The Heel Bar Ch. 03

And like many barstoolistas before her, Charlotte's soles-of-the-feet scents catalysed my incurable proclivity ("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"), the combined olfactory/visual/tactile stimuli, triggering the irrepressible and irresistible onsets of an intense desire to adore and of insatiable barstool-bound carnal cravings.

The girl with the million-dollar legs -- who, while she did not scruple to bring me literally to heel, I intuited that upon vacating Barstool 9 she would not disdainfully desert me with a thank-you-and-good-night double-backheel to stigmatise-blacken my eyes to remember her by awhile, just because she could -- wiggled and flexed and scrunched her toes luxuriantly.

It was a familiar sign: a barstoolista conveying to me that my adorations to her were acceptable and that they should continue.

Miss Sugar and Spice and All Things Nice then reached her golden bare soles back the mere inches to my circular-footrest-encaptured face and proceeded to enjoy her own, combined sensual pleasures: a satisfying double-vodka and orange with lots of ice and two slices of lemon, and the gratifying barstool facilitations of a brought-to-heel barstool footboy.

*

The succession of anonymous barstoolistas, whose legs and feet only, I saw as between 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. they ascended the three steps to the narrow platform/walkway in front of the bar to occupy Barstool 9 upon their ticket-number/barstool-number correlation with the digital readout display, was a tantalising taster; a twelve-barstoolista appetiser to the primary, after-hours event.

Contrasting with the low- to medium-heeled black pumps predominantly worn by the 9 - 5 office workers and shop girls whose post-work tipples I'd barstool-facilitated during my weekday 5 p.m. to 7 p.m. four-week sanction-Placement, the twelve out-on-the-town lady drinkers who came to place their feet on the circular chrome footrest in front of my inches-away brought-to-heel face wore a variety of going-out shoes.

There were lots of other notable differences between the mostly one-drink-and-then-home office worker/shop girl early-evening barstoolistas, and the letting-their-hair-down and having-a-few late-night-reveller barstool occupiers.

The out-on-the-towners, drowning their inhibitions in AFP-subsidised drink, either shoe-played absentmindedly in alcohol-influenced exuberance as they chatted to other barstoolistas, or facial foot-rubbed me, or foot-tapped my face in time with the beats of the loud thumping music as they bopped and swayed on their high barstools.

During the three hours between 11 p.m. and closing time at 2 a.m., I was surprised but by no means disappointed that as many as twelve barstoolistas had occupied Barstool 9.

As this was my first late-night experience at the Heel Bar, I didn't know if this was unusual, or the normal average timespan for barstool-footboy occupancy.

I had thought though that, once finally in situ, the in-waiting ticket-holder ladies would want to enjoy their barstool footboy's facilitation for rather longer than the fifteen-minute average of my twelve experiences this Saturday night.

But then, perhaps we barstool footboys had too big an opinion of ourselves -- there were maybe half a dozen other male-facilitated Theme Bars on Tockenham Coat Road for pub-crawling ladies to visit besides the Heel Bar.

Strictly speaking, only ten of the twelve ladies to occupy Barstool 9 and its attendant footboy during my Saturday-night three-hour facilitation had been (and had chosen to remain) anonymous.

Although upon vacating Barstool 9 she did not lean down to identify herself to me, she didn't have to -- besides hearing her voice when she'd ordered her drink, there had been no mistaking her million-dollar legs. So I knew that for twenty minutes I had been barstool-facilitating my professed wannabe barstoolista -- Miss Sugar and Spice and All Things Nice -- who afterwards had verified my hunch that prior to vacating her barstool she would not disdainfully desert me with a thank-you-and-good-night double-backheel to blacken my eyes to remember her by awhile just because she could.

And secondly, although for the first time not dark-pantyhosed but bare, neither could I fail to recognise the familiar well-toned shapely legs of my four-week sanction-Placement-awarding Case Worker at the Job Centre, Miss Pamela Pettiford.

Turning up, no doubt, at being informed by Ms Leasome of my unscheduled but not, to her, unexpected reappearance tonight, and of my imminent self-enrolment as a willing-volunteer barstool footboy to compete on equal terms with my three well-seasoned rival devotees to win the barmaid Chloe's reward-based post-work favour to facilitate her after-hours winding-down-drink barstool.

Recognised her, when at around midnight she ascended the three steps to reach the narrow platform/walkway in front of the bar, side-stepped to her left, sat down on Barstool 9, and placed her high-heeled white leather pump shod feet on the circular chrome footrest in front of my inches-away face.

And, as I'd watched Miss Pettiford ease her feet from her high-heeled white leather going-out shoes and, in the manner of many settling-in-for-a-drink barstoolistas, hang them by their heels from the conveniently rounded rim of the circular chrome footrest, I came to accept that the words of my now anti-repression counsellor and confidant Ms Leasome to me earlier were proving uncontestable:

Although there was no cure for my condition, as proprietress of the Heel Bar Ms Andrea Leasome was possessed of the means to treat the symptoms; to manage them.

Here at the Heel Bar, there would be no limit to the number of female clientele feet that, in daily competition with my three ("just as reverently reverential and ardently adoring in their nighttime devotional worship of Chloe") rival devotees to win Chloe's favour, serving untold hours as a willing-volunteer barstool facilitator I would be allowed ultra close-up adoration access to barstoolistas as a means of controlling my incurable proclivity.

And perhaps none more so than the feet of Miss Pamela Pettiford herself who, responsible for literally bringing me to heel at the Heel Bar -- where I promptly fell head over heels in worship with her friend the barmaid Chloe, resulting in my ardent expressions of unreserved reverence to both of them in my dead-of-night devotions -- was influential in and responsible for the liberation of my repressed inner-self and the awakening of my long-dormant leanings.

Miss Pettiford's not dark-nyloned but bare soles, that Saturday night as she occupied Barstool 9 and chatted to Chloe (who confirmed that tonight she would allow me to facilitate her after-hours winding-down-drink barstool to test the acceptability of her latest wannabe devotee), I was privileged to gaze at adoringly and permitted to inhale her under- and in-between-the-toes scent and allowed to kiss in reverence while she enjoyed a bottle of her usual ice-cold pilsner lager.

Upon vacating Barstool 9 and descending the three steps back to floor-level, Miss Pamela Pettiford leant down to look at me -- in my case, Miss Pettiford was not concerned about preserving her anonymity; with hiding her identity from her just-vacated barstool footboy.

The hoppy aroma of strong lager was heavy on her breath. Clearly, she'd already had a few; the Heel Bar had not been her first Saturday-night port of call.

Miss Pettiford didn't speak to me as she looked down on me, and unless she did so, and so invite a reply, under the female-citizen-mistress/male-citizen-servant societal interaction protocols of the Female-Friendly Code, I wasn't at liberty to say anything to her.

So I was disappointed that I couldn't tell my "authority-figure syndrome idol" Miss Pamela Pettiford that, not only was I entirely agreeable with serving daily for untold hours as one of the Heel Bar proprietress Ms Andrea Leasome's willing-volunteer barstool footboys, but I would regard it as an honour and a privilege if she would continue to choose me to barstool-facilitate her post-work tipple in future.

But Miss Pettiford appeared to read my thoughts. She smiled at me and patted my cheek, as she might spare an indulgent moment to acknowledge and reward the pleasing actions of a well-behaved pet.

Miss Pettiford told Chloe she might be back later but now she was returning to her friends at Isabel's -- one of the other male-facilitated Theme Bars on Tockenham Coat Road -- where she'd been when Ms Leasome had phoned to pass on the pleasing news of my unscheduled but not altogether unexpected reappearance at the Heel Bar.

Miss Pamela Pettiford looked down on me again, and said, "Don't forget your next Job Centre appointment on Tuesday afternoon, male citizen Carl. To see me at three o'clock, when you will present to me a comprehensive report on your efforts over the last two weeks to find gainful employment -- and don't be late!"

"Yes, Miss Pettiford," I said respectfully. "And I'll be on time."

My four-week sanction-Placement-awarding Case Worker at the Job Centre then turned on the high heel of her white leather going-out shoe to exit the Heel Bar and return to Isabel's -- but I saw the smirk of triumphant satisfaction on her lager-flushed face before she turned away.

*

"It's the flavour of the lime, Chloe; it makes all the difference," said Ms Andrea Leasome, proprietress of the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road.

I heard the tinkling of ice cubes in her highball glass as Ms Leasome took another sip of her usual post-work tipple -- the same as her pre-work indulgence: a large gin and tonic with lots of ice and the all-important slice of lime.

Then came the muted thunk, as with another sigh of hitting-the-spot satisfaction after a busy Saturday shift on her feet, Ms Leasome placed her now twice refilled glass down on her coaster on the bar top.

The nonstop loud, thumping Saturday-night music that I could only describe as a dreadful din but could bear testament that my barstoolistas had enjoyed bopping to on their barstools had finally fallen silent at closing time at 2 a.m.

Not many of those Saturday-night barstoolistas had vacated the high barstools upon which they perched like pampered princesses with good grace, though.

When over the PA system Ms Leasome had called out 'Time, ladies -- please!', some of the sozzled barstoolistas gave up their prized occupances reluctantly. Maybe half a dozen of them, relinquishing the comforts and pleasures of their attendant sanction-Placemented/willing-volunteer barstool footboy grudgingly or even unwillingly.

I was one of the fortunate barstool facilitators.

At Ms Leasome's closing-time call, perhaps as a reward in acknowledgement of my impeccably compliant barstool facilitation, my final Saturday-night barstoolista had promptly removed the soles of her facial-foot-rubbing bare feet from my face, inserted and strapped them into her high-heeled dark blue leather slingback shoes, and vacated Barstool 9 quietly.

But I heard the cries of complaints and shouts of objection and futile pleas for mercy from other barstool footboys as their boozed-up barstoolista in her petulant tantrum meted out spiteful thank-you-and-good-night eye-blackening backheels to the circular chrome footrest encaptured face of their barstool facilitator -- just because she could.

For him to remember her by awhile, as, in his growing dismay in the ensuing days, he could not help but recall to mind his anonymous barstoolista's disdainful desertion as he surveyed in the bathroom mirror at home the developing multicoloured mess of his blackeyed-stigmatised face.

After seeing out the barstoolistas first and giving them an anonymity-preserving ten-minute start before allowing the barstool footboys to uninstall themselves from their assigned barstool, doormen Tony and Vince had returned to say a polite goodnight to the barmaids and to get the nod from Ms Leasome that they could now go off duty.

"I think you may have mentioned that before, Ms Leasome," replied the barmaid Chloe with a giggle.

Chloe sounded as if she was starting to get more than a bit tipsy.

Sitting right above my head for the last twenty-five minutes as she occupied Barstool 9, Chloe was also on her third post-work tipple: Bacardi and coke -- her own, after-work drink of choice.

Sitting on the circular chrome base of Barstool 9 with my head inserted inside its circular chrome footrest, I could hardly tear my eyes away from my dreamed-of but now incredibly realised close-up view of Chloe's relaxing but restless post-work feet.

The realities of my first experience as Chloe's after-hours-drink barstool facilitator eclipsed everything I'd imagined over the last four weeks in my ardently adoring dead-of-night devotions to her.

Chloe was relatively calm for the moment.

As now, in the foot-loose manner of many of the predominantly black pump shod office-worker/shop-girl one-drink-and-then-home barstoolistas whose barstools I'd facilitated on weekdays from 5 p.m. to 7 p.m. over the last four weeks, protruding from her well-worn black leather flats, the bottoms of Chloe's bare heels were just inches in front of my face as she relaxed with a drink.

But instinctively I knew that the foot- and shoe-playing shenanigans she'd engaged in and the double-sole facial foot-rubbing she'd luxuriated in and the forced under- and in-between-the-toes-scent sniffing she'd subjected me to right from the moment she'd perched herself upon Barstool 9 were only on pause.

And so, in rapt expectation of abrupt resumptions of Chloe's alcohol-influenced barstool-perched activities, she still nonetheless commanded my unwavering anticipant attention.

Chloe didn't keep me waiting for long.

Chloe rested the ball of her left foot on the barstool's circular chrome footrest and hooked her right foot behind her left ankle. And, while chatting to the other three barmaids and Ms Leasome, the grubby bottom of her right heel was for one fleeting second tantalisingly revealed and then teasingly hidden from view again as she popped her heel with absentminded regularity.

Of the five after-hours-drink barstool facilitators, I was the only one to remain at his assigned station.

Ms Leasome had said that while I was a newbie trialist, I could facilitate at my usual barstool tonight, and so the other four favour-winning devotees tonight were repositioned to barstools near to mine.

And so for convenience and companionability, Ms Andrea Leasome and her four barmaids on duty tonight: Chloe, Camilla, Leanne and Rosalind -- occupied Barstools 6 to 10.

In unfavoured after-hours attendance, was male citizen Ben Benson (Barstool Footboy 29).

One of the barmaid Rosalind's two unsuccessful devotees tonight, male citizen Ben Benson had been more than happy to accept his special-one Rosalind's token consolation offer to remain behind to serve herself, Ms Leasome and the other three barmaids as their barman -- while his successful rival, male citizen Larry Larson (Barstool Footboy 16), facilitated Rosalind's after-hours-drink barstool as the better man tonight.

I was led to understand that there was nothing unusual in this; that Ben provided after-hours barkeep service for Ms Leasome and her barmaids with some regularity; in fact, almost every night.

It seemed to me though that, while it was perhaps better than being sent home to bed early, Ben's fawning gratitude at being allowed to stay behind as bartender wasn't helping his chance of the barmaid Rosalind selecting him for post-work winding-down-drink barstool facilitation in preference to one of his rival devotees.

As this was my first experience of Ms Leasome and her barmaids' nightly post-work winding-down ritual, I had no idea how many drinks they would put away and how much time they might spend, occupying their after-hours-drink devotee-facilitated barstools.

But this was the weekend, and I had the impression that at 02:35 their Saturday-night session was barely underway. The five Heel bar staff were all on their third post-work drink, and there was no sign of them letting up on the liquor.

Ms Andrea Leasome was occupying Barstool 8. And from the corner of my left eye, I saw Ms Leasome recross her ankles and, in my peripheral vision, I saw the long slender pink-painted toes of her left foot again plunge deep into the gratefully accommodating mouth of the barstool footboy she'd favoured tonight.

Ms Leasome's successful devotee after-hours-drink barstool facilitator tonight: male citizen Neil Nelson.

The willing-volunteer barstool-footboy facilitator of Barstool 42, Neil was one of the Heel Bar proprietress Ms Andrea Leasome's personal stable of six devotees -- and he had got lucky tonight.

At closing-time at 2 a.m., Ms Leasome had needed to choose between the six competitor hopefuls still in willing-volunteer barstool-facilitation attendance to barstoolistas.

Two of her devotees, she could instantly discount, rejecting them for shortfalls in their attendance hours.

And for reasons known only to her (but I suspected devotee-rotation, to keep them all hopeful), Ms Leasome had chosen Neil, over his three 5 p.m. to 2 a.m. equal-time attending aspirants for her reward-based after-hours favour tonight.

The other three devotee post-work favour winners tonight, were willing-volunteer barstool footboys: Ian Inglis (Barstool 4), Gordon Green (Barstool 32), and Larry Larson (Barstool 16) -- respectively the after-hours-drinks barstool facilitators of the barmaids Leanne (seated on Barstool 6), Camilla (Barstool 7), and Rosalind (Barstool 10).

"I think we're all ready for another round now, thank you, Ben," said Ms Andrea Leasome.

"At once, Ms Leasome!" replied Ben, and once again I heard the sounds of competent activity behind the bar as with alacrity the barmaid Rosalind's self-defeating devotee set about filling Ms Leasome and her four barmaids' next after-hours drinks order.

"It's sweet of you, Ben," said the barmaid Rosalind, occupying Barstool 10, the adjacent corner-barstool on my right. "You honestly don't mind, staying behind until four o'clock? As our bar servant? For me?"

I heard the crash behind the bar as the flustered barmaid-Rosalind-besotted Ben dropped the ice-bucket. "No, not at all, Miss Rosalind. I honestly don't mind. I would do ... anything for you, Miss Rosalind. Anything!"

I believed he would. There was no doubting the sincerity in the poor sap's voice.

From the corner of my right eye, I saw what Ben was missing out on at Barstool 10 as I watched the olive-complexioned sole of the barmaid Rosalind's right foot sliding from toes to heel and back along the stuck out tongue of the better man tonight: Rosalind's successful devotee after-hours-drink barstool facilitator -- willing-volunteer Barstool Footboy 16 -- Larry Larson.

As if sensing my sudden less-than-100-per-cent focus upon what her own feet were doing, Chloe now kicked off her left shoe onto the narrow platform/walkway in front of her barstool, and reaching her bare sole back the mere inches necessary she pressed the bottom of her grubby heel against my lips -- her unspoken command: Open up!

I opened up.

Chloe inserted the bottom of her grubby left heel; and then pushed, urging me to greater efforts of accommodation, pushing until all of it was comfortably inside.

Still hooked behind her left ankle, protruding from her well-worn black leather flat the heel of Chloe's right foot was now barely an inch in front of my eyes in magnifying-glass detail.

As absentmindedly she worked the toes of her right foot as she continued chatting to the other barmaids and Ms Leasome, Chloe wafted the ingrained odours of her well-used black leather flat's once white but now blackened insole into my face as repeatedly she popped her heel.