The Heel Bar Ch. 03

"Because I am telling you now: just one minute late, and I will exercise my discretion to double your Standard Six caning penalty -- and CSO Debbie or another colleague can follow-on and take her cane to your exposed buttocks in the AFP-prescribed manner as well. Again: am I clear, male citizen Carl?"

"Yes. You are very clear, CSO Trudi. Extremely clear. Thank you."

"On your way, then, male citizen Carl," said the brunette off-duty CSO. "You have duly received your Punishment Notice, served by CSO Trudi. Well ...? Don't let us keep you. Go and facilitate your assigned barstool."

"Yes, CSO Debbie. Thank you. And have a nice evening."

I finally made it to the bar -- and as had happened on almost every other previous occasion, with seemingly uncanny coincidence I arrived to see the petite barmaid Chloe turn her back on me and reach up to press the rim of a highball glass against the optics under a bottle of spirits.

I looked downward, and once again I felt that same surge of excitement upon seeing that Chloe was wearing the flexible flat black shoes she usually wore to her bar work, and in keen anticipation I watched, knowing what was about to happen ...

But knowing didn't prepare me for the heart-lurching thrill that threatened to buckle my knees this time as, five and a half hours into her busy, hectic, run-off-her-feet Saturday-night shift, grubbier than I'd ever seen them before, the bottoms of Chloe's work-begrimed bare heels popped free and clear of her well-worn black leather flats.

Just that, albeit momentary sight, the enthralling image was worth the six agonising cane strokes and probably some face-slaps thrown in too for good measure when, on Monday at the Town Hall, I reported to CSO Trudi to unjustly receive at her power-happy de-trousering and underwear-divesting hands the Standard Six bared-bottom caning penalty on the horizontal caning-frame for misperceived unpunctuality.

As though sensing watchful eyes upon her, Chloe looked over her shoulder and saw me, standing behind the presently unoccupied and unfacilitated Barstool 9.

Chloe smiled, as though pleasantly surprised to see me and, upon seeing the redirection of my rapt downward gaze, she stood higher, right up on the pads of her toes in that way of hers -- revealing the equally grubby balls of her feet, her comparatively clean arches, and even the undersides of her toes.

What a sight! I didn't know what it was about it, but it really stirred me up. It was—

"Male citizen Carl -- how delightful!" breezily greeted Ms Andrea Leasome, the tall and slim, mid-thirties blonde proprietress of the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road.

Attired in her Saturday-night evening wear and standing many inches taller than me in her high-heeled mules, Ms Leasome looked fantastic.

But I only had eyes for Chloe.

Chloe was pressing the rim of a second highball glass to the vodka optics, maintaining her reaching up, on-her-toes stance, and it was a monumental effort to divert my enraptured eyes from that mesmeric sight -- the enthralling image, that had tormented my nighttimes for the last four weeks, invariably requiring multiple ... remedial treatments.

"Good evening, Ms Leasome," I replied eventually. "I ... um, I ... er ..."

I'd prepared a believable backup of feasible semi-truths and passable plausibilities to satisfy the cursory questions of the doormen.

But now that it was time to admit my truthful motivations to the Heel Bar proprietress Ms Andrea Leasome, who apparently was expecting me, looking into her eyes I found myself helplessly lost for words -- how could I possibly explain coherently my unscheduled presence, now, when I had completed my four-week sanction-Placement yesterday evening?

"There's no need to explain, male citizen Carl," the attractive and charismatic Ms Leasome told me as if she'd read my troubled mind. "I am a woman of the world and so are my barmaids. I know perfectly well the reason for your unscheduled presence here at the Heel Bar tonight."

Even more, lost for words, I just stared back at Ms Andrea Leasome.

"Feel free, male citizen Carl, to contradict me if I misunderstand you ...

"After long and much-anguished introspection; after focused deliberation of your intense innermost feelings, you have managed to overcome the self-questioning stumbling block to your heart's desire.

"You have found the courage to present yourself to us at the Heel Bar again, post-sanction: As a willing-volunteer Barstool Footboy, in the hope of winning my barmaid Chloe's after-work favour.

"Just as Chloe hoped you would -- and as I assured her you would. Believe me: I can always tell ... the ones, male citizen Carl."

I was dumbfounded. It was as if Ms Leasome's blue-eyed gaze was looking beyond my eyes and into my mind and seeing what, to her, was all laid out there in plain view.

"You look aghast, male citizen Carl. But I think you know that you are not the first post-Placement male citizen to come back to us to offer his barstool-facilitation service freely. That you are not the only ex-sanction barstool footboy who has attempted to repress but, ultimately come to override, his self-recriminatory soul-searching and to accept the irrefutability of his awakened life-changing self-truths."

"Ms Leasome, I ... er—"

"The awakened life-changing self-truth, that you wish to be as close as possible to the soles of my barmaid Chloe's after-work feet. That is what you want. Isn't it? What, you have come to yearn for, with all of your heart?

"To gaze at Chloe's tired and achy after-shift soles, up-close, in reverent adoration? To bury your nose under her toes and inhale her post-work foot-scent; to breathe it in? And to kiss her soles, in true -- devotional -- worship?"

In shocked disbelief at her hitting-the-nails-on-the-head insight, I could only stare back in awe at Ms Leasome.

"Yes, male citizen Carl. It is as I thought: Through the barstool-footboy grapevine, or from eavesdropping on private bar-counter conversations between barmaids and barstoolistas, you have heard about the devotees. The willing-volunteer barstool footboys, who are devoted either to myself or to one of my barmaids as our after-hours winding-down-drink barstool facilitators."

"Um ... I—"

"The devotees, who, such is their overwhelming yearning to barstool-facilitate their special-one, they serve untold hours of willing-volunteer barstool facilitation to barstoolistas in hopes of winning the ultimate prize.

"How many nights have you lain awake, restless and sleepless, thinking about Chloe's feet?

"How many times have you spilt your sacrificial seed, male citizen Carl, in your fervent, dead-of-night devotions to your special-one Chloe?

"And -- again, tell me if I am wrong -- I have good reason to believe that your seminal dead-of-night adorations extend to your Case Worker at the Job Centre, Miss Pamela Pettiford, who sanctioned you to your weekday early-shift four-week Placement at the Heel Bar.

"So that she, a hardworking AFP frontline employee and a tireless contributor to female-friendly furtherance, could bring you -- to her, an annoying workshy nuisance -- not just figuratively but literally to heel, to avail herself of the gratifying pleasures of your enforced barstool facilitation while enjoying her usual weekday post-work tipple."

Stunned at the depth and detail of the Heel Bar proprietress's acquired knowledge and unnerved at her seemingly perfect perspicacity, I was grateful that the loud thumping music was covering most of our mostly one-sided conversation from candidly curious barstoolistas and openly eavesdropping ticket-holder in-waiting ladies as in awed amazement I stared back at the mindreader Ms Leasome.

"Well ...? How am I doing so far, male citizen Carl?

"I notice you haven't contradicted me: not about your infatuation with your special-one my barmaid Chloe, or your reverent respect for your authority-figure syndrome idol, Miss Pettiford, who nightly you adore, paying the same ultimate devotions.

"You can speak to me, male citizen Carl. You can tell me about your inner-turmoil: your disconcerting conflictions of rational thoughts and irrational feelings. As others before you have done. Just let it all out.

"Come and see me in my office an hour before opening time tomorrow, and tell me everything. You have come this far; so why not disburden yourself of any remaining unhealthy repressions, by confiding your innermost secrets to me? Believe me: you'll be glad you did.

"Because, while your condition has no cure, as proprietress of the Heel Bar I am possessed of the means to treat the symptoms; to manage them.

"Here at the Heel Bar, there is no limit to the female clientele that you will be allowed ultra close-up adoration access in your daily barstool-facilitator service to barstoolistas as a willing-volunteer barstool footboy.

"Don't be embarrassed, male citizen Carl. Your uncontrollable proclivity is not as uncommon as you might think -- and what is more, it is a trait regarded by many females as a delightful positive in a male."

"But ... but how ..."

"How do I know you, far better than you know yourself ...?" Ms Leasome filled in for me. "Oh -- where shall I start!

"Well ... reporting for duty noticeably early every day of your weekday early-shift four-week sanction-Placement, your avid looks of longing at the bottoms of Chloe's bare heels when in her flats she goes up on her tippy toes at the optics to fix my gin and lime pre-opening tipple were apparent to Chloe right from Day One.

"The singularity of your downward-focused attentions were soon picked up on too by all of my other barmaids, who, as the days of your four-week sanction-Placement rolled on, observed your obvious obsession with Chloe with barely controlled amusement.

"And, upon being relieved at the end of your weekday early-shifts by your replacement at the seven o'clock barstool footboy changeovers, while other freed barstool facilitators couldn't wait to get away, your lingering post-duty exit drew attention and, what you thought were casual, innocent glances, your open ogling and unsubtle staring as you followed Chloe's heel-popping footsteps around the bar was noticed and commented on by barstoolistas.

"And then I, of course -- always with a keen eye open to catch the furtive, giveaway glances and spot the thinly disguised downward-directed gazes of any of the latest contingent of sanction-Placemented barstool-facilitator newcomers -- was well aware of the classic telltale signs of your awakening ... special interest.

"Oh, yes. Over these last four weeks, I have watched your barstool facilitations with very close interest, and your compliant service to even the most testing of barstoolistas has never been less than exemplary.

"For instance: Such, was your excellent, faultless facilitation of Miss Pettiford's barstool when during her post-work tipple she did her utmost but failed to provoke you to noncompliance, that she bemoaned to me your denial of her rightful revenge of backheel-blackening your eyes; of delivering the bottom-of-the-heel stigmatic comeuppance that many barstoolistas inflict without scruple just because they can, but that she couldn't -- not in good conscience.

"And, male citizen Carl, as I have said: You are not alone in your special-one particularity -- your one-barmaid devotion.

"It may ease your mind to learn, that you are merely the latest of five additions this week to our stable of after-hours-drink barstool-footboy devotees.

"It won't comfort you to learn, though, that although many others have fallen by the wayside not from diminishment of desire but from sheer exhaustion, at present, you still have three willing-volunteer barstool-footboy competitor obsessives -- three similarly besotted and equally determined and seemingly indefatigable contenders for Chloe's post-work favour.

"Sanctioned by their Case Worker at the Job Centre as you were, or assigned to the Heel Bar by the higher authority of the local AFP Community Service Liaison Officer, Ms Alma Ruddy MP, as punishment for an infraction or infractions against the Female-Friendly Code, all of our devotees are ex-Placemented barstool footboys.

"But, like all of our longer-serving one-barmaid devotees who have benefited from my personal guidance as their counsellor and confidant, not only have the latest four novices already acknowledged and accepted now the undeniability of their repressed self-truths, but they have come to embrace their formerly dormant but now awakened leanings wholeheartedly.

"Evolved, to revel in the newfound freedoms of their liberated inner-selves.

"Not only as exclusive devotees to their special one. But, when unsuccessful in their after-hours-favour bid on the night, offering their post-work barstool-facilitator service to any other, unfacilitated barmaid.

"Your three rivals for Chloe's post-work favour are just as reverentially respectful and ardently adoring in their nighttime devotional worship of Chloe as you are, and their deep desire to do all they can to win the privilege of facilitating her after-hours-drinks barstool remains undiminished.

"All three of them are well-seasoned, with months and in one case a veteran with more than a year of seven-days-a-week willing-volunteer barstool facilitation experience behind him -- so you'll have it all to do, male citizen Carl.

"As with the devotees to myself, and the devotees to my seven full-time barmaids: Camilla, Leanne, Rosalind and Chloe are the ones on duty tonight -- Chloe's bestowals of her post-work favours upon her devotees are reward-based, decided upon their on-the-day Heel Bar attendance records.

"The day's successful devotee to win Chloe's after-hours favour will be the one still in attendance at closing time at two a.m. and who that day has served the most hours of voluntary barstool facilitation to barstoolistas.

"In the not unusual circumstance that more than one of her devotees have been in continual barstool facilitation from opening time at five p.m. until closing time at two a.m., Chloe will choose her preference, disappointing her other unsuccessful devotee or devotees.

"Tonight, though, Chloe's other three devotees -- all of them, in-attendance now, and have been barstool-facilitating since opening-time at five p.m. -- might all go to bed early.

"That is to say, at closing time at two a.m., Chloe will thank them for their willing-volunteer barstool facilitations this evening, and regretfully inform them that their after-hours attentions are not required by her tonight -- but to check with the other barmaids. So that, in the unusual event that one of the barmaids is without the post-work attendance of one of their usual devotee barstool facilitators, he can offer himself for said after-hours-drink-service provision.

"Because tonight, Chloe -- footsore after a busy, run-off-her-feet Saturday-night shift -- will allow you, male citizen Carl Carson, to barstool-facilitate her after-hours winding-down drink with the other three barmaids and me.

"Now, male citizen Carl ..." said Ms Leasome, looking at her wristwatch "... down to business.

"To earn Chloe's after-hours favour -- which as I've explained is one-off guaranteed to you tonight; after that, you'll have to compete on equal terms with your three rival devotees for a chance to win it -- you may install yourself at Barstool Nine, and facilitate the ladies who occupy it between now and closing time at two a.m.

"Oh -- think how pleased Pamela -- your Miss Pettiford -- will be! To learn she has been principally instrumental in liberating your repressed inner-self and awakening your dormant leanings. When I tell her, that she has brought about your daily willing-volunteer barstool-facilitator service to all of us ladies!

"I'm going to call her right now, and let her know that you are here -- and I'm sure she'll come!

"She'll so want to avail herself of the unsurpassable service of the now willing-volunteer facilitator of Barstool Nine!"

"Yes, Ms Leasome," I said. "I'm sure she will."

"There you go, then, male citizen Carl. Chop chop -- install yourself! And I'll put Barstool Nine's vacancy up on the digital readout displays to show your availability to the next in line ticket-holder lady."

"Yes, Ms Leasome," I said compliantly.

Noticing that barstool footboys were facilitating Barstool 8 and Barstool 10 to my left and right respectively and what the unshod feet of their inebriated barstoolistas (the first barefoot, the second white-nyloned) were doing to their easily reached faces, I knew that within moments of my installation at Barstool 9 I would be in for similar treatment.

I sat down on the hard coolness of the high barstool's flat circular chrome base, inserting my head through the circular chrome rounded-rimmed footrest so that I was facing the dark red leather frontage of the bar.

No sooner had I done so, when from the corner of my right eye I saw the arriving legs and feet of my first Saturday-night barstoolista.

Her bare legs were extraordinarily shapely and lightly tanned, and I watched as in her yellow leather high-heeled shoes she ascended the three steps to reach the narrow platform/walkway that ran along all four sides of the rectangular-shaped bar; this, three-step access point, allowing direct access to Barstools 9 and 10.

Upon reaching the narrow platform/walkway, she stepped sideways to her left, to Barstool 9.

I watched the tension go from the calves of her fabulous legs as she sat down.

The girl with the dynamite legs promptly eased both feet from her yellow leather spiked-heel shoes. And in the manner of many barstoolistas, she hung them by their high heels from the conveniently rounded rim of the barstool's circular chrome footrest, just in front of and to either side of her barstool footboy's face -- where she could easily retrieve them, and he could not avoid seeing them nor ignore their potent female-friendly symbolism.

Lady Luck had smiled on her: Her hoped-for 49/1 chance ticket-number/barstool-number correlation of the digital readout display had fortuitously come up for the girl with the million-dollar legs.

And if I'd needed further proof of her identity, she duly supplied it, in the sound of my professed wannabe barstoolista's voice ("Oooh ... I hope I get him!"), calling out for a double-vodka and orange with lots of ice and two slices of lemon.

"Coming right up, Charlotte!" came the cheerful reply from Ms Leasome, now back helping behind the bar again.

Charlotte rested the tops of her now shoeless feet on the rounded-rimmed chrome footrest, right in front of my face, and I stared in awe at the perfect proportionality of her inches-away lightly tanned soles.

Just as I had done on countless previous occasions at beholding the just-unshod feet of barstoolistas, I could not help myself but lean my head forward the mere inch or two to kiss the sole of my first Saturday-night barstoolista's left foot to express the extreme extents of my awestruck adoration.

In homage, I pressed my lips to the undersides of Charlotte's toes; my eyes, riveted in reverence to the bottom of her inch-away bare heel. I then kissed the ball of her foot, and then her arch, and finally, I let my worshipful lips linger on the bottom of her bare heel, once again, marvelling at the sense of fulfilment that coursed through me at the voluntary bestowal of this symbolic act of submission.

I then repeated my reverential respects to the sole of Charlotte's right foot -- first, inhaling her under- and in-between-the-toes scent. Her unfamiliar female-feet fragrance, yet another new olfactory intoxicant; yet another amalgam of arousing aromas to fill my head and suffuse my blood as a brought-to-heel barstool facilitator.