This story is written by David, please send comments and appreciation to voondave@yahoo.co.uk

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.