The Heel Bar (fictional foot fetish story).

Apr 12, 2009
178
5
18
England
#1
The Heel Bar.

Ch. 1 (of 3): Carl's fitting comeuppance.

Most of the women who enjoyed a post-work drink or two at the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road before heading for the tube station and home were regulars, I had come to find, long before the final Friday of my four-week Monday to Friday 40-hour Job Centre sanction there serving from 5 p.m. - 7 p.m. as Barstool Footboy 9.

Yet another Female-Friendly Facility brainchild of the Authoritarian Female Party Prime Minister, Caroline Flynt, open 5 p.m. - 2 a.m. the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road was one of a UK-wide roll-out of immensely popular ladies-only 'Theme' bars where up to 50 barstool-perching footboy-occupying imbibers and the booth-seated in-waiting ladies enjoyed AFP-subsidised drinks.

During my regular 5 p.m. - 7 p.m. early shift stints, I had soon come to find also that many of the younger Heel Bar frequenters – office girls, mostly, going by their black or dark-blue skirts, dark pantyhose, and black leather low- to medium-heeled pumps – liked to occupy a particular perch ... or to sit above the same footboy.

I didn't get to see their faces, and their skirts, dark nylons and black shoes were of a type.

Nonetheless, I soon learned to recognise the otherwise anonymous mystery-girl frequenter-occupants of my barstool.

Not only by their voices when they ordered drinks or chatted with bar staff and office colleagues at the bar, but by the identifying individualities of their ensuing alcohol-influenced sedentary shoe-playing characteristics as they 'loosened up', and by the uniqueness of the size, shape, and smells of the soles of their inches-away in-my-face feet.

Of all of these regular barstool-perching footboy-occupying post-work tipplers, though, there was one frequenter-occupant voice I'd been familiar with already.

And there was no mystery there.

***


Miss Pamela Pettiford, my eighteen-year-old school leaver's Career Assessment Interviewer at Tockenham Job Centre and now my Case Worker until I found employment, had a smile on her face when she told me I needed to be brought to heel and that she knew just the place where quite literally I could undergo such a fitting comeuppance.

My sanction-worthy misdemeanour had been to sit down at our alternate-Monday employment progress review meeting without waiting for Miss Pettiford's permission granting me to do so, an egregious breach of Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's Authoritarian Female Party government's Female-Friendly Code protocols.

Hence the four-week Placement penalty Miss Pettiford had decreed. To begin from the evening of that same Monday, and to be served Monday-Fridays in 20 two-hour segments.

Spurs were at home to Arsenal that night, the fixture of the season, and I'd asked Miss Pettiford if she could possibly see her way to let me begin my Placement on Tuesday instead.

Miss Pettiford said that her decision was final and that if she heard one more word of complaint from me she would increase her sanction to ten weeks.

*

Two weeks later at Tockenham Job Centre on the Monday of our next scheduled employment progress review meeting, Miss Pamela Pettiford had a smile on her face again, when she asked how I was finding my Placement.

***


When at 4:30 p.m. on the final Friday of my four-week Placement I arrived at the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road, the two black-suited bouncers on the door were waving the first of the footboys in – the proprietress, Ms Andrea Leasome, required us to be in place before the Heel Bar's doors opened to female patrons at 5 p.m. prompt.

I got in line, and within moments I was presenting my laminated Male Citizen Identity Card to one of the doormen, who checked my name on his clipboard.

The doorman nodded and said: "Carl Carson: Five p.m. to seven p.m. – Barstool Nine."

From talking to the other 5 p.m.-start footboys, I knew that many of them put in longer stints than me.

Some of them, having incurred more sanctions and so accruing extra, add-on Placement hours, were needing to put in 'Reducers': week-long stretches, Barstool Footboy-serving Monday to Sunday from 5 p.m. right through to 2 a.m. to placate their Case Workers at the Job Centre.

I entered the spacious and comfortable environs of the Heel Bar and, about twenty paces in, ahead and just off to the right, with its number affixed to the backrest was Barstool 9.

The bar itself was rectangular, and the four rows of barstools were arranged along its sides: Barstools 1 -10 at the front; 11 - 25 on the right-hand side; 26 - 35 at the far end; and 36 - 50 along the left-hand side of the bar.

The four sides of the Heel Bar were faced with floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows, which, uncurtained, looked out onto the busy pedestrian thoroughfares and allowed passers-by to gaze at the scenes within.

In front of these windows were the sumptuous dark-red-leather faced and crimson-velvet-covered cushioned booths.

These plush seating areas accommodated the ladies awaiting their ticket number to be shown on the prominent digital readout displays by which members of bar staff would alert them to the number location of a newly vacated barstool.

As there was no time limit on Barstool Footboy-occupation, in-waiting ladies might have a long wait – and sometimes might luck out altogether, as many ladies made a visit to the Heel Bar their whole evening's entertainment.

But at least the luckless in-waiting ladies could sit and watch in great comfort, and enjoy a measure of vicarious pleasure as they sipped their AFP-subsidised drinks before perhaps admitting defeat and deciding to move on to another AFP-sponsored male-facilitated Theme Bar.

The Heel Bar barstools were of a design that suited their singular purpose.

Resting on weighted flat circular chrome bases, the barstool seats were high, accessed by three steps up to the raised platform running along the rectangular bar's four dark-red-leather faced frontages.

Designed with prolonged-occupation comfort in mind, the dark-red-leather faced barstools were well padded, and their high, 18-inch diameter chrome footrests were on a level with the raised access platform.

Chloe, one of the Heel Bar barmaids, was standing in front of the bar, between Barstool 5 and Barstool 6, giving the bar top a final wipe down before opening time.

As well as being adept at dispensing drinks, Ms Andrea Leasome's barmaids were big on social skills: at ease with colleagues and customers alike; able to hold their own in the usual conversational topic range, and happy to engage in a bit of banter with the tipsy barstool-perched footboy-occupying customers.

But there was something about Chloe that made her stand out.

I stood and watched, knowing, from four weeks of experience, just exactly what was going to happen.

The bar counter was a bit of a reach for Chloe and, standing up on her toes to wipe down the far side of the bar top, her bare heels popped free of her well-worn black leather flats; the grubby bottoms of her heels, an eye-catching contrast to the pale creaminess of her now also fully revealed arches.

"Male citizen Carl, how lovely it is to see you, all nice and early as usual," said the Heel Bar proprietress, Ms Andrea Leasome, a shrewd look in her eye as she tracked the direction of my gaze; as did Chloe now, too, looking back over her shoulder upon hearing her boss speak my name.

Chloe smiled at me, and I felt my face begin burning in acute embarrassment.

"Yes, isn't it, Ms Leasome," agreed Chloe. "It's a shame that today is his last day. In fact, anyone might think Carl has grown to enjoy coming to us here at the Heel Bar, to serve the terms of his four-week Placement handed down to him by my friend Pamela at the Job Centre who is a regular here."

I couldn't help but notice that in addressing me just now Chloe, unlike Ms Andrea Leasome, had eschewed the usual formal, protocol accordant 'male citizen' usage of AFP Female-Friendly Code female-citizen-Mistress/male-citizen-servant societal interactions.

"Oh – I hadn't realised, Chloe, that today was male citizen Carl's last day," replied Ms Leasome. "He's become such a fixture!"

"Yes, Ms Leasome, he has – and it would be a pity to lose him!"

Proprietress of the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road, Ms Andrea Leasome was an attractive tall and slender woman in her mid- to late-forties who projected a charismatic presence to her customers and staff and exuded a forbidding air of authority to her footboys.

And what served to accentuate Ms Leasome's air of intimidation, was that she wore her blonde hair in the AFP adopted but severely adapted concave bob style. The somehow unsettling hairstyle, worn not only by the AFP's cane-wielding foot soldier female Community Service Officers (CSOs) and by staunch AFP apparatchiks, but becoming increasingly popular too as a political statement with Female-Friendly Code approving women who, while perhaps not card-carrying members, still wanted to wear their AFP-supportive heart on their sleeve.

Ms Andrea Leasome looked at me speculatively; her penetrating blue eyes, seeming to shine a bright light on the thoughts I was trying to hide.

"Yes, Chloe. You are right. It would indeed be a terrible pity to lose male citizen Carl."

I looked away, around me, at the other footboys who were just standing around and talking among themselves.

They had reported for duty in good time; they didn't want to incur the wrath of their Case Worker at the Job Centre who would hand down an extra sanction and award more add-on Placement hours for unpunctuality.

But, hell if they were going to assume their numbered barstool positions until they had to, right at the last moment, just before the two bouncers opened the doors of the Heel Bar to female patrons at 5 p.m. on the dot.

Unless that is, as had never happened to me on any of my nineteen previous two-hour stints, they happened to be the footboy singled out and 'requested' to do so by the Heel Bar proprietress Ms Andrea Leasome, to 'facilitate' her usual pre-opening tipple: her customary double-gin and tonic with a slice of lime and lots of ice.

As though sensing that moment was nigh, the standing around and talking footboys stopped talking now and condensed themselves into a big huddle, as though trying to make themselves less noticeable.

"Chloe, love, I'll have my usual now, please. Today, I think I'll use ... Barstool Nine."

"Absolutely, Ms Leasome – right away!" Chloe all but squealed, darting behind the bar to fix her boss's customary pre-opening 'usual'.

"Get to it, Carl – you heard Ms Leasome!" called Chloe bossily from over by the optics, where she was reaching up to pour a double-gin ... the grubby bottoms of her bare heels, free and clear of her well-worn black leather flats.

"Yes, Miss Chloe," I said respectfully, in obedient, AFP Female-Friendly Code female-citizen-Mistress/male-citizen-servant societal interaction compliance.

As now they separated again to give themselves some breathing space, if not audible, the collective sigh of relief was palpable from the onlooking footboys at not being singled out and 'requested' by Ms Andrea Leasome to 'facilitate' her usual pre-opening tipple.

Assuming my position as Barstool Footboy 9, I sat down on the barstool's flat circular base, inserted my head through the raised-platform level chrome ring of its 18-inch diameter footrest, stared ahead at the dark-red-leather faced bar frontage, and waited.

Seconds later, from the corner of my right eye, I watched Ms Leasome's long and shapely lightly tanned legs ascend the three steps to the raised platform between Barstool 9 and Barstool 10; and then, due to the elevated platform's narrowness, on her four-inch heeled bright-red leather pump shod feet she stepped sideways to her left to Barstool 9.

Mere inches in front of my chrome-footrest encircled face, Ms Leasome rested the newish-looking but scuffed and scratched leather sole of one, her left, four-inch heeled bright-red pump shod foot on the circular footrest, and hooked her right foot behind her left ankle; the shiny metal tip of the four-inch heel, barely two inches from my face.

"Here you go, Ms Leasome, your usual – enjoy!"

"Ah, thank you, Chloe, love," said Ms Leasome, at now being dispensed with her pre-opening pleasure: her double-gin and tonic with a slice of lime and lots of ice.

Above me, I heard the chinking of ice cubes as Ms Leasome picked up her glass from the bar top, raised it to her lips, and took her first sip.

"Oooh ... that's better," sighed Ms Leasome. "Do you know, Chloe, this is my favourite time of the day," said Ms Leasome, popping her bare heel from her right pump. "Before opening-time, and we have to get busy, working our tails off behind this bar."

I heard more tinkling of ice cubes. "Mmmm ... this really hits the spot, Chloe," said Ms Leasome, now hanging the four-inch heel of her right pump over the convenient ringed footrest and hooking her now unshod foot behind her left ankle. "There is nothing like that first, sharp taste of gin, complemented with the citrusy flavour of lime."

I stared at Ms Leasome's long and narrow, low-arched bare sole, her long slender pink-painted toes scrunching in pleasure as with each chink of ice cubes against her glass she raised her 'usual' to her lips.

"Come on, you lot – we'll be opening in a minute. It's time to assume your positions," ordered Camilla, one of the other barmaids.

"Thank you, Chloe. That was lovely, perfectly mixed, as usual," complimented Ms Leasome, slipping her right foot back into her conveniently hung pump, preparatory to getting to her feet to go and work her tail off behind the bar.

"Um, Ms Leasome ... why not have another?" suggested Chloe. "I mean, to enjoy male citizen Carl ... while it's his last day?"

Behind me, I heard the familiar eager excitable chattering of female voices, as now the two black-suited bouncers opened the doors to the Heel Bar at 5 p.m. prompt.

"Why not?" said Ms Leasome, now popping free her heel from her left four-inch heeled bright-red leather pump, and allowing her shoe to hang conveniently from the ringed chrome footrest as before.

"Do you know, I rather think I will," said Ms Leasome, hooking her now unshod left foot behind her right ankle. "Thank you, Chloe."

I stared at the now bare sole of Ms Leasome's left foot; her slender long pink-painted toes, already scrunching pleasurably in anticipation.

Ms Leasome must visit her pedicure salon on a regular basis: the skin on the bottoms of her heels and on the balls of her milky-coffee coloured lightly tanned soles surprised me with their smoothness.

My face, encircled and encaptured within the 18-inch diameter chrome footrest of Barstool 9, from mere inches away, her left foot hooked behind her right ankle, I stared at the close-up sight of Ms Leasome's in-my-face bare left sole.

"I'll have the same again, please, Chloe," said Ms Andrea Leasome, proprietress of the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road.


The Heel Bar continues in Ch. 2 (of 3).
 
Apr 12, 2009
178
5
18
England
#7
The Heel Bar – Ch. 2 (of 3).

Ch. 2 (of 3): Miss Pettiford has the same again.

"Ah, Pamela, you are here now – please take your barstool," said Ms Andrea Leasome, proprietress of the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road when, about ten minutes after the two black-suited bouncers had opened the doors to female patrons at 5 p.m. prompt, none other than my Case Worker at the Job Centre arrived for her customary post-work tipple.

It struck me as odd that Ms Leasome had said: please take 'your' barstool, and not: please take 'my' barstool.

"No need for Chloe to show a patron the 'Reserved' notice on Barstool 9 for you today, Pamela: I've been occupying it. Naughty of me. But, unusually I've had a second gin and lime pre-opener," explained Ms Leasome, her voice sounding more mellow.

As well it might. After Ms Leasome's imbibing, at the suggestion of the barmaid Chloe, an unusual second 'usual': her pre-opening double-gin and tonic with a slice of lime and lots of ice – while she occupied Barstool 9, on the last day of my 5 p.m. to 7 p.m. early-shift Monday - Friday four-week sanction Placement at the Heel Bar.

So ... that explains it: How, when she arrived ten minutes after opening-time when by then all fifty barstools were occupied by the flexi-time early finish first-arrival office girls, Barstool 9 – my assigned barstool – always seemed to become free and available to Miss Pamela Pettiford. Presumably, the occupier was evicted and reseated on a vacant barstool if there was one or directed to the booths and priority placed next in the queue, by her friend the barmaid Chloe.

Allowing first one and then both shoes to hang by their heels from the convenient ring of the barstool's circular chrome footrest for easy reinsertion later, chatting to the footboy occupiers to her left and to her right sitting on Barstool 8 and Barstool 10 as she enjoyed her second 'usual', Ms Leasome had 'loosened up' considerably.

There had followed a marked increase in the scrunching of her long slender pink-painted toes from her inches-away in-my-face bare soles and, during her convivial conversation with the two office girls, further characteristic examples of Ms Leasome's alcohol-influenced absentminded foot-play individualities were displayed to me.

Now, Ms Leasome reinserted her feet into her conveniently hung shoes, got to her feet, stood on the raised narrow platform between her barstool and the red-leather-faced bar frontage, and stepped sideways to her right to between Barstool 9 and Barstool 10. And from the corner of my right eye, I watched Ms Leasome's long shapely lightly tanned legs and four-inch heeled bright-red pump shod feet as she descended the three access steps back to floor-level.

But, with my head encircled and encaptured within the 18-inch diameter chrome footrest of Barstool 9, I wasn't left to sit on its weighted flat circular chrome base and stare ahead vacantly at the dark-red-leather faced frontage of the bar.

For, from the corner of my right eye, I watched the three-step ascendance of a familiar pair of dark-pantyhosed legs and three-inch heeled black leather office pump shod feet: those of my Case Worker at the Job Centre, Miss Pamela Pettiford. Coming to take up the newly vacated tenancy of Barstool 9 and to occupy its attendant footboy while she enjoyed her customary ice-cold bottle of pilsner lager before heading to Tockenham Coat Road tube station and home after another long hard day of dishing out sanctions and Placements.

Right in front of my face, I watched the tension go from Miss Pettiford's slim ankles and shapely calves as she took the weight off her feet and sat down on Barstool 9.

"For heaven's sake, hit me with a bottle of ice-cold Pils, Chloe – and quick!" exclaimed Miss Pamela Pettiford, resting the soles of her three-inch heeled black leather office pump shod feet on Barstool 9's circular chrome footrest.

"Hit you with it, Pam?" replied Chloe, and I could hear the smile in her voice.

"You know what I mean. And come on, Chloe – I'm gasping!" urged Miss Pettiford, popping her heel from her right pump. "I've been looking forward to this moment all day."

"There you go, Pam: an ice-cold bottle of Pils," said Chloe a moment later, and I heard the muted thunk of the bottle being placed on a coaster on the bar top. "Enjoy!"

"Thanks, Chloe – and do I need this!" said Miss Pettiford, now easing free her foot from her right pump and allowing her shoe to hang conveniently from the ringed chrome footrest.

"Cheers, Chloe!" said Miss Pettiford, reaching the sole of her now unshod right foot back the mere few inches to encapture my nose in the undersides of her dark-nyloned toes, as straight from the bottle my sanction-awarding Placement-assigning Case Worker at the Job Centre took a long, post-work pull of ice-cold pilsner lager.

"Thank goodness it's Friday, Chloe – what a week it's been!" said Miss Pettiford, taking another long pull of ice-cold pilsner straight from the bottle as she adjusted her dark-nyloned toes, ensuring that my nostrils were inescapably covered.

"That seems to be finding the spot!" exclaimed Chloe.

Miss Pettiford put the beer bottle to her lips again, and now she drained the remainder of the ice-cold contents.

"Ahh ... I needed that, Chloe," said Miss Pettiford with evident satisfaction, and I heard the hollower thunk as Miss Pettiford put her now empty beer bottle back down on the coaster.

Obliging me to inhale the under- and in-between-the-toes scents of her 9 - 5 Job Centre interviewer's freshly unshod dark-nyloned post-work feet ("I want to feel you sniffing – or I will award extra, add-on sanction hours to your Placement") while I stared at the bottom of her dark-nyloned heel, I had the distinct impression Miss Pettiford wasn't just referring to the immense satisfaction derived from her liquid refreshment.

"Well, Pam, while it's Friday ... why not have another?" suggested the barmaid Chloe.

I could hear the same underlying note of mischievousness in Chloe's voice as when she'd suggested to Ms Leasome, that she, had a second pre-opener, to extend her enjoyment of my last-day barstool 'facilitation'. Something, that, with 50 barstools to choose from, during my previous nineteen 5 p.m. to 7 p.m. early-shift stints, by chance omission the Heel Bar proprietress Ms Andrea Leasome had not got around to.

"Why not catch a later train, Pam? It's Friday, after all. And that ice-cold bottle of Pils didn't touch the sides, did it? Go on – treat yourself. While it's ... male citizen Carl's last day."

"Do you know, Chloe ..." said Miss Pettiford, now easing free her heel from her left three-inch heeled black leather office pump and allowing her shoe to hang conveniently from the barstool's ringed chrome footrest "... it's very tempting. I rather think I just might."

"Great!" said Chloe. "You deserve it, Pam; you really do."

"For these past four weeks, I've been very much enjoying putting the little toerag in his place during my post-work tipple," said Miss Pettiford, giving my nose a tweak with her toes so I'd know which little toerag she was referring to.

"I know!" said Chloe.

"I told him I would bring him to heel – literally – and I have. Sit down, before I've given him permission? He won't be doing that again!"

"I'll bet!" agreed Chloe.

"And, do you know, Chloe, he even had the temerity to ask me to let him start his Placement a day later so that he could go to the pub for his usual pre-match pint with his mates before the Spurs v Arsenal match? The sheer insolence! It was only from the kindness of my heart that I didn't double his sanction. I ask you!"

"Unbelievable!" said Chloe. "And, while you're having your second beer, you can tell me about some of the other losers you've sanctioned and Placemented this week."

"Yes, I'll do that; there have been a few. At the end of the month, I'll be due to another nice little bonus."

"Ms Leasome says that six of our Barstool Footboys finish their Placements with us today, and tomorrow is Saturday. And, as you know, Pam, Saturday is our busiest day – and the day when we have our highest number of no-shows, and we have fewer footboy-facilitated barstools available for the enjoyment of our discerning patrons."

"Calm down, Chloe, I'm on top of it: the Authoritarian Female Party government have asked us at the Job Centres to step up our male-facilitator allocations to their female-friendly programmes, projects, and schemes – the Heel Bars, being one of them. So I'm now in the process of making even more resources available to you."

"That's great news, Pam!"

"I've already let Ms Leasome know that I've assigned six new longer-term unemployed males to start their Placements here at the Heel Bar from tomorrow. In fact, two of them, having now clocked up over two hundred add-on sanction hours, are on Double-Reducers. The pair of them will Barstool-footboy serve their first two weeks, Saturday to Friday, right the way through from 5 p.m. to 2 a.m. And there are many more of them in the pipeline, who, depending on the length of their sanctions, I will arrange their shift patterns and hours of Barstool Footboy facilitation accordingly."

"Pam, we are in your debt!"

"And that's not all: effective from tomorrow, I've set up an Instant-Response Standby Unit comprised of longer-term male unemployed, whose remit is to cover for no-shows. Upon pain of further sanction up to and including imprisonment for failure to comply, they will report to the Heel Bar, immediately upon being contacted on their AFP-issue mobile phone by Ms Leasome or summoned by one of you barmaids, Chloe."

"Excellent! Same again, then, Pam? On the house? Another ice-cold bottle of pilsner lager?"

"Well, I shouldn't ... Oh, go on, then, Chloe, you've persuaded me. I'll catch a later train," said Miss Pettiford, reaching the sole of her other foot the mere few inches behind her to encapture my nostrils in the undersides of her toes. To oblige me, upon penalty of extra add-on sanction hours, to stare at the bottom of her left heel as I sniffed and inhaled the under- and in-between-the-toes aromas now of her freshly unshod dark-nyloned left foot.

"And after all, Chloe, it is just as you say: I really do deserve it."

"Yes, you do!" confirmed Chloe.

"Go on, then, Chloe, I'll have the same again," said my Case Worker at Tockenham Job Centre, Miss Pamela Pettiford.

*


Just as I'd noticed on my previous three Friday 5 p.m. - 7 p.m. early-shift stints, an unmistakable Friday-feel atmosphere soon began to build in the Heel Bar as the first-arrival – predominantly office girls and shop girls, perched themselves upon the 50 barstools to occupy their attendant footboys and enjoy an end-of-the-week letting-their-hair-down drink ... or two.

Miss Pamela Pettiford, having devoured with undiminished relish an unprecedented third, bottle of ice-cold pilsner lager, had, a little tipsily, and with evident reluctance, finally reinserted her dark-nyloned feet into her conveniently hung three-inch heeled black leather office pumps, and vacated Barstool 9.

Miss Pettiford had then leaned down and said to me, the hoppy smell of the three strong pilsner lagers heavy on her breath, "Well, male citizen Carl ... I suppose it's over, now – but it's been nice," before heading for Tockenham Coat Road tube station and home.

I didn't have long to reflect on Miss Pamela Pettiford's parting words for, just seconds later, from the corner of my right eye, I watched the three-step ascendance of the next female patron to take up occupancy of Barstool 9 ... and its attendant footboy.

*


At 7 p.m. I felt a light tap on my shoulder: the relief Barstool Footboy, coming on-shift.

Other than his light tap on my shoulder to indicate his arrival, and our nod of brief acknowledgement, AFP protocol forbade any further communication. Verbal communication between shift-changeover Barstool Footboys was sanctionable unless special permission was first applied for and granted by a female citizen; here in the Heel Bar, that would mean one of the barmaids or Ms Leasome herself.

During the past four weeks, at our shift changeovers neither myself or any of my reliefs had anything of such import to impart that was worth troubling one of the barmaids for special permission, and least of all the Heel Bar proprietress Ms Andrea Leasome herself.

Officially, my Monday to Friday 5 p.m. - 7 p.m. early-shift stint four-week sanction Placement at the Heel Bar as Barstool Footboy 9, handed down to me by my Case Worker at Tockenham Job Centre, Miss Pamela Pettiford, was concluded.

I ducked my head from within the encapturing encirclement of Barstool 9's 18-inch diameter chrome footrest and extricated myself, and my suddenly terminated 'facilitation' was immediately replaced by that of my relief.

I wondered what would have happened if my relief was a no-show. My replacement had always shown up, so I didn't know.

Would Ms Leasome, or Chloe, or one of the other barmaids, 'request' that I stay on and 'facilitate' Barstool 9 until relieved ... whensoever that might be?

And, would those extra 'facilitation' hours be counted as deducted from my sanction? Or would they be deemed 'voluntary'? Again, I didn't know. But I leaned towards the latter probability.

I remembered Miss Pettiford telling Chloe that she had set up an 'Instant-Response Standby Unit' comprised of longer-term unemployed males, to cover for any such Barstool Footboy no-shows. But the emergency-replacement scheme only came in to effect from tomorrow, Saturday.

By now, the Friday-feel atmosphere was really beginning to take hold, and I could imagine how lively and uninhibited the AFP-subsidised drinks imbibing female patrons of the Heel Bar would become as the evening drew on and on towards 2 a.m.

I looked behind the bar, to see Chloe reaching up to press a glass against one of the optics and, as if right on cue, the bottoms of her grubby bare heels popped free and clear of her well-worn black leather flats.

As if sensing someone's eyes upon her, Chloe looked over and saw me ... and smiled, upon seeing the direction of my gaze.

Feeling my face reddening, I turned to head for the exit door, and—

"Oh ... leaving us so soon, male citizen Carl?" said the Heel Bar proprietress Ms Andrea Leasome, looking at her wristwatch purely for effect.

I heard some of the booth-seated in-waiting ladies laugh, and I turned to look at them – and some of the younger ones, sipping through straws from highball glasses colourful concoctions the contents of which I couldn't begin to guess at, sounding well on the way to end-of-the-week inebriation already, giggled at me.

"Yes. Um ... good night, Ms Leasome."

"What a pity," said Ms Leasome, slipping her long and narrow shallow-arched lightly tanned foot from her right four-inch heeled bright-red pump and pressing her long slender pink-painted toes down on the inside of its heel to cause the toe of her shoe to point right at me. "Well, never mind ... perhaps you'll be back."

Feeling my face turning scarlet, again I turned to head for the exit door.

Sitting in the crimson-velvet-covered cushioned booths, some of the ticket-issued in-waiting ladies, momentarily taking their smiling eyes away from the digital readout display that would alert them to their numbered-ticket entitlement to occupy a newly vacated barstool and its attendant footboy, watched my departure from the Heel Bar.

Once outside, I turned left, and then again, in the direction of home ... and stopped.

Through the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window, clearly visible beyond the booth-seated in-waiting ladies, were Barstools 11 to 25.

Though for the last four weeks I had been subjected to the very same thing myself, it was with a sense of unreality that I gazed at the scene within.

Their heads, inserted within the high barstools' 18-inch diameter chrome footrests, the Barstool Footboys' faces were mere inches away from the heels – and, in most cases, the mauling unshod soles – of their anonymous-occupant AFP-subsidised drinks imbibing mistresses sitting at the bar.

Every last, man Jack of them: brought to heel.

How many of them, I wondered, were Placemented here by Miss Pamela ...

I heard a tap-tap-tapping noise on the plate-glass window, and I saw the frowns of disapproval and the looks of sterner admonishment with which the numbered-ticket-holder booth-seated in-waiting ladies regarded me.

I went on my way – to linger a moment longer would be risky. One of those ladies, who, displeased at having to wait for a barstool vacancy, might just be vindictive enough to report me.

Tomorrow was Saturday.

And, Saturday was the Heel Bar's busiest day.

But what, now, had any of all that to do with me?

("Well, male citizen Carl ... I suppose it's over, now – but it's been nice,") my Case Worker at Tockenham Job Centre, Miss Pamela Pettiford, had told me, her breath heavy with pilsner lager beer fumes, before finally leaving me to head to Tockenham Coat Road tube station and home.

("Oh ... leaving us so soon, male citizen Carl?"), had said the Heel Bar proprietress, Ms Andrea Leasome. ("What a pity. Well, never mind ... perhaps you'll be back.").

Perhaps I would.

After all, I wasn't the same person now, who had first reported to the Heel Bar four weeks ago to 'facilitate' Barstool 9.

Miss Pamela Pettiford hadn't been the only one to very much enjoy putting me 'in my place' for four weeks. Obliging me, upon pain of further sanction, to sniff and inhale her dark-nyloned under- and in-between-the-toes scent as Barstool Footboy 9 while she partook of her customary post-work bottle of ice-cold pilsner lager ... I had gotten to enjoy it, too.

But, most of all, I needed to go back.

Needed to.

The teasing, taunting, sleep-depriving mental image that had insinuated its way into my mind from the moment I first saw it four weeks ago, would not let go, and it was now an ever-present intolerable torment that needed to be ... exorcised:

The pulse-quickening sight, of the grubby bottoms of the barmaid Chloe's bare heels when they popped free and clear of her well-worn black leather flats.


The Heel Bar continues (and concludes) in Ch. 3.
 
Likes: jamiessalve
May 24, 2012
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#8
That was an amazing chapter, thanks for posting it for everyone to enjoy! Ive always had a similar fantasy of opening a restaurant with raised booths and under each was a slave laying on its back with only the face exposed so that the ladies could have their dirty shoes and bare feet licked clean while they enjoyed a good meal above.