The Mirror Ch. 03

Chapter 3: James makes his no-turning-back decision.

In profound disbelief, James stared at the mirror.

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

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

What he was hearing, were mingled sounds ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

James was breaking out in a sweat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And things were only just getting started ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the inevitable happened ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

James's phone rang.

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

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

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

He just couldn't stand it!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What was that, all about? wondered James.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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