it would be quite a while yet, before the overcrowding eased and some of the "here for the duration" air hostesses were able to sit down.

    A while yet, before they were no longer inconvenienced and discomfited to distraction by having to remain standing; shifting from foot to foot, and easing free from their flight duty pumps their tired and achy post-flight feet and scrunching and flexing and wiggling their toes, waiting for bus-catching air hostesses to vacate their seats.

    But, as for me: Dismissed by the German air hostess, Friede, I resumed Mrs Jepson's standing instructions.

    I 'mingled'.

    With my eyes peeled, and my ears attuned.

    On the lookout for signs.


    Sniffing out 'opportunities'.

    Knowing it wouldn't be long.

    Wouldn't be long, before one of the footsore flight attendants sent me a 'message'.

    With an 'invitation'.


    At day's end of Day 42 of 42 and the completion of my six-week sentence, upon reporting as instructed to Mrs Jepson's office and bringing along with me for her perusal and inspection the red-plastic backed clipboard to which were attached all of the period's Footman's Daily Record Sheets, Mrs Jepson shocked me.

    Shocked me, when she looked up from her calculator and informed me that I had achieved an air hostesses' overall average marks-out-of-ten Satisfaction of Conduct rating of 8.2.

    Only then, was it, that I fully realised that I didn't want to pass her Final Assessment Test's minimum requirement of 80%. ("Anything less, Warren, than eighty percent, and ...").

    Or rather, it was the moment I'd forced myself to confront, ponder, and accept, the undeniable truth of my 'condition'.

    Confront, and accept - acknowledge - the far-reaching ramifications of a life-changing reality that I'd been suppressing for six weeks now.

    To say that my FAT results of 8.2 - or 82% - came as a shock would be a gross understatement.

    I suppose I'd thought I didn't have a snowball in hell's chance of achieving the Litter Department Administrator Mrs Jepson's highly set target.

    Right from Day 1, I'd thought the writing was on the wall ... well, on the Comfort Station's cork bulletin board.

    With such an inauspicious start, I had all but resigned myself to the likelihood of an abject failure.

    I despaired, that the glowing and lauding Satisfaction of Conduct reports and the near perfect nines and extolling tens awarded by some air hostesses on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet would be diminished and devalued beyond recovery by the adverse censorious comments and ruinous ratings of more critical and less generous air hostesses.

    But now, on the culminating Day 42 of my six-week sentence and Mrs Jepson's informing me that I had passed her Final Assessment Test, the thought floored me, of seeing no more - and of serving, no more - Pearl the EasyJet air hostess and many other footsore flight attendant favourites.

    It was unbearable to contemplate.

    Hell! I'd even miss hearing the constant complaining and reading on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet the soul-sinking castigating comments and malicious marks-out-of-ten Satisfaction of Conduct awards of British Airways air hostesses Lavinia and Bettina - who by the way had both been right in their predictions that I wouldn't confuse their coffee orders again.

    Walking from Mrs Jepson's office towards the rail station for what would be my final train journey home from my litter lout's assignment at Gatwick Airport, I was disconsolate.

    As I drew nearer and nearer to the rail station, the thought niggled and nagged at me more and more.

    The thought, that, maybe as early as tomorrow morning, the Litter Department Administrator Mrs Jepson would sentence another litter-dropping male as foot masseur to tend the post-flight end-of-shift bus-catching footsore flight attendants in the Cabin Crew Comfort Station - to replace me.

    My dejection was complete.

    Who'd have thought it?

    If anyone had told me, six weeks ago, that I would be sorry to pass Mrs Jepson's Final Assessment Test and so would no longer be reduced to performing extra-obligatory personal foot services for post-flight end-of-shift air hostesses, hoping they would keep their tacitly implied promises and award me an extra mark or two ...

    But, maybe it wasn't too late.

    I took a look around ...

    When the moment was right I put my hand inside my jacket's inside pocket, took from it, my Final Assessment Test Pass Certificate awarded to me by Mrs Jepson, and ...

    ... And a moment later I felt a firm, staying hand on my shoulder.

    "Excuse me, sir, but would this ... happen to be yours?" said Arnold the Litterman.

    "Er ..." I said, making a show of patting at my jacket's empty inside pocket.

    "Sir ...?"

    "Er ..." I said, making a show of rummaging my hand inside.

    "Sir ...?"

    "Um ... I-"

    "It bears the name, 'Mr Warren Williams', sir."

    "Well, um ... I guess it is, then."

    "Then I'm afraid, sir, that now you must come with me."


    Upon leaving Mrs Jepson's office, I was walking on air as I headed for the rail station for what after all now would not be my final train journey home from my Comfort Station assignment.

    My new sentence, awarded by Mrs Jepson: To go on serving in the Cabin Crew Comfort Station as before.

    But for a six-month term.

    And that wasn't all: Mrs Jepson had set the bar higher this time- seemingly impossibly high.

    My new Final Assessment Test pass rate was to be 85%. "Anything less, Warren, than eighty-five percent, and ..."

    Mrs Jepson had allocated to me another of the Gatwick Airport Authority Litter Department's white carrier-bags that bore their logogram of a family of four, properly disposing of their litter in a receptacle provided for the purpose.

    The carrier-bag contained an extra supply of community-servant style white T-shirts, the same as my original issue - emblazoned not with a community servant's ID but instead, with bold red letters a denigrating 'FOOTMAN' on the front and a decrying 'LITTER LOUT' on the back.

    Mrs Jepson had also issued to me a six-month travel warrant, valid from tomorrow for rail and bus.

    The pair of heavy-duty knee pads she'd quarter mastered to me six weeks ago were still fit for purpose.


    Arnold the Litterman seemed a decent enough guy, I thought, as I headed for the rail station again.

    At my first being brought to book in Mrs Jepson's office for littering, it had been to his detriment that he'd spoken up for me, citing mitigating factors in my behalf.

    I remembered my uneasiness at witnessing Arnold's degrading put-down, for his fair-mindedness. His humiliating belittlement, by his superior Mrs Jepson, for pointing out to her that while he was obeying his orders to the letter, he was certain I had dropped the offending articles (some air sickness sweet wrappers) inadvertently and unwittingly.

    I remembered, too, Mrs Jepson's threats to remove him from his 1-Year Probation "cushy number" assignment, serving as her underling. To have him reassigned, to another Placement at one of the AFP's female-friendly facilities that he wouldn't "like so much".

    I would have hated to think that Arnold, who after all was only doing his job, might think I bore any ill will toward him for turning me in and bringing me before Mrs Jepson - again.

    And it nagged at me now, that I hadn't thanked Arnold for going in to bat for me against Mrs Jepson on that first occasion.

    I owed him my gratitude.

    I looked at my watch ...

    Ah, what the hell.

    It would mean missing my train, and I'd have to catch a later one.

    But I turned on my heel and retraced my steps to Mrs Jepson's office, resolved to make all of this clear to Arnold the Litterman.


    Mrs Jepson would have left her office for the day and gone home by now.

    But I remembered from my original interview there that at her power-abusing behest, Arnold, Mrs Jepson's talked-down-to, picked-upon and mercilessly bullied 1-Year-Probation serving underling, would remain behind after he'd clocked off work to perform one final bidding of hers.

    Arnold's ultimate, duty of the day: To clean and polish the pair of old and well-worn flight duty pumps that his former British Airways senior air hostess superior Mrs Jepson had worn to work today, and at close-of-play had kicked off and left under her desk for him.

    As I headed down the long narrow corridor on the Ground Floor of the unprepossessing utilitarian building that housed the Gatwick Airport Authority Litter Department, the offices I passed on either side were quiet within and had an empty and locked up feel to them, their daytime hours' staff having vacated them all.

    All, that is, except for the one at the end of the corridor: the office of the Litter Department Administrator, Mrs Jepson.

    For having now reached the white-painted, brass-plaque adorned door of Mrs Jepson's office, I could hear sounds of activity emanating from within, apparently from the efforts of Arnold's post-work forced-labour shoe polishing assignment.

    Arnold was hard it, then, I thought as for politeness' sake I tapped twice lightly on the office door before letting myself in.

    And Arnold the Litterman was hard at it.

    But, not as I'd imagined ...

    Arnold, I could be confident, in assuming, had not heard my polite, double-tap on the office door before I'd let myself in.

    Well, well, well.

    Who would have thought it?

    If someone had told me, six weeks ago, that Mrs Jepson's underling, the pitilessly put-upon, denigrated and dominated, subjugated and subdued, Arnold the Litterman, would ...

    I stood stock still, beholding the tableau before me.

    Oblivious of my presence, Arnold the Litterman was lying down under Mrs Jepson's desk, the fly of his trousers unzipped.

    With one hand, holding down one of his superior's old and well-worn air hostess flight duty pumps over his face by its three-inch heel, he inhaled long and deeply, of its darkened interior's years-of-service impregnated scents.

    While, with his other hand, inside the unzipped fly of his Litter Department green uniform trousers, Arnold was ...

    Thanking Arnold the Litterman for going in to bat for me against Mrs Jepson to his detriment would keep for another day.

    I left Arnold to it.

    As quietly as I could, and with the sounds of Arnold's increasingly ragged breathing helping to cover the sounds of my departure, I exited Mrs Jepson's office, closing the door softly behind me.


    Well, I thought, heading back down the long narrow corridor and passing again, the vacated locked-up and empty-feeling offices of departed nine-to-five staff on the Ground Floor of the drab building that housed Mrs Jepson's Gatwick Airport Authority Litter Department office ...

    I would make my train after all.

    The End.

  18. #18
    Apprentice Footsniffer OneAuthor's Avatar
    Join Date
    Nov 2016
    I liked the way that ended. Arnold the Litterman was exactly where he wanted to be, and so was Warren Williams. :-)

  19. #19
    Fledgling Footsniffer
    Join Date
    Jan 2012
    Yet another amazing conclusion to an amazing story! I love the way you intertwine your stories to one big universe. I can't wait to read more from you!

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