The Mirror - Part 4 (New Version)

This story is written by David, please send comments and appreciation to voondave@yahoo.co.uk

There was an eerie white light, all around the edges of the mirror, emanating from where the glass fitted into its ornately carved hardwood frame.

And James was ready: Naked from the waist down, he'd ensured there was nothing to get in the way, this time. Nothing to get in the way, of his ... enjoyment.

Naked, he was now unrestricted, unrestrained, unencumbered, unhampered – liberated. And so there was no impediment to pleasure. Nothing to get in the way, of his ... movements.

Which was just exactly how the mirror – or, the mirror's controlling female entity – wanted him: Naked, before her, as she mercilessly manipulated his maleness.

And, because James was by now almost totally in thrall, entranced – enchanted – by the mistress of the mirror, he duly complied ... Obeyed.

Unthinkingly obeying the unnatural imperative from his new, relentlessly demanding mistress, James 'willingly' sacrificed his essence, compliantly and unstintingly giving up to his prurient predator every last remaining, increasingly hard-won, determinedly squeezed-out drop of his precious seed.

And the more of 'himself' that James 'willingly' sacrificed, the more the mistress of the mirror grew in strength, got more powerful, and became even more dominating ... While he grew weaker, got more debilitated, and became even more ... enchanted.

James, the latest of a long line of owners, had owned the mirror – designed and crafted by Edward Landry, the infamous seventeenth-century practitioner of the occult – for less than twelve hours. But already, it seemed as though he'd been under its ... influence, for much longer.

And, in so knowing him, and being so tuned-in, to him, she was therefore in possession of all of the necessary ... wherewithal, to arouse him – to push his buttons.

Flourishing, upon her ravenous, greedy – insatiable – intake of essential ingredients, as were contained in such bountiful, munificent plenitude in her latest victim's nourishment-rich 'production'.

Frenziedly feeding, upon the invigorating, fortifying nutrients of James's special-ingredient 'willing' sacrifices, the mistress of the mirror was thriving ... Developing.

Now, and at long, long last, once again the mistress of the mirror was undergoing the rejuvenating, revitalising, reviving process of ... reawakening.

Her previous victim, self-employed private-hire taxi driver, Howard – "My friends call me Howie" – Leadbetter, had provided her with only the most insipid and meanest of thin gruel. Had kept her on a 'nourishment'-poor diet, indeed.

And, under her previous two owners before him – Gordon Grace (astronomer), and Peter Potting (trainspotter) – she'd fared no better, dining on only the most miserable and unappetising of fare.

What, with Gordon Grace, always gazing into space, and Peter Potting, forever trainspotting, to say that she'd been on a starvation diet would be the grossest of understatements.

And the mistress of the mirror, being the 'hot-blooded' female that she was, in being unable to satiate herself for so very, very long, was now suffering from a most chronic case of ... malnutrition.

For a span of time barely exceeding three decades but, to the mistress of the mirror, seeming like three centuries, on her ... sub-subsistence diet, she'd existed in an almost hibernation-like, semi-cognizant, all but comatose state of being.

But now, at last, her sub-subsistence diet had finally come to an end. Things were starting to look up again, for the mistress of the mirror. Taking a decided turn for the better.

James Noble, a twenty-one-year-old foot fetishist, with a special penchant for rear-view voyeurism of shoe-playing girls and women (preferably seated, but he was perfectly okay with standees, too), was proving to be easy prey.

And James, leaning forward expectantly in his armchair, was agog with awed anticipation anew ... What next? he wondered excitedly as, without taking his eyes from the mirror's resolving 'picture' he grabbed another chocolate-chip cookie from the plate on the coffee table beside him.

And then he caught his breath; gasped in astonishment, upon recognising the scene now depicted in the mirror's two-foot high, four-foot wide 'screen'.

High Street was brightly lit, James saw as he munched mechanically on his biscuit. And not least, by the plethora of neon signs shining out from the plate-glass windows of the fast-food outlets, casting out their variously hued glows.

At this time on a Saturday evening, people were beginning to come out of the town's pubs, cinemas, and from various other entertainment venues, and the fast-food joints were already doing good, brisk trade.

On this mild evening, the door to Khan's Kebabs was left open, to expel excess heat and food odours, and to admit fresh air ... And the mirror panned inside.

At the head of the queuing customers waiting to order take-away food at the serving counter, were Jennifer and Sharon – the Barstool Blondes.

"A small, lamb shish kebab, please, Ali. Oh – and could you hold the mayo, and let me have some extra lettuce instead, please?" asked Jennifer with a winning smile.

As she gave Ali her order, Jennifer bent her right knee and, with the toe end of her thin-rubber soled flip flop resting on the floor, she began rolling her knee from side to side languidly.

And James's eyes almost popped right out of their sockets, as he avidly stared at the stupendous, close-up view of the grubby bottom of Jennifer's bare right heel. For, as viewed with his ... newly altered perception, as seen through the mirror's high-resolution 'picture' it was an incredible, awesome sight to behold.

Repeatedly, his view was briefly interrupted, when Jennifer caused her flip flop to slap against the bottom of her heel as, following the motion of her leg, her heel swung from side to side too. Not that James minded. On the contrary – it was one of the things he so loved to watch girls and women do.

"Tut tut tut," said Ali in mock admonishment, in response to Jennifer's low-calorie request. "Always on a diet, you girls. And look at you – not an ounce of fat on you! No problem at all, though, sweetheart. Anything you say," said the jovial purveyor of the tastiest kebabs in town.

Jennifer watched as, as per her request, Ali spooned a generous helping of crisp, freshly-shredded lettuce into a fast-food carton, and then added two nice wedges of lemon as well, as a finishing touch. "Won't be long, kitten," he told Jennifer with a cheeky wink.

As though in response to Ali's mild flirtation, Jennifer's from-side-to-side knee-rolling action became a little more exaggerated. And, her thin-rubber soled flip flop, altering its initial, slow-paced idle rhythm, started slap-slap-slapping against the bottom of her heel more quickly as, absentmindedly she manipulated her highly flexible footwear all the more ... Rub, rub, rub ...

The bottom of Jennifer's heel was dirt-and-sweat smudged; workaday grime, from wearing her flip flops all day at the salon – Tootsies Pedicure Salon, the ladies' foot care business that she co-owned and ran with her business partner and best friend, Sharon. And, after an unusually late finish at the salon, instead of going home first to shower and change, Jennifer and Sharon had gone to the Cock & Bull pub straight from work.

Though the wrinkles on the arch of Jennifer's swinging-from-side-to-side sole were slightly dirty too, it was especially the ball of her foot and her toe pads, as well as the bottom of her heel, that were particularly grimy by now. And, as seen through the mirror's two-foot high, four-foot wide high-definition 'picture', the sight was incredibly exciting, to James ... Rub, rub, rub ...

"Yes, please, Miriam," confirmed Sharon, smiling. "The works: everything added, nothing taken away. I'm starved. All I've had since lunchtime is some peanuts and a packet of crisps."

As Miriam began busying herself preparing Sharon's order, she asked Sharon, "Is your offer still on, Shaz, at the salon? You know, your half-price, six-months' membership at Tootsies? Ali wants me to take it up. Don't you, hon?" said Miriam, to her husband.

Mid-twenties, five-foot-five, slender-figured Miriam was wearing a pair of well-worn looking strapless leather sandals. The tops of her rather dainty feet, James saw, were the colour of milk chocolate.

Then, just as the mirror panned to behind Miriam's heels, Miriam slid her left foot from her leather sandal and, hooking her foot behind her right ankle, she stood balancing herself upon just her right foot.

Miriam's sole, James now saw, was of a lighter, cafe au lait colour. She had the daintiest foot, and the loveliest little toes, thought James. And he watched with rapt attention, as the clear-varnish painted toes of Miriam's left foot repeatedly flexed, and scrunched ... flexed, and scrunched ... Rub, rub, rub ...

James watched, as the fast-food outlet's bright overhead lights glinted on the anklet as Miriam worked her toes ... flex ... scrunch ... flex ... scrunch ... And Miriam's gold anklet, James saw, as the mirror accommodatingly zoomed in closer for an even better view, was inscribed in flowing script with a single word: Ali.

"Ah, bless him," said Miriam of her husband, beneficently. "At the end of a long day of standing up in this place, he'll massage my feet for me. Of course, he will. Ali's always been very, well ... attentive, that way. I love the attention, and he does his best. But ... well, he's no expert. I mean, talk about 'All fingers and thumbs'! As you know, Shaz, he'll—"

"Miri!" interjected Ali in alarm, turning all bashful and embarrassed suddenly – his confident, saucy chat-up persona evaporating faster than a wisp of fatty steam curling up from the working-flat-out chip fryer.

Chuckling in amused understanding at Ali's now beetroot-red face, Sharon said, "Yes, Miri, our offer is still open. Until the end of the month. So you've still got another two weeks, to apply. Just pop round to Tootsies and sign up," she said pleasantly.

As she talked to Miriam, Sharon, knee bent, rested her right foot on top of her thin-rubber soled flip flop, her suntanned, begrimed and now slightly wrinkled sole facing upwards ... Rub, rub, rub ...

In all of the history of mankind, surely a human heart had never beaten faster, nor pumped harder. And human blood, had never circulated through arteries and veins more quickly, or with such force of urgency.

The soles of Jennifer and Sharon's bare feet were just so, so sexy. Just so incredibly exciting – so incredibly arousing – to look at. To see them, was to want them. And to want them, was to need them.

His mind was in such a ferment, such a lather of torment, from such tantalising, titillating teasing, as he would never have believed was possible. And his body was wracked, with such an urgent, needful, desperate desire, to ... sacrifice.

The sole of Sharon's upturned foot was just so shapely, and so adorable ... And so totally worthy, of his concentrated, complete and undivided attentions.

James felt as though, via the entrancing medium of the mirror's 'screen', he would be content to view Sharon's right, suntanned, dirt-and-sweat smudged bare sole, for all of the endless eons of eternity.

Somehow even grubbier than Jennifer's, Sharon's toe pads, the ball of her foot, and her heel – all of her sole's impact points – these features were therefore all even more pronounced. And so, all the more ... highlighted ... Rub, rub, rub ...

And, at that moment, James wanted nothing more, than to be able to go down on his hands and knees behind Sharon. And, on the hard, black-and-white tiled floor of Khan's Kebabs's customer packed fast-food outlet, like some boiled-brained, sun-crazed cur, lick and lap away at her upturned, dirty bare sole until nary a vestige of workaday dirt and sweat remained to sully it. And then ... go on, licking and lapping away ... Rub, rub, rub ... Pull, pull, pull ...

Feverishly, James imagined just what it would feel like, to press his lips in an adoring, reverent – worshipful – kiss, upon the warm foot flesh of Sharon's upturned, suntanned sole ... Rub, rub, rub ... Pull, pull, pull ... Tug, tug, tug ...

Feverishly imagined, putting his nose into the ... catchment area of the undersides of her longish toes, and greedily inhaling the intoxicating, penis-engorging aroma of her stinky, in-between-the-toes foot scent ... Rub, rub, rub ... Pull, pull, pull ... Tug, tug, tug ... Yank, yank, yank ...

Feverishly imagined, as he now cupped his balls in his right hand, just what Sharon's dirty, grubby sole would taste like; just what her begrimed, all-day-accumulation, workaday dirt-and-sweat smudged sole would taste like, were he only able to put his yearning, craving, ravening tongue to work on it ... Rub, rub, rub ... Pull, pull, pull ... Tug, tug, tug ... Yank, yank, yank ... Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze ...

And an orgasm of the body, that manifested itself in a forceful, cataclysmic eruption that sprayed and spurted his seed all over the place.

And, with his rubbing, pulling, tugging and yanking left hand, going at it twenty to the dozen, and his ball-squeezing right hand, assiduously ensuring that he milked every last possible drop of 'himself', he continued his frantic ... manipulations, until the gradually weakening after-pulse ... pulse ... pulse ... of his seed finally dried up to nothing.

Breathing heavily, and sweating lightly, he gratefully leaned back into the embracing comfort of his black leather, well-padded armchair ... While he got his breath back.

Pulling a few Man-Size squares of super-absorbent tissue-paper from his economy-size box of Kleenex, James set about wiping up the resultant sticky mess.

"Have a good night, ladies!" called the cheerful minibus taxi driver to his collective fare, before pulling away from the kerb outside Krystal's nightclub and rejoining the light late-evening traffic of south London.

Julia Carson & Associates, where James was the only male member of staff. And even then, he'd only been very reluctantly taken on by Miss Carson as a special, for-old-times'-sake favour to her longtime friend, Doris Morris ... Debbie's mum.

Right from the start, Miss Carson had had deep misgivings about the arrangement: James didn't know the first thing about insurance; and on top of that he would be a male employee, on her otherwise all-female staff.

Not that Miss Carson actively fobbed off any prospective male job applicants. After all, that would be sex-discrimination, and she would be violating the labour laws.

It was just that, with her all-female workforce, there was the sort of harmonious ... tension-free atmosphere in the office that, as she'd found in the past, you just didn't seem to get with a mixed-sex staff. And so she would have much preferred to have kept things the way they were.

And it was only on the grounds of her longstanding and much valued friendship with Doris – a long and abiding friendship, that went way back to their high school days – that Julia Carson had allowed her arm to be twisted, as it were, and agreed to employ Doris's daughter's boyfriend.

Regrettably, Miss Carson couldn't possibly warrant paying James anything like the going rate – that is, the attractive salary that her five trained and diploma-qualified office girls (Associates) earned. At least, not as a starting salary. But she wanted to be fair. So, to start with, she'd told Doris, she would pay James the national minimum wage. And then she would see how things panned out; see how things went from there, and periodically revise James's pay scale, according to how he shaped up in the office.

And, James's duties: To perform the most mundane, most basic and simple of routine office duties – so that Miss Carson and her five office girls wouldn't have to.

Principally, so as to save them the trouble, as and when they required him to do so James would operate the fax/printer/copier machine for Miss Carson and her office girls. Though Miss Carson and her office girls would keep him busy (or, as Miss Julia Carson had put it: "Keep him out of mischief") with plenty of rudimentary, unskilled desk work, as well.

In calculating how to turn this undesirable situation to her advantage, Miss Julia Carson's how-to-turn-a-negative-into-a-positive thinking had been that James would thereby at least be earning his keep. He would at least be earning 'his salt', simply by freeing up some of her office girls' valuable time, enabling them to focus more of their attentions upon the really important matters.

And so, to this end, James would be Miss Carson's and her five office girls' underling: their menial, at-their-beck-and-call gofer, tidy-upper, tea maker – their office dogsbody.

But, two months later, and despite the decidedly technically undemanding nature of James's office duties, not only was he still being paid the national minimum wage rate, but he was also very lucky to still be in Miss Julia Carson's employ at all.

In the open-plan office, seated at the bottom desk of the V-shaped, 3-2-1 style work station, behind the five dark-pantyhose wearing, black-leather pump shod office girls (Miss Julia Carson had her own separate, private office), so distracted was he by their almost incessant, absentminded under-the-seat shoe-playing antics, that he just simply couldn't get enough desk work done ... Enough work, that is, for Miss Julia Carson to justify keeping James on her payroll – even at the national minimum wage rate ... He just wasn't earning his salt.

No. James was just too under-productive – he just wasn't pulling his weight. And there was simply no room in Miss Julia Carson's office, for a shoe-play watching, dead weight like James.

And – longstanding, way-back-when friendship with Doris, or no longstanding, way-back-when friendship with Doris – James had been issued his final "Shape up, or ship out!" warning, by Miss Julia Carson.

If not for recognising Miss Julia Carson – or rather, her authoritative, she-who-must-be-obeyed voice – so readily, James might not otherwise have recognised the office girls.

After all, he'd never seen his early-twenties female colleagues looking like this, before: with their hair let down (metaphorically speaking, as well as literally); dressed up to the nines, in body-curve enhancing dresses; faces attractively made-up; and, wearing 'killer-heel' shoes, in place of their two-inch heeled, black-leather office pumps – just generally so knockout-looking.

At the door of the newly opening Krystal's nightclub, Miss Julia Carson said to one of the two black-suited, six-foot-something hunky bouncers standing sentinel there; the slightly older, early-thirties one, who looked more authoritative, "Good evening. There's six of us, altogether. Myself, and my five ... friends." James thought she'd been about to say 'Associates'.

Keeping his face deadpan, the authoritative-looking hunky bouncer replied, "I'm sorry, love. But I'm going to have to refuse you and your friends' admission to Krystal's."

At hearing this, and seeing his boss's comical-faced reaction, James's face broke into a grin. Miss Carson's face was a real picture, he thought as he reached for another chocolate-chip cookie.

"What? But – but why?" blurted a disbelieving Miss Julia Carson; highly aggravating visions of her and her office girls' night-club night out going all to hell – Lisa's twenty-first birthday night-out treat, going all to hell.

"Health – Health and Safety regulations? Health and ... What – what are you talking about?" demanded the by now highly disconcerted Miss Julia Carson.

"Well," said the authoritative-looking bouncer and, smiling now, eliciting a smile from the other bouncer too who, Julia now realised, was clearly the authoritative-looking bouncer's underling, "it's because you are all ... dressed to kill."

At first, Julia didn't get it. And then Lisa giggled girlishly ... and then Julia got it. Got it, that the authoritative-looking hunky bouncer had paid them all a lovely compliment.

Of course! thought James, upon his remembering it was Lisa's twenty-first birthday, today. Yesterday (Friday) he'd presented her with a very nice card, and put £10 into the office whip-round collection for her. The other office girls had popped out to the shops Friday lunchtime, and bought Lisa's birthday present with the money they'd raised: some sort of scarf, that James didn't think was up to much, but that Lisa was absolutely delighted with; and a tiny bottle of perfume.

To Miss Julia Carson, the authoritative-looking, early-thirties hunky bouncer said smilingly, "Steve Conroy. Owner of Krystal's nightclub. Sorry if my er, little joke got you going there, for a minute. But perhaps free admission and first drinks on the house, for all of you lovely ladies, would go some way towards atoning for my sin?"

She's actually blushing! thought James as he avidly watched the scenario, as relayed to him via the medium of the mirror. Well, well, well ... Maybe it isn't ice-water running through her veins, after all, James conceded. And maybe Lisa is right: maybe Steve Conroy has, got "the hots" for Miss Carson. And, why not? James had always thought Miss Carson was a very attractive woman. And, credit where credit's due, she was certainly looking very glamorous and sexy tonight.

Miss Carson actually seemed flustered, thought James. And almost lost for words, which was so unlike her usual cool and collected self. But, under the dark-haired Steve Conroy's frank appraisal – under his penetrating, unwavering blue-eyed gaze, Miss Carson seemed to be melting. "Um ... Thank you, Mister Conroy. That's – that's very good of you. But, really, there's no need for any—"

"Nonsense! Please, let's hear no more about it – and it's Steve. Only my staff call me Mister Conroy. And, did I hear you say it's someone's birthday ... Lisa, wasn't it? Well, this calls for champagne!"

Turning to his bouncer, Steve Conroy said, "Dean, just nip to the bar, will you? Ask Benny to put a bottle of Moet on ice for Lisa, here, for her birthday celebration toast. And make sure you tell him it's on me; to put it on my tab, yeah? Got that?"

Just then, a gleaming black stretch-limo pulled up at the kerb. And when a uniformed driver came around to the rear kerb-side door and opened it, a mid-twenties, six-foot tall, suntanned, sun-bleached blonde-haired guy got out of the car. And, upon his seeing Steve Conroy, grinning delightedly and with his right hand extended in familiar greeting, the new arrival made straight for the Krystal's nightspot owner.

"Dave!" exclaimed Steve Conroy warmly, reaching for the newcomer's outstretched right hand, equally delightedly. "It's great to see you! And how can I ever thank you? Thanks for coming over, and fitting me in, mate. I know you must have pulled out all the stops; maybe called in a few favours."

"Ah, don't mention it, mate. After all, what are friends for? And anyway, would I miss your opening night? As if! And don't forget, Steve ... you'll be paying me a fair wedge!"

Then, gesturing to Miss Julia Carson and her five office girls, Steve Conroy said, "Ah, where are my manners, eh? Dave, allow me to introduce Miss Julia Carson, and her five friends – including Lisa, here, whose twenty-first birthday it is, today."

Then, to Miss Carson and her five office girls, Steve Conroy said, "Miss Julia Carson, and friends, allow me to introduce a great friend of mine: Disco Dave. He's in big demand, these days. He's booked-up in Ibiza all summer, doing the amazing nightclub scene there. But, as a personal favour to me he's flown over especially, just for Krystal's opening night."

Disco Dave said to Miss Carson and her five office girls, "I'm very pleased to meet you all – delighted, in fact. And, Lisa, I'll be sure to play you a birthday dedication song – just pop up to the stage later, and let me know what sounds you'd like me to play for you."

Steve Conroy then said, "Well, in you go then, ladies. Have a nice night at Krystal's." Then he added smilingly, looking directly at Miss Carson, "And I'll pop by later, to make sure you are all enjoying yourselves."

"Ooh! He's definitely got the hots for you, Miss Carson!" exclaimed Lisa, as soon as they were inside Krystal's and safely out of the earshot of Steve Conroy and Disco Dave.

"No, he hasn't! And don't be so vulgar! And I keep telling you, Lisa: it's Julia. We're not at the office now. We're all on a night out, here!"

Maxine then piped up, militantly, "Well, Jules, I agree with Lisa. Steve Conroy has, got his beady eye on you. Anyone can see – it's so obvious! You are well in there – and you know it. And, a hunk like him, too!"

Blushing even more furiously, Miss Carson blustered, "Oh, just shut up, Max. See what happens, when I give you lot an inch? You take a mile. I mean ... Jules, indeed! And Mister Conroy has not, got his eye on me – beady, or otherwise. And, I am not, well in there, as you so vulgarly put it, Max."

But then the eerie white light began pulsing again, all around the edges of the mirror, where the glass fitted into its ornately carved hardwood frame.

Pulsing its eerie white light, that emanated from all around the edges where the glass fitted into the ornately carved hardwood frame. Pulsing, signifying that ... something, was about to happen.

And then it was suddenly an altogether different scene, that was being 'televised' on the mirror's two-foot high, four-foot wide ultra high-definition 'screen'.

Once again, courtesy of the mirror, James was brought into the highly 'stimulating' presence of Jennifer and Sharon – the Barstool Blondes.

Jennifer and Sharon, James saw as the mirror panned around, were in nice surroundings, and sitting in very comfortable looking tubular chrome and pale-beige leather chairs. They were looking comfortable and relaxed, each with a long-stemmed, wide-bowled glass of red wine cupped in their hand.

And they were sitting side by side, so as to be able to share the very comfortable pouffe – the matching, square-shaped, two-foot high pale-beige leather squishy-topped footstool – that was propping up their relaxing bare feet.

Then James heard the sudden chirping ringing tone of a mobile phone, and he saw Jennifer reach over and pick up the phone from the glass-topped coffee table beside her. Upon seeing the caller ID, she said to Sharon, "It's Carl."

"Okay, Carl," said Jennifer into her phone, a moment later, after listening to what Carl was saying. "Park your car round the back, in the residents' car park. If the caretaker says anything, tell him that I said to let you in, okay? And we'll see you and Graham in a couple of minutes. Bye, sweetie."

Hmm ... mused James. I wonder where they are? At either Jennifer or Sharon's house or flat, most probably. And I wonder who Carl and Graham are? Jennifer and Sharon's boyfriends, most probably. And, are they about to go out? James wondered. They are both looking drop-dead gorgeous, in their body-hugging one-piece dresses; Jennifer's, dark blue, and Sharon's, dark red ... Ah, hence the matching shoes.

After taking a sip from her glass of red wine, Sharon said, "I've been looking forward to this all week – opening night, at Krystal's. And they've got Disco Dave as DJ. How did they manage that? I thought he was all booked-up in Ibiza, for the summer. Anyway, after how hard we've both worked all week – and especially today – I think we've earned it. Don't you, Jen?"

"Oh, and that's a fact!" replied Jennifer in wholehearted agreement. "And Carl and Graham will be here any minute. Carl said he'd just turned into the street."

The mirror panned down, to two feet above the dark-beige carpeted floor. And then panned around, until the mirror's 'lens' was pointing directly to the relaxing soles of Jennifer and Sharon's side-by-side, pouffe-propped bare feet and, beyond them, their lovely faces. And then zoomed in ... until Jennifer and Sharon's shapely bare soles and beautiful faces were filling up the whole of the mirror's magnificent, two-foot high, four-foot wide ultra high-resolution 'screen'; its breathtaking, just-like-looking-through-a-window 'picture', awesomely realistic.

Thrilled, to the close-up, ultra high-definition view of Jennifer and Sharon's bare soles; and to their dress-and-shoes-matching painted toes, scrunching luxuriantly in relaxed pleasure as they took small, appreciative sips from their glasses of red wine.

Most of all, James thrilled to the amazing fact that he was actually staring at the awesomely displayed soles of their shapely, sexy feet, and looking right at their very attractive, break-your-heart faces while, though apparently staring boldly right back at him, quite evidently Jennifer and Sharon were unaware – totally oblivious – of his ... interest.

Immediately, James's ... sacrificial left hand was once again reaching between his bare, unencumbered legs. And, adoringly staring at Jennifer and Sharon's pouffe-supported bare soles, he just couldn't help himself ... And he was at it again ... Rub, rub, rub ...

Sharon said, "Have you mulled over my idea from earlier, Jen? About taking on two employees, rather than just the one? The second one, who would go—"

Interrupting Sharon mid-sentence, came the sound of the intercom buzzer. It sounded four times in quick succession: short-long-short-long.

"Ah, here's Carl and Graham now," said Jennifer, putting her glass of red wine down on the coffee table beside her. Gracefully and effortlessly she got up from her comfortable looking tubular chrome and pale-beige leather chair, walked over to the wall-mounted intercom and pressed the Answer button.

"Me and Shaz will be ready in about ten minutes, Carl. So come on up, the pair of you ... and you can make yourselves useful, for ten minutes," Jennifer instructed.

Jennifer pressed the door-release button for the building's front entrance, and then walked over to her flat's front door and released the catch. She then resumed her seat, once again resting her bare feet upon the ultra comfy, squishy-topped pouffe, right beside Sharon's bare feet; ankles crossed, now, as were Sharon's.

And Jennifer had nice taste, he thought. He liked the way she'd kitted her place out: He liked her modern-style, chrome-and-leather furniture; the still-life picture prints on the walls; the brilliantly coloured and beautifully patterned vase on one occasional table, and the attractively shaded lamp, on another. He also liked the subdued, recessed lighting, and the quiet and relaxing colour scheme.

Carl and Graham made a beeline for their beautiful and statuesque girlfriends, Jennifer and Sharon, respectively, and the two couples engaged in a little smooching.

"Not to mention the shoes!" Graham exclaimed appreciatively. "Just look at those shoes, mate," he enthused, directing Carl's attention to the dark-beige carpeted floor by the pouffe, to Jennifer and Sharon's high-heeled strappy sandals: Jennifer's, dark blue, and Sharon's, dark red.

And then, without even being asked (" ... and you can make yourselves useful, for ten minutes."), Carl and Graham seemed to know just what to do.

James watched avidly, as Carl and Graham took up their respective positions: going to their knees at their girlfriend's feet, before the two-foot high, pale-beige leather squishy-topped pouffe. And then reverently, as though they were being allowed to handle in their unworthy hands, priceless, sacred objects, they solemnly took hold of their respective girlfriend's right foot.

James watched as, as if it was an Olympic event, in unison, and perfectly matching each other's apparently carefully timed and precisely regulated movements, like a two-man synchronised foot-massaging team Carl and Graham began to perform their ... routine.

From their demeanour, James got the distinct impression that this was an oft repeated, routine and regular ... dutiful service, that Carl and Graham so attentively performed for their put-up-on-a-pedestal girlfriends, Jennifer and Sharon.

And right away, James could see that he might learn a thing or two here, some nice little pointers – some valuable lessons. For Carl and Graham's foot-massaging technique was clearly of a highly advanced – 'gold medal' – standard.

For sure, it was more than a cut above his own, comparatively clumsy, disorganised style, as performed on his own foot-massage loving girlfriend, his lovely Debbie.

Upon his so suddenly and unexpectedly thinking of Debbie, for just the merest moment of time, James's maliciously manacled mind seemed on the point of a sudden liberation. Seemed about to snap its mental chains, and break free from the diabolical restraints that held it captive. Seemed about to rebel, from its sly subjugation ... Seemed about to challenge, actually challenge, the wicked, tyrannical authority of the mistress of the mirror.

Because, in that fleeting, glimpsing, chink-of-light moment when James's mind was almost his own again, James understood that what he was now doing – looking in, via the medium of the mirror's two-foot high, four-foot wide ultra high-resolution 'screen', upon what unsuspecting girls and women were saying and doing within the (presumed) privacy— no, the inviolable sanctity, of their very own homes – was wrong. Very wrong. Abominably, unutterably wrong.

Because he understood, that he was spying. Spying. Which was a very different thing altogether, to James's way of thinking, to innocently admiring girls' and women's feet clandestinely, as they absentmindedly shoe-played in front of him in a public place.

Because he had Debbie, to take care of his needs. All he needed, and all he wanted, was his Debbie. He didn't need, or want, anyone else. He didn't need, or want, anything, else. Just his Debbie.

But the mistress of the mirror, in sensing that something was suddenly amiss, immediately clamped down ... And slammed shut James's suddenly-opening window of opportunity – firmly battened down his 'escape hatch'.

The competing vibe, that was the direct cause of James's sudden uppity behaviour. The competing vibe, that was wholly attributable to her new sex slave's out-of-the-blue insubordination.

Another female, she sensed, who had achieved something that she, the mistress of the mirror, could never hope to achieve: win James's heart.

But she could repress it, suppress it, and ... imprison it. That was the main thing. She could lock it up, put it in solitary confinement ... and throw away the key.

The threat, that came from another, competing female. The threat, that came in the form of an undermining vibe, and signalled a red-alert warning; klaxon-called a clear and present danger, to her unspeakably heinous stronghold over James's heart and mind.

And so, the mistress of the mirror, in jealously guarding what was hers, now, had instantly and mercilessly put her foot down. She'd put her foot down, trampling down James's incipient, barely-gotten-started rebellion. Ruthlessly, she'd stamped on it. Putting it down. Utterly crushing it – annihilating it.

And so, like some callous owner of an irksomely misbehaving young mongrel, in so cruelly tightening his yoke, and so ruthlessly and viciously yanking on it, the mistress of the mirror had brutally brought James back to heel ... where he now belonged.

So re-establishing, her dastardly power. So reinstating, her insuperable authority. So regaining, her diabolical heart-and-mind control, over James.

... Carl and Graham's ... routine service, James now saw, looked to be supremely competent, well-practiced, and highly efficient – efficacious – if Jennifer and Sharon's now blissful-looking faces were anything to go by.

To James's eye, the movements of Jennifer and Sharon's boyfriend's fingers appeared completely assured: deft and knowing, and the rotating, firmly pressing pads of their expert fingers and thumbs unerringly applying accurately targeted, finding-the-spot ministrations.

Innocently admiring girls' and women's feet clandestinely, as he was wont to do, was all very well and good. But, as enjoyable as it was, as thrilling as it was – as arousing, as it was – it was not the way to achieve true fulfillment, he now 'realised', with absolute 'conviction'.

Servitude, at girls' and women's feet. Serving, in a worthwhile, useful, and enjoyable way – enjoyable, that is, to them: to the girls and ladies ... His betters.

His own fulfillment would thereby be achieved, he now fully 'understood', by selflessly putting aside his own, self-self-self, self-pleasing, and self-satisfying desires.

Carl and Graham certainly put their girlfriends up on a pedestal, observed James. And why shouldn't they? In James's opinion, Jennifer and Sharon deserved nothing less. For all the world, Carl and Graham looked to be Jennifer and Sharon's own, personal foot servants ... And Carl and Graham both looked to be very happy, too, in their worthwhile and useful roles.

James could hardly believe what he was hearing ... and what he was seeing: Seeing Jennifer and Sharon's boyfriends' almost slavish, devotee-like attentions ... And James was at it again ... Rub, rub, rub ...

And yes: this, was the life for him, too, James now 'realised'. He, too, wanted to go to his knees at the feet of girls and ladies, and put blissful smiles upon their faces.

A life of servitude, at the feet of girls and women. Up there – each and every one of them – upon his own, personal pedestal. Regal, reigning ... and ruling him.

Breaking into James's 'seeing-the-light', 'life-affirming' thoughts, Sharon, picking up from where she'd been interrupted earlier, said, "So ... about my suggestion, Jen. What do you think? About us taking on two employees, instead of just the one trainee that we'd initially planned on recruiting?"

Sharon, by means of lifting her left foot from the pouffe, and wiggling her toes at him, signalled to Graham to put down her right foot, and start massaging her left foot ... and Graham immediately and wordlessly complied with Sharon's instruction.

After taking a sip of her red wine, as requested Sharon then began laying out the salient details of her second-employee idea to Jennifer.

"This is the gist of it, Jen: One of our two employees – we'd decide which of them would be best suitable – would go mobile. She would perform off-premises reflexology sessions and pedicures. We'd buy a small van, and logo it up – and just think, Jen: as our mobile foot care consultant drives around town from one appointment to the next, our little van would be an advertisement on wheels, for Tootsies!"

"See, Jen ... After we've given her a crash-course tuition programme in the pedicure and reflexology sciences, the employee we choose to go mobile would then work out of our van. We'd kit the van out, especially for the purpose. She'll have on board, all of the equipment and paraphernalia she could possibly need to meet the varying requirements of each and every assignment. And she'd serve our clients at their home, or in their workplace – or wherever else, they might like to arrange their appointment. We'd call it our Clients' Convenience Service."

Sharon took another sip of red wine. And, after using her toe-wiggling method of indication to Graham to let him know that she wished him to switch back to massaging her right foot, she continued speaking to Jennifer.

"Okay, so a couple of ideas here, Jen, to run by you. To recap: Just as it is at the salon, the mobile pedicure service provided would be extremely flexible. Fully customised, so as to accommodate the varying demands of each of our clients' individual requests and requirements: the Clients' Convenience Service.

"... See, Jen, instead of our standard reflexology treatment, if they wished to take it up in preference, our clients would have available to them another, alternative, more ... client-oriented option: Our clients themselves, for the duration of their thirty-minutes or one-hour session, could choose to personally instruct our service provider; actually personally supervise her, as to exactly how they would like their feet to be massaged. And we'd call this more client-oriented service, our Clients' Convenience Service Extra."

"You've convinced me, Shaz ... So let's do it! First thing Monday morning we'll get in touch with the Job Centre. See if there are any suitable applicants for us to interview. With any luck, we might even find someone who can start work for us straight away. Oh ... although, wait a minute, Shaz. I can't help thinking, that many applicants might be rather put off, by the idea of providing our Clients' Convenience Service Extra service ... Don't you?"

"Yes, exactly. I mean, it's one thing, turning up at an appointment with the intention of performing a standard reflexology treatment, where you know beforehand exactly what's expected of you, and you are perfectly okay with it. But it would be quite another thing altogether, to report somewhere for an ... Extra, and then find yourself being ... well, ordered about, by clients. Actually being told, by clients, to do this, do that, and do something else, simply according to whatever whims they might happen to have. I mean, some job applicants might say that being placed in such a ... well, subservient position, would be just too embarrassing, and so demeaning – humiliating, even. Wouldn't they, Shaz?"

"Yes, exactly. It's human nature, Shaz. I mean, some clients, I've no doubt – probably not many, I'll grant you, but some – would see our Extra service as an opportunity to go on a power trip. You know, maybe show off to their colleagues at the office, or wherever. Maybe, if they are just outright malicious and mean – a real bitch, in other words – they might even threaten our service provider; try to put her over a barrel, saying they will submit a highly unsatisfactory report to us about her, to complain about her ... recalcitrance. Maybe even threaten to demand their money back, if she won't do ... whatever."

"Oh, nothing, really ... It's just that you said 'her', and 'she', Jen. I was just thinking back to what Joan said last night, in the Cock and Bull. She said that, too, didn't she? You know, when she talked about the possibility of our taking on a male employee – in particular, the guy who we caught staring at our feet ... Ha ha ha! That would take the biscuit, wouldn't it, Jen? If he came strolling into the salon on Monday, asking us to employ him as our new mobile foot care consultant!"

"Ha ha ha ha!" laughed Jennifer, tickled pink at the very thought. Kidding along, Jennifer said, "Yes ... And that would solve our Extra service problem very nicely, wouldn't it? We'd have no qualms in throwing him, to the wolves! Would we, Shaz? Ha ha ha!"

Albeit, in a bantering, non-serious, jokey way, Jennifer and Sharon were talking about him! About actually employing him, as their new mobile foot care consultant. Well, thought James, they might be laughing, but many a true word is spoken in jest ... And James was at it again ... Rub, rub, rub ...

"No, no qualms at all," agreed Sharon emphatically. "In fact, Jen, he'd probably enjoy it! Can you imagine, Jen, some of the things our Extra clients would have him doing, once they realised he was up for absolutely anything? He, wouldn't feel embarrassed, or demeaned, or humiliated. Would he? He'd, probably be more than happy, in performing whatever foot service our clients told him to do. And then, when word inevitably got around about his ... amenability, he'd be in great demand, and we'd make an absolute fortune out of him! Ha ha ha ha!"

"Ha ha ha!" laughed Jennifer. "Oh ... in theory, it's a nice idea, isn't it? But, come on. Let's get real, Shaz. It would never work in practice ... Unless, as we jokingly said to Joan, we really did find ... something, to put in his tea."

Perversely, at hearing Sharon's heinous proposal to inhibit his ... natural urges – to 'destimulate' him – for the diabolical purpose of exploiting his 'amenability', and making "an absolute fortune" out of his "up for absolutely anything" Clients' Convenience Service Extra foot services, James was stimulated all the more ... Rub, rub, rub ... Pull, pull, pull ... Tug, tug, tug ...

Jennifer indicated with a nod that she was ready. Then she said to her still foot-massaging boyfriend, "Okay, Carl, that was lovely. You can stop now, sweetie. Me and Sharon are ready now. Go and bring the car round to the front of the building, please, there's a love. And we'll be down in a minute."

When Sharon's boyfriend made as if to go with Carl, Sharon said, "No – not you, Graham. You can stay, and put mine and Jen's new high-heeled strappy sandals on, for us."

Well, why not? thought James, having now 'seen the light'. It was, an honour, he 'realised'. It was, a wonderful privilege, he 'understood'.

And James watched as, like some humbly attending acolyte gravely entrusted with the holiest of sacred objects, Graham solemnly picked up Jennifer and Sharon's high-heeled strappy sandals – Jennifer's, dark blue, and Sharon's, dark red. And, reverently, as though adoringly kneeling in the radiant presence of two goddesses, Graham duly performed this worthwhile and useful service ... Rub, rub, rub ... Pull, pull, pull ... Tug, tug, tug ... Yank, yank, yank ...

And then, via the unnatural medium of the mirror's two-foot high, four-foot wide 'screen', James watched as Graham, Jennifer and Sharon finally left the flat.

And by now, James was going bananas ... Rub, rub, rub ... Pull, pull, pull ... Tug, tug, tug ... Yank, yank, yank ... Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze ...

As the mirror zoomed in close, tracking the mesmeric progress of Jennifer and Sharon's gorgeously shod, sexy feet, James was arriving at yet another mind-shattering, body-wracking, ball-draining climax.

Once again, James's seed erupted out of him, spurting and spraying everywhere; blobs and gobbets of the viscous, sticky substance landing where they would.

Frantically, James rubbed, pulled, tugged and yanked his dick with his left hand, and squeezed his balls with his right hand. And, never for a moment, did James take his popping-out eyes from the mirror's 'screen', as he maniacally manipulated, and assiduously squeezed, until the after-pulse ... pulse ... pulse ... of his seed finally dried up to nothing.

Pulling a few Man-Size squares of super-absorbent tissue-paper from his economy-size box of Kleenex, James set about wiping up the resultant gooey mess.

As viewed through the paranormal medium of the mirror's two-foot high, four-foot wide ultra high-resolution 'screen', opening night at Krystal's nightclub was turning out to be a resounding success, James could see.

Celebrity DJ, Disco Dave, the musical maestro who had flown over from Ibiza especially, was, in James's opinion, earning every penny of his "outrageous fee". The back-spinning, in-great-demand turntable wizard was on top form.

The dance floor was packed; heaving with ravers. Their wildly gyrating bodies and expressively waving arms, awash with brilliantly coloured laser lights and strobes as they tripped the light fantastic to Disco Dave's 'sounds'.

And, right among the letting-their-hair-down throng, James saw as the mirror panned around to them, was his boss, Miss Julia Carson, and his five female office colleagues: Dancing together, and ... all of them barefoot.

But that wasn't all. For, dancing along with them, and also barefoot, was Jennifer and Sharon – the two proprietresses of Tootsies Pedicure Salon. Or, as James still thought of them: the Barstool Blondes.

What's going on here, then? wondered James, upon seeing that they'd all apparently gotten acquainted with each other ... And, at the sight of all of those lovely legs and sexy feet moving to the music, he was at it again ... Rub, rub, rub ...

And there, sitting at a table, upon which sat six drained-dry Champagne flutes (the Krystal's nightclub owner, Steve Conroy, having generously gifted a bottle of Moet & Chandon for the now twenty-one-years-old Lisa's birthday toast), were Jennifer and Sharon's boyfriends, Carl and Graham ... and the 'missing' shoes.

Like a specially trusted pair of guards from some elite regiment, Carl and Graham sat sentinel over the eight pairs of high-heeled shoes. The shoes were under the table, piled haphazardly where their owners had kicked them off preparatory to their eagerly joining the heaving dance floor.

Upon Disco Dave's latest 'number' coming to an end, Miss Julia Carson and her five office girls returned to their table and, relieved of their shoe guarding duties for the moment, Carl and Graham made for the dance floor, joining their girlfriends.

"Well, Lisa," said a slightly flushed-faced and breathless Miss Julia Carson, when they'd resumed their seats. "Aren't you the lucky one: a voucher for a complimentary pedicure and a one-hour reflexology session, at Tootsies Pedicure Salon!"

"Yes!" exclaimed Lisa delightedly. "It was just pure luck! Jennifer and Sharon just happened to be at the stage, waiting to put in a request, when I was letting Disco Dave know what I'd like him to play for me for my birthday dedication song. And when they heard that it was my twenty-first, Jennifer and Sharon insisted upon treating me to a one-hour reflexology session and a pedicure at their salon. And, if it's all right with you, Miss Carson – sorry, I mean Julia – I'd like to pop round to Tootsies during my tea-break on Monday afternoon, to make my appointment."

"Ladies!" boomed the voice of the suddenly appearing Steve Conroy, who, after smilingly nodding his hellos around the table, turned his gaze directly at Miss Julia Carson.

"I promised to pop by, to make sure you ladies are all enjoying yourselves, and ..." The Krystal's nightclub owner, upon looking down and seeing six pairs of unshod, ankle-flexing, toe-scrunching feet under the table, then added, "... it certainly looks like it!"

Yes! It certainly did, look like it, agreed James as he avidly ogled Miss Julia Carson's and her five office girls' dirty soled, incredibly sexy feet.

To be able to serve: to be able to put his tongue to work, upon his boss's and his five female office colleagues' dirty, dance-floor stained bare soles, in a worthwhile and useful manner ... Rub, rub, rub ...

"Yes, thank you, Mister Conroy – sorry, I mean Steve," replied the by now decidedly tipsy Miss Julia Carson, flexing and scrunching her cherry-red painted toes, as the Krystal's nightclub owner openly admired them.

And Lisa, Stacey, Maxine, Gail and Jane all replied brightly that they were ... while smilingly exchanging knowing looks with each other. Looks, that said: She's pulled!

Then, nodding at the empty glasses on the table, Steve Conroy said, "Ah, I see you are all empty. I'll get my head barman, Benny, to send one of his bar staff over to take your drinks order." As he headed towards the bar, he said over his shoulder, "Save you ladies the trouble of queuing at the bar, so you can concentrate on enjoying yourselves."

Miss Julia Carson rewarded the Krystal's nightclub owner with a smile that James thought had more in it than just gratitude ... and her five office girls smilingly exchanged some more knowing looks.

Less than a minute later, a black bow-tie'd, black-waistcoat wearing bartender reported to their table. To Miss Julia Carson, he said respectfully, "Excuse me, Miss. I'm Benny, Mister Conroy's head barman. The boss said to send one of my staff over to take your drinks order. But I, well ... I thought I'd better come personally."

When she'd sent the respectful, all but cap-in-hand Benny on his way with her order, Miss Carson turned to see the expressions on her five office girls' faces.

Under the progressing, ever strengthening influence of the mistress of the mirror's unnatural ... imposition, James was in a real state of delirium.

James was feeling such an incredible strength of emotion, of ardour, of passion – of lust. A lust, that totally eclipsed anything in his, insipid by comparison, previous sphere of experience.

For now, James was experiencing such wants, such yearnings – such ravening cravings – the likes of which far exceeded the usual borders of his foot fetishist's desires.

James watched raptly as, relayed live to him via the supernatural medium of the mirror's ultra high-definition 'screen', in glorious, 'technicolour' close-up, he witnessed the bare soles of Miss Julia Carson and her five office girls, and the bare soles of Jennifer and Sharon too, get dirtier, and dirtier ... Rub, rub, rub ...

James saw their feet get dirtier and dirtier, as they continued to dance the night away to Ibiza legend Disco Dave's 'sounds', barefoot ... Rub, rub, rub ... Pull, pull, pull ...

Stained, from the steadily accruing, layer-upon-layer adherence of a thin and tacky, almost silt-like film, that, composed of dust, dirt, the various liquids of carelessly spilled drinks, and the combined foot sweat of dozens of other female barefoot dancers, amalgamated in a noisome goo that stubbornly stuck to their bare soles ... Rub, rub, rub ... Pull, pull, pull ... Tug, tug, tug ...

And now, in the uncontrollable, feverish throes of his ... induced, rapture – in the unshakable grip of his newly programmed, preternatural state of mind – James wanted nothing more, at that moment, than to be able to offer his ... services.

And he wanted nothing more, than to report for 'duty': To go to his knees, at the dirty feet of Miss Julia Carson, her five office girls, and Jennifer and Sharon too, and put his tongue to work on their grubby, grimy, dance-floor stained bare soles.

Licking and lapping away, like some deranged, banged-on-the-head Basset hound, until nary a vestige of dance-floor detritus remained to sully their soles. And then ... keep on, licking and lapping away ... Rub, rub, rub ... Pull, pull, pull ... Tug, tug, tug ... Yank, yank, yank ...

And instead, selflessly applying himself in doing something for them – the girls and ladies. Something, that was worthwhile, and useful ... Rub, rub, rub ... Pull, pull, pull ... Tug, tug, tug ... Yank, yank, yank ... Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze ...

Once again, such was the unparalleled, insuperable effectiveness of the mistress of the mirror's all-knowing, button-pushing, pulse-quickening powers of ... stimulation, achieving climax was easy, for James.

This time, there was no explosive eruption. This time, there was no plentiful spurting and spraying of his seed, all over the place ... just a pathetic, sorry-looking, drab little dribble.

Giving up every last, increasingly hard-won, squeezed-out drop of his after-pulse ... pulse ... pulsing essence, until it finally dried up to nothing.

To the mistress of the mirror, who, frenziedly feasting upon the essential ingredient, nutrient-rich 'production' of James's 'willing' sacrifices, was flourishing ... And developing.

Pulling out a few Man-Size squares of super-absorbent tissue-paper from his economy-size box of Kleenex, James set about wiping up the resultant sticky mess.