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,
Joan, would 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 Debbies 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.