The Mirror Ch. 03

Ah, thought James, getting it at last: Jennifer and Sharon run a pedicure salon, called Tootsies. How about that!

"You're -- you're actually serious ... aren't you?" exclaimed Joan. "I can see now, that you are both telling me the truth. But -- but I still find it hard to believe. It's -- it's incredible! I mean ... you are seriously telling me, that there are guys, out there, who actually like girls' and women's smelly, stinky feet? Guys, who actually ... get off, on them? And -- and that they ... put their girl up on a pedestal?"

Jennifer and Sharon smiled at Joan, and took sips of their halves of lager.

Sharon put her glass down on her coaster, and said, "Joan, if you had one of those foot fetishists as a boyfriend, trust me: just as easy as pie, you could fire his burners up. And then you'd have yourself a sky rocket to climb aboard -- fly you to the moon! The launch-pad would be ready, and all systems would be Go! And you, Joan, would be the one in control of the countdown. The countdown, to ... blast off!"

Giggling girlishly, and the metal tips of her high heels going, clack-clack-clack ... clack-clack-clack ... like crazy, Joan the barmaid flapped her hand at her two friends. "Oh -- you two!"

James was going crazy.

The Barstool Blondes, Jennifer and Sharon, and Joan the barmaid, were talking about him!

Well, about his 'kind', yes. But they'd talked about him, in particular! And he was loving it! Loving, listening to their girl-talk. Loving his secret, undetected -- and undetectable! -- fly-on-the-wall voyeurism.

But the best thing of all, was that, thanks to the mirror, James could actually stare, and stare, and stare at their sexy feet to his heart's content -- but, without the slightest fear of discovery ... and, of course, of punishment.

With total, absolute impunity, James could freely observe, and ... appreciate.

Quite openly, he could ogle, and admire, and revere -- worship -- this most delicious of visual delicacies.

He could adore -- pay homage -- to this most satisfying, finding-the-spot, eye-candy.

And, with absolutely no possible danger, of ... come-back.

James was not, going to be slapped very hard across his face, by the Barstool Blondes!

James was not, going to have a pint of lager poured over his head, by Joan the barmaid!

James was not, going to bring shame, embarrassment, disrepute, and ridicule down on his head -- and, by her association with him, upon Debbie's head, too.

No! He was not!

When Joan had finally stopped giggling, Sharon, who'd laughed along with Jennifer, resumed their conversation. "We had a really good day at the salon today, Joan. Easily our busiest Saturday, since we opened last year. Wasn't it, Jen?"

"Ah, I thought you two must have had a late finish today, and come here straight from your pedicure salon," observed Joan, nodding at Jennifer and Sharon's bright yellow T-shirts. T-shirts, that depicted in black the silhouettes of pairs of bare feet: like imprints, left in firm wet sand on the beach; heels, balls of the feet, and toe pads, all depicted in relief. A local telephone number too. And, emblazoned across their shoulders in bold black lettering, the legend: Tootsies.

Jennifer said, "Yes. Me and Shaz are busier than ever, Joan. And if it wasn't for the fact that our job entails sitting down, and standing still, we'd be rushed off our feet -- ha ha ha! We put it down to the two sunbeds that we installed last month. They were a big expenditure for us to take on at the time -- and more than a bit risky, too, with the current economic climate being what it is at the moment. But they've turned out to be a brilliant investment. The two sunbeds have really boosted our trade, Joan. What, with all of the extra business we've been getting from spillover clientele -- you know, from the girls and women who initially come to the salon just to use the sunbeds, but then decide to make an appointment to come back and have a pedicure, or maybe a reflexology session -- sometimes, both services -- as well as topping up their tans."

"In fact, Joan," said Sharon, picking up Jennifer's thread, "me and Jen think it's time we took on an employee. To do most of the basic, menial prep work -- you know, trimming and filing toenails, and sloughing off dead or hardened skin from the bottoms of our clients' heels, and from the balls of their feet. That sort of thing. She'd also make cups of tea and coffee for us and for our clients; be a general dogsbody, really, while we gradually train her up as a professional pedicurist and nail technician, and hone her reflexology skills. See, that would free up a lot of valuable time for Jen and me, allowing us to concentrate on the more skilled work -- and the more lucrative! We'll be letting the Job Centre know soon that we're looking to take someone on. And maybe we'll put an ad in the local paper, too. See who might just turn up at the salon, asking about the vacancy."

Joan said, "Shaz, you said 'her', and 'she'. Train 'her' up, you said. Does your new employee have to be female, then?"

"Well ... no, Joan," replied Sharon, sounding rather thrown by Joan's question, as if it was coming at her from right out of the box; as if the very thought of taking on a male employee had simply never occurred to her, it being so outlandish a notion.

"Not -- not strictly, I suppose. And anyway, it would be against the law; it would be considered to be sex-discrimination, if me and Jen stipulated a female-only requirement. It's just that ... well, pedicure salons are predominantly -- if not, exclusively -- run by female staff. After all, it's not really a man's work, is it? I mean, Joan, come on! What guy do you know, who would want to spend his working days massaging and prettifying girls' and women's feet?"

"Ha ha ha!" laughed Joan the barmaid, her answer at the ready. "The guy from last night -- the foot fetishist, as you called him. Him -- that's who! You should get him, to come and work for you at the salon! Just think! He'd be a cracking little worker, for you -- ha ha ha! He'd be very ... conscientious."

"Well, Joan," replied Jennifer, in a tone that suggested she was taking Joan's suggestion seriously. "I know you speak in jest ... But that's actually not as daft an idea as you might think. In fact ... it's not a bad idea at all. Is it, Shaz?"

"It's a brilliant idea!" exclaimed Sharon, struggling to keep a straight face. "Of course, his ... ardour, would be the obvious stumbling-block. Hmm ... I don't know. Maybe we could put something in his tea? But, having said that, some of our clients would just love it, wouldn't they, Jen? I mean, having their feet adoringly pampered and fussed over, by a young, eager-to-please, good-looking guy -- every single one of them, up there on his own, personal pedestal."

At seeing a look pass between her two friends, as they each took another sip of their lager, Joan exclaimed, "Now I know, you are both having me on! Put something in his tea! You two! Well, actually, I do, happen to think it's a very good idea. Don't you see? You could really put him in his place! You could—"

"Hey, Joan! Any chance of a drink around here, or what?" called an impatient drinker, demanding a refill. Banging his pint glass on the bar counter for emphasis, he complained, "I'm dying of thirst, here!"

"Duty calls," said Joan the barmaid with a theatrical sigh.

James was going nuts, listening in to the Barstool Blondes' and Joan the barmaid's conversation -- their conversation, about him! The things they were saying -- especially Joan the barmaid!

After serving the man's drink, Joan the barmaid went to the till to pay in the price of a pint of Stella, and retrieve his change from the £20 note he'd given her. And, as soon as the till was open, the metal-tipped four-inch heel of Joan's right, rather tight-fitting bright red pump clack-clack-clacked again ... and the mirror zoomed in.

The mirror zoomed in close ... and James watched, in barely contained excitement. He watched in awe as, with a grateful sigh Joan eased her heel free, and then, knee bent, she rested her foot inside her pointy-toed red pump, her now slightly wrinkled sole facing upwards. And Joan scrunched her toes up tight; real tight, displaying her bright-red painted toe nails.

And James went bananas. He felt his heart lurch alarmingly, at the incredibly arousing sight ... Rub, rub, rub ...

He just couldn't take much more of this! Couldn't take much more, of this incredible excitement. His senses, just seemed so finely tuned, so incredibly ... heightened.

"Oh, I see you are wearing your new red pumps tonight, Joan," observed Sharon appreciatively. "Gorgeous, they are. But I thought you said they were hurting you, Joan. That you were going to wait for a quieter night, before trying them on again for work ...?"

The mirror then panned back, to behind the Barstool Blondes.

As if on a cue, from the mirror's 'director', Jennifer and Sharon simultaneously unhooked their right foot from behind their left ankles, and placed both feet behind the chrome, all-the-way-around stretcher-bars of their high barstools. And once again, from heels to toes, their grimy bare soles were openly displayed to James ... Rub, rub, rub ...

And now, there was yet another escalation, in the mirror's invasive influence over James.

An incredibly intense yearning, began to overcome him. A yearning, that was like a physical ache. A yearning, that went way beyond the usual parameters of his foot fetishist's desires.

James now found himself in the powerful, unyielding grip of a desperate craving. A craving, to sit on the bar's floor, behind the Barstool Blondes. A craving, to adoringly kiss the soles of Jennifer and Sharon's bare feet.

James craved to humbly accord, to Jennifer and Sharon, the respect and the reverence -- the adoration -- that they so deserved. He craved, to acknowledge their ... status.

And, to acknowledge his own status, too. To duly acknowledge, his ... "place".

And James now wondered what it would be like, to be allowed to sit at Jennifer and Sharon's barstool-perched, dirty bare feet.

To be ... stationed, at the Barstool Blondes' feet. To be their loyal, and faithful, obedient little 'lap' dog. To lick their work-a-day, grimy bare soles clean for them, while they enjoyed their nice, relaxing drink and chat at the bar, with Joan the barmaid ... Rub, rub, rub ...

For Pete's sake! thought James. What was wrong with him? These ... these thoughts! After all, he had Debbie, to take care of—

The mirror, as though to divert James's thoughts away from his darling Debbie, promptly panned back to Joan the barmaid.

"I know, Shaz. I'm a fool to myself, aren't I? I should have worn my flip flops again tonight, like I said. My feet! These pumps, are absolutely killing me!" she bemoaned, as she scrunched and wiggled and flexed her toes; her bare, slightly wrinkled sole still facing upwards ... Rub, rub, rub ...

And then James's phone rang again.

Just as it had done twice earlier, the phone rang four times, and then was automatically picked up by his answer-phone ... And, for the third time this evening, it was his Debbie.

"James? Are you there? If you are there, James, pick up ... Oh, botheration! Don't say you've popped out again! Well, it's too late now, anyway, for us to do anything tonight. I was just wondering why you hadn't got back to me, that's all. Anyway, if you get this before eleven o'clock, call me, yeah? Otherwise, come and pick me up tomorrow, and we'll go out for the day somewhere. And Mum ... Mum sends her love. Bye, then."

Having now gathered the correct change, Joan the barmaid clanged the till drawer shut. "But all the boys say my legs look dynamite, in my high-heeled red pumps, Shaz," said Joan, giving her tortured toes a final relieving scrunch, wiggle and splay, before reinserting her bare right foot into its rather tight-fitting confines ... Rub, rub, rub ...

Rummaging about in her handbag for something, Jennifer said to Sharon, "What Joan needs, Shaz, is a really good foot massage ... Shaz, have you -- have you got one of our—"

"Yeah, got one right here," said Sharon. With a flourish, she placed a small printed card on the bar counter. "There you go, Joan. On us: A free voucher for a one-hour reflexology session at Tootsies. Just give us a call to make your appointment. See here ... our number's on the card."

Jennifer said, "At the moment, Joan, we've got a special promotional offer on: six months' half-price membership at Tootsies Pedicure Salon. For you, Joan, if you'd like to take it up, me and Shaz will increase the six-month half-price membership offer, to a full year -- won't we, Shaz?"

Smiling, Sharon nodded in ready affirmation. "And for that, Joan, you'll be entitled to a weekly one-hour reflexology session, a weekly pedicure, and the supervised use of our sunbeds. And in addition to that, because of a reciprocal arrangement we have, your membership at Tootsies will also entitle you to fifty per cent discount vouchers for Jim's Gym, the local swimming pool, and the local leisure centre."

"Plus," Jennifer added, "for every referral you give us, resulting in a new client taking up membership at Tootsies, me and Shaz will throw in an extra reflexology session. How's that?"

Now, and for the third time, James was cresting the point of no return ...

The fingers and palm of his left hand, sliding with ease, up and down the length of his slick and slippery, cum-coated member, James now took his balls in his right hand, and gently squeezed. This would help, too ...

Help, to sacrifice his essence.

James was in a fever. In a ferment of arousal, thinking about the sort of reflexology session he'd like to perform for Joan the barmaid: A full hour, of putting his industrious tongue to work on her bare, sweaty, tired and achy after-work soles -- that's what!

Oh, her poor, poor feet! They needed him. They so, so needed him ... Yes! They did! They needed him -- James Noble!

James imagined himself in Joan the barmaid's bedroom, kneeling at the foot of her bed -- where he belonged, goddammit! ...

The tired, footsore, post bar-shift Joan lying prone upon her bed, covered by her duvet ... except for her feet, which are overhanging her bed, toes pointing downward. And, for a full hour, he would ... serve. Serve, Joan the barmaid: putting his tongue to work, on her tired and achy, needy and deserving bare soles. And then, when her hour was up, he would let himself out the front door, quietly closing it behind him so as not to disturb her peaceful slumber.

Oh, for heaven's sake! thought James. What was he thinking? What on Earth, was he thinking? He had Debbie, to care for his needs. And that was enough. It was plenty. Just right. Perfect. But ...

But, these ... these thoughts! These thoughts!

What's happening to me? thought James desperately, despairingly ... even though he knew the answer.

It was as though he no longer had control over himself; neither motor, or mind. As though he was no longer his own puppet master; as though someone else -- something -- else, was now pulling his strings.

As though, he was ... possessed.

He wanted to give everything he had left -- wanted to sacrifice every remaining drop of his ... devotional offerings -- to the Barstool Blondes, and to Joan the barmaid ... Rub, rub, rub ...

Only now, because he had already almost drained himself dry, it was no longer just rub, rub, rub ... But it was also ... Pull, pull, pull ... Tug, tug, tug ... Yank, yank, yank ... And, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze ...

It took longer, this time. Achieving his third climax. And that was only to be expected. But, it was, inevitable. Just as it had been inevitable, the first time. And the second time. It just took a little longer, that's all, to ... produce. To achieve satisfaction. A little longer ... to satisfy the mirror.

As now he must.

For, in buying the mirror, James had made his bed ... And now, he must lie in it.

And, by the time James had finally finished frenetically rubbing, pulling, yanking and tugging his todger and squeezing his much depleted balls, in his steadfast determination to devote every last drop he had left to the Barstool Blondes and Joan the barmaid, he was, quite literally, spent.

Suddenly, the 'picture' on the mirror's two-foot high, four-foot wide 'screen' disappeared.

All that remained, was a gradually dimming glow. A gradually dimming glow, all around its edges, where the mirror's glass fitted into its ornately carved, hardwood frame.

The mirror's 'broadcast' had ended ... for now.

The mirror was satisfied ... for now.

Exhausted -- drained -- James got up from the floor, in front of the mirror.

Gratefully, James collapsed into his most comfortable chair; his black leather, well-padded armchair. And, sitting in front of his Internet-capable 46-inch flat-screen TV, he slept ...

... And then awoke, to darkness.

James felt groggy, a bit woozy, and still very tired ... After all, a lot had been taken out of him.

And when he saw what time it was -- still only 9:35 p.m. -- he was very surprised; realised he'd only catnapped a while.

But he knew what he needed to do.

Quickly, James cleaned himself up, and changed into a clean pair trousers. Then he went out to the residents' car park, and started up the Astra.

He needed to nip out to the local supermarket before they closed at 10:00 p.m.

For ... provisions.

* * *

When he returned to his flat, about thirty minutes later, James quickly put all of his supermarket purchases away ... except for an economy-size box of Kleenex. This, he put on the coffee table, next to his most comfortable chair.

James then went into his kitchen. He made a cup of coffee, and tore open one of the fresh packets of chocolate-chip cookies he'd just bought, emptying more than half of them straight out onto a plate -- he was ravenous. Refreshments prepared, James loaded them onto a small wooden tray and took them through to the living room. He put the tray down on his coffee table, next to the big box of Man-Size tissue paper.

James knew, that he was on the brink of making a no-turning-back decision. But he still had a choice ... if only he could summon the will.

He could get straight on the phone to Howard Leadbetter. Tell him he didn't want the mirror, after all. Tell him he could have it back, for nothing, just call by in his taxi-cab and pick it up.

Of course, Howard's missus wouldn't be best pleased, at seeing her husband reunited with the mirror ... and seeing him take it back up to the attic. But that wasn't James's problem.

James paused for thought ...

He really, really didn't need to do this. He had Debbie, to take care of his needs. With his lovely Debbie, he was happy -- as happy as could be. He was fulfilled. He didn't need, to ...

Except, this need; the need that had so overcome him, was a need quite unlike anything he had ever experienced before, quite ... alien, to him.

He seemed to have become totally bereft of will. As if his mind was no longer his own. Overpowered and overwhelmed, James was wholly unable, once in its thrall, to ignore the mirror's siren temptations. Unable, to resist its bewitching allure.

Howard -- "Howie, to my friends" -- Leadbetter, had been right about the mirror, James knew.

Howie had not been a crackpot, when he'd told James that the mirror had been designed and crafted by the seventeenth-century practitioner of the occult, Edward Landry, and that Edward Landry had put a "spell" on it.

Howie had not been off his rocker, when he'd told James that the mirror had "tuned in", to him.

Howie had not been one marble shy of a full bag, when he'd told James that the mirror "knew him", now.