The Mirror - Part 3 (New Version)

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

In profound disbelief, James stared at the mirror. 

An eerie white light pulsed, all around it, emanating from where the mirror's glass fitted into its ornately carved, highly polished hardwood frame.

And James couldn't believe what was happening. He just could not believe, what he was actually seeing ... and hearing.

What he was hearing, were mingled sounds ... 

The confused vocal blend, of laughter and conversations: Quiet, idle chit-chat; ribald banter; animated discussions – heated arguments, even. And Juke Box music, too: What James was hearing, was the early-Saturday-evening hubbub of noise ... in the Cock & Bull pub.

And what he was seeing – and from exactly the same, from-behind view as he'd had the previous evening – was the most stunning, almost heart-stopping view of the two barstool-perched, stunning blondes, Jennifer and Sharon. 

Just as on the previous evening, Jennifer and Sharon had let their thin-rubber soled flip flops fall to the floor and, to aid balance and purchase as they leaned forward at the bar counter, their toes were firmly gripped around the rounded, all-the-way-around chrome stretcher-bar of their high, red-leather topped barstools.

So profound, was James's incredulous shock – his sense of unreality – that he felt his legs buckling under him; felt them threatening to give way altogether, as if they'd suddenly turned to jelly. 

So, before James fell down, he sat down. And, as though he was a Buddhist, sitting in lotus position before a shrine, he sat down, cross-legged ... right in front of the mirror.

And then, as if in spasm, James's heart was thumping and jumping erratically – leaping about in his chest like a cat in a coal sack.

As though controlled by some ... supernatural cameraman, the mirror was steadily homing in on Jennifer and Sharon's feet. Zooming in, until the Barstool Blondes' beautifully tanned, slightly grubby bare soles were filling up the whole of the mirror's two-foot high, four-foot wide 'screen'.

James was breaking out in a sweat. 

Already, he was in thrall. Already he was succumbing, to the mirror's ... influence.

James's powers of self-control seemed to be diminishing by the second. Already, at the highly arousing sight before him, James was touching himself through the fabric of his trousers. Rub, rub, rub ...

And already, he was nearing ... breaking-point.

James was starting to fear a heart attack – he really was. What he was seeing! What he was feeling! 

The sheer intensity of it was far beyond anything he'd ever known ... He was being blown away, by an increasingly insupportable overload of sexual excitement.

James had never experienced such an intense, all-consuming thrill. Had never experienced, such overwhelming, pulse-quickening, barely tolerable excitement – had never been so ... turned-on.

And never before, had he experienced such instant, lustful arousal ... Or such undeniable need.

And things were only just getting started ...

Through the fabric of his trousers, James's fingers began stroking with more urgency ... Rub, rub, rub ... Rub, rub, rub ...

James admonished himself. Told himself to stop playing with himself – after all, he had Debbie to care for his needs. 

But he couldn't stop – he just couldn't help himself. James had never known, such a stirring in his loins, such ... stimulation.

In ecstatic awe, James stared at the mirror. He stared at it, in amazement. And in wonder. It was like some fantastical dream come true ... that is, a foot fetishist voyeur's fantastical dream.

James loved to look at girls' and women's feet ... when they didn't know anyone was looking. Because that was when their shoe-playing antics were at their most exciting; at their most varied and inventive. It could be a huge turn-on. It was just amazing – awesome – to watch some of the things girls and women did. And he liked it best, when they were seated right in front of him; the best angle of view, to watch the ... action, unfold. Yes, it could be a huge turn-on. But he really loved to admire girls' and women's feet. Loved to ... appreciate them. And, whenever such ineffable beauty happened to be on open display before him, where was the harm in looking? In paying ... homage?

James suddenly thought of the mirror's previous owner (and highly reluctant seller!), Mr Howard Leadbetter. He'd told James: "The mirror. It ... it tunes in, to you. It knows you, now ... Just as it knew me".

Well, Mr Howard – "my friends call me Howie" – Leadbetter. I wonder what it was, then, that you saw in the mirror? thought James. Somehow, James doubted that Howie was a fellow foot fetishist ... though you never knew.

Howie's wife had complained that her husband had sat up in the attic, for hour after hour ... in the dark. Sitting in the dark, and just staring, and staring, and staring at the mirror ... in his fishing chair. 

So ... was Howie an ultra keen fisherman, then? Did Howie patiently sit there – as fishermen do – imaginary fishing rod in hand? Did Howie sit there, an imaginary fisherman, with an imaginary fishing rod in hand, on the alert? On the alert, for that first tell-tale movement of his float, ruffling the still surface of some tranquil lake, or of some slow-moving river somewhere ... in the mirror? 

It took some swallowing ... Ah, what was the point in speculating? thought James. It could be anything, that Howie saw.  

What James was seeing, was the most amazing view. The most amazing, voyeur's instant-hard-on view, of the soles of the Barstool Blondes' bare, and rather grimy bare feet. Grimy, from an all-day accumulation of dirt and sweat, while wearing their thin-rubber soled flip flops ... Rub, rub, rub ...

Except, that it wasn't, the most amazing view ... 

Because the mirror then zoomed in closer. And even closer. The mirror zoomed in, focusing upon just Sharon's right sole. Zooming in, until her right, suntanned, slightly grubby bare sole now loomed ... larger than life. 

His mouth hanging open in wonder, and his eyes like saucers, all but hanging out on their stalks, James stared at the mirror. 

He thought he was hyperventilating. He was trembling; shaking from sheer force of excitement, as the mirror zoomed in even closer – ultra close. 

So close, he could barely make out what he was actually seeing; what he was seeing, as the mirror's 'lens' zoomed in closer, and still closer, to a mind-boggling mega magnification. Such was the astounding, incredible close-up detail, it was as if he was seeing all of the peaks, troughs and ridges of some unlikely cartographer's ordnance-survey style map of Sharon's bare right sole.

Then slowly, the mirror zoomed out, until the features – Sharon's heel, arch, ball of the foot, and toes – were all once again readily recognisable. 

And now, the mirror proceeded to give James an extreme close-up, 'grand tour' of Sharon's right, suntanned, grimy bare sole ... 

The mirror's 'sight-seeing' tour began at the bottom of Sharon's dirt-and-sweat smudged heel. And James was at it again; he just could not restrain himself ... Rub, rub, rub ...

The mirror's 'tour guide' then showed James around the other 'places of interest' on the itinerary: Sharon's arch, where the mirror paused, so that the awe inspiring 'sight' could be duly appreciated; then, on to the ball of Sharon's foot, that was a pinkish-red colour, just like the bottom of her heel ... And then, seemingly considerately, Sharon moved her foot so that it was resting behind the rounded, all-the-way-around chrome stretcher-bar of her high barstool, and so revealing the undersides of her long toes, and her slightly grubby toe pads ... Rub, rub, rub ... 

And, the 'picture'! James marvelled. The mirror's 'picture'! 

James was awestruck. He had an almost brand-new, Internet-capable 46-inch flat-screen TV, and its picture was superb. But, the mirror's 'picture' ... well, the mirror's 'picture' was ... something else. 

Such vibrant colour! Such clarity of vision! Such sharp, high-definition detail! The mirror's 'picture', James marvelled, was just so amazingly realistic. So incredibly ... lifelike. 

The mirror then zoomed out again, until the whole of Sharon's right sole, and then both of her dirty bare soles were once again filling up the whole of the mirror's two-foot tall, four-foot wide 'screen'. 

The mirror then panned across to Sharon's left foot; to her left, suntanned, rather grimy bare sole ... And started to zoom in again, as the close-up view, 'grand tour' began all over again ... Rub, rub, rub ...

And the inevitable happened ... 

James, uncontrollably rub-rub-rubbing away at himself through the fabric of his trousers, barely made it half-way through the mirror's close-up view, 'guided tour' of Sharon's left, suntanned, grimy bare sole. 

Really not wanting this to happen; not wanting to ... soil himself, cresting the point of no return James moaned despairingly, "Nnnooo! Nnnnnnoooooo!!" as he found himself unable (and now, unwilling) to prevent the inevitable ... 

Well, now he might as well ... enjoy himself. Enjoy himself, to the max.

Frantically, James undid his zip ... and out 'he' popped.

Even considering his highly erotic ... stimulus, James was still greatly taken aback. Taken aback, in the throes of the resultant mind-shattering upheaval of his shuddering, eruptive climax. Taken aback, at the convulsive, body-wracking force of the initial spurting, spraying gout. And taken aback, at the seemingly never ending after-pulse, pulse, pulsing of his seed over his still continually cajoling fingers.

James had messed up the front of his trousers. Damage done, though, there was nothing else for it: James continued to jack off, in an in-for-a-penny-in-for-a-pound abandon, milking the moment for all it was worth.

And then the mirror, as though it was ... satisfied, was panning left, across to the grimy bare soles of the other Barstool Blonde, Jennifer. 

So ... you were right, Howie, James finally conceded, in reluctant acceptance: The mirror has, tuned in to me. It knows me. And now, its exerting its ... influence.

It was the only explanation, James reasoned. The only explanation, for such ... manipulation. 

And, in avidly watching the mirror's second guided tour, James didn't 'survive' for long this time, either ... Rub, rub, rub ... 

Drinking in the incredibly arousing sight of Jennifer's dirty bare soles: the bottoms of her round and prominent heels, dirt-and-sweat smudged; her longish toes, clutching the rounded, all-the-way-around chrome stretcher-bar of her high, red-leather topped barstool, it was now, that James finally abandoned any last and lingering notions of resistance. 

James now finally realised, that the mirror – or the mirror's controlling ... entity, would not be denied. Finally acknowledged, also, that the mirror could not, be denied.

And then, seemingly coming from the nether regions of his mind, James heard a voice – quite clearly, a female voice – asking him why should he deny, himself? Why should he deny himself, such intense, incredible, almost heart-stopping pleasure? 

And James really had to concede, that the question posed by the mysterious female voice he'd just heard, had a valid point: This wasn't just some casual, every-day wank, that he'd just had. No – it was the mother of all jerk-offs.

James's phone rang.

Just as it had earlier, the phone rang four times, and then automatically went to his answer-phone ... And again, he heard Debbie's voice.

"James? Are you there? If you are there, James, pick up ... Oh, bother! You must have just popped out ..."

James continued to stare at the mirror, mesmerised. Mesmerised, at the awesome sight of Jennifer's dirty bare soles, that were teasing the living daylights out of him.

He just couldn't stand it!

Now his dick was in his left hand and, with his zip now opened to its fullest extent, less hampered, less encumbered, less restricted ... more liberated. 

And already, it was fully erect again; all business, and ready and raring to go. 

All gooey and slippery from his first release, his palm and fingers slid up and down his slick shaft easily and smoothly ... and now, they were starting to slide up and down easily and smoothly in an increasingly urgent rhythm.

"Oh well," continued Debbie's phone-voice. "It's too late to go to the cinema now. But if you get this message before nine o'clock, ring me back, will you? We could still go out for a drink – but not to the Cock and Bull! We wouldn't want to run into those two blondes again, would we? So call me back, James, yeah? Bye."

James continued to stare at the mirror. Continued to stare, at Jennifer's excitingly displayed, suntanned, grimy bare soles ... and the result was inevitable.

His second coming, was just as inevitable as his first. 

His seed, this time, though still apparently quite plentiful, did not gout and spurt quite so spectacularly. But still it pulse, pulse, pulsed over his fingers in surprising quantities as, in a state of pure, unadulterated lust, with his eyes glued to Jennifer's dirty bare soles, James tried to pump, pump, pump himself dry.

By now, James was making a hell of a mess, down there. But he didn't give a damn. He really, truly didn't care. By now, he was well beyond caring.

By now, James just couldn't bear the thought of walking away from the mirror. Couldn't bear the thought, of leaving its ... presence. 

Not even for a moment. Not even to just nip to the bathroom: He wouldn't even – or, maybe by now, couldn't – sacrifice just the few seconds it would take, to clean himself up a bit, and then grab a few sheets of direly needed tissue-paper, for ... next time.

So James continued to sit there on the floor, cross-legged, and covered in his own sticky mess ... in front of the mirror.

James was enthralled, entranced, by the mirror ... Enchanted.

And now the mirror was panning upwards and, when James saw the backs of the Barstool Blondes' upper bodies, he received yet another jolting shock. 

Printed in black on the backs of Jennifer and Sharon's bright yellow T-shirts, were the silhouettes of pairs of bare feet. The silhouettes were like footprints: like imprints, left in firm wet sand on the beach; heels, balls of the feet, and toe pads, all depicted in relief. There was also a local telephone number. And emblazoned across the shoulders of their bright yellow T-shirts in bold black lettering, was the legend: Tootsies.

What was that, all about? wondered James.

And now the mirror was letting James see between Jennifer and Sharon's blonde heads ... And there was Joan the barmaid. Joan was chatting to Jennifer and Sharon, apparently enjoying one of her few and much appreciated quiet moments between serving customers. 

Tonight, early-twenties, brunette Joan was wearing a body-hugging, high-hemmed dress, that was of a deep red colour, and that displayed her voluptuous figure to the greatest possible advantage. And hell, she was a real looker! Joan's curves were certainly in all the right places, thought James admiringly. And, wearing her attractively made-up, 'Saturday night' face, she was drop-dead gorgeous.

And now, things started to get really interesting, for James ...

"I don't know about you two," said Joan the barmaid conversationally, "but I still can't get over that guy, last night. Can you believe it? I mean ... staring at our feet?"

James heard a slightly dulled clack-clack-clack sound. 

And the mirror accommodatingly panned downwards. Panned down, from the busty barmaid's attractive face, down past her ample cleavage, on past her short-skirted, million-dollar legs, and all the way down to her feet. 

And the clack-clack-clack sound, James now realised, was the metal-tipped heel of Joan the barmaid's right shoe; the sound of it, rap-rap-rapping against the hard, grey linoleum-like floor covering behind the bar. 

Tonight, Joan was wearing a pair of bright red, four-inch heeled pumps. And the reason for the clack-clack-clack sound, was Joan, enabling herself to ease free her right heel, to give her foot a brief moment of much-needed respite from her rather tight-fitting pump. 

James watched, courtesy of the mirror, as Joan gratefully eased her shapely bare foot all the way out of her bright red pump. He watched, as Joan then momentarily rested her bright-red painted toes upon the top of the heel of her shoe ... and then pressed her toes down, causing the sharply pointed toe end of her pump to point up vertically ... Rub, rub, rub ...

"But," Joan the barmaid went on, addressing Sharon, "we certainly gave him what-for! Didn't we, Shaz? You didn't half give him a really good slap! And Jen, too! Slap! Slap! Ooh, I bet it hurt. I can still hear the smacking sound, even now. Like an echo. The punters all really enjoyed seeing that, didn't they? And then me – ha ha ha! Pouring his pint of lager over his head! So, he got just what he deserved ... Stare at my feet, will he?" 

Joan the barmaid then slipped her right foot back into her shoe – it took some forceful inserting – and then ... clack-clack-clack ... Joan was easing free her left heel, from her other rather tight-fitting, four-inch heeled, pointy-toed red pump.

Sharon replied, "Actually, Joan, me and Jen were talking about him today, at the salon. And it made for a good little anecdote to amuse our clients with, too. Didn't it, Jen?"

"Yeah," said Jennifer. "We think he's probably got a foot fetish, Joan. That would explain it; explain him staring at our feet, the way he was. You see, Joan, as hard as it might be to believe, some guys actually like girls' and women's feet. I mean, really like them. They – they actually ... get off, on them."

"You're – you're having me on, you two!" exclaimed Joan the barmaid, in utter incredulity. "Aren't you? You pair of little wind-ups! This is just another of your jokes ... isn't it?"

The mirror panned back, to behind the Barstool Blondes' high, red-leather topped barstools. And once again, their suntanned, slightly grimy bare feet were filling up the whole of the mirror's high-resolution, two-foot high, four-foot long 'screen'.

Upon their opening this new and intriguing topic of conversation, leaning forward slightly against the bar counter, the Barstool Blondes settled a little more comfortably upon their high barstools. 

With the toes of their left foot firmly gripped around the rounded, all-the-way-around chrome stretcher-bar of their barstools, Jennifer and Sharon both hooked their right foot behind their left ankles, and their toes started scrunching and splaying like there was no tomorrow ... Rub, rub, rub ...

"No, we're not having you on, Joan, honest," said Sharon. "It's just the way some guys are. I know you were kind of, well ... weirded-out, last night. But foot fetishists are usually submissive by nature, so they are harmless enough, really. Actually, some of them are just so incredibly submissive, and so eager to please, it's like they put their girl up on a pedestal. Joan, sweetie, if you chose to, some of them, you could wrap right around your little finger ... or toe, as it were."

At seeing Joan's still disbelieving 'Yeah – right!' look, Jennifer corroborated. "Shaz is right, sweetie. And actually, foot fetishists are not all that thin on the ground, either. There's more of them than you might think ... well, not you, Joan, because you didn't know about them. But you know what I mean. In fact, some of our clients at the salon have got boyfriends or husbands who are really into their feet – who actually worship, their feet. See, Joan ... foot fetishists, they like girls' tits, and ass, and legs, just the same as regular guys. But, it's girls' and women's feet, that really push all of their buttons."

Ah, thought James, getting it at last: Jennifer and Sharon run a pedicure salon, called Tootsies. How about that!

"You're – you're actually serious ... aren't you?" exclaimed Joan. "I can see now, that you are both telling me the truth. But – but I still find it hard to believe. It's – it's incredible! I mean ... you are seriously telling me, that there are guys, out there, who actually like girls' and women's smelly, stinky feet? Guys, who actually ... get off, on them? And – and that they ... put their girl up on a pedestal?"

Jennifer and Sharon smiled at Joan, and took sips of their halves of lager.

Sharon put her glass down on her coaster, and said, "Joan, if you had one of those foot fetishists as a boyfriend, trust me: just as easy as pie, you could fire his burners up. And then you'd have yourself a sky rocket to climb aboard – fly you to the moon! The launch-pad would be ready, and all systems would be Go! And you, Joanwould be the one in control of the countdown. The countdown, to ... blast off!"

Giggling girlishly, and the metal tips of her high heels going, clack-clack-clack ... clack-clack-clack ... like crazy, Joan the barmaid flapped her hand at her two friends. "Oh – you two!" 

James was going crazy. 

The Barstool Blondes, Jennifer and Sharon, and Joan the barmaid, were talking about him

Well, about his 'kind', yes. But they'd talked about him, in particular! And he was loving it! Loving, listening to their girl-talk. Loving his secret, undetected – and undetectable! – fly-on-the-wall voyeurism.

But the best thing of all, was that, thanks to the mirror, James could actually stare, and stare, and stare at their sexy feet to his heart's content – but, without the slightest fear of discovery ... and, of course, of punishment.

With total, absolute impunity, James could freely observe, and ... appreciate. 

Quite openly, he could ogle, and admire, and revere – worship – this most delicious of visual delicacies. 

He could adore – pay homage – to this most satisfying, finding-the-spot, eye-candy. 

And, with absolutely no possible danger, of ... come-back.

James was not, going to be slapped very hard across his face, by the Barstool Blondes! 

James was not, going to have a pint of lager poured over his head, by Joan the barmaid! 

James was not, going to bring shame, embarrassment, disrepute, and ridicule down on his head – and, by her association with him, upon Debbie’s head, too.

No! He was not!

When Joan had finally stopped giggling, Sharon, who'd laughed along with Jennifer, resumed their conversation. "We had a really good day at the salon today, Joan. Easily our busiest Saturday, since we opened last year. Wasn't it, Jen?"

"Ah, I thought you two must have had a late finish today, and come here straight from your pedicure salon," observed Joan, nodding at Jennifer and Sharon's bright yellow T-shirts. T-shirts, that depicted in black the silhouettes of pairs of bare feet: like imprints, left in firm wet sand on the beach; heels, balls of the feet, and toe pads, all depicted in relief. A local telephone number too. And, emblazoned across their shoulders in bold black lettering, the legend: Tootsies.

Jennifer said, "Yes. Me and Shaz are busier than ever, Joan. And if it wasn't for the fact that our job entails sitting down, and standing still, we'd be rushed off our feet – ha ha ha! We put it down to the two sunbeds that we installed last month. They were a big expenditure for us to take on at the time – and more than a bit risky, too, with the current economic climate being what it is at the moment. But they've turned out to be a brilliant investment. The two sunbeds have really boosted our trade, Joan. What, with all of the extra business we've been getting from spillover clientele – you know, from the girls and women who initially come to the salon just to use the sunbeds, but then decide to make an appointment to come back and have a pedicure, or maybe a reflexology session – sometimes, both services – as well as topping up their tans." 

"In fact, Joan," said Sharon, picking up Jennifer's thread, "me and Jen think it's time we took on an employee. To do most of the basic, menial prep work – you know, trimming and filing toenails, and sloughing off dead or hardened skin from the bottoms of our clients' heels, and from the balls of their feet. That sort of thing. She'd also make cups of tea and coffee for us and for our clients; be a general dogsbody, really, while we gradually train her up as a professional pedicurist and nail technician, and hone her reflexology skills. See, that would free up a lot of valuable time for Jen and me, allowing us to concentrate on the more skilled work – and the more lucrative! We'll be letting the Job Centre know soon that we're looking to take someone on. And maybe we'll put an ad in the local paper, too. See who might just turn up at the salon, asking about the vacancy."

Joan said, "Shaz, you said 'her', and 'she'. Train 'her' up, you said. Does your new employee have to be female, then?"

"Well ... no, Joan," replied Sharon, sounding rather thrown by Joan's question, as if it was coming at her from right out of the box; as if the very thought of taking on a male employee had simply never occurred to her, it being so outlandish a notion. 

"Not – not strictly, I suppose. And anyway, it would be against the law; it would be considered to be sex-discrimination, if me and Jen stipulated a female-only requirement. It's just that ... well, pedicure salons are predominantly – if not, exclusively – run by female staff. After all, it's not really a man's work, is it? I mean, Joan, come on! What guy do you know, who would want to spend his working days massaging and prettifying girls' and women's feet?" 

"Ha ha ha!" laughed Joan the barmaid, her answer at the ready. "The guy from last night – the foot fetishist, as you called him. Him – that's who! You should get him, to come and work for you at the salon! Just think! He'd be a cracking little worker, for you – ha ha ha! He'd be very ... conscientious."

"Well, Joan," replied Jennifer, in a tone that suggested she was taking Joan's suggestion seriously. "I know you speak in jest ... But that's actually not as daft an idea as you might think. In fact ... it's not a bad idea at all. Is it, Shaz?"

"It's a brilliant idea!" exclaimed Sharon, struggling to keep a straight face. "Of course, his ... ardour, would be the obvious stumbling-block. Hmm ... I don't know. Maybe we could put something in his tea? But, having said that, some of our clients would just love it, wouldn't they, Jen? I mean, having their feet adoringly pampered and fussed over, by a young, eager-to-please, good-looking guy – every single one of them, up there on his own, personal pedestal."

At seeing a look pass between her two friends, as they each took another sip of their lager, Joan exclaimed, "Now I know, you are both having me on! Put something in his tea! You two! Well, actually, I do, happen to think it's a very good idea. Don't you see? You could really put him in his place! You could—"

"Hey, Joan! Any chance of a drink around here, or what?" called an impatient drinker, demanding a refill. Banging his pint glass on the bar counter for emphasis, he complained, "I'm dying of thirst, here!"

"Duty calls," said Joan the barmaid with a theatrical sigh.

James was going nuts, listening in to the Barstool Blondes' and Joan the barmaid's conversation – their conversation, about him! The things they were saying – especially Joan the barmaid!

After serving the man's drink, Joan the barmaid went to the till to pay in the price of a pint of Stella, and retrieve his change from the £20 note he'd given her. And, as soon as the till was open, the metal-tipped four-inch heel of Joan's right, rather tight-fitting bright red pump clack-clack-clacked again ... and the mirror zoomed in. 

The mirror zoomed in close ... and James watched, in barely contained excitement. He watched in awe as, with a grateful sigh Joan eased her heel free, and then, knee bent, she rested her foot inside her pointy-toed red pump, her now slightly wrinkled sole facing upwards. And Joan scrunched her toes up tight; real tight, displaying her bright-red painted toe nails.

And James went bananas. He felt his heart lurch alarmingly, at the incredibly arousing sight ... Rub, rub, rub ... 

He just couldn't take much more of this! Couldn't take much more, of this incredible excitement. His senses, just seemed so finely tuned, so incredibly ... heightened.

"Oh, I see you are wearing your new red pumps tonight, Joan," observed Sharon appreciatively. "Gorgeous, they are. But I thought you said they were hurting you, Joan. That you were going to wait for a quieter night, before trying them on again for work ...?"

The mirror then panned back, to behind the Barstool Blondes. 

As if on a cue, from the mirror's 'director', Jennifer and Sharon simultaneously unhooked their right foot from behind their left ankles, and placed both feet behind the chrome, all-the-way-around stretcher-bars of their high barstools. And once again, from heels to toes, their grimy bare soles were openly displayed to James ... Rub, rub, rub ... 

And now, there was yet another escalation, in the mirror's invasive influence over James. 

An incredibly intense yearning, began to overcome him. A yearning, that was like a physical ache. A yearning, that went way beyond the usual parameters of his foot fetishist's desires. 

James now found himself in the powerful, unyielding grip of a desperate craving. A craving, to sit on the bar's floor, behind the Barstool Blondes. A craving, to adoringly kiss the soles of Jennifer and Sharon's bare feet. 

James craved to humbly accord, to Jennifer and Sharon, the respect and the reverence – the adoration – that they so deserved. He craved, to acknowledge their ... status. 

And, to acknowledge his own status, too. To duly acknowledge, his ... "place".

And James now wondered what it would be like, to be allowed to sit at Jennifer and Sharon's barstool-perched, dirty bare feet. 

To be ... stationed, at the Barstool Blondes' feet. To be their loyal, and faithful, obedient little 'lap' dog. To lick their work-a-day, grimy bare soles clean for them, while they enjoyed their nice, relaxing drink and chat at the bar, with Joan the barmaid ... Rub, rub, rub ...

For Pete's sake! thought James. What was wrong with him? These ... these thoughts! After all, he had Debbie, to take care of—

The mirror, as though to divert James's thoughts away from his darling Debbie, promptly panned back to Joan the barmaid. 

"I know, Shaz. I'm a fool to myself, aren't I? I should have worn my flip flops again tonight, like I said. My feet! These pumps, are absolutely killing me!" she bemoaned, as she scrunched and wiggled and flexed her toes; her bare, slightly wrinkled sole still facing upwards ... Rub, rub, rub ...

And then James's phone rang again.

Just as it had done twice earlier, the phone rang four times, and then was automatically picked up by his answer-phone ... And, for the third time this evening, it was his Debbie.

"James? Are you there? If you are there, James, pick up ... Oh, botheration! Don't say you've popped out again! Well, it's too late now, anyway, for us to do anything tonight. I was just wondering why you hadn't got back to me, that's all. Anyway, if you get this before eleven o'clock, call me, yeah? Otherwise, come and pick me up tomorrow, and we'll go out for the day somewhere. And Mum ... Mum sends her love. Bye, then."

Having now gathered the correct change, Joan the barmaid clanged the till drawer shut. "But all the boys say my legs look dynamite, in my high-heeled red pumps, Shaz," said Joan, giving her tortured toes a final relieving scrunch, wiggle and splay, before reinserting her bare right foot into its rather tight-fitting confines ... Rub, rub, rub ...

Rummaging about in her handbag for something, Jennifer said to Sharon, "What Joan needs, Shaz, is a really good foot massage ... Shaz, have you – have you got one of our—"

"Yeah, got one right here," said Sharon. With a flourish, she placed a small printed card on the bar counter. "There you go, Joan. On us: A free voucher for a one-hour reflexology session at Tootsies. Just give us a call to make your appointment. See here ... our number's on the card."

Jennifer said, "At the moment, Joan, we've got a special promotional offer on: six months' half-price membership at Tootsies Pedicure Salon. For you, Joan, if you'd like to take it up, me and Shaz will increase the six-month half-price membership offer, to a full year – won't we, Shaz?"

Smiling, Sharon nodded in ready affirmation. "And for that, Joan, you'll be entitled to a weekly one-hour reflexology session, a weekly pedicure, and the supervised use of our sunbeds. And in addition to that, because of a reciprocal arrangement we have, your membership at Tootsies will also entitle you to fifty per cent discount vouchers for Jim's Gym, the local swimming pool, and the local leisure centre."

"Plus," Jennifer added, "for every referral you give us, resulting in a new client taking up membership at Tootsies, me and Shaz will throw in an extra reflexology session. How's that?" 

Now, and for the third time, James was cresting the point of no return ...

The fingers and palm of his left hand, sliding with ease, up and down the length of his slick and slippery, cum-coated member, James now took his balls in his right hand, and gently squeezed. This would help, too ... 

Help, to sacrifice his essence.

James was in a fever. In a ferment of arousal, thinking about the sort of reflexology session he'd like to perform for Joan the barmaid: A full hour, of putting his industrious tongue to work on her bare, sweaty, tired and achy after-work soles – that's what! 

Oh, her poor, poor feet! They needed him. They so, so needed him ... Yes! They did! They needed him – James Noble!

James imagined himself in Joan the barmaid's bedroom, kneeling at the foot of her bed – where he belonged, goddammit! ... 

The tired, footsore, post bar-shift Joan lying prone upon her bed, covered by her duvet ... except for her feet, which are overhanging her bed, toes pointing downward. And, for a full hour, he would ... serve. Serve, Joan the barmaid: putting his tongue to work, on her tired and achy, needy and deserving bare soles. And then, when her hour was up, he would let himself out the front door, quietly closing it behind him so as not to disturb her peaceful slumber.

Oh, for heaven's sake! thought James. What was he thinking? What on Earth, was he thinking? He had Debbie, to care for his needs. And that was enough. It was plenty. Just right. Perfect. But ...

But, these ... these thoughts! These thoughts!  

What's happening to me? thought James desperately, despairingly ... even though he knew the answer. 

It was as though he no longer had control over himself; neither motor, or mind. As though he was no longer his own puppet master; as though someone else – something – else, was now pulling his strings.

As though, he was ... possessed. 

He wanted to give everything he had left – wanted to sacrifice every remaining drop of his ... devotional offerings – to the Barstool Blondes, and to Joan the barmaid ... Rub, rub, rub ... 

Only now, because he had already almost drained himself dry, it was no longer just rub, rub, rub ... But it was also ... Pull, pull, pull ... Tug, tug, tug ... Yank, yank, yank ... And, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze ...

It took longer, this time. Achieving his third climax. And that was only to be expected. But, it was, inevitable. Just as it had been inevitable, the first time. And the second time. It just took a little longer, that's all, to ... produce. To achieve satisfaction. A little longer ... to satisfy the mirror. 

As now he must.

For, in buying the mirror, James had made his bed ... And now, he must lie in it. 

And, by the time James had finally finished frenetically rubbing, pulling, yanking and tugging his todger and squeezing his much depleted balls, in his steadfast determination to devote every last drop he had left to the Barstool Blondes and Joan the barmaid, he was, quite literally, spent.

Suddenly, the 'picture' on the mirror's two-foot high, four-foot wide 'screen' disappeared. 

All that remained, was a gradually dimming glow. A gradually dimming glow, all around its edges, where the mirror's glass fitted into its ornately carved, hardwood frame. 

The mirror's 'broadcast' had ended ... for now. 

The mirror was satisfied ... for now.

Exhausted – drained – James got up from the floor, in front of the mirror. 

Gratefully, James collapsed into his most comfortable chair; his black leather, well-padded armchair.  And, sitting in front of his Internet-capable 46-inch flat-screen TV, he slept ...

... And then awoke, to darkness.

James felt groggy, a bit woozy, and still very tired ... After all, a lot had been taken out of him. 

And when he saw what time it was – still only 9:35 p.m. – he was very surprised; realised he'd only catnapped a while. 

But he knew what he needed to do. 

Quickly, James cleaned himself up, and changed into a clean pair trousers. Then he went out to the residents' car park, and started up the Astra.

He needed to nip out to the local supermarket before they closed at 10:00 p.m. 

For ... provisions.

                                                                             *            *            * 

When he returned to his flat, about thirty minutes later, James quickly put all of his supermarket purchases away ... except for an economy-size box of Kleenex. This, he put on the coffee table, next to his most comfortable chair.

James then went into his kitchen. He made a cup of coffee, and tore open one of the fresh packets of chocolate-chip cookies he'd just bought, emptying more than half of them straight out onto a plate – he was ravenous. Refreshments prepared, James loaded them onto a small wooden tray and took them through to the living room. He put the tray down on his coffee table, next to the big box of Man-Size tissue paper.

James knew, that he was on the brink of making a no-turning-back decision. But he still had a choice ... if only he could summon the will. 

He could get straight on the phone to Howard Leadbetter. Tell him he didn't want the mirror, after all. Tell him he could have it back, for nothing, just call by in his taxi-cab and pick it up. 

Of course, Howard's missus wouldn't be best pleased, at seeing her husband reunited with the mirror ... and seeing him take it back up to the attic. But that wasn't James's problem.

James paused for thought ... 

He really, really didn't need to do this. He had Debbie, to take care of his needs. With his lovely Debbie, he was happy – as happy as could be. He was fulfilled. He didn't need, to ...

Except, this need; the need that had so overcome him, was a need quite unlike anything he had ever experienced before, quite ... alien, to him. 

He seemed to have become totally bereft of will. As if his mind was no longer his own. Overpowered and overwhelmed, James was wholly unable, once in its thrall, to ignore the mirror's siren temptations. Unable, to resist its bewitching allure. 

Howard – "Howie, to my friends" – Leadbetter, had been right about the mirror, James knew. 

Howie had not been a crackpot, when he'd told James that the mirror had been designed and crafted by the seventeenth-century practitioner of the occult, Edward Landry, and that Edward Landry had put a "spell" on it. 

Howie had not been off his rocker, when he'd told James that the mirror had "tuned in", to him. 

Howie had not been one marble shy of a full bag, when he'd told James that the mirror "knew him", now. 

And now, James was no more able than Howie Leadbetter had been, to defy the mirror's ... unnatural imperative. 

Howie Leadbetter: who'd sat in his attic, in his flimsy fishing-chair, for hour after hour ... in the dark.

James pushed all of these jumbled thoughts aside ... And made his no-turning-back decision.

He went to the back of his Internet-capable 46-inch flat-screen TV, and pulled the plug on it: Pulled out its leads and cables from the wall sockets. 

And then he pushed the large TV, on its castor-wheeled stand, over to the right-hand side wall of his living room, where it would be out of the way.

Even now, James still had a choice. 

He could get a sheet, or a blanket, or a couple of bath towels, even, and cover up the mirror's 'screen'. Or just simply turn it around, facing the wall, so that he would be unable to see its 'picture'. 

And just leave it there. Just leave it there until he gave it to Debbie's mum, Doris, for her upcoming birthday, in about two weeks' time.

But ... something, wouldn't let him. 

And so James went right ahead ... and crossed the Rubicon.

Very carefully, and with the mirror still slotted into its two-foot tall, plinth-like stand, he dragged it across his living room carpet. He positioned the mirror, exactly where his prized-possession TV had been ... giving the mirror "pride of place".

It was 10:25 p.m. when James sat down in his most comfortable chair ... in front of the mirror.

And once again, the mirror – or, the mistress of the mirror – didn't keep James waiting, for long.

James had just finished his coffee, when he suddenly discerned a soft, eerie glow. A glowing white light, emanating from all around the mirror's edges, where it fitted into its ornately carved, hardwood frame. 

And the glowing white light began to glow brighter, and whiter, until it glowed impossibly white – yet it didn't dazzle James.

Slowly, the eerie white light began to lose some of its intensity ... and started to pulse.

And now James confirmed – set the seal – on his no-turning-back decision. 

Quickly; without even taking just the few seconds it would take to untie them, he pulled off his trainers. Then he took off his trousers, and removed his boxer shorts. 

Now, there was nothing to get in the way: He was unrestricted, unrestrained, unencumbered, unhampered – liberated. 

Nothing in the way, to impede his ... movements.

Now, he was just exactly how the mistress of the mirror wanted him.

And now, there was just one last thing to do. 

James got up from his most comfortable chair, and turned the light off. 

Yes ... 

It was better, in the dark.


The Mirror continues, in Chapter 4.

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