As my family sat at the breakfast table, I took occasional glances at the latest edition of 'Snatch' magazine, that my twenty-one-year-old, older brother (by 2 years) Gary, who sat beside me was reading.

More intent was I, upon what the next glossy page of Gary’s favourite Girly periodical would reveal, that I had only been half-listening to what Dad, who sat opposite me, had been saying. Still, it was obvious from his tone that he wasn't in the best of moods this morning.

When Gary turned to the next page of Snatch magazine, I was once again disappointed. The full-page, full-colour picture showed nothing below the ankles of the beautiful nude model – or, to be more exact: no feet. But, as the title suggested, Snatch magazine focused their attentions upon another area of their girls' charms.

I listened more attentively, to Dad’s despairing rant that, due to the ongoing banking crisis, was becoming a regular lament these days.

As I listened to him, Dad re-read his mail, and he bitterly bemoaned to us the latest of his ongoing difficulties in securing a Small Business Loan from his bank – the Northern and General – at a fair and reasonable, and affordable rate of interest.

Dad was sounding like a stuck record these days, I thought. Rather unkindly, I suppose. Certainly, with a lack of sympathy, understanding, and appreciation. It was, after all, my dad who was keeping a roof over my carefree and ungrateful head.

I suppose I am like many young people of my age: nineteen years old, and still living at home with Mum and Dad. Mum doing my washing, cooking my meals – even still cleaning my room, I'm ashamed to admit. And because Mum and Dad are reasonably well off, due to Dad's modestly successful small business (a motor parts and accessories shop), they ask only a token sum from Gary and I for our keep.

But, to listen to Dad’s voice of doom and gloom, on an almost daily basis, perhaps Gary and I might soon be in for a rude shock. If affordable credit availability didn’t improve soon, to keep Dad's small business viable, Gary and I might suddenly find ourselves having to cough up more for our keep. And then we'd have less cash in our pockets to spend on girls, and other essentials.

Dad was ranting and raving in his, by now, all too familiar refrain. In his agitation, he waved his latest letter from the Northern and General Bank at us over the breakfast table. “The manager of the Northern and General, Miss Harding, has knocked me back again! She's refused me a Small Business Loan – that is, Miss Harding won't give me one at a reasonable rate of interest, that I can afford to repay. It is absolutely vital that I secure another Small Business Loan soon, if I am to have any hope – any hope at all – of keeping the business going ... and, of keeping a roof over all of our heads, too, come to that,” Dad gloomily informed us all, for the umpteenth time.

I also, had received an unpleasant, harshly toned, and decidedly peremptory letter that morning, from Miss Harding, the manager of the Northern and General Bank.

Miss Harding had made an appointment – no, more like a summons, really – for me to see her this afternoon, at 3 p.m. Miss Harding had not asked me to phone her; in the event that this was not a convenient time, or that I might have trouble in arranging time off from work, or that there might be some other problem, that would make it difficult for me to attend at the stipulated time. No. She had simply instructed me to be there. Ordering me to 'appear' before her. As if she was a Judge, who was going to ... sentence me.

And, as luck would have it, I was working the 2 p.m. – 10 p.m. shift this week. And Miss Harding's letter, in giving me such short notice, robbed me of a chance to try and swap this afternoon's shift with one of my workmates' shifts. So I was going to lose the whole shift!

Miss Harding's decidedly brusquely worded letter (or rather, summons) was concerning my late monthly repayment of my Personal Loan from the Northern & General Bank.

The loan (repayable over 3 years, and subject to the N&G's Terms and Conditions Policy) that I had taken out with them two years ago to buy my car – a beat-up, on-its-last-legs, cheating-the-scrap-man, 14-year-old hatchback with more miles on the clock than Captain Kirk's star ship – at a fair and reasonable, affordable rate of interest, just before the banking fiasco erupted over all of our heads.

Things are different now. Very different – you only had to listen to Dad!

Despite what Dad had said to me, after reading my letter from Miss Harding: ("Prepare yourself, David, for a bit of a dressing-down – for a meeting without coffee"), I'd not been overly concerned ... at first.

I mean, after all, it was just a temporary cash flow problem that I had – everyone gets them, right? I was just a bit short of money this month, that’s all, due to a problem I'd had with my car; a problem with the gear box, that I'd needed the garage to fix.

As I saw it, I'd had no choice in giving priority to spending what money I had on getting my car repaired – as opposed to meeting this month's Personal Loan repayment to the N & G. After all, I needed my car to get to work, didn't I? No car = no work = no money. So it was a no-brainer.

Surely, Miss Harding would sympathise. Surely, she would appreciate my unfortunate dilemma ... wouldn't she? And, after all, this was the first time I'd missed a payment, so that should stand in my favour. And I would simply make up the deficit when I paid next month’s Personal Loan repayment. Surely, Miss Harding would be understanding, and reasonable, and flexible ... wouldn't she?

But, as I listened to Dad, I started to grow more and more uneasy, and less and less complacent, about my own situation with the N&G. I began to take a bit more seriously, Dad's earlier warning: to expect "a meeting without coffee," with Miss Harding.

When I glanced at Gary’s Girly mag each time he turned to the next page, more often than not, just a single, brief glimpse was all that I needed (still no feet) before I returned my attention to what Dad was saying, in his increasingly despairing and angry tones.

It was not that I wasn't interested in the beautiful and glamorous, and very sexy nude models' other ... attributes – of course I was! It was just that I was waiting for the pictures that showed the posing models' feet. Preferably, bare feet, but I would have been okay too, with socks or hose – I'm easy to please! Those, were the sort of pictures that I was interested in, and wanted to see. But, Snatch magazine, like many other 'tits & pussy' mags, hardly ever seemed to show their models' feet in the pictures.

I am nineteen years old. By now, I have stopped trying to come to terms with, and stopped trying to understand, my strong attraction to female feet. After all, by now I know perfectly well what I am: a foot fetishist. And there is no getting away from the fact. Not that I want to.

I am quite reconciled to it. In fact, far from being simply reconciled, to my foot fetish, the last thing that I want, is to be 'cured'.

The thrilling – sexually arousing – fantasies that female feet evoke in me, are taking over my life more and more. I find myself spending more and more of my time, looking at them, thinking about them ... fantasising, about them.

I realise that I am fast becoming one-track minded. I have no control, over this thing. Female feet, are becoming my all-consuming obsession.

I am crazy about female feet. And, someday soon, I was going to go ... oh, I don't know what!

Because, day by day, my desire for girls' and women's feet is growing. Growing inexorably. Growing, day by day, a little stronger. A little more urgent ... and a little more desperate.

Growing relentlessly, inexorably, into a fully-fledged, ravenous craving – a craving, that is a craving like no other.

In fact, in my fantasies; in the increasingly powerful scenarios that I am forever dreaming up, I crave to be humbled – humiliated. Humiliated, at the feet of dominant, commanding and controlling – subjugating – females.

That, would be the ultimate! That, would be humiliation heaven. My dream come true.

But, I am fearful – scared witless – of discovery. And of being ... 'outed'.

Forget, about 'humiliation heaven'. Forget, about ‘my dream come true'. Just the very idea, of asking a girl to let me sniff her feet, to let me kiss her feet; to let me do to her feet, what I long and need to do to them: to pamper them, to adore them – to worship them – it was quite out of the question. I could never bring myself to do it!

Unthinkable!

Firstly: no way, did I have the guts, the bottle, to ask a girl to ... to let me 'have my way', with her feet. I haven't yet even managed to gather the nerve to offer a girl a foot massage, let alone ...

Secondly, I am way too scared. Scared, that the young lady in question might be disgusted, or ‘weirded out’. So weirded out, by such an outlandish – ‘freakish’ – proposal, that she might promptly denounce me. That she might tell all and sundry, of my 'perversion'. That she might put her knowledge – her juicy, gossip-worthy discovery – of my 'freakish' and 'perverted' foot fetish, out there ... Out there, in the Public Domain.

I was in despair. Would I ever get to see some female feet action? Would I ever get to sniff them, to kiss them, to adore them – to worship them? Would I ever, get to satisfy my craving – a craving, that was a craving like no other?

When Gary next turned the page of this month's edition of Snatch magazine, and I was once again disappointed that there was nothing to see of the gorgeous and glamourous nude model, below her ankles, I scooped up another spoonful of cornflakes, and I listened to what Dad was saying to Mum.

“Small businesses like ours, Anne, are going under, EVERY DAY!" observed Dad, emphasising his key words, as was his way when speaking, or, holding forth, as he was now.

"The bank used to THROW money at me! When it suited THEM! And when I didn’t NEED it!" continued Dad, in similar vein. "But NOW, though, I can’t get a PENNY out of the N&G – except at exorbitant interest!"

Mum regarded Dad over the rim of her teacup as she took sips of hot tea. She didn't reply, though: she'd heard it all before. We'd all heard it all before – at least a hundred times.

"We taxpayers, Anne, WE bailed THEM out, to save THEM from going under. Through their own appalling mismanagement, and their sheer, bonus culture GREED!"

Dad went on, shifting into higher gear. "NOW, though, they won’t lend US any of the money, that WE lent to THEM in the first place – unless, as I say, it is at exorbitant interest!"

Dad was starting to get red in the face. He was absolutely fuming as he complained, even more bitterly, "THEY, have got their BANKERS' BONUSES, and WE, have got the RECESSION!"

Dad took a quick slurp of his tea, before resuming. "The banks have grown too BIG, Anne, THAT’S the TROUBLE ... Did you know, Anne, that some of our larger banks actually have a bigger turnover than the British economy itself?"

"You might have mentioned it before, love, now that you—"

"But, worse than that, Anne, far worse, is that the banks have grown too powerful. They have been allowed to grow too big for their boots – and the government hasn’t got the GUTS, to cut them back down to size!

“Just take a look around you, Anne. The banks have got us by the proverbials, if you will pardon my French. And mark my words: there is just no telling how hard they are going to squeeze!"

Mum replied, "I can pardon your French, love. But I'd prefer not to have industrial language at the dining table, if you don't mind."

Dad nodded contritely. Then, sighing sadly, wistfully, he went on, "The banks used to provide a PROPER service! They used to have a polite and respectful approach towards their customers: always courteous, and happy to help. But nowadays, their attitude STINKS! They are haughty and arrogant, and getting worse all the time. And I believe there is NOTHING – NOTHING! – that they won’t stoop to ... And, like I say, Anne, I can’t get a Small Business Loan out of Miss Harding – except at exorbitant interest.”

That was the third time, that I had heard Dad mention the term ‘exorbitant interest’. And, my curiosity piqued – by my own appointment to see Miss Harding this afternoon at 3 p.m. – I asked him, “Dad, what do you mean, by exorbitant interest?”

Misunderstanding me, Dad – not realising that I was asking him what the actual rate of interest was, that Miss Harding at the N&G was demanding of him for a new Small Business Loan – replied, “Exorbitant interest, David, means far too much, and far beyond, and far in excess of what is reasonable, and what would be considered normal by most people, son.”

Before I could rephrase my question, Dad was talking to Mum again, in his plaintive and despairing tones, and so I didn’t want to interrupt him.

Anyway, I thought I'd say my goodbyes, and head into town: I had an appointment to keep – with Miss Harding, manager of the Northern and General Bank.


* * *


I thought that I would while away some of the time, before my 3 p.m. appointment at the N&G, browsing in the music shops.

Where sometimes, if I got lucky, I might see a girl ease her heel out of her shoe; or even, if I got really lucky, she might actually slip her foot out of her shoe (going 'all the way', as I thought of it), and then absentmindedly play with her shoe as she looked through the rack of records or CD’s in front of her.

Girls' and women's absentminded shoe-play was something I always found incredibly thrilling to watch. It was never, ever boring. I mean, there just seemed to be so many variations. Watching a girl or lady do ... her thing, was of an endless fascination to me.

But my luck was out. And so I decided to while away the rest of the time in the library, and in the shopping arcades. See if anything ‘interesting’ was going on there ... Until it was time for my 3 p.m. appointment with Miss Harding, at the Northern and General Bank.

*

At Miss Harding's decreed appointment time of 3 p.m. I pushed open the front door of the Northern and General Bank.

The first thing I noticed, was that there was a new, sloping walkway leading up to the bank cashiers' windows, of which there were four, in total.

As I walked towards the Customer Services Desk, the automated female voice brightly announced: "Cashier number two, please!"

And as the twenty-something woman at the head of the queue promptly responded as directed, I glanced over, at the four, exclusively female N&G bank cashiers, who were dealing with the bank’s patiently queuing customers from behind their bank cashier windows.

And, I couldn't help but notice, that the four female N&G bank cashiers – who varied greatly, both in their ages, and in their attractiveness – all seemed to have one, very strange thing in common: They all seemed ... serene.

The four female N&G bank cashiers all had, I realised, a happy – but, no ... it was more than that, much more ... a sort of dreamy, preoccupied, far-away, complacently contented expression on their faces, as they sat behind their bank cashier windows.

I must have stood and stared at the four mysteriously smiling N&G bank cashiers' faces, for some moments. For I was sharply brought out of my curious reverie by an uncivil, disdainful, haughty and arrogant female voice. “Yes? Can I help you?” inquired the imperious, acerbic-tongued receptionist of me, from where she sat behind the Customer Services Desk.

The receptionist was young – about my own age – and she was, I thought, very attractive indeed. She had blue eyes, and shoulder-length blonde hair. And, as I looked at her very shapely legs – which were plainly visible under the open space of the Customer Services Desk that she sat on the other side of – I saw that she wore the dark hose and the black leather office pumps that all of the female N&G bank staff wore, as an integral part of their Northern and General Bank uniform.

I also saw, that one of the receptionist's black pumps was dangling deliciously from her dark-hosed foot; her right foot, since it was her right leg that was crossed over her left knee. As I approached her, I saw her heel – popping in, popping out ... popping in, popping out – of her black leather office pump, as she watched my approach. And so I approached the Customer Services Desk, slowly ... so as to stretch out, and to prolong the moment for as long as possible.

In tones that might have been more in keeping with some Eastern Bloc interrogation officer, the receptionist tersely instructed me: "Sit!"

Though I was somewhat taken aback by the receptionist's wholly uncalled-for rudeness, I tried to shrug it off: the receptionist was very attractive, and so I would 'let her off', I thought – besides, she dangles her pumps!

When I sat down opposite the receptionist, to my surprise and pleasure I found that the seat was actually very comfortable. With its padded leather arms and headrest, it struck me as being rather out of place in such a comfortless environment. And I thought to myself, rather facetiously: Dad might not be able to get a Small Business Loan, out of Miss Harding – but at least he can sit comfortably while she is telling him ‘NO!’

The receptionist – who's name tag, I now saw, declared her to be P. Withers – boldly gazed at me.

She regarded me arrogantly, and contemptuously – as though I was beneath her notice. And I wondered if Dad was actually right about what he had said; if he hadn't been grossly exaggerating, about the appalling attitude of bank staff, these days.

When the moment of silence had dragged on a bit too long for her patience, the receptionist snapped at me, in irritation: "Well? Are you deaf, or something? I said: Can I help you?"

“Good morning, Miss. I’ve come to see Miss Harding ... the manager?" I said to her, politely and respectfully.

Her eyes flashing in annoyance, the receptionist replied, irascibly, "I think I know who the manager is, thank you very much."

Pushing a button on her desk, she spoke into her intercom. “Your three o'clock is here, Miss Harding.”

"Thank you, Penny. I'll be there in a moment," replied Miss Harding.

The receptionist – Penny Withers – returned her attention to me. And I was unsettled, by the penetrating intensity of her bold, blue-eyed gaze.

It was not so much, that I was so nervous because she was so very attractive; though of course, that was partly it – what young, red-blooded male doesn't get all hot and bothered, in the immediate proximity of such sexy loveliness? And I wasn't so nervous, because she might have caught me staring at her sexily dangling black pump. No. I was unsettled, because she seemed to be looking at me, as if ... as if she knew something. Something, that I didn’t. As if she was in possession of, and was gleefully harbouring, some delicious little secret.

I had been quite surprised – and somewhat disconcerted, too – when, rather than being invited into the manager’s office, as I had been expecting, to discuss what was, after all, my own personal and private business, I had heard Miss Harding reply, in no-nonsense and, actually, rather ominous tones, “Thank you, Penny, I’ll be there in a moment.”

A moment later I had to catch my breath, at the stunning beauty of Miss Harding; who I was seeing for the first time, and who I supposed must have replaced Mr Garner, the man who had been manager when I had first taken out my Personal Loan, two years ago.

Miss Harding took the second seat on the other side of the Customer Services Desk, beside the receptionist.

Miss Harding also had blue eyes, and blonde hair – lots and lots, of luxuriant, platinum-blonde tresses. She wore her hair piled up on top of her head, and it was held in place by a pair of matching white hair stays. The style suited her extremely well, I thought.

Miss Harding was far too beautiful, I thought, to be spending her days in the dry and musty, unlovely environs of the Northern and General Bank. When she could so easily be looking out from the glossy and glamorous colour pages of some of Gary’s Girly magazines ... her sexy bare feet, hopefully, excitingly displayed. Maybe she model’s in her spare time, I mused. But, then again, if what Dad said was anything to go by, maybe she could earn a lot more money working for the bank, these days.

A number of times in the past, I had heard the term: Blonde bombshell. Well, now I understood what was meant by the phrase ... because I knew that I was actually sitting opposite two of them.

Then I heard those exciting, unmistakable, softly rustling tell-tale sounds that – to my finely-tuned ears! – meant that both of the female N&G bank employees facing me, were easing their dark-hosed feet from their black leather pumps.

And there was nothing in the world that I wanted to do more, than to look down, and to feast my eyes upon what was going on under the Customer Services Desk ... But, with both the receptionist, Penny, and Miss Harding, the manager, looking directly at me; their stares unwavering, I did not dare.

And, as I looked at their beautiful faces, I felt my face redden and get hot, as I listened to their maddeningly teasing, seductive rustlings: the sweet-sounding whispers of their dark-hosed feet, caressing shoe leather, as they played with their black leather office pumps under the Customer Services Desk. And I soon began to quail, under the intent gazes of their combined and continued silent scrutiny.

After what had seemed an age – though it must have been well under a minute – Miss Harding finally addressed me.

To my shocked disbelief and horrified embarrassment, in the full sight and hearing of almost all of the customers in the bank, who were patiently queuing up and waiting their turns to be dealt with at the four bank cashiers' windows, Miss Harding spoke loudly and clearly.

“I am Miss Harding, and I am the manager of this branch of the Northern and General Bank," stated Miss Harding, her voice projecting effortlessly – and alarmingly!

"I have summoned you to the bank this morning, David, in connection with the late monthly repayment of your Personal Loan, in direct contravention of your loan's terms and conditions," Miss Harding informed me – and everyone else in the bank! Hell! It was like she was making a public announcement!

And, Miss Harding had actually used the word 'summoned'. Wait till I told Dad!

Miss Harding continued, stern-voiced, "The Northern and General Bank takes a very dim view – a very dim view, indeed – with regards to the late repayment of its loans," she chided. And Penny, the receptionist, nodded her head in total agreement.

"And, as you will be aware, David – that is, of course, if you have taken the trouble to read the small print pertaining to the Terms and Conditions of your Personal Loan Agreement – we have the right, without the need or obligation to supply you with either written or verbal notice, to change the Terms and Conditions of your Personal Loan Agreement, in the event of your defaulting on it ... And, with immediate effect," added Miss Harding, ominously.

As if they were sharing some private joke, I saw cruel, gleeful smirks beginning to insinuate themselves upon the faces of both Penny, the receptionist, and the manager, Miss Harding.

And then their eyes once again locked onto mine, as Miss Harding now began to conclude her degrading dressing-down of me – conclude our "meeting without coffee" – in front of everyone in the bank!

"David, as you have now defaulted on the Terms and Conditions of your Personal Loan Agreement, with the Northern and General Bank, it is my duty, as manager, to inform you that we have now changed your Terms and Conditions accordingly ... and, with immediate effect.”

So absolutely shocked – mortified – was I, at having every customer in the bank listening in, on the belittling, withering reprimand dealt out to me by Miss Harding, that I wanted a hole to open up in the floor, and swallow me up. And, to borrow Miss Harding’s words: “With immediate effect!"

And, regardless of what Dad had said, in his angry and bitter castigations of the N&G, such was my disbelieving shock, at this so severe censure, at this so over-the-top ... talking-to, by Miss Harding, that I could only muster a pathetically feeble and inadequate reply in my defence.

“I – I am very sorry, Miss Harding, very, very sorry indeed," I began, in tones of abject apology. "But, you see, I – I had to spend last month's loan repayment on repairs to my car, because the repair bill ended up being a lot higher than the garage’s original estimate ... And, of course, as I'm sure you'll appreciate, Miss Harding, I need my car to get to work. So ..." I gave Miss Harding a 'What else could I do?' shrug.

At the bank manager's disturbing, implacable, stony-faced silence, I went on, even more falteringly. "I – I assure you, Miss Harding, I had every intention of making up the shortfall, by paying double next month. And – and it is, after all, the first time I've missed a payment ... So – so you see, Miss Harding, I was going to make it up, next month ... I—“

Cutting me off, dismissively – the interview now over – Miss Harding turned to the receptionist beside her. "I've heard enough. Take him away, please, Penny.”

For long moments, I simply sat there: confused, perplexed, baffled ... Take me away? Take me where? And ... what for?

"Er ... excuse me, Miss Harding," I said, "but – but I don't think I quite understand ..."

The receptionist, Penny, picked up a small device from her desk. It was black, and about the same shape and size as a mobile phone. Penny pointed the device at my seat and, nonchalantly – as if she was changing channels on TV – she pressed a button ...

Immediately – and to my utter incredulity – a sort of seat belt snapped across my waist, firmly anchoring me to my seat. Simultaneously, my wrists were securely clamped to the armrests ... I was actually trapped, in my seat!

And such was the measure of my dumbfounded amazement, that I mindlessly obeyed the imperious instruction of the receptionist when she then came from behind her Customer Services Desk, and harshly ordered: “David! Lift up your feet!”

Then; and in full view of the queuing, staring, curious, nudging and pointing bank customers, the receptionist pushed me – like an invalid in a wheelchair in an old people’s home, on his way to ... therapy – past the bank cashiers' windows, down a short corridor, and to a security door at the far end.

After tapping out the required digits on the security keypad, the receptionist opened the door, and she pushed me through, into the ... what I afterwards thought of, as the 'Long Room'. Where, seated at their bank cashiers' windows, were the four female bank cashiers of the Northern and General Bank.

The four female bank cashiers, I saw, were situated upon an elevated platform, and a safety-rail ran its entire length, behind their seating positions.

It seemed, to me, as if the four female bank cashiers were placed upon a pedestal. And, to my eyes, they were regal, in the poised and stately manner of their bearing.

Upon this elevated – and, to me, 'elevating' platform – with their backs to me, upon padded black leather stools that were bolted to the floor, the four bank cashiers sat comfortably – importantly – like queens upon their thrones.

But, nothing that had happened so far, could have prepared me for the incredible, mind-blowing shock of what happened next: The truly awesome, life-changing experience that was in store for me, in the Long Room of the Northern and General Bank.

The receptionist, Penny Withers, guided the castors of my seat, sideways, into a pair of grooved runners set into the floor ... The runners, that served as rails, and that ran the length of the Long Room, behind and below the four female N&G bank cashiers' elevated positions.

In the moments before the receptionist had guided the small wheels of my seat into the runners that served as rails, in the haze of my incredulous, initial shock, I had barely registered that there were already another three bank customers; two men and a woman, who were also restrained in their ... 'rail chairs', just as I was.

The three bank customers' 'rail chairs' were, I saw, to my utter astonishment, securely 'coupled' at 'stations', further down the 'line' ... where three of the four N&G bank cashiers were positioned.

And I just could not believe my eyes, at seeing just what my three fellow bank customers were doing – or, rather, what they were being subjected to, by the bank cashiers. "So, David ... Default on your monthly bank loan repayments, will you?" admonished the receptionist as, sideways, she pushed my rail chair along the runners that served as rails.

Then, at coming to a ‘branch-line', running off at right-angles – the first of four, in the Long Room – the receptionist guided my rail chair onto it; facing forwards now. She then pushed my rail chair the last few feet forward.

I then found my neck being inserted through a 1-foot-wide opening; my face, mere inches above floor level, as my restrained and seated lower body rolled under the elevated platform of the Long Room – upon which, the four female bank cashiers of the Northern and General Bank were comfortably seated – and then come to a stop ...

I had now arrived at the first 'station'. The first of the four scheduled stops, on the ‘Northern and General Line’.

And, when I found that my face was positioned directly behind, and at exactly the same height, as the dark pantyhose, black pump shod feet of the first in line of the four female bank cashiers of the Northern and General Bank, I knew I had ... arrived.

*

From what I could remember, from what I had momentarily seen of the four female bank cashiers of the Northern and General Bank, as I had first entered the building; not least, the dreamy, preoccupied, far-away, and complacently content – serene – expressions on all of their faces, and that they varied widely, both in their ages, and in their attractiveness, I recalled that the bank cashier at whose feet I was now 'stationed', was, I thought, the least attractive of the four N&G bank cashiers.

From my brief impression of her – Cashier Number 4 – I remembered that she was a rather plump-looking woman who, I thought, was not much to look at. And, with her best days clearly behind her – on the wrong side of 40 – over 'The Hill'.

Her best feature, I thought, was her feather-cut styled, ash-blonde hair that, to be fair to her was still rather eye-catching. And she might even have been quite attractive, when she was younger ... back in the day.

Now, though, she was, I thought, definitely 'past it'. On the other side of 'The Hill' – the down-side. Sliding down the slippery slope, of that ever downward spiral.

She was using rather a lot of make-up, too, in her futile fight against Father Time. Not least, the garish, Shocking Pink lipstick that shone out from her lips like an inviting neon sign ... As if she thought she might otherwise go unnoticed.

After coupling my rail chair into position, the receptionist, Penny, bent down and whispered maliciously into my ear. "Now, you'll get what's coming to you. I bet you won't be defaulting again, David ... After this!"

After tapping out the required code on the numerical keypad, the cruel-minded receptionist went out through the security door and back to her Customer Services Desk.

Now I watched, mesmerised ...

For, right in front of my amazed, captivated – and captive! – face, at her becoming aware of my presence, Cashier Number 4’s right, dark-hosed foot began to emerge ... slowly, teasingly, tantalisingly – promisingly – from its slightly tight-fitting, black leather office pump.

And I had never in my life been so excited!

I was enraptured, as I watched Cashier Number 4's right, dark-hosed foot reaching back ... slowly, but surely, until it filled my entire vision ... And still, the bank cashier's right foot kept coming ... inching closer ... ever closer ... towards my 'available' face.

Now, I was being consumed, and overwhelmed, by my own – personal brand – of exorbitant interest!

An interest, that in my dad’s own words, was “Far too much, and far beyond, and far in excess of what is reasonable, and what would be considered normal by most people, son.”

And, because of my exorbitant interest, I was becoming wildly aroused ... Aroused, like never before!

My heart leaped about in my chest, as I greedily drank in every detail – every thrilling, fabulous detail, of that heart-stopping, mind-blowing vision.

I had waited so long!

And now, my long-denied desires were so pent-up, that I was delirious with sheer, pure ecstasy as I watched the bank cashier’s right, dark-hosed foot – her sole, coming closer, and closer ... ever closer, towards my waiting and 'available' face.

I saw the glory – the out-of-this-world, wondrous glory – of Cashier Number 4’s right, dark-hosed sole.

Saw it, in such perfect, amazing clarity. Saw it, in such glorious, extreme close-up, high-definition detail, that I knew the awesome image was burned onto my retinas – sealed into my memory – for ever.

I saw Cashier Number 4's dark-hosed sole, in such thrilling, such exciting – such arousing! – detail, that I was getting more and more excited by the second ... down there.

Cashier Number 4, who sat at the first 'station' of the 'Northern and General Line' – that is, at the first of the four scheduled stops, at which, as a sanction, defaulting bank customers were to visit – had, I now saw, quite a large and fleshy sole.

Quite broad, too. And with a generous arch; such a deep, wondrous curve between the ball of her foot and her heel, that was so wonderful to behold ... And, I was doing exactly that!

She had a round, hard, and prominent – dominating – heel. And I could see through the teasing, tantalising, gossamer-thin material of her dark hose, rough skin at the outer edges of the bottom of her heel.

But, what excited me – what mesmerised me! – the most, was the amazing, extreme close-up sight, of Cashier Number 4's dark-hose-covered toes, seemingly in slow-motion, coming closer, and closer ... ever closer ... Until, finally – inevitably – the bank cashier’s dark-hose-covered toes found my nose, and cupped it ... and locked onto it.

Just exactly, and for all the world, as if that was what my nose was there for.

Now, my shocked amazement was complete! I could not believe that this was happening to me. That this was really, actually happening to me. It was beyond belief!

Through my fantasies, I could only dream of such excitement. Of such exhilaration. Of such incredible pleasure ... Of such fulfilment.

Further along the Northern and General Line, at the other three stations, I could hear the frantic and furious – but useless – struggles and protests of the other three defaulting bank customers. The struggles and protests, of the two men and the woman who had preceded me into the Long Room of the Northern and General Bank.

Restrained in their ... rail chairs, just as I was, I heard my three fellow bank defaulters calling loudly and insistently for 'redress'.

Calling for redress, as, forced to face front, and within the effortless backwards reach of the dark-hosed feet of the Northern and General Bank cashiers – who, upon their elevated platform, like queens upon their thrones; their serfs, at their feet, sat comfortably on their padded black leather stools – the bank cashiers serenely availed themselves of the defaulters' conveniently positioned faces.

The two men; one of whom was about my own age, while the other man was about my dad's age, were stationed at the dark-hosed feet of Cashier Number 1, and Cashier Number 2.

At their perceived ... injustice of their intolerable predicament, they were turning the air blue with their appalling language. Swearing like troopers, they protested vociferously, bitterly and resentfully, claiming that their Human Rights were being violated ... All, to no avail. Their scandalised, profanity-ridden diatribe of high indignation was apparently falling upon deaf ears.

Nevertheless, in outraged tones they continued to rant and rail. Rant and rail, against the hideous, humiliating, heinously tormenting treatment being perpetrated against them – via the backwards reaching, dark-hosed feet of the cashiers of the Northern and General Bank ...

Until Penny, the receptionist, had finally had enough of them. She flounced into the Long Room brandishing some sticking plasters ... and shut them both up. "Right!" she said imperiously. "If you can't take your punishment like a man ..." she said to each of the two men in turn, as she firmly sealed their mouths.

In contrast to the two men's spirited protests, though, I could hear that the woman's star was well on the wane. It was quite plain that she was now losing heart for the 'fight'.

Stationed at the dark-hosed feet of Cashier Number 3, she sounded as if she couldn't take much more; that she was getting close to the end of her tether. Very close.

In fact, she was whimpering, and actually starting to cry. She'd had enough. More than enough.

She was saying "I'm sorry," over and over. She said that she'd learned her lesson, and ... she didn't need Cashier Number 1 and Cashier Number 2 pressing home the point further.

The woman – an elderly lady, who was 75 if she was a day – was reduced to emitting a pathetic, heart-rending, plaintive whine of distress. Pitifully begging and pleading. Beseeching, for blessed release.

And I felt for the elderly lady – of course I did!

After all, she was someone's wife. Someone's mum. Someone's auntie. Someone's grandma.

It tugged at my very heartstrings, listening to the anguished wails of the elderly lady, begging and pleading.

The elderly lady was begging and pleading, for an end to her misery. Begging and pleading, to be released from the diabolical, abominable atrocity, of which she was being so callously, mercilessly, and systematically subjected to, at the dark-hosed, backwards reaching feet of the cashiers of the Northern and General Bank ... So Penny, the receptionist, shut her up too.

The receptionist then turned to me and said, "Those were my last three sealants. So I'll have to pop out for some more, later. You've been quiet, David – you've been taking your punishment like a man. But, if I hear so much as a peep out of you – just so much as a peep! – I'll ... I'll stuff my tights into your mouth – feet first! And don't think that I wont!" she warned me. And then, apparently deciding I was taking her threat seriously, she turned on her heel and headed for the security door.

I thought back to this morning, at the breakfast table. Remembering what Dad had said to me after he'd read my letter from Miss Harding: to prepare myself, for "A bit of a dressing-down." For a "Meeting without coffee."

A "Meeting without coffee?" Hell! Dad didn't know the half of it!

I, though, unlike my three fellow defaulters, did not whinge. Oh no!

I did not struggle! I did not turn the air blue with profane protestations! I did not demand redress! I did not complain about Human Rights violations! I did not petition and plead for an early release. Oh no!

Instead, I inhaled, deeply, of the warm and slightly moist, nose-clutching, nostril-cupping, dark-hosed toes of the bank cashier – Cashier Number 4 – who was comfortably seated in the Long Room, at the first of the four stations of the Northern and General Line.

And, if happiness could be inhaled, I was inhaling it now!

The bank cashier's amazing – arousing! – foot scent, was like some incredible, highly intoxicating hit. Like some exotic aroma, her in-between-the-toes scent filled my head – filled my whole world.

I was going crazy with desire.

Going crazy, as Cashier Number 4 continued to cup my nostrils in the ... catchment, of her dark-hosed toes. Going half insane, at the awesome feel of them. Going nuts, at the incredibly sensuous sensation; the thrilling touch of her toe pads, and the undersides of her cupping toes ... And, as she did so, I continued to inhale. And I inhaled deeply, hungrily – ravenously. I inhaled ravenously, as I gazed in awe at the bottom her prominent – dominating – heel, mere inches from my eyes.

Cashier Number 4, though, even as she planted her broad and fleshy, dark-hosed right foot firmly into the middle of my conveniently positioned face, did not otherwise deign to acknowledge my lowly presence. Not verbally, and not even by so much as a look.

My bank loan defaulter's face, was simply ... available.

Available, to the bank cashier's exploring, probing, rubbing, playful feet; to her nostril-cupping toes.

Cashier Number 4's active, 'playful' foot, began toying with my face. Seemingly absentmindedly, using the features of my available face; my nose, my cheeks, my chin, my eyebrows, my lips, the bank cashier massaged her dark-hosed sole – luxuriated – as she serenely dealt with the patiently queuing customers on the other side of her bank cashier's window.

This was more than I had ever dreamed of – much, much more!

And I realised that I was crying.

Warm tears were flowing, cascading down my cheeks ... Tears, of catharsis.

I was helplessly overwhelmed, by a wonderful – magical – euphoria. Overpowered, by the sheer, mind-shattering magnitude of such blissful, rapturous ecstasy. Anyone would cry!

My senses were hopelessly overloaded. Raging, out of control ... And, I was aroused, like never before – like never, ever before!

The sight, of Cashier Number 4's foot ...

The exhilarating sight, of the bank cashier’s broad and fleshy, generously-arched sole, as seen through the teasing, tantalising, gossamer-thin material of her dark pantyhose! And of her round, hard, and prominent – dominating – heel, with the slightly rough skin at the outer edges of the bottom of her heel!

The feel, of Cashier Number 4's foot ...

The thrilling, electrifying contact of the bank cashier's warm, dark hose covered foot flesh, as she pressed her broad and fleshy, nostril-cupping sole right into my face; her dominating – subjugating – heel, upon my upper-forehead! Her tingling touch as, seemingly absentmindedly, her ever active, 'playful' foot toyed with my face. Available to her, by ... default.

The smell, of Cashier Number 4's foot ...

The pungent, dizzying, intoxicating – wildly arousing – aroma, of the bank cashier's dark hose covered toes, as she cupped them around my nostrils! As she clamped them to my nose, clutching firmly – painfully, almost – her in-between-the-toes foot scent, inescapable, and driving me mental with wild arousal.

I was consumed, with a mind-shattering lust. And, not being able to do 'something' about it, was an exquisite torment.

I wanted this incredible, amazing experience – this dream come true, this humiliation heaven – to go on, and on, and on!

I wanted to go on ...

Sniffing, inhaling deeply, hungrily – ravenously – of Cashier Number 4’s pungent, penis-engorging, fabulously fragrant foot fumes.

I wanted to go on ...

Gazing rapturously, adoringly, at the bank cashier's broad and fleshy, generously-arched sole. At the bottom of her round, hard, and prominent – dominating – heel, with the slightly rough skin at the outer edges of the bottom of her heel.

I wanted to go on ...

Being there. Just simply being there, for the bank cashier ... Available.

Available, so that her broad and fleshy, dark-pantyhose-covered, ever active, playful feet could enjoy and toy with my conveniently positioned face to her heart's content.

I then heard the automated female voice brightly announce: "Cashier number four, please!"

Within seconds, Cashier Number 4’s right foot began to increase its playful antics with my face.

And I quickly realised, to my heightened excitement, that her suddenly increased foot play was a direct result of her chatting to a customer – a young man – who she was presently dealing with ... And bantering with, very saucily indeed!

From what I could hear, of their animated, boistrous-sounding exchange, he was a young man of about my own age, and he had a decidedly confident, cheeky-sounding voice, and a cocky, self-assured attitude.

And, apparently sensing that the bank cashier was receptive, to his 'romantic' overtures; that she was susceptible, to his patently predatory wiles, he became more and more emboldened ... and Cashier Number 4's absentminded foot play became more and more lively, upon my available face.

From what I could hear, the cheeky charmer was certainly using his 'skills' to good effect, with the bank cashier – who, I thought, was old enough to be his mum!

There was, I could hear, the unmistakable undertone of 'on-the-pull', sexual innuendo, in his voice – he was actually flirting, with the bank cashier! Chatting her up! By the sounds of it, he was a right little womaniser!

And, by the sounds of it, his rough-and-ready, Jack-the-lad 'courting' technique was quickly winning her over. By the sounds of it, he was making her day! Really bringing her out of herself. Really getting her juices going ... really turning her on.

And, as a direct consequence, her absentminded foot play was becoming frenetic, upon my available face.

From what I could hear, Cashier Number 4 was certainly not averse to being the object of such flattering male attention. Far from it! She was lapping it up! She loved it! Especially his vulgar, come-on, smutty double entendres. And she was unashamedly egging him on for more. The brazen hussy!

From what I could hear, Cashier Number 4 enjoyed – very much so! – the decidedly risque banter with the cheeky, cocky, flirty young man, whose colourful compliments were, apparently, the modus operandi, of his lecherous attentions and lascivious intentions.

And, from what I could hear, of their sexually-charged, filthy, foul-mouthed flirtations, she gave, at least as good as she got – the saucy wench!

Cashier Number 4 – who sat like a queen on her throne, and had not even deigned to acknowledge my lowly presence; not verbally, and not even by so much as a look – sounded like a right old slapper!

In her absentminded reaction, to this saucy ... stimulus, Cashier Number 4's foot play steadily graduated. Escalated, from being merely lightly active, to playful and toying, to frenetic, to hyper-active ... Her dark-hosed sole was, by now, absolutely going to town on my available face.

Exploring my face ...

Rubbing it, caressing it, playing with it – toying with it. Claiming it, controlling it, using it – abusing it. But, most of all ... possessing it.

Just exactly, and for all the world, as if that was what my face was there for.

I was going nuts!

Not least, from my perceived reasons for Cashier Number 4's almost relentless, wildly arousing activity. Her lust-inducing ... manipulations.

Because she was being noticed ... as a woman. Because she was being flattered. Because she was being chatted-up. Because she was being titillated. But, most of all ... because she was being turned-on!

She was being turned-on, by the cheeky young charmer on the other side of her bank cashier's window.

And I, was enjoying the resultant ... benefit.

I wanted to shake that fledgling Casanova – that confident, self-assured, cocky, lecherous little devil – by the hand! Buy him a pint! I certainly owed him one, for getting Cashier Number 4 ... going.

Oh! The brazen hussy! The saucy wench! The flirty, dirty, salacious little strumpet! She was a right old slapper! Old enough to be his mum!

And, here I was: Beneath her feet – and beneath her notice! Unworthy of her acknowledgement – either verbally, or even by so much as a look!

Oh, the thought of it! The thought of it was driving me nuts.

This was my humiliation heaven! My dream come true! The ultimate!

And, when I saw the bottom of the round, hard heel of Cashier Number 4’s other foot; when I saw her left, dark-hosed heel ease out, with a faint but wonderful whooshing sound of suddenly released warm, moist air from the retaining and restraining – suffocating – confines, of its slightly tight-fitting black leather pump, I really started to lose it.

I really started to lose it, when I saw the sole of her left, dark-hosed foot, emerging gratefully from the stifling confines of its pump ... And then reach back ... slowly, inexorably ... until it filled my entire vision.

I really started to lose it, because I realised that now, both of Cashier Number 4's hard-heeled, broad and fleshy, generously-arched dark-hosed feet were about to go to town on my available face – in tandem!

I thought my heart would burst from excitement. Burst from excitement as, in her absentminded reactions to her ... stimulus, both – yes, both! – of Cashier Number 4’s broad and fleshy, warm and moist, intoxicating soles commenced their exploring ... Probing, rubbing, caressing, playing with – toying with! Claiming, controlling, using, abusing, dominating – possessing – my conveniently positioned, available face.

The incredible, almost unbearable excitement and pleasure, of it! The sheer, unadulterated joy, of it! The awesome, unbelievable ... eroticism, of it.

It was so intense, so all-consuming, so overwhelming, that I actually wondered if I was going to burst a blood vessel. Or suffer some other sort of catastrophic breakdown – like losing my sanity!

Because, surely, I was experiencing far more excitement, far more pleasure, far more ecstasy, and far more ... stimulation, than the human mind and body was designed to cope with.

I was euphoric.

At last!

At long, long last ...

At the dark-hosed feet of Cashier Number 4, of the Northern and General Bank, I was finally satisfying a craving – a craving, that was a craving like no other.

At last, I had attained ... fulfilment.

At last, I had been given a shrine.

A shrine, at which to show my regard. To pay my respects. To worship. To offer my devotions ... to a foot goddess.

*

But now, I had learned my lessons in manners, too. And, long were they overdue, I now realised.

My lessons of manners: Of regard, of respect – of reverence – for Cashier Number 4.

For the bank cashier, who I had mentally slandered – had so blasphemed!

As hot tears of euphoric fulfilment streamed down my cheeks, I humbly bestowed my respects, my reverence – my devotions – to Cashier Number 4 ... a foot goddess.

Adoringly – worshipfully – I kissed, and kissed, and kissed, the dark-hosed, backwards reaching soles of Cashier Number 4 ... my foot goddess.

And, through my worshipful kisses, I tried to convey that I was sorry. And that I was repentant. And that I begged her forgiveness. And that now, I knew ... my place.

I had learned my lesson in manners: Of regard, of respect – of reverence – for Cashier Number 4. For the bank cashier, who ...

Who sat comfortably, perched upon her plush, black leather stool, at the first of the four 'stations' of the 'Northern and General Line', in the Long Room of the Northern and General Bank ...

And who, I'd had the damned nerve to judge, was not much to look at: Overweight, on the wrong side of 40, and definitely past it – over 'The Hill' – and going down fast. Slip-sliding away, down the treacherous slope of that ever-downward spiral ...

And who, I'd had the temerity to opine, used copious amounts of make-up, in her vain, mutton-dressed-as-lamb attempts; both, to salaciously attract male attentions, and to try and ward off the unwelcome and relentless advances – the molestations – of Father Time ...

And who, I'd unforgivably labelled: A right old slapper.

Me!

Yes, me!

For, what right, had I? Me!

To decry her morality ...

To call her a saucy wench. To think her a flirty, dirty, salacious little strumpet, engaging in prurient, lustful banter – who gave, as good as she got!

To judge her behaviour ...

To denounce her. For engaging in foul-mouthed, licentious badinage, with a cocksure young man half her age and, in the throes of her ... stimulus, absentmindedly going to town, on my available face.

What right had I? Me!

To so blithely categorise her ...

To so insolently label her: A brassy bint. A shameless hussy. A scarlet woman. A cheap tart. A harlot.

Yes, me!

After all. Who was I, to criticise? Me ...

When I was stationed at her dark-hosed feet ... conveniently available. Beneath her feet – and beneath her notice. Unacknowledged, by her; not verbally, and not even by so much as a look ... and I would not have wished it any other way.

And when it was, after all, all thanks to Cashier Number 4, that I was in humiliation heaven.

I had been a foot sniffing 'virgin'. And Cashier Number 4 had taken my cherry. She was my 'first'. And they say, that you never forget your first ... I knew I certainly wouldn't!

Cashier Number 4, of the Northern and General Bank, had made my dream come true.

And it was, the ultimate.

For I was actually satisfying my craving – a craving, that was a craving like no other.

A craving, occasioned by my exorbitant interest ... An interest, that in my dad's own words, was "Far too much, and far beyond, and far in excess of what is reasonable, and what would be considered normal by most people, son."

* * *

So completely, so utterly lost, was I, in my all-consuming experience, that I was only brought back to earth when the receptionist, Penny, returned to the Long Room.

The receptionist was wheeling along another bank customer – a man in his early 30's, I guessed – who, I assumed, like myself and my three fellow defaulters, must also have fallen foul of one of the N&G's Terms and Conditions. For the man was similarly restrained in his ... rail chair, and ready to be loaded onto the 'rail system' of the Northern and General Line.

The receptionist, as though she was doing the most mundane, the most unremarkable, and the most ordinary and every-day thing in the world, steered this latest defaulting bank customer into the Long Room. And, sideways fashion, she guided the castors of his rail chair onto the runners that served as rails.

The man was turning the air blue with an almost seamless stream of profanities. Barely pausing for breath, as he protested vociferously against the ... nature, of his defaulter's sanction ...

So the receptionist – not having had the chance yet to pop out for more "sealants" – kicked off her black leather office pumps, took off her dark pantyhose, and proceeded to stuff her pantyhose, feet first, right into the complainant's foul mouth. "Speak ... speak like that ... in front of ... me ... will you? There! Now, how do you like that ...? Oops, silly me! You can't talk now, can you? Not now. Not now, when you've got my dirty, stinky pantyhose stuffed right into your stupid mouth ... that I've been wearing to work for the last three days! And let this be a reminder to you: To pay off the interest on your credit cards, in future!"

And now, to accommodate this new, stinky-pantyhose-gagged arrival into the Long Room – who would now replace me, stationed at the dark-hosed feet of my 'cherry-taker', Cashier Number 4 – the receptionist 'shunted' me along the grooves that served as rails to the second of the four stations of the Northern and General Line ... to Cashier Number 3.

And so I found myself positioned, sitting directly behind, and with my face at exactly the same height, as the dark-hosed, black leather pump shod feet of Cashier Number 3. The second, of the four female bank cashiers of the Northern and General Bank.

From what I could remember, from my brief glance towards the bank cashiers' windows, when I had first entered the bank, it was Cashier Number 3, who had struck me as being the most attractive of the four N&G bank cashiers.

She was in her early twenties, I guessed, and slim-figured. Olive-complexioned, she had dark brown eyes, and neck-length, black hair that curved inward under her jawline.

And now I saw, straight away, that the second of the four female bank cashiers of the Northern and General Bank, had nicer feet than the first bank cashier: smaller, more dainty, more shapely, prettier ... sexier.

And I saw straight away, because the tops of her dark-hosed feet were resting inside of her black leather office pumps ... so that her beautiful, shapely – sexy! – soles, were exposed. Being displayed, in open view to me!

What a sight!

And I watched, mesmerised, as – both together! – Cashier Number 3's dark-hosed sexy feet reached back ... slowly, inexorably, and inevitably. Reaching back, towards my conveniently positioned, available face ...

Just exactly, and for all the world, as if that was what my face was there for.

For the second time today, I had been 'stationed' at the dark-hosed feet, of a foot goddess.

At another shrine.

Another shrine, where I could show my regard, my respects – my reverence – to a foot goddess.

Another shrine, where I could adore, could idolise – could worship – a foot goddess.

For the second time today, I was hopelessly overwhelmed. By sheer pleasure. By unadulterated joy. And ... by an almost intolerable sexual excitement.

Overwhelmed, and over-pleasured ... as I indulged myself in my own, personal brand, of exorbitant interest.

An interest, that was, in my dad’s own words, “Far too much, and far beyond, and far in excess of what is reasonable, and what would be considered normal by most people, son.”

For the second time today, at the dark-hosed feet of a bank cashier – the second, of the four foot goddesses of the Northern and General Bank – I was in humiliation heaven.

And it was, the ultimate.

It was, my dream come true.

It was ... fulfilment.

* * *

Some time later (all too soon!), when I had eventually completed my 'punishment', the very attractive, blonde-haired receptionist, Penny, finally pushed my rail chair off the end of the runners that served as rails, at the far end of the Long Room.

The four female bank cashiers of the Northern and General Bank, though, like queens upon their thrones, paid not the slightest bit of notice to my departure, from where they sat on their padded-leather stools, upon their elevated (and elevating) platform.

For I was beneath their notice. The four bank cashiers had not deigned to acknowledge my lowly presence at their feet – not verbally, and not by even so much as a look ... And now, they did not acknowledge their of-no-account foot-serf's departure.

And so I departed the Long Room, as ignominiously as I had arrived.

The receptionist pushed me along in my rail chair and, after tapping out the required digits on the security keypad, she pushed me through the door ahead of her, returning me to the Reception area.

There, under the watchful, staring, nudging and pointing, curious stares of the bank’s customers, who were patiently queuing up to be dealt with at the bank cashiers' windows, the receptionist released my from my entrapment.

Now, the receptionist – completely misunderstanding the reasons for my red and blotchy, tear-streaked face – smirked at me, triumphantly.

And, haughtily and arrogantly, in contemptuous, belittling tones, and in the sight and hearing of almost all of the bank’s customers, the blonde bombshell receptionist, Penny Withers, gleefully told me, “Now, David! You know what to expect, don't you ... The next time you default with the Northern and General Bank!”

*

As I was making my way out of the Northern and General Bank, I looked over at the bank cashiers' windows. Particularly, at Cashier Number 4 ... who had absentmindedly taken my foot sniffer's 'cherry'.

Cashier Number 4 must have sensed someone looking at her. For she looked up, and she stared at me, looking me directly in the eye. She stared at me, looking me directly in the eye ... and showed not the slightest sign of recognition.

After all, why would she? I had been beneath her feet – and beneath her notice. And she had not deigned to otherwise acknowledge my lowly presence. Not verbally. And not even by so much as a look.

Upon hearing a familiar, raised and cruelly castigating voice, I looked over at the Customer Services Desk, from where the harsh and belittling tones were coming from. The bank manager, Miss Harding, was mercilessly berating yet another of the N&G’s errant customers. An elderly man who, I guessed, wouldn't see 80 again ...

“The Northern and General Bank takes a very dim view – a very dim view indeed, Arthur – upon customers who go overdrawn on their savings accounts," intoned Miss Harding coldly.

"Unauthorised overdrafts, Arthur, are a very serious matter ... and are sanctionable,” added Miss Harding, ominously. And the receptionist, Penny, nodded in total agreement.

From where I was standing, I could see the receptionist's now bare legs, under the open space of the Customer Services Desk. Penny had the proverbial Million-Dollar-Legs, I thought. They were all-the-way-to-her-armpits long, and very shapely. And tanned to a bronzed, eye-catching perfection ... Certainly, they were catching my eye.

And, from the very tips of the toes of one, exquisitely tanned bare foot, precariously dangled one of Penny's black leather office pumps. And the actions of her toes, I saw, was causing her dangling pump to swing to and fro, in accordance to the varying ... stimulus, of the interview with the elderly defaulter.

As the receptionist stared at the overdrawn (and overwrought!) customer, a cruel, callous smirk formed at the corners of her mouth. She was enjoying herself. Enjoying herself very much. I could tell – it was all in the way that she dangled her pump.

The receptionist was clearly enjoying witnessing the great discomfiture – the trepidation – of the visibly trembling elderly man before her. Who was timidly explaining his reasons for going overdrawn: the price of gas, these days; of electricity; of food – of everything. And his pension simply wasn't keeping pace, with such run-away inflation. With such ever-increasing, unaffordable prices ... And in her hand, I could see that Penny already had her 'remote' ready ... Ready to ZAP!

I knew what was going to happen next. And I didn't need – or want – to watch it. I headed for the exit.

As I was going out of the front door, I heard the snapping-and-locking sound of the restraining straps on the elderly man's ... rail chair, securing him firmly into place. Poor Arthur, I thought.

Dad had a point. He was right, after all, it seemed ... about the appalling attitude of bank staff, these days.

The last thing I heard, was the unchallengeable finality of Miss Harding's cold and contemptuous decree: "I've heard enough ... Take him away, please, Penny.”

* * *

I walked along High Street in a dream state. And I was amazed to discover when I looked at my watch, that it was now 5:15. Which meant that I had actually been in the Long Room of the Northern and General Bank, for over two hours ... Well, they say that time flies when you are enjoying yourself!

For over two hours, in the Long Room of the Northern and General Bank, where the four serene-looking female bank cashiers sat comfortably, upon their black padded-leather stools, atop their elevated (and elevating) platform – like queens, upon their thrones – in my 'rail chair', I had been shunted into each of their 'stations', on the Northern and General Line.

Where my face – and the faces of other defaulters – as a sanction, had been made conveniently available to the four bank cashiers' absentminded, backwards reaching, exploring, rubbing, toying – but, most of all, possessing – dark-hosed feet.

As I walked about the town centre, dazedly I mused upon my amazing, fantastic – and, most of all, fulfilling – experience, in the Long Room of the Northern and General Bank.

The four female bank cashiers of the Northern and General Bank had – each of them, in their own, individual and unique way – seemingly absentmindedly, 'gone to town' on my available face, with their backwards reaching, dark-hosed, possessing feet.

And they had – each and every one of them – satisfied my craving. A craving, that was a craving like no other.

And how!

As I ambled along the busy streets of the town centre, I re-lived, over and over, the thrilling details. Details, that were branded into my memory for ever!

I couldn't get over it. I just couldn't!

Today, at the breakfast table, my dad had complained, bitterly and resentfully, about ... exorbitant interest.

But, today, I had indulged myself in a different kind of exorbitant interest – my own, personal brand, of exorbitant interest. An interest, that in my dad’s own words, was “Far too much, and far beyond, and far in excess of what is reasonable, and what would be considered normal by most people, son.”

And I wasn't complaining.

Because today, in my 'rail chair', 'stationed' at the dark-hosed feet of the four female bank cashiers of the Northern and General Bank, I had been provided with a shrine.

A shrine. At which to demonstrate the sincerity of my regards. To pay my heartfelt respects. To offer my humble devotions.

A shrine. At which to honour. To praise. To revere. To adore. To worship, the four female bank cashiers of the Northern and General Bank ... my foot goddesses.

Who – seemingly absentmindedly, as though it was second-nature, to them – with their backwards reaching, comprehensively possessing, dark-hosed feet, went to town on my available face ...

Thereby indulging, my exorbitant interest.

Thereby satisfying, my craving – a craving, that was a craving like no other.

So that I knew ...

Fulfilment.

* * *

Somehow – as though my subconscious had been at work; as though the machinations of my mind were such, that my dazed reverie had directly led me there – I came to realise that, in the daydreams of my musings I had actually been standing outside of, and sightlessly staring into, the biggest bank in town: the local branch of the largest bank in the country – the Town and City Bank.

It was 5:25 ... and the Town and City Bank closed at 5:30.

Coming to my senses – and comprehending perfectly, why I was here – I pushed open the door, and entered the Town and City Bank.

The first thing I noticed, was that there was a sloping walkway, leading up towards the bank cashiers' windows ... twelve of them, in total.

As I walked towards the Customer Services Desk, the automated female voice brightly announced: "Cashier number seven, please!"

And, as the man at the head of the queue responded as directed, I glanced over at the bank cashiers – all of them female – who were dealing with the bank's patiently queuing customers from behind their bank cashiers' windows.

And I couldn't help but notice, that the twelve female Town and City bank cashiers – who varied greatly, both in their ages, and in the attractiveness of their appearances – all seemed to have one, very strange thing in common: They all looked ... serene.

The twelve female Town and City bank cashiers, all had a happy – but, no ... it was more that, much more ... a sort of dreamy, preoccupied, far-away, complacently contented expression on their faces, as they sat behind their bank cashiers' windows ...

And, once again, I found myself consumed, with my ... exorbitant interest.

An interest, that in my dad's own words, was "Far too much, and far beyond, and far in excess of what is reasonable, and what would be considered normal by most people, son."

For I was thinking ...

Thinking ... about how I should go about satisfying my craving – a craving, that was a craving like no other.

And I was thinking ...

Thinking ... that there were another four or five banks (apart from the Northern and General) in the town centre. And I would have to get myself around to them all, in due course.

I must have stood and stared for some moments, at the twelve female Town and City bank cashiers' serene faces. For I was sharply brought out of my reverie, by the harsh voiced, acerbic-tongued receptionist, sitting on the other side of the Customer Service Desk. "Can I help you?" she inquired waspishly; her tone of voice making it plain that helping me was the furthest thing from her mind.

The receptionist was young – about my own age – and, olive-complexioned, she was really quite stunning, I thought. She was brunette, and her hair was glossy, of shoulder-length and styled in attractive, lustrous ringlets. And you could easily lose yourself, I quickly found, in the alluring depths of her dark brown – almost black – searching and speculating eyes.

And, as I approached the receptionist, I couldn’t help but notice, under the open space of the Customer Service Desk, that a dark blue leather office pump – of the type that all of the female staff of the Town and City Bank wore, as an integral part of their uniform – was dangling precariously from the very tips of her tan-hosed toes.

The pump-dangling receptionist, who sat, importantly, at the Customer Service Desk of the Town and City Bank – and, who's name tag, I now saw, declared her to be Dolores – boldly gazed at me, appraisingly. She regarded me with an arrogant, superior air ... as though I was beneath her notice.

And, I couldn't help but notice, that on the receptionist's desk was a small, black device, of about the same shape and size of a mobile phone ...

Haughtily, disdainfully, the receptionist, Dolores, continued to stare at me – glare at me – for some moments ... waiting.

I felt like a rabbit, caught in the glare of powerful, inescapable – irresistible – headlights. Its fate ... about to be sealed.

Then, when the brief moment of silence quickly outlasted her patience, the short-tempered receptionist addressed me again, irritably repeating her question.

In contemptuous, belittling tones, she snapped, “Well, come on – I haven't got all day! I said: Can I help you?”

“Yes, please, Miss," I said.

"I’d like to take out a Personal Loan ... And a savings account ... And some credit cards ..."




THE END.