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

The Heel Bar – Ch. 3 of 3.

Ch. 3: Saturday night at the Heel Bar.


Having served the fourth Friday of my Monday to Friday 5 p.m. - 7 p.m. shift in the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road as Barstool Footboy 9, my four-week sanction-Placement was duly completed.

From listening to the stories of similarly sanctioned barstool footboys – some of whom had incurred a corrective black eye or two resultant of their resistance to provide even the bare basics of barstool facilitation – thus unscathed apart, my weekday early-shift experiences were generally the same as theirs.

Upon the doormen opening the Heel Bar to female patrons at 5 p.m., the tendency of the first arrivals – predominantly office workers and shop girls – was to occupy a barstool and its attendant footboy just for as long as it took to enjoy a winding-down post-work tipple.

I had found though, during my two-hour early-evening shifts, that there were exceptions – end-of-shifters who, either habitually or for some other reason, liked to have another.

One of these latter, some-other-reason exceptions occurred yesterday evening, on my final day of sanction-Placement.

Miss Pamela Pettiford, my Case Worker at the Job Centre who had sanction-Placemented me, had been persuaded at the suggestion of her barmaid friend Chloe to extend her usual one-drink occupation of Barstool 9 and its attendant footboy, given it was his last day of service as Barstool Footboy 9.

Making short work of her thirst-quencher first, downing a habit-breaking second, and then taking her time over yet a third bottle of ice-cold pilsner lager, Miss Pettiford had availed herself of my barstool 'facilitation' for almost an hour before finally vacating Barstool 9 and heading for Tockenham Coat Road tube station and home.

But before leaving the Heel Bar, Miss Pettiford, evidently under the influence at being persuaded by Chloe to indulge in a couple more of her favourite strong beers on an empty stomach, had imparted to me some things that perhaps after her customary one pilsner lager she wouldn't have.

The hoppy fumes of three pilsner lagers on her breath, my loose-tongued Case Worker at the Job Centre Miss Pamela Pettiford, had said: "You've astonished me, male citizen Carl. What has happened to your trademark insolence? What has become of the uncouth, ill-mannered youth, who as your Case Worker I am responsible for and burdened with the unenviable task of introducing to the notion of industrial endeavour?

"Believe me, I've been looking for fault, waiting for fault – expecting fault. But I can't fault your behaviour here over the last four weeks, at the Heel Bar.

"With your uncriticisable conduct, you have epitomised the Authoritarian Female Party Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's idealised exemplar of the model male citizen.

"So different, to your sulky demeanour toward me at your Job Centre interviews when I ask you the perfectly reasonable questions as to why you haven't found work yet that you find so inflammatory.

"So in contrast, to your resentful attitude when I advise you that I am AFP-empowered to reduce your unemployment benefit, or suspend it indefinitely if I see no sign of improvement in your lacklustre job-searching efforts; if I discern no attitudinal change in your approach toward disencumbering the hard-pressed tax-payer of the easily avoidable expense of keeping you.

"So unlike, your sullen defiance when I remind you that if I deem it conducive to adjusting your workshy mindset, not only will I stop your dole money but I will exercise my Job Centre Interviewer's prerogative of serving a Community Service Order on you and put you on attachment with the CSO-supervised Domestic Work Detail.

"Here at the Heel Bar, you are transformed entirely: No longer intractable, no longer intransigent, no longer resistant to requirements – you are cooperative and compliant.

"Your barstool facilitation has been exemplary. Truly commendable. Impeccable, I would go so far as to call it.

"And, not only to me: your satisfaction ratings by the barstoolistas are among the highest. Or – and more to the point: complaints about you are among the lowest.

"To help us with monitoring their rehabilitative progress, we at the Job Centre receive from the Heel Bar regular sanction-Placemented barstool-facilitator performance reports.

"And as for your own, behavioural statistics over the last four weeks, my barmaid friend Chloe has kept me fully informed: Neither Chloe, any of the other six barmaids or the Heel Bar proprietress Ms Andrea Leasome have received a complaint about you from a barstoolista.

"And believe me, I know very well that barstoolistas can be extremely challenging to serve.

"The average barstoolista is easily angered and, once riled, she is almost impossible to placate.

"The typical barstoolista is not slow to officially register a complaint with the barmaids about what she considers to be substandard barstool facilitation – but even quicker to take it upon herself to administer instant justice and to deliver a corrective backheel or two to the vulnerable inches-away face of her noncompliant or otherwise disagreeable barstool footboy to black-eye stigmatise him as a message to others.

"Knowing you as I do, you cannot imagine my surprise – no, my utter amazement – when you deprived me of a perhaps immoral and vengeful but, nonetheless righteous revenge that, right from the moment I sanction-Placemented you to barstool-facilitate at the Heel Bar, I'd looked forward to enjoying with such sweet anticipation:

"To relieve my irritation and vent my frustration and channel my annoyance with your workshy ways – by blackening your eyes for you – male citizen Carl Carson!

"To have people who see you know what had happened to you:

"Backheeled at the Heel Bar by a barstoolista. Either in chastisement, at her regarding your barstool facilitation as substandard, or just because she could.

"You cannot conceive of my incredulity when during your early-shifts of the last four weeks you did not provide me with even one justified opportunity to black-eye discipline you – when not once, did you provoke me to mete out to you the corrective chastisement that is the common comeuppance of many an uncooperative barstool footboy.

"Not even once, did you give me a legitimate reason; never, did you give me an even remotely valid excuse to exploit your total vulnerability and to inflict in good conscience the good, corrective hard backheels to your inches-away face that would have given me not only immense satisfaction to administer but such heartwarming joy.

"Most gratifying though it is, your commendable compliance; your exemplary, model-male-citizen barstool facilitation at my after-work nyloned feet is entirely expected of you anyway.

"And so it is no condolence, is no compensation, is no consolation – is no redress: your uncriticisable conduct does not begin to alleviate the lingering ache of my unfulfilled expectation; does nothing, to assuage the anguishment of my unrealised greater gratification.

"My disappointment at your not giving me the opportunity to backheel black-eye you righteously, gnaws away at me; irritates me, like an itch I cannot scratch.

"Somehow, you have successfully contrived to thwart the rightful retaliative redress that for four weeks I have dreamed of dealing you.

"So I suppose it's over, now ... a pity.

"I'd been hoping you'd give me a bona fide excuse – however trivial, however trifling, however tenuous – to enable me to extend in good conscience your weekday early-shift sanction-Placement at the Heel Bar as Barstool Footboy Nine, to keep you literally as well as figuratively at heel. Or – and more to the point: at my heels.

"And, do you know why, male citizen Carl Carson? Hmmn? In hopes of backheel black-eyeing you in revenge apart? Hmmn? Because I've been enjoying it – that's why! Oh, how I have come to love it – barstooling you!

"Sitting on Barstool Nine right over your impertinent little head, prising off my office pumps and hanging them by their heels on my barstool's rounded rung where you cannot help but look at them, and then making you sniff and inhale the stinky fumes from the soles of my pantyhosed feet while I rub them on your face while I chat to other barstoolistas and Chloe and savour an ice-cold pilsner lager after a long day at the Jobby dealing with your kind.

"But my disappointment at not getting the opportunity to rightfully backheel black-eye you as you so thoroughly deserve is a nagging torment that, now, with your four-week sanction-Placement duly completed satisfactorily, that curative remedy has been denied me.

"Ahh ... I wish I hadn't been so lenient with you. I must be soft-hearted, letting a miscreant like you off so lightly.

"I could have used my Job Centre Interviewer's discretional power and stiffened the terms of your sanction-Placement: To seven-day-week barstool-facilitate at the Heel Bar from five p.m. to ten p.m. for as long as you remain a statistic on the unemployment register and a needless drain on AFP government resources."

Miss Pettiford was giving vent to her all too obvious regret that my four-week sanction-Placement awarded by her to serve 5 p.m. - 7 p.m. Monday to Friday at the Heel Bar as Barstool Footboy 9 – the barstool 'facility' that normally she had priority-patronised just for as long as it took to enjoy a winding-down post-work pilsner; yesterday's triple-tipple extension the single exception – was concluded.

Or – and more to the point: in her loose-tongued candour she was expressing her great surprise and articulating the depths of her disappointment that I hadn't given her the slightest valid, conscience-salving excuse to extend it.

Satisfying her vengeful eye-blackening ambition apart, Miss Pamela Pettiford might be surprised to learn the extent to which I shared her regret.

Right from the first day of my four-week sanction-Placement, I was sure that my enjoyment at being forced to sniff the under- and in-between-the-toes scents of her 9 to 5 Job Centre Interviewer's dark-nyloned post-work feet ("I want to feel you sniffing – or I will award extra, add-on hours to your sanction-Placement") had soon begun to exceed even her own.

I recalled my initial indignation; my shocked outrage at being similarly subjugated by my first anonymous Barstool 9 occupant – a flexitime first-arrival barstool-grabbing dark-pantyhosed black pump shod office girl who had ordered a Campari and soda with one lump of ice and the barmaid Camilla had greeted as Leyla.

Only to be surprised – no: astounded by an overwhelming wonderment of thrilling sensations and turbulent innermost emotions – when I'd found myself not revulsed but attracted and not enduring but enjoying and not resisting but participating in a previously unimagined service-sector activity: barstool facilitation.

When Miss Pettiford had arrived at the Heel Bar ten minutes later and the barmaid Chloe had decreed Reserved Occupancy of Barstool 9 for her friend Miss Pettiford, my disappointment did not last long at Chloe's eviction and barstool relocation of my enthralling/shoe-playing loin-stirring/facial foot-rubbing first barstoolista.

But what lured me back to the Heel Bar the next day at 10:05 p.m., was not only in hopes of barstool-facilitating my Case Worker Miss Pamela Pettiford again; but this time, in the guise of her Saturday-night out-on-the-town letting-her-hair-down persona.

Possessed of the compulsion to slake the sleep-depriving nighttime needs of another and, by now, all-consuming desire, I was siren-called back to the Heel Bar by the irresistible charms of the barmaid Chloe.

With my plan, founded upon snippets and snatches of overheard over-the-bar-counter conversations between barmaids and barstoolistas, high on hope and low in expectation and fraught with concern, I was in pursuit of the nightly fantasised realisation of my own, curative remedy.

***


As though I was just an ordinary pedestrian on Tockenham Coat Road, I tried to adopt an air of mild passer-by interest as I glanced in through each of the four floor-to-ceiling windows of the Heel Bar.

But given the goings-on I'd glimpsed as I'd faux-strolled around the rectangular building, affecting an attitude of idle curiosity wasn't that easy.

One of the most popular Theme Bars on Tockenham Coat Road, the Heel Bar was in full swing – not as I'd ever seen it, during my Monday to Friday 5 p.m. - 7 p.m. early shifts as Barstool Footboy 9.

On weekdays, the early evening barstool occupants were mostly one-drink office workers and shop girls – the first arrivals, flexitimer stealing-a-march barstool-grabbers – popping in after work for a relaxing glass of wine or a refreshing lager before heading home. One leisurely AFP-subsidised drink, while they chatted to other barstoolistas or listened to the popular music played over the sound system at moderate volume, and then the office worker/shop assistant would vacate her barstool and its attendant footboy, making the facility available to the next in line ticket-holder barstoolista.

But this was night-time – and Saturday night at that – and the place was jumping.

It was a far cry from the early-evening ambience I'd experienced during the week; even from outside, I could hear the lively thumping beat of the cranked-up Saturday-night music.

And what was happening inside was a real eye-opener.

As I'd walked past the four sides of the glass-faced building, I'd seen the barstoolistas – many of them, exhibiting classic signs of latter-stage inebriation – bopping to the beat on their barstools.

Already actually brought to heel at the inches-away feet of their barstoolista, the barstool footboys were just as literally having their barstool-facilitator predicament rubbed in their nose: irritated by the absentminded antics of alcohol influenced shoe-players; tormented by pantyhosed/socked/barefoot facial foot-rubbers; subjected to forced under-the-toes foot-sniffing, and corrected by backheeled blackeye-stigmatising chasteners.

I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that some of those fun-loving ladies had been first in the queue to ensure first-claim to a barstool, and had been occupying their barstool and their attendant barstool footboy since the two black-suited bouncers had opened the doors to admit entrance to female patrons at 5 p.m.

And, because there was no time limit on barstool occupancy, there, those lady revellers might stay, downing their AFP-subsidised drinks right through a succession of however so many on-the-hour footboy changeover reliefs and, powder-room visits apart, only vacating their barstool and abandoning its latest and last facilitator at closing time at 2 a.m.

During my walkaround reconnoitre I'd also seen that all of the crimson-velveted booths, situated by the floor-to-ceiling windows, were fully occupied by ticket-holder in-waiting ladies.

From my four-week sanction-Placement experience, I knew that all of those ladies had extracted a numbered ticket from the wall dispenser by the entrance doors and that, upon their number appearing on the digital readout displays (873 – 25), they would proceed to the bar to claim occupancy of the just-vacated barstool and high dominion over its attendant footboy.

But as I'd looked through each of the Heel Bar's four floor-to-ceiling windows, the objective of my observances was to ascertain whether or not all of the barstools were 'facilitated'.

Of all 50 barstools – 15 along each of the two longer sides of the rectangular bar; 10 along each of the two shorter ends – just two of them were not 'facilitated'.

One of them was Barstool 37.

I'd thought it quite the coincidence that the other was Barstool 9.

*


In the event of all 50 barstools being 'facilitated', I would have had to try my luck again after the next on-the-hour barstool footboy changeovers at 11 p.m. and, if unsuccessful, return at midnight ...

But as I had discovered that two of the barstools were unfacilitated, I could now, at 10:10 p.m., attempt to implement the perilous plan that I'd devised in desperation.

Timing was important: at 10:10 p.m. I was arriving just after the scheduled 10 p.m. coming on-shift/going off-shift barstool footboy changeovers.

From listening in on Miss Pamela Pettiford's conversation yesterday evening with the barmaid Chloe, one of the over-the-bar-counter snippets I had overheard was that today marked the Authoritarian Female Party government's UK-wide introduction of the Instant Response Standby Unit.

Utilising longer-term unemployed males, eighteen-year-old school-leavers with no work or training to go to, and a back-up haul of other Job-Centre-Interviewer-identified Welfare Benefits claimant idlers, the On-Call Emergency Replacement Programme was the AFP's new failsafe ten-minute-response scheme to cover Heel Bars for barstool footboy no-shows.

What I was about to do was fraught with risk: punishable by a 1,000 - 2,000-hour Community Service Order – possibly attached to the dreaded Domestic Work Detail, whose two-man teams are assigned to clean/tidy-up the houses and flats of housewives and female flatmates who book the free service through the Community Service Liaison Officer's office.

I had to consider too the further probability of punitive 100-hour incremental add-ons, awarded at the discretion of my AFP-authorised Case Worker at the Job Centre, Miss Pamela Pettiford, upon her eventual discovery of my ulterior-motived activities.

Miss Pettiford's putting me on attachment to the CSO-supervised Domestic Work Detail, might be considered as something of a let-off.

If at her discretion she determined that a harsher, custodial sanction was warranted, it was in Miss Pettiford's power to refer me to Tockenham's Community Service Liaison Officer, who was also the Authoritarian Female Party MP for Tockenham and Highberry: Ms Alma Ruddy.

Ms Ruddy MP – even by AFP standards a stern and severe no-nonsense woman who people in the know were tipping to soon become an AFP Cabinet Minister and the next Justice Secretary – would arrange to have me admitted to one of the AFP's Corrections and Rehabilitation facilities.

Most likely, the one just north of Brighton: the notorious Greystone Prison. Where prisoners are corrected and rehabilitated by the infamous cane-happy female prison officers who, because of their pale-blue uniforms, are known as the 'Jailhouse Blues'.

Released inmates of Greystone Prison claimed it was not the relentless clanging of slamming heavy metal barred doors that drove them all to distraction – and neither was it the almost constant agonised yelping of prisoners being bare-bottom caned, even during the night.

It was the slap-slap-slap slapping of the Jailhouse Blue female prison officers' uniform-issue thin-rubber soled flip-flops, rapping against the bottoms of their bare heels as night and day patrolling singly or partnered-up in pairs they ascended and descended the stairs connecting the cell wings known as the Levels looking for the slightest excuse to use their canes.

But, come what may, I would have to take my chances – I was in the grip of something I could no longer resist.

I approached the two black-suited bouncers, recognising the doormen on duty tonight as Vince and Tony.

I'd found them both likeable enough when they'd signed me in for my weekday early-shifts along with the forty-nine other 5 p.m.-start barstool footboys – but I doubted they would recognise me now.

But I was beaten to it by another guy, coming on at the double.

I knew who he had to be: the first of the two On-Call Emergency Replacement Programme respondents.

I had no choice now but to wait, while the doormen signed him in.

I looked at my digital watch. It was 22:12.

The first on-call guy was two minutes overdue – and two minutes late was two minutes late.

Still, I thought that perhaps just this one time, he might be let off with a ticking-off, if he tried to make up for his first-night unpunctuality by showing a bit of willing in his barstool facilitation and was commented on favourably by his barstoolistas.

"I ... I'm with the Instant Response Standby Unit ... I ... I got here as soon as I could," the guy announced himself, short of breath and red in the face from his fast-response exertions.

"Name?" asked Doorman Tony, who I saw glance at his watch before consulting his clipboard.

"Steven Stevens – I've just been contacted on my AFP-issue mobile phone by some bossy-sounding woman called Ms Andrea Leasome."

"Steven Stevens ... Steven Stevens ..." intoned Doorman Tony, drawing his forefinger down the names listed on his clipboard.

Still panting from his headlong sprint, Steven Stevens took a deep breath and then went on.

"This Ms Leasome bint – she gave me a right old earful. She said she hoped for my sake that I was complying with standing regulations for tonight's introduction of the On-Call Emergency Replacement Programme and on red-alert readiness for my possible call-up.

"She said my name was fifth on tonight's Instant Response Standby Unit list, and I was to report immediately to the Heel Bar to cover for the fifth barstool footboy relief no-show, at one of the ten p.m. changeovers.

"This Ms Andrea Leasome woman told me that arrest warrants are being issued to CSOs to have all of the no-shows picked up for offences indictable under Article One of the Female-Friendly Code – which means indefinite detention at one of the AFP's female-run Corrections and Rehabilitation facilities.

"She said it was a loud and clear message to other would-be barstool footboy no-shows. And she warned me to expect a severe, example-setting sanction myself if I was not at the Heel Bar within the regulation ten-minute response time.

"Ms Leasome said she was summoning me to facilitate Barstool Thirty-Seven – whatever that means – until the next scheduled Barstool Thirty-Seven changeover relief takes over from me at midnight."

Steven Stevens, then, had been on-call summoned as the emergency-replacement failsafe backup to two-hour facilitate Barstool 37.

But where was the Barstool 9 guy?

I looked at my watch: 22:15.

Steven Stevens was now five minutes overdue: he should have responded to his call-up in time to begin his facilitation of Barstool 37 by 22:10 at the latest. Probably it was just nerves, which was understandable, but he had wasted some of those minutes in running away at the mouth to doormen Tony and Vince about Ms Leasome's phone call and her abrupt summons.

I looked up and down Tockenham Coat Road.

He had to be here at any moment, but there was still no sign of the other emergency-replacement respondent, who Ms Leasome or one of the barmaids would have summoned to cover for the Barstool 9 changeover relief no-show.

"Steven Stevens ... Steven Stevens – yes: I've got you on my clipboard," said Doorman Tony.

Doorman Tony clicked his pen on and wrote two notations on his clipboard: male citizen Steven Stevens's on-call attendance, officially registered; his time of arrival and his two-minute transgression, duly recorded.

"Male citizen Steven Stevens: I've got you down as one of the Instant Response Standby Unit's on-calls for tonight."

"That's right; my Case Worker at Highberry Job Centre has sanction-Placemented me to provide on-call cover at the Heel Bar on an alternate-day basis for the next three months – starting today: Saturday! I always go out on Saturday night!" lamented the aggrieved Steven Stevens. "It was ten o'clock, and I'd just got to thinking it would probably be okay to head on out to the pub to join my mates; I'd still get three or four pints in – when my AFP-issue mobile phone rang and this Ms Leasome woman's name was on the display screen! I mean – for Pete's sake!"

"Well, you had better get used to it – and anyway, you've got no call to go to the pub when you're on-call, male citizen Steven: standby, means stand by," admonished the unsympathetic Doorman Tony."

"I know, but ..."

"And you should look on the bright side," advised Doorman Vince. "If you are covering alternate days, you'll get alternate Saturdays off. Have you thought of that?"

"Well, yeah. But ..."

"Who is your Case Worker at Highberry Job Centre?" questioned Doorman Tony.

"Miss Candice Clinton – Candy, to her friends. Which I'm definitely not – she's really got it in for me! On the outside, she's as pretty as a peach – but on the inside, she's just as stone-hearted."

"Miss Clinton's got it in for you? No – she hasn't got in for you," disputed Doorman Tony. "And she's not stone-hearted, either. It's just your imagination – or a lack thereof."

"But you don't know her, Doorman Tony!" Steven Stevens complained. "You don't know what she's like! You have no idea! She's a real piece of work! She—"

"You do not see this thing from both sides; only your own," Doorman Vince remonstrated. "You do not see this thing from Miss Clinton's angle. Can't you see that she's only doing her best for you, acting in your own best interests?"

"Ha! Her? Miss Clinton – acting in my best interests? Well, now I've heard it all. She—"

Doorman Tony said, "Haven't you thought, male citizen Steven, that your Case Worker at Highberry Job Centre Miss Clinton could just as easily have sanction-Placemented you to on-call emergency replacement cover with the Instant Response Standby Unit, not on alternate days for three months – but for three solid months' worth of Saturdays?"

"Uh, I ..."

"Think about that ...

"Ninety consecutive Saturdays, of knowing you won't be going out to the pub with your mates.

"But just moping around at home – waiting.

"And, because you'll have no idea if your name is one of the first call-ups or one of the last on the Instant Response Standby Unit list – you didn't know, that tonight you were emergency replacement call-up number five – not even knowing the chances of your AFP-issue mobile phone ringing.

"Just waiting around for something to happen or not to happen is not only extremely boring but very tiring as well because it wears on the nerves.

Which is bad enough; but then, guess what?

"Just when you are starting to relax; just when you are beginning to think your AFP-issue mobile phone isn't going to ring; just when you think you've gotten away with it tonight; just when you think it's safe to go on upstairs to bed at gone midnight or one a.m. – then you'll get the phone call from Ms Leasome or one of her barmaids.

"See what I'm saying?

"Just when you've breathed a huge sigh of relief that it wasn't going to happen – it happens: your Saturday-night call-up summons to the Heel Bar.

"Called up, to emergency-replace some no-good no-show barstool footboy changeover relief.

"To barstool-facilitate a, by then, seriously sozzled barstoolista.

"Who, from the moment of your barstool installation just after midnight or one a.m., will sit right over your miserable head and crow over your late-night on-call emergency-replacement attendance at her inches-away feet while she guzzles yet another AFP-subsidised drink.

"Your boozed-up barstoolista will make less than two hours seem like twenty.

"She'll inflict her casual cruelties, prolonging your barstool-bound torments and indignities right up until the closing-time call at two a.m., when she'll remove her soles from your face and reinsert her feet into her tottery Saturday-night high heels and vacate her barstool only because she has to.

"But you'll have to hope that your sloshed barstoolista vacates her barstool quietly. That she won't, first, as many barstoolistas do, disdainfully desert her barstool footboy with a drunken thank-you-and-good-night backheel or two to take home with him to remember her by awhile each time he looks in the bathroom mirror to see how his black-eyed bruised-up stigmatised face is coming along – just because she can.

"Just think, how long you'd have that hanging over you; it would seem like forever."

"Are you starting to get the picture?" chimed in Doorman Vince. "Ninety consecutive Saturday nights, Miss Clinton could have sanction-Placemented you for – if she had it in for you; if she had a heart of stone."

"Um ..."

"So, there you go, male citizen Steven," resumed Doorman Tony, spreading his hands. "If your Miss Candice Clinton is as pretty as a peach on the outside, then I'll bet that's just exactly what she is on the inside too.

"Miss Clinton isn't stone-hearted, and she hasn't got it in for you; she is just putting her foot down. Don't you see? She is doing a thankless job, dealing with difficult people – people who don't give her the respect she deserves."

"Do you see now?" Doorman Vince wanted to know.

"I ... guess."

"So," Doorman Tony went on, "at your next interview at Highberry Job Centre by Miss Clinton, perhaps you'll remember what she could have done to you but didn't – because she's not hard-hearted, but fair-minded."

"Uh ..."

"And maybe you'll show her a very much improved attitude: you'll be less difficult, more thankful – and above all: a hell of a sight more respectful."

"I ... suppose."

"And maybe a little contriteness wouldn't go amiss, either. Because I have to tell you, male citizen Steven: you don't sound very contrite.

"So, how about ... Each time you visit Miss Clinton from now on, to try and make amends and make things up to her you bring her a small present; a token of your newfound appreciative regard: a bunch of fresh-cut flowers, or box of Belgian chocolates, or maybe a nice bottle of Burgundy wine – something like that? To show her your improved attitude; to demonstrate your contrition."

"Um ... I guess," Steven Stevens said unconvincingly.

"You could buy these small but thoughtful making-amends-and-making-up tokens of apology and enlightened appreciative regard for your long-suffering Case Worker with the savings from your Saturday-night going-out money. The Saturday nights when you aren't going out to the pub with your mates, because you are sitting around at home on standby waiting for a phone-call summons from the Heel Bar that you might or might not get."

"Yeah ... I could."

"See, there it is again: that tone of yours. Vinnie, is it just me, or have you picked up on it too, male citizen Steven's negative tone?"

"It's not just you, Tone. I'm getting male citizen Steven's negative vibe as well. It's as plain as the nose on his face."

Doorman Tony said, "I thought so. See, male citizen Steven, I don't think you are buying into this making-amends and putting-things-to-rights atonement thing. I don't think your heart is in it. No, I really don't. So ... how about I make you a deal?"

"A deal? I don't know ... what deal?"

"To show her you've changed, call your Case Worker at the Job Centre Miss Candice Clinton now and tell her that if she can make it, you would love to see her down at the Heel Bar, where you have been summoned to facilitate Barstool Thirty-Seven as an emergency replacement for a ten p.m. barstool footboy changeover relief no-show. Tell her that she'll get priority-occupancy of Barstool Thirty-Seven, and you would consider it an honour and a privilege to facilitate her barstool for as long as she wants while she enjoys whatever she'd like to drink at your expense."

"What the ... what kind of a deal is that? Are you kidding, Doorman Tony? You want me to facilitate Miss Clinton's barstool, and pay for her drinks with my dole money? That's not fair! It's too much! It's—"

"I'm not kidding. It is fair, and it's not too much. Given the circumstances."

"But—"

"Do that, and I won't drop you in it with the Heel Bar proprietress Ms Andrea Leasome."

"But—"

"Do it, and I won't let on to Ms Leasome about all of those unkind things you said about her, which she would then tell to her good friend Alma Ruddy who is the Community Service Liaison Officer and the AFP MP for Tockenham and Highberry."

"But, I—"

"Which would result in your certain prosecution, conviction, and imprisonment at Greystone Prison and, at Ms Leasome's request and Ms Alma Ruddy MP's OK-ing it, the equal certainty of your being bare-bottom caned every day by the infamous Jailhouse Blue female prison officers ... Deal?"

"Hell! Okay! I don't believe this – are you a doorman or a moral crusader? Okay, Doorman Tony, I'll make the call to Miss Peachy! It's a deal. But – hell! I mean – hell!"

"Now, you'd better hop to it and go right on in – Ms Leasome said to send you through pronto.

I looked at my watch ... this was Doorman Tony's idea of pronto?

"The lady sitting on Barstool Thirty-Seven has been unfacilitated with a barstool footboy for nearly twenty minutes, now, since the five p.m. to ten p.m. assigned facilitator refused to stay on after his scheduled relief's no-show and to facilitate her barstool voluntarily."

"Uh, this is my first time. What do I have to do? I mean, to ... facilitate?" inquired the on-call emergency-replacement, Steven Stevens, much to the amusement of the two doormen Vince and Tony.

I had another look up and down Tockenham Coat Road ... still no sign of the second on-call Instant Response Standby Unit emergency-replacement respondent, who by now should be tearing down the road to get here to facilitate Barstool 9 if he hoped to have any chance at all of avoiding a sanction for lateness.

I looked at my watch again: 22:21.

Maybe I was in luck ... maybe the Barstool 9 guy was a no-show.

Doorman Vince said, "Barstool facilitation is simple, male citizen Steven, and you'll soon get the hang of it. For the duration of their duty – which can range from anything between just one hour and the full nine hours – barstool footboys facilitate the occupant, or the succession of occupants of their assigned barstool – their barstoolistas – by keeping their face accessible and their manner compliant.

"Generally – and I guess I can understand why – the barstoolistas prefer to preserve the secrecy of their identity; to remain anonymous to their barstool footboys.

"So unless she chooses to reveal her identity – to lean down to look at you: installed under her barstool with your head within its eighteen-inch-diameter rounded-rimmed chrome footrest – you won't get to see your barstoolistas' faces. Just their legs, feet and shoes. But most especially, of course: their heels. Because this is the Heel Bar."

"Doorman Tony said, "And now you should hop to it – unless you want Ms Leasome to make good on her threat of a severe, example-setting sanction for lateness; because trust me: she will. And there's another thing, male citizen Steven: I didn't like your lack of respect for the proprietress Ms Leasome. I didn't like it at all. If Ms Leasome were ever to find out from someone that you called her 'a bossy-sounding woman' – let alone 'a bint', who gave you 'a right old earful' – you'd be in a whole world of trouble. You got me ...?"

"Yes, I've got you."

"Are you sure? Because I'm not sure you have."

"Yes, I've got you. And, I'm sorry, Doorman Tony ... sir."

"That's better, male citizen Steven," said Doorman Tony. "One last thing; a word of advice: respect.

"Think of yourself as a sidelined substitute player, given a surprise chance to impress; handed the unexpected opportunity to help the team out when it's a man down.

"Look up to the Heel Bar proprietress Ms Andrea Leasome, and her seven barmaids: Chloe, Leanne, Camilla and Rosalind are the ones on duty tonight – as the figures of high authority that to you they are.

"And regard, respect, and revere the barstool-occupying ladies you facilitate – the barstoolistas – as your all-powerful Goddesses."

"That's damn good advice, Tone," agreed Vince. "You should listen up, male citizen Steven. Take onboard what Tone is telling you."

"That sounds a bit extreme to me, Doorman Tony," complained Steven Stevens.

"No, male citizen Steven, it's not," Doorman Tony contested.

"You'll find that a modicum of humility goes a long way; a healthy respect for Ms Leasome and her seven barmaids, even further; and a reverential regard for your barstoolistas – including your Case Worker at the Job Centre Miss Candice Clinton who, if she can make it, you'll get the chance to start making a good impression – further still."

"You should listen up, male citizen Steven," repeated Doorman Vince. "Tone's right. Take what he says to heart."

Doorman Tony went on, "Do all of that, male citizen Steven, abide by those three golden rules I've laid out, and there's a chance you might get along relatively okay. You might serve out the terms of your alternate-day three-month sanction-Placement handed down to you by Miss Clinton, without her having to award too many add-on penalty hours as a result of complaints from dissatisfied or just plain mean-minded barstoolistas.

"Because you need to be clear on one thing: give the barstoolistas just cause, and they'll see to it that you spend not just months, but years, facilitating their barstools.

"Now hop to it. Go right on in and report to Barstool Thirty-Seven, before your barstoolista starts making an even bigger fuss about having no footboy – because she might decide to take it out on you.

"Just one word of complaint from her, and you could find that your Instant Response Standby Unit alternate-day on-call cover has been upgraded by your Case Worker Miss Clinton to a seven-day week and extended from three months to six months or even a year.

"So if I were you, I'd hop to it and go right on in. These are precious barstool-facilitation minutes you are wasting, standing around here talking.

"As a first-time barstool facilitator, either Ms Leasome herself or one of the barmaids will install you in situ."

I'd thought that male citizen Steven was a chatterbox. But at least his loquacity could be put down to first-time nerves – or maybe he was just trying fritter away some minutes to put off the inevitable for as long as possible. But either way, he had nothing on the blethering Doorman Tony and his fellow prattler doorman Vince.

Again I looked up and down Tockenham Coat Road ... still no sign, of the on-call emergency-replacement facilitator for Barstool 9.

Again I looked at my watch: 22:25.

He was very late now ... maybe my luck was in; maybe, this was my 'in'.

Doorman Vince now pointed at me and said: "And, who are you?"

Knowing I could be talking myself into a whole heap of trouble, I tried to appear casual and sound plausible as I trotted out the lines I'd prepared in the event of spotting an unfacilitated barstool.

"Um ... well, I was walking by, and I just happened to look in the window and notice that the lady sitting on Barstool Nine was without a barstool footboy."

"Oh, did you?" said Doorman Tony.

"Well, yes. And, well, as I have no plans for this evening, I thought I'd offer to facilitate Barstool Nine for the rest of tonight."

"Oh, you did, did you?" said Doorman Vince.

"Well, yes. You know, in cooperation with our AFP Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's TV, radio, and newspaper appeals to male citizens to honour their societal obligations under the Female-Friendly Code and to volunteer to man an undermanned or unmanned female-friendly service or facility in their spare time."

The on-call emergency replacement Steven Stevens stood and looked at me, his mouth agape.

Doorman Tony said, "Are you male citizen Carl Carson?"

Struck speechless, I could only nod dumbly in confirmation.

Recovering quickly, the on-call guy Steven Stevens said, "This is great! Don't you see, Doorman Tony? I'm off the hook! I can go to the pub for the last-pint with my mates. This guy Carl can cover Barstool Thirty-Seven for me!"

"Quiet, you!" warned Doorman Tony. "And, didn't I say, that you've got no call to go to the pub when you're on-call? That standby, means you are to stand by? Don't you see, muttonhead, even if I let you go now, you could still be called out later tonight, to cover for another barstool footboy changeover relief no-show?"

"But—"

"And anyway, why are you still here? Didn't I tell you, male citizen Steven, that the lady sitting on Barstool Thirty-Seven is without a footboy? And that you are to hop to it; to go right on in and facilitate her barstool?"

"Yes, but—"

"Or should I have a word with Ms Leasome about you, after all? Because, now I'm thinking, that maybe I should."

"But, Doorman Tony, we've made a deal about that!"

"I know ... but even so."

"Oh! All right – Doorman Tony! I get the message!" said the on-call emergency-replacement barstool footboy, Steven Stevens, his resentment at his call-up to facilitate a barstool at the Heel Bar on Saturday night, followed by his disappointment at not being allowed to stand down when an entirely willing substitute was on hand to fill in for him, finally getting the better of him.

"I'll hop to it! I'm going right on in! Okay ...?" he said, looking back petulantly. "I'll 'facilitate'!" he said, making the double-quotation sign over his shoulders.

"And don't forget! Call Miss Clinton first, just like I told you," Doorman Tony called after him. "Remember our deal? This is your chance to start putting things right between you!"

"Yes, all right – Doorman Tony! I'll call Miss Peachy first!" Steven Stevens shouted back irately as he let himself in through the double doors of the Heel Bar, his last words almost drowned out by the loud music within.

When the doors had closed behind Steven Stevens and the relative quiet had returned, Doorman Vince told me, "Miss Chloe will be pleased to see you."

Now I was truly stunned.

Doorman Tony said, "Ms Leasome told Vince and me that she is expecting your return tonight, male citizen Carl. She said she wants to have a word with you; go over a few things. Okay?"

"Okay, Doorman Tony."

"And then you are to install yourself at Barstool Nine. Ms Leasome said you know what to do; she's watched you facilitate Barstool Nine without demur or complaint for the last four weeks."

Doorman Vince said, "Miss Chloe said to tell you, she'll satisfy your obvious craving when she sits on Barstool Nine for her usual winding-down post-work drink with Ms Leasome and the other barmaids after closing time at two a.m."

Doorman Tony said, "Okay then, male citizen Carl – you'd better hop to it, and go right on in."

I was in a state of shock:

Ms Leasome 'had watched me facilitate Barstool 9 without demur or complaint' for the last four weeks? And she had been 'expecting' me to return tonight?

Chloe, when after closing time she takes the weight off and sits on Barstool 9 for a relaxing post-work drink with Ms Leasome and the other barmaids, was going to satisfy my 'obvious craving'?

Now, finally, the penny dropped:

There wasn't going to be, a second, on-call Instant Response Standby Unit guy come running pell-mell down Tockenham Coat Road to the Heel Bar to facilitate Barstool 9 as emergency-replacement cover for a 10 p.m. barstool footboy changeover relief no-show.

Barstool 9 had been left unfacilitated tonight for a reason – as a signal: It was my 'in'.

It would seem then that my ulterior-motived machinations weren't so fraught with risk as I'd thought; my desperately devised devious plan wasn't so punitive-penalty perilous, upon its inevitable eventual discovery by my Case Worker at the Job Centre, Miss Pamela Pettiford.

The prompt reappearance of a just-released former facilitator of Barstool 9 had been anticipated.

Just before the doors closed behind me as I let myself into the Heel Bar, almost but not quite drowned out by the lively thumping beat of the revved-up Saturday-night music, I overheard Doorman Tony say to Doorman Vince: "Well, Vinnie ... he turned up, then. Just like Ms Leasome said he would."

*


The nine or ten ticket-holder in-waiting ladies seated in the red-velveted booths to either side of the entrance doors diverted their attentive eyes from monitoring the digital readout display, or dragged vicarious eyes from the coveted barstools and the entertaining endurances of the barstool footboys at the inches-away feet of their barstoolista, and gazed appraisingly at me when I entered the Heel Bar.

The dolled-up Heel Bar Saturday-nighters commented and shared their assessments of the apparent barstool-facilitator latecomer, conferring with their biding-time companions in secretive hand-over-mouth exchanges.

I didn't know if she'd meant me to hear her but over the loud thumping music, I overheard a stunningly attractive girl in the right-hand booth say to one of her skimpily dressed killer-heel shod friends: "Oooh ... I hope I get him!"

Looking me in the eye, she crossed her bare right leg over her left knee, popped her heel from her yellow leather spike-heeled pump and proceeded to dangle and swing it from the toes of her high-arched lightly tanned foot.

I wondered if she'd purposely implanted the mental image:

Perching herself on my barstool, easing off her shoes and hanging them by their high heels from the conveniently rounded-rimmed circular chrome footrest encircling my head, and her golden bare soles reaching back the mere inches to enjoy my barstool facilitation while she imbibed AFP-subsidised drinks and bantered with other bopping-to-the-music barstoolistas.

Because that was exactly what she had done.

I guessed the girl to be older than me, at nineteen or maybe twenty. She was a real looker: million-dollar legs, a curvy figure, lustrous shoulder-length wavy blonde hair, and in her blue eyes was a glint that hinted at a playfully mischievous personality.

My intuitive impression was that I could do a lot worse than to hope that, via the potluck, random chance ticket-number/barstool-number correlation fortuity of the digital readout display, her announced barstool-facilitator preference was thus luckily granted.

Because, unless she underwent a dramatic personality change with a drink or two inside her, while evidently she didn't scruple about bringing me to heel, neither did she seem the sort to diabolically abuse her perched position and then disdainfully desert her barstool footboy with two backheeled thank-you-and-good-night black eyes to take home with him to remember her by awhile, just because she could.

But then I spotted potential trouble, forcibly bringing home to me the sobering reality that while most barstoolistas were fair-minded and their expectations and requirements of their barstool footboys were reasonable, the 'Sugar and Spice and All Things Nice' variety of Heel Bar patron was decidedly in the minority.

Wearing their political allegiance on their sleeves, the pair of young women sitting together in the booth to the left-hand side of the entrance doors wore their hair in the AFP-adopted but severely adapted concave bob style.

In these 'female-friendly' times, it was nothing out of the ordinary to see women sporting the same intimidating hairstyle that was regulation-worn by the AFP's CSOs and the government's other frontline personnel and even by a few example-setting AFP Cabinet Ministers.

But I sensed an underlying steely substantiveness to these two young women, suggesting they were not just relatively harmless heart-on-their-sleeve AFP cheerleaders.

Aged eighteen or nineteen at the most, one of them was brunette and her companion, who looked even more like trouble, was a blonde whose hair was streaked with pink highlights that might have looked great on another girl but on her seemed to holler 'attitude'.

All too easily I could imagine this partnered pair approaching me in full CSO uniform, carrying their AFP-issue whippy bamboo canes and wearing their black nylon utility belt equipped with the wherewithal to subdue and detain errant male citizens: taser, baton, pepper spray, walkie-talkie radio, handcuffs and cable ties – and avoiding eye contact I would cross the road to evade them.

But I wasn't on the street, and I couldn't evade them.

I looked away, but I knew I had been too late. Knew that, albeit fleeting, I should not have made direct eye contact with the two menace-emanating young women.

I knew I was a fool to have made eye contact with the dolled-up Saturday-nighter ticket-holder in-waiting ladies seated in the two red-velveted booths on either side of the entrance doors.

A fool, not to have kept my gaze downward and made a beeline to the bar and Ms Leasome.

A fool, to let my eyes linger on the yellow leather high-heeled shoe dangling from the lightly tanned toes of the shapely petite bare foot of my stated wannabe barstoolista, Miss Sugar and Spice and All Things Nice.

And I knew that now I would be made to pay a price for my foolhardiness – my AFP Female-Friendly Code protocol non-adherence.

Before I took a second step toward the bar to present myself to the Heel Bar proprietress Ms Andrea Leasome as instructed by Doorman Tony ("you should hop to it, and go right on in"), the brunette, snapped: "You – footboy!"

I had no choice now but to look directly at my imperious addresser the brunette.

Crooking her finger at me to beckon me to her presence, she said peremptorily, "Yes, you – footboy! Come here!"

There was nothing for it now but to meekly comply with the haughty brunette's summons and to humbly face her tongue-lashing tirade and, I intuited, a much harsher dressing-down and a punitive painful penalty too from her blonde companion.

Though the brunette was not in CSO uniform: blue blazer, green shirt, red above-the-knee skirt, yellow ankle socks, and black, thick-rubber soled backless clog-like shoes – she might as well have been. The arrogant, self-assured note of AFP-empowerment was unmistakable in her voice.

It was the intimidating tone of command that, set against the backdrop of AFP Female-Friendly infrastructural entrenchment – the almost weekly openings of yet another male-facilitated programme, project, and scheme – no male citizen was left untouched.

I reported to the AFP-style concave-bobbed brunette at once – it would not do to hesitate; to show the slightest sign of resistance or even reluctance to present oneself to a summoning female citizen.

Not to any female. But least of all to a pair of young women who exhibited more than enough tell-tale warning signs that they were not just politico-hobbyist AFP apparatchiks out on the town for a drink and a laugh, but off-duty Community Service Officers out on the prowl to snare unwary male prey.

And upon reporting as bidden by the browbeating brunette, I was further persuaded of my worrisome suspicion that she and her blonde companion were indeed off-duty CSOs, for such was the militaristic precision and perfection of their severe regulation-cut hairstyle.

"Good evening, Miss. I hope I find you well. And please: how may I be of service?" I said respectfully to the brunette.

I had spoken with due deference as per the standardised female-citizen-mistress/male-citizen-servant societal interaction protocols as set out in the AFP's Female-Friendly Code.

My demeanour and my words conveying my acknowledgement of, and agreement with, a female citizen's constitutionally enshrined right to summarily summon me face-to-face or by phone, and my unconditional acceptance of both her societal superiority and her personal authority, including and in particular my ready compliance to submit instantly and serve wordlessly unless required or invited to speak.

The brunette held out her hand and said: "Show me your Male Citizen Identity Card."

Any female citizen (not necessarily a CSO) was AFP-empowered to demand to see a male citizen's AFP-issued laminated photo-ID card which, along with his AFP-issued mobile phone, he was legally required to carry on his person at all times.

A male citizen's failure to produce his ID Card upon request by a female citizen would result in his offence being called in by said, female citizen, who, assuming Acting-CSO status would then arrest him and advise responding CSOs of her prisoner's location.

The now Acting-CSO female citizen could then serve a verbal Self-Custody Order on her captured offender to legally bind him to remain where he was while she went on her way. Or detain him herself, to witness – and even partake in – his ensuing on-the-spot chastisement for his contravention of the AFP's on-person-at-all-times edict.

Everything would then depend upon just how malicious was the responding CSO foot/mobile-patrol, and whether or not they chose to exercise their discretional post-punishment penal powers.

If the non-ID/phone-carrying male citizen was lucky, he might be sent on his way after being administered the Standard Six bared-bottom caning penalty at the hands of the responding foot/mobile-patrol CSOs – or, at the apprehending female citizen's request, her participation in a three-way two-stroke shareout.

And if he was unlucky: following his matter-of-course on-the-spot Standard Six chastisement, his handcuffing, formal arrest, and his immediate admission to one of the AFP's female-run Corrections and Rehabilitation facilities; his release, pending his female overseers' recommendation, dependant upon his behavioural improvement under their daily Female-Friendly Doctrine inculcation and cane-centric mindset adjustment therapies.

I promptly handed my Male Citizen Identity Card over to the overbearing brunette.

As the brunette and her blonde companion put their concave-bobbed heads together to peruse my ID Card, I waited quietly.

Fleeting direct eye contact apart, I was pretty sure I knew what this was all about: they were mistaking me for a straggler; an on-call relief, turning up late for one of the 10 p.m. barstool footboy changeovers.

"So ... male citizen Carl," said the girl with the pink-highlighted blonde hair, pointing meaningfully to her wrist at what looked to be a wi-fi-enabled multifunction wristwatch of the type issued by the AFP to their female army of foot soldier CSOs and to their other female frontline forces. "What time do you call this, then, to report to your Barstool Footboy duties?"

Wordlessness was the wary and wise male citizen's watchword – I remained silent.

"It appears that you are late; very late, at nearly half-past ten," said the high-and-mighty brunette, pointing to the dial of her own, wizard watch.

"Yes ..." agreed the blonde, "... sanctionably late."

And appearances can be deceptive, I thought but didn't say.

In fact, I didn't say anything to them.

I decided to play it safe: To make no attempt to clear up the understandable misunderstanding, but to feign contrite admission of guilt to their accusation and pretend remorseful submission to their righteous apprehension – because it was for the best.

It would not do to backchat a female – any female.

But especially not a possible off-duty CSO – and the evidential signs of these two being so were mounting up by the moment.

Like many of the AFP's female frontline employees: Prison Officers, Correction and Rehabilitation Facility personnel, Job Centre Interviewers – the CSOs were Female-Friendly ideology zealots. Ultra-fanatical adherents, the CSOs were Authoritarian Female Party doctrine enforcers who were never really off-duty.

"I am CSO Trudi," said the blonde, showing me her CSO ID Card. "And sitting next to me is my colleague CSO Debbie," she told me, confirming my strong suspicions and vindicating my fearful concerns.

"Have you anything to say in your defence or in mitigation, before duly exercising the law enforcement powers vested in me by the Authoritarian Female Party government, I award the statutory Standard Six bared-bottom caning penalty for your lax timekeeping in reporting to the Heel Bar to perform your barstool-facilitator duties, as also witnessed by CSO Debbie?"

In reading my 'rights', CSO Trudi was merely going through the legalistic motions. Her invitation to defend or plead mitigation was not only a hollow gesture but an invitation to self-harm.

So still, I said nothing.

My silence would indicate to CSOs Trudi and Debbie an uncontested full admission of guilt as charged – which was for the best.

Any form of contentious argument with a CSO, including a protestation of verifiable genuine blamelessness in a manner of politest deference, the respectful insistence upon innocence would prove counterproductive.

The response of the power-crazed CSOs to the first word of humblest talking-back appeal was likely to be the introduction of cable ties and one's wrists restrained behind one's back, followed, once thus incapacitated, by a furious flurry of face-slaps. Likely too, should the CSO's arbitrarily administered face-slaps be met with attempted avoidance, would be a doubling-up of the Standard Six on-the-spot bared-bottom caning punishment.

"Male citizen Carl Carson, you will present yourself at Tockenham Town Hall at ten o'clock on Monday morning. Ask for me by name. Tell the Information Desk CSO that you are reporting as ordered by CSO Trudi, to receive your Standard Six chastisement for gross unpunctuality in reporting for facilitation duty at a female-friendly venue.

"Having stated your business, you will then face the wall and stand at respectful silent attention until I come to the Information Desk to escort you to the Corrections and Punishments Room.

"Witnessed by CSO Debbie or another colleague or colleagues, with her or their assistance I will de-trouser you, divest you of underwear, and restrain you to the horizontal caning-frame by your wrists and ankles, spreadeagled face-down. Any show of resistance during these denuding and restraining procedures will incur the statutory doubling of your CSO-administered six-stroke caning punishment, the penalty for obstructive noncompliance.

"After a safety inspection ensuring that your wrists and ankles are all secured satisfactorily to the ratcheted restraints on the horizontal caning-frame, I will perform your bared-bottom caning punishment: Six strokes of an AFP-approved cane, counted out at ten-second intervals, delivered with the full weight of the law, administered alternately to each bared buttock.

"I will then release you – upon caution:

"Any second offence that you commit within the next thirty days would incur the statutory doubling of the Standard Six penalty; a third offence, a tripling of the penalty; a fourth offence, a quadrupling. Six cane strokes per each offence, delivered with the full weight and majesty of the law, administered in turn to each bared buttock, counted out at ten-second intervals. Have I made myself clear, male citizen Carl?"

"Yes, you have made yourself clear, CSO Trudi. Thank you."

"Do not think of making the mistake that many do of disobeying me and not turning up to the Town Hall as instructed, through fear.

"Believe me: the last thing you want is to have me and CSO Debbie come looking for you with an arrest warrant ... and our canes.

"Not only do CSO Debbie and I not hesitate to deploy our canes but we relish the chance to use them when using reasonable force to show noncompliant male citizens the errors of their ways – especially fugitives from justice.

"When we caught up with you, before arresting you and taking you into custody, CSO Debbie and I would give you a lot of good reasons to wish you had obeyed my explicit instructions to the letter and turned up to take your due punishment at my hands. Am I clear?"

"Yes, CSO Trudi. You are very clear. Thank you."

"And be in no doubt: I will not tolerate your lackadaisical lateness. The way you sauntered in here tonight, unforgivably overdue – and then, to put the icing on the cake, you have the bare-faced audacity to stand around staring at ladies' legs.

"Because I am telling you now: just one minute late, and I will exercise my discretion to double your Standard Six caning penalty – and CSO Debbie or another colleague can follow-on and take her cane to your exposed buttocks in the AFP-prescribed manner as well. Again: am I clear, male citizen Carl?"

"Yes. You are very clear, CSO Trudi. Extremely clear. Thank you."

"On your way, then, male citizen Carl," said the brunette off-duty CSO. "You have duly received your Punishment Notice, served by CSO Trudi. Well ...? Don't let us keep you. Go and facilitate your assigned barstool."

"Yes, CSO Debbie. Thank you. And have a nice evening."

I finally made it to the bar – and as had happened on almost every other previous occasion, with seemingly uncanny coincidence I arrived to see the petite barmaid Chloe turn her back on me and reach up to press the rim of a highball glass against the optics under a bottle of spirits.

I looked downward, and once again I felt that same surge of excitement upon seeing that Chloe was wearing the flexible flat black shoes she usually wore to her bar work, and in keen anticipation I watched, knowing what was about to happen ...

But knowing didn't prepare me for the heart-lurching thrill that threatened to buckle my knees this time as, five and a half hours into her busy, hectic, run-off-her-feet Saturday-night shift, grubbier than I'd ever seen them before, the bottoms of Chloe's work-begrimed bare heels popped free and clear of her well-worn black leather flats.

Just that, albeit momentary sight, the enthralling image was worth the six agonising cane strokes and probably some face-slaps thrown in too for good measure when, on Monday at the Town Hall, I reported to CSO Trudi to unjustly receive at her power-happy de-trousering and underwear-divesting hands the Standard Six bared-bottom caning penalty on the horizontal caning-frame for misperceived unpunctuality.

As though sensing watchful eyes upon her, Chloe looked over her shoulder and saw me, standing behind the presently unoccupied and unfacilitated Barstool 9.

Chloe smiled, as though pleasantly surprised to see me and, upon seeing the redirection of my rapt downward gaze, she stood higher, right up on the pads of her toes in that way of hers – revealing the equally grubby balls of her feet, her comparatively clean arches, and even the undersides of her toes.

What a sight! I didn't know what it was about it, but it really stirred me up. It was—

"Male citizen Carl – how delightful!" breezily greeted Ms Andrea Leasome, the tall and slim, mid-thirties blonde proprietress of the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road.

Attired in her Saturday-night evening wear and standing many inches taller than me in her high-heeled mules, Ms Leasome looked fantastic.

But I only had eyes for Chloe.

Chloe was pressing the rim of a second highball glass to the vodka optics, maintaining her reaching up, on-her-toes stance, and it was a monumental effort to divert my enraptured eyes from that mesmeric sight – the enthralling image, that had tormented my nighttimes for the last four weeks, invariably requiring multiple ... remedial treatments.

"Good evening, Ms Leasome," I replied eventually. "I ... um, I ... er ..."

I'd prepared a believable backup of feasible semi-truths and passable plausibilities to satisfy the cursory questions of the doormen.

But now that it was time to admit my truthful motivations to the Heel Bar proprietress Ms Andrea Leasome, who apparently was expecting me, looking into her eyes I found myself helplessly lost for words – how could I possibly explain coherently my unscheduled presence, now, when I had completed my four-week sanction-Placement yesterday evening?

"There's no need to explain, male citizen Carl," the attractive and charismatic Ms Leasome told me as if she'd read my troubled mind. "I am a woman of the world and so are my barmaids. I know perfectly well the reason for your unscheduled presence here at the Heel Bar tonight."

Even more, lost for words, I just stared back at Ms Andrea Leasome.

"Feel free, male citizen Carl, to contradict me if I misunderstand you ...

"After long and much-anguished introspection; after focused deliberation of your intense innermost feelings, you have managed to overcome the self-questioning stumbling block to your heart's desire.

"You have found the courage to present yourself to us at the Heel Bar again, post-sanction: As a willing-volunteer Barstool Footboy, in the hope of winning my barmaid Chloe's after-work favour.

"Just as Chloe hoped you would – and as I assured her you would. Believe me: I can always tell ... the ones, male citizen Carl."

I was dumbfounded. It was as if Ms Leasome's blue-eyed gaze was looking beyond my eyes and into my mind and seeing what, to her, was all laid out there in plain view.

"You look aghast, male citizen Carl. But I think you know that you are not the first post-Placement male citizen to come back to us to offer his barstool-facilitation service freely. That you are not the only ex-sanction barstool footboy who has attempted to repress but, ultimately come to override, his self-recriminatory soul-searching and to accept the irrefutability of his awakened life-changing self-truths."

"Ms Leasome, I ... er—"

"The awakened life-changing self-truth, that you wish to be as close as possible to the soles of my barmaid Chloe's after-work feet. That is what you want. Isn't it? What, you have come to yearn for, with all of your heart?

"To gaze at Chloe's tired and achy after-shift soles, up-close, in reverent adoration? To bury your nose under her toes and inhale her post-work foot-scent; to breathe it in? And to kiss her soles, in true – devotional – worship?"

In shocked disbelief at her hitting-the-nails-on-the-head insight, I could only stare back in awe at Ms Leasome.

"Yes, male citizen Carl. It is as I thought: Through the barstool-footboy grapevine, or from eavesdropping on private bar-counter conversations between barmaids and barstoolistas, you have heard about the devotees. The willing-volunteer barstool footboys, who are devoted either to myself or to one of my barmaids as our after-hours winding-down-drink barstool facilitators."

"Um ... I—"

"The devotees, who, such is their overwhelming yearning to barstool-facilitate their special-one, they serve untold hours of willing-volunteer barstool facilitation to barstoolistas in hopes of winning the ultimate prize.

"How many nights have you lain awake, restless and sleepless, thinking about Chloe's feet?

"How many times have you spilt your sacrificial seed, male citizen Carl, in your fervent, dead-of-night devotions to your special-one Chloe?

"And – again, tell me if I am wrong – I have good reason to believe that your seminal dead-of-night adorations extend to your Case Worker at the Job Centre, Miss Pamela Pettiford, who sanctioned you to your weekday early-shift four-week Placement at the Heel Bar.

"So that she, a hardworking AFP frontline employee and a tireless contributor to female-friendly furtherance, could bring you – to her, an annoying workshy nuisance – not just figuratively but literally to heel, to avail herself of the gratifying pleasures of your enforced barstool facilitation while enjoying her usual weekday post-work tipple."

Stunned at the depth and detail of the Heel Bar proprietress's acquired knowledge and unnerved at her seemingly perfect perspicacity, I was grateful that the loud thumping music was covering most of our mostly one-sided conversation from candidly curious barstoolistas and openly eavesdropping ticket-holder in-waiting ladies as in awed amazement I stared back at the mindreader Ms Leasome.

"Well ...? How am I doing so far, male citizen Carl?

"I notice you haven't contradicted me: not about your infatuation with your special-one my barmaid Chloe, or your reverent respect for your authority-figure syndrome idol, Miss Pettiford, who nightly you adore, paying the same ultimate devotions.

"You can speak to me, male citizen Carl. You can tell me about your inner-turmoil: your disconcerting conflictions of rational thoughts and irrational feelings. As others before you have done. Just let it all out.

"Come and see me in my office an hour before opening time tomorrow, and tell me everything. You have come this far; so why not disburden yourself of any remaining unhealthy repressions, by confiding your innermost secrets to me? Believe me: you'll be glad you did.

"Because, while your condition has no cure, as proprietress of the Heel Bar I am possessed of the means to treat the symptoms; to manage them.

"Here at the Heel Bar, there is no limit to the female clientele that you will be allowed ultra close-up adoration access in your daily barstool-facilitator service to barstoolistas as a willing-volunteer barstool footboy.

"Don't be embarrassed, male citizen Carl. Your uncontrollable proclivity is not as uncommon as you might think – and what is more, it is a trait regarded by many females as a delightful positive in a male."

"But ... but how ..."

"How do I know you, far better than you know yourself ...?" Ms Leasome filled in for me. "Oh – where shall I start!

"Well ... reporting for duty noticeably early every day of your weekday early-shift four-week sanction-Placement, your avid looks of longing at the bottoms of Chloe's bare heels when in her flats she goes up on her tippy toes at the optics to fix my gin and lime pre-opening tipple were apparent to Chloe right from Day One.

"The singularity of your downward-focused attentions were soon picked up on too by all of my other barmaids, who, as the days of your four-week sanction-Placement rolled on, observed your obvious obsession with Chloe with barely controlled amusement.

"And, upon being relieved at the end of your weekday early-shifts by your replacement at the seven o'clock barstool footboy changeovers, while other freed barstool facilitators couldn't wait to get away, your lingering post-duty exit drew attention and, what you thought were casual, innocent glances, your open ogling and unsubtle staring as you followed Chloe's heel-popping footsteps around the bar was noticed and commented on by barstoolistas.

"And then I, of course – always with a keen eye open to catch the furtive, giveaway glances and spot the thinly disguised downward-directed gazes of any of the latest contingent of sanction-Placemented barstool-facilitator newcomers – was well aware of the classic telltale signs of your awakening ... special interest.

"Oh, yes. Over these last four weeks, I have watched your barstool facilitations with very close interest, and your compliant service to even the most testing of barstoolistas has never been less than exemplary.

"For instance: Such, was your excellent, faultless facilitation of Miss Pettiford's barstool when during her post-work tipple she did her utmost but failed to provoke you to noncompliance, that she bemoaned to me your denial of her rightful revenge of backheel-blackening your eyes; of delivering the bottom-of-the-heel stigmatic comeuppance that many barstoolistas inflict without scruple just because they can, but that she couldn't – not in good conscience.

"And, male citizen Carl, as I have said: You are not alone in your special-one particularity – your one-barmaid devotion.

"It may ease your mind to learn, that you are merely the latest of five additions this week to our stable of after-hours-drink barstool-footboy devotees.

"It won't comfort you to learn, though, that although many others have fallen by the wayside not from diminishment of desire but from sheer exhaustion, at present, you still have three willing-volunteer barstool-footboy competitor obsessives – three similarly besotted and equally determined and seemingly indefatigable contenders for Chloe's post-work favour.

"Sanctioned by their Case Worker at the Job Centre as you were, or assigned to the Heel Bar by the higher authority of the local AFP Community Service Liaison Officer, Ms Alma Ruddy MP, as punishment for an infraction or infractions against the Female-Friendly Code, all of our devotees are ex-Placemented barstool footboys.

"But, like all of our longer-serving one-barmaid devotees who have benefited from my personal guidance as their counsellor and confidant, not only have the latest four novices already acknowledged and accepted now the undeniability of their repressed self-truths, but they have come to embrace their formerly dormant but now awakened leanings wholeheartedly.

"Evolved, to revel in the newfound freedoms of their liberated inner-selves.

"Not only as exclusive devotees to their special one. But, when unsuccessful in their after-hours-favour bid on the night, offering their post-work barstool-facilitator service to any other, unfacilitated barmaid.

"Your three rivals for Chloe's post-work favour are just as reverentially respectful and ardently adoring in their nighttime devotional worship of Chloe as you are, and their deep desire to do all they can to win the privilege of facilitating her after-hours-drinks barstool remains undiminished.

"All three of them are well-seasoned, with months and in one case a veteran with more than a year of seven-days-a-week willing-volunteer barstool facilitation experience behind him – so you'll have it all to do, male citizen Carl.

"As with the devotees to myself, and the devotees to my seven full-time barmaids: Camilla, Leanne, Rosalind and Chloe are the ones on duty tonight – Chloe's bestowals of her post-work favours upon her devotees are reward-based, decided upon their on-the-day Heel Bar attendance records.

"The day's successful devotee to win Chloe's after-hours favour will be the one still in attendance at closing time at two a.m. and who that day has served the most hours of voluntary barstool facilitation to barstoolistas.

"In the not unusual circumstance that more than one of her devotees have been in continual barstool facilitation from opening time at five p.m. until closing time at two a.m., Chloe will choose her preference, disappointing her other unsuccessful devotee or devotees.

"Tonight, though, Chloe's other three devotees – all of them, in-attendance now, and have been barstool-facilitating since opening-time at five p.m. – might all go to bed early.

"That is to say, at closing time at two a.m., Chloe will thank them for their willing-volunteer barstool facilitations this evening, and regretfully inform them that their after-hours attentions are not required by her tonight – but to check with the other barmaids. So that, in the unusual event that one of the barmaids is without the post-work attendance of one of their usual devotee barstool facilitators, he can offer himself for said after-hours-drink-service provision.

"Because tonight, Chloe – footsore after a busy, run-off-her-feet Saturday-night shift – will allow you, male citizen Carl Carson, to barstool-facilitate her after-hours winding-down drink with the other three barmaids and me.

"Now, male citizen Carl ..." said Ms Leasome, looking at her wristwatch "... down to business.

"To earn Chloe's after-hours favour – which as I've explained is one-off guaranteed to you tonight; after that, you'll have to compete on equal terms with your three rival devotees for a chance to win it – you may install yourself at Barstool Nine, and facilitate the ladies who occupy it between now and closing time at two a.m.

"Oh – think how pleased Pamela – your Miss Pettiford – will be! To learn she has been principally instrumental in liberating your repressed inner-self and awakening your dormant leanings. When I tell her, that she has brought about your daily willing-volunteer barstool-facilitator service to all of us ladies!

"I'm going to call her right now, and let her know that you are here – and I'm sure she'll come!

"She'll so want to avail herself of the unsurpassable service of the now willing-volunteer facilitator of Barstool Nine!"

"Yes, Ms Leasome," I said. "I'm sure she will."

"There you go, then, male citizen Carl. Chop chop – install yourself! And I'll put Barstool Nine's vacancy up on the digital readout displays to show your availability to the next in line ticket-holder lady."

"Yes, Ms Leasome," I said compliantly.

Noticing that barstool footboys were facilitating Barstool 8 and Barstool 10 to my left and right respectively and what the unshod feet of their inebriated barstoolistas (the first barefoot, the second white-nyloned) were doing to their easily reached faces, I knew that within moments of my installation at Barstool 9 I would be in for similar treatment.

I sat down on the hard coolness of the high barstool's flat circular chrome base, inserting my head through the circular chrome rounded-rimmed footrest so that I was facing the dark red leather frontage of the bar.

No sooner had I done so, when from the corner of my right eye I saw the arriving legs and feet of my first Saturday-night barstoolista.

Her bare legs were extraordinarily shapely and lightly tanned, and I watched as in her yellow leather high-heeled shoes she ascended the three steps to reach the narrow platform/walkway that ran along all four sides of the rectangular-shaped bar; this, three-step access point, allowing direct access to Barstools 9 and 10.

Upon reaching the narrow platform/walkway, she stepped sideways to her left, to Barstool 9.

I watched the tension go from the calves of her fabulous legs as she sat down.

The girl with the dynamite legs promptly eased both feet from her yellow leather spiked-heel shoes. And in the manner of many barstoolistas, she hung them by their high heels from the conveniently rounded rim of the barstool's circular chrome footrest, just in front of and to either side of her barstool footboy's face – where she could easily retrieve them, and he could not avoid seeing them nor ignore their potent female-friendly symbolism.

Lady Luck had smiled on her: Her hoped-for 49/1 chance ticket-number/barstool-number correlation of the digital readout display had fortuitously come up for the girl with the million-dollar legs.

And if I'd needed further proof of her identity, she duly supplied it, in the sound of my professed wannabe barstoolista's voice ("Oooh ... I hope I get him!"), calling out for a double-vodka and orange with lots of ice and two slices of lemon.

"Coming right up, Charlotte!" came the cheerful reply from Ms Leasome, now back helping behind the bar again.

Charlotte rested the tops of her now shoeless feet on the rounded-rimmed chrome footrest, right in front of my face, and I stared in awe at the perfect proportionality of her inches-away lightly tanned soles.

Just as I had done on countless previous occasions at beholding the just-unshod feet of barstoolistas, I could not help myself but lean my head forward the mere inch or two to kiss the sole of my first Saturday-night barstoolista's left foot to express the extreme extents of my awestruck adoration.

In homage, I pressed my lips to the undersides of Charlotte's toes; my eyes, riveted in reverence to the bottom of her inch-away bare heel. I then kissed the ball of her foot, and then her arch, and finally, I let my worshipful lips linger on the bottom of her bare heel, once again, marvelling at the sense of fulfilment that coursed through me at the voluntary bestowal of this symbolic act of submission.

I then repeated my reverential respects to the sole of Charlotte's right foot – first, inhaling her under- and in-between-the-toes scent. Her unfamiliar female-feet fragrance, yet another new olfactory intoxicant; yet another amalgam of arousing aromas to fill my head and suffuse my blood as a brought-to-heel barstool facilitator.

And like many barstoolistas before her, Charlotte's soles-of-the-feet scents catalysed my incurable proclivity ("while your condition has no cure, as proprietress of the Heel Bar I am possessed of the means to treat the symptoms; to manage them"), the combined olfactory/visual/tactile stimuli, triggering the irrepressible and irresistible onsets of an intense desire to adore and of insatiable barstool-bound carnal cravings.

The girl with the million-dollar legs – who, while she did not scruple to bring me literally to heel, I intuited that upon vacating Barstool 9 she would not disdainfully desert me with a thank-you-and-good-night double-backheel to stigmatise-blacken my eyes to remember her by awhile, just because she could – wiggled and flexed and scrunched her toes luxuriantly.

It was a familiar sign: a barstoolista conveying to me that my adorations to her were acceptable and that they should continue.

Miss Sugar and Spice and All Things Nice then reached her golden bare soles back the mere inches to my circular-footrest-encaptured face and proceeded to enjoy her own, combined sensual pleasures: a satisfying double-vodka and orange with lots of ice and two slices of lemon, and the gratifying barstool facilitations of a brought-to-heel barstool footboy.

*


The succession of anonymous barstoolistas, whose legs and feet only, I saw as between 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. they ascended the three steps to the narrow platform/walkway in front of the bar to occupy Barstool 9 upon their ticket-number/barstool-number correlation with the digital readout display, was a tantalising taster; a twelve-barstoolista appetiser to the primary, after-hours event.

Contrasting with the low- to medium-heeled black pumps predominantly worn by the 9 - 5 office workers and shop girls whose post-work tipples I'd barstool-facilitated during my weekday 5 p.m. to 7 p.m. four-week sanction-Placement, the twelve out-on-the-town lady drinkers who came to place their feet on the circular chrome footrest in front of my inches-away brought-to-heel face wore a variety of going-out shoes.

There were lots of other notable differences between the mostly one-drink-and-then-home office worker/shop girl early-evening barstoolistas, and the letting-their-hair-down and having-a-few late-night-reveller barstool occupiers.

The out-on-the-towners, drowning their inhibitions in AFP-subsidised drink, either shoe-played absentmindedly in alcohol-influenced exuberance as they chatted to other barstoolistas, or facial foot-rubbed me, or foot-tapped my face in time with the beats of the loud thumping music as they bopped and swayed on their high barstools.

During the three hours between 11 p.m. and closing time at 2 a.m., I was surprised but by no means disappointed that as many as twelve barstoolistas had occupied Barstool 9.

As this was my first late-night experience at the Heel Bar, I didn't know if this was unusual, or the normal average timespan for barstool-footboy occupancy.

I had thought though that, once finally in situ, the in-waiting ticket-holder ladies would want to enjoy their barstool footboy's facilitation for rather longer than the fifteen-minute average of my twelve experiences this Saturday night.

But then, perhaps we barstool footboys had too big an opinion of ourselves – there were maybe half a dozen other male-facilitated Theme Bars on Tockenham Coat Road for pub-crawling ladies to visit besides the Heel Bar.

Strictly speaking, only ten of the twelve ladies to occupy Barstool 9 and its attendant footboy during my Saturday-night three-hour facilitation had been (and had chosen to remain) anonymous.

Although upon vacating Barstool 9 she did not lean down to identify herself to me, she didn't have to – besides hearing her voice when she'd ordered her drink, there had been no mistaking her million-dollar legs. So I knew that for twenty minutes I had been barstool-facilitating my professed wannabe barstoolista – Miss Sugar and Spice and All Things Nice – who afterwards had verified my hunch that prior to vacating her barstool she would not disdainfully desert me with a thank-you-and-good-night double-backheel to blacken my eyes to remember her by awhile just because she could.

And secondly, although for the first time not dark-pantyhosed but bare, neither could I fail to recognise the familiar well-toned shapely legs of my four-week sanction-Placement-awarding Case Worker at the Job Centre, Miss Pamela Pettiford.

Turning up, no doubt, at being informed by Ms Leasome of my unscheduled but not, to her, unexpected reappearance tonight, and of my imminent self-enrolment as a willing-volunteer barstool footboy to compete on equal terms with my three well-seasoned rival devotees to win the barmaid Chloe's reward-based post-work favour to facilitate her after-hours winding-down-drink barstool.

Recognised her, when at around midnight she ascended the three steps to reach the narrow platform/walkway in front of the bar, side-stepped to her left, sat down on Barstool 9, and placed her high-heeled white leather pump shod feet on the circular chrome footrest in front of my inches-away face.

And, as I'd watched Miss Pettiford ease her feet from her high-heeled white leather going-out shoes and, in the manner of many settling-in-for-a-drink barstoolistas, hang them by their heels from the conveniently rounded rim of the circular chrome footrest, I came to accept that the words of my now anti-repression counsellor and confidant Ms Leasome to me earlier were proving uncontestable:

Although there was no cure for my condition, as proprietress of the Heel Bar Ms Andrea Leasome was possessed of the means to treat the symptoms; to manage them.

Here at the Heel Bar, there would be no limit to the number of female clientele feet that, in daily competition with my three ("just as reverently reverential and ardently adoring in their nighttime devotional worship of Chloe") rival devotees to win Chloe's favour, serving untold hours as a willing-volunteer barstool facilitator I would be allowed ultra close-up adoration access to barstoolistas as a means of controlling my incurable proclivity.

And perhaps none more so than the feet of Miss Pamela Pettiford herself who, responsible for literally bringing me to heel at the Heel Bar – where I promptly fell head over heels in worship with her friend the barmaid Chloe, resulting in my ardent expressions of unreserved reverence to both of them in my dead-of-night devotions – was influential in and responsible for the liberation of my repressed inner-self and the awakening of my long-dormant leanings.

Miss Pettiford's not dark-nyloned but bare soles, that Saturday night as she occupied Barstool 9 and chatted to Chloe (who confirmed that tonight she would allow me to facilitate her after-hours winding-down-drink barstool to test the acceptability of her latest wannabe devotee), I was privileged to gaze at adoringly and permitted to inhale her under- and in-between-the-toes scent and allowed to kiss in reverence while she enjoyed a bottle of her usual ice-cold pilsner lager.

Upon vacating Barstool 9 and descending the three steps back to floor-level, Miss Pamela Pettiford leant down to look at me – in my case, Miss Pettiford was not concerned about preserving her anonymity; with hiding her identity from her just-vacated barstool footboy.

The hoppy aroma of strong lager was heavy on her breath. Clearly, she'd already had a few; the Heel Bar had not been her first Saturday-night port of call.

Miss Pettiford didn't speak to me as she looked down on me, and unless she did so, and so invite a reply, under the female-citizen-mistress/male-citizen-servant societal interaction protocols of the Female-Friendly Code, I wasn't at liberty to say anything to her.

So I was disappointed that I couldn't tell my "authority-figure syndrome idol" Miss Pamela Pettiford that, not only was I entirely agreeable with serving daily for untold hours as one of the Heel Bar proprietress Ms Andrea Leasome's willing-volunteer barstool footboys, but I would regard it as an honour and a privilege if she would continue to choose me to barstool-facilitate her post-work tipple in future.

But Miss Pettiford appeared to read my thoughts. She smiled at me and patted my cheek, as she might spare an indulgent moment to acknowledge and reward the pleasing actions of a well-behaved pet.

Miss Pettiford told Chloe she might be back later but now she was returning to her friends at Isabel's – one of the other male-facilitated Theme Bars on Tockenham Coat Road – where she'd been when Ms Leasome had phoned to pass on the pleasing news of my unscheduled but not altogether unexpected reappearance at the Heel Bar.

Miss Pamela Pettiford looked down on me again, and said, "Don't forget your next Job Centre appointment on Tuesday afternoon, male citizen Carl. To see me at three o'clock, when you will present to me a comprehensive report on your efforts over the last two weeks to find gainful employment – and don't be late!"

"Yes, Miss Pettiford," I said respectfully. "And I'll be on time."

My four-week sanction-Placement-awarding Case Worker at the Job Centre then turned on the high heel of her white leather going-out shoe to exit the Heel Bar and return to Isabel's – but I saw the smirk of triumphant satisfaction on her lager-flushed face before she turned away.

*


"It's the flavour of the lime, Chloe; it makes all the difference," said Ms Andrea Leasome, proprietress of the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road.

I heard the tinkling of ice cubes in her highball glass as Ms Leasome took another sip of her usual post-work tipple – the same as her pre-work indulgence: a large gin and tonic with lots of ice and the all-important slice of lime.

Then came the muted thunk, as with another sigh of hitting-the-spot satisfaction after a busy Saturday shift on her feet, Ms Leasome placed her now twice refilled glass down on her coaster on the bar top.

The nonstop loud, thumping Saturday-night music that I could only describe as a dreadful din but could bear testament that my barstoolistas had enjoyed bopping to on their barstools had finally fallen silent at closing time at 2 a.m.

Not many of those Saturday-night barstoolistas had vacated the high barstools upon which they perched like pampered princesses with good grace, though.

When over the PA system Ms Leasome had called out 'Time, ladies – please!', some of the sozzled barstoolistas gave up their prized occupances reluctantly. Maybe half a dozen of them, relinquishing the comforts and pleasures of their attendant sanction-Placemented/willing-volunteer barstool footboy grudgingly or even unwillingly.

I was one of the fortunate barstool facilitators.

At Ms Leasome's closing-time call, perhaps as a reward in acknowledgement of my impeccably compliant barstool facilitation, my final Saturday-night barstoolista had promptly removed the soles of her facial-foot-rubbing bare feet from my face, inserted and strapped them into her high-heeled dark blue leather slingback shoes, and vacated Barstool 9 quietly.

But I heard the cries of complaints and shouts of objection and futile pleas for mercy from other barstool footboys as their boozed-up barstoolista in her petulant tantrum meted out spiteful thank-you-and-good-night eye-blackening backheels to the circular chrome footrest encaptured face of their barstool facilitator – just because she could.

For him to remember her by awhile, as, in his growing dismay in the ensuing days, he could not help but recall to mind his anonymous barstoolista's disdainful desertion as he surveyed in the bathroom mirror at home the developing multicoloured mess of his blackeyed-stigmatised face.

After seeing out the barstoolistas first and giving them an anonymity-preserving ten-minute start before allowing the barstool footboys to uninstall themselves from their assigned barstool, doormen Tony and Vince had returned to say a polite goodnight to the barmaids and to get the nod from Ms Leasome that they could now go off duty.

"I think you may have mentioned that before, Ms Leasome," replied the barmaid Chloe with a giggle.

Chloe sounded as if she was starting to get more than a bit tipsy.

Sitting right above my head for the last twenty-five minutes as she occupied Barstool 9, Chloe was also on her third post-work tipple: Bacardi and coke – her own, after-work drink of choice.

Sitting on the circular chrome base of Barstool 9 with my head inserted inside its circular chrome footrest, I could hardly tear my eyes away from my dreamed-of but now incredibly realised close-up view of Chloe's relaxing but restless post-work feet.

The realities of my first experience as Chloe's after-hours-drink barstool facilitator eclipsed everything I'd imagined over the last four weeks in my ardently adoring dead-of-night devotions to her.

Chloe was relatively calm for the moment.

As now, in the foot-loose manner of many of the predominantly black pump shod office-worker/shop-girl one-drink-and-then-home barstoolistas whose barstools I'd facilitated on weekdays from 5 p.m. to 7 p.m. over the last four weeks, protruding from her well-worn black leather flats, the bottoms of Chloe's bare heels were just inches in front of my face as she relaxed with a drink.

But instinctively I knew that the foot- and shoe-playing shenanigans she'd engaged in and the double-sole facial foot-rubbing she'd luxuriated in and the forced under- and in-between-the-toes-scent sniffing she'd subjected me to right from the moment she'd perched herself upon Barstool 9 were only on pause.

And so, in rapt expectation of abrupt resumptions of Chloe's alcohol-influenced barstool-perched activities, she still nonetheless commanded my unwavering anticipant attention.

Chloe didn't keep me waiting for long.

Chloe rested the ball of her left foot on the barstool's circular chrome footrest and hooked her right foot behind her left ankle. And, while chatting to the other three barmaids and Ms Leasome, the grubby bottom of her right heel was for one fleeting second tantalisingly revealed and then teasingly hidden from view again as she popped her heel with absentminded regularity.

Of the five after-hours-drink barstool facilitators, I was the only one to remain at his assigned station.

Ms Leasome had said that while I was a newbie trialist, I could facilitate at my usual barstool tonight, and so the other four favour-winning devotees tonight were repositioned to barstools near to mine.

And so for convenience and companionability, Ms Andrea Leasome and her four barmaids on duty tonight: Chloe, Camilla, Leanne and Rosalind – occupied Barstools 6 to 10.

In unfavoured after-hours attendance, was male citizen Ben Benson (Barstool Footboy 29).

One of the barmaid Rosalind's two unsuccessful devotees tonight, male citizen Ben Benson had been more than happy to accept his special-one Rosalind's token consolation offer to remain behind to serve herself, Ms Leasome and the other three barmaids as their barman – while his successful rival, male citizen Larry Larson (Barstool Footboy 16), facilitated Rosalind's after-hours-drink barstool as the better man tonight.

I was led to understand that there was nothing unusual in this; that Ben provided after-hours barkeep service for Ms Leasome and her barmaids with some regularity; in fact, almost every night.

It seemed to me though that, while it was perhaps better than being sent home to bed early, Ben's fawning gratitude at being allowed to stay behind as bartender wasn't helping his chance of the barmaid Rosalind selecting him for post-work winding-down-drink barstool facilitation in preference to one of his rival devotees.

As this was my first experience of Ms Leasome and her barmaids' nightly post-work winding-down ritual, I had no idea how many drinks they would put away and how much time they might spend, occupying their after-hours-drink devotee-facilitated barstools.

But this was the weekend, and I had the impression that at 02:35 their Saturday-night session was barely underway. The five Heel bar staff were all on their third post-work drink, and there was no sign of them letting up on the liquor.

Ms Andrea Leasome was occupying Barstool 8. And from the corner of my left eye, I saw Ms Leasome recross her ankles and, in my peripheral vision, I saw the long slender pink-painted toes of her left foot again plunge deep into the gratefully accommodating mouth of the barstool footboy she'd favoured tonight.

Ms Leasome's successful devotee after-hours-drink barstool facilitator tonight: male citizen Neil Nelson.

The willing-volunteer barstool-footboy facilitator of Barstool 42, Neil was one of the Heel Bar proprietress Ms Andrea Leasome's personal stable of six devotees – and he had got lucky tonight.

At closing-time at 2 a.m., Ms Leasome had needed to choose between the six competitor hopefuls still in willing-volunteer barstool-facilitation attendance to barstoolistas.

Two of her devotees, she could instantly discount, rejecting them for shortfalls in their attendance hours.

And for reasons known only to her (but I suspected devotee-rotation, to keep them all hopeful), Ms Leasome had chosen Neil, over his three 5 p.m. to 2 a.m. equal-time attending aspirants for her reward-based after-hours favour tonight.

The other three devotee post-work favour winners tonight, were willing-volunteer barstool footboys: Ian Inglis (Barstool 4), Gordon Green (Barstool 32), and Larry Larson (Barstool 16) – respectively the after-hours-drinks barstool facilitators of the barmaids Leanne (seated on Barstool 6), Camilla (Barstool 7), and Rosalind (Barstool 10).

"I think we're all ready for another round now, thank you, Ben," said Ms Andrea Leasome.

"At once, Ms Leasome!" replied Ben, and once again I heard the sounds of competent activity behind the bar as with alacrity the barmaid Rosalind's self-defeating devotee set about filling Ms Leasome and her four barmaids' next after-hours drinks order.

"It's sweet of you, Ben," said the barmaid Rosalind, occupying Barstool 10, the adjacent corner-barstool on my right. "You honestly don't mind, staying behind until four o'clock? As our bar servant? For me?"

I heard the crash behind the bar as the flustered barmaid-Rosalind-besotted Ben dropped the ice-bucket. "No, not at all, Miss Rosalind. I honestly don't mind. I would do ... anything for you, Miss Rosalind. Anything!"

I believed he would. There was no doubting the sincerity in the poor sap's voice.

From the corner of my right eye, I saw what Ben was missing out on at Barstool 10 as I watched the olive-complexioned sole of the barmaid Rosalind's right foot sliding from toes to heel and back along the stuck out tongue of the better man tonight: Rosalind's successful devotee after-hours-drink barstool facilitator – willing-volunteer Barstool Footboy 16 – Larry Larson.

As if sensing my sudden less-than-100-per-cent focus upon what her own feet were doing, Chloe now kicked off her left shoe onto the narrow platform/walkway in front of her barstool, and reaching her bare sole back the mere inches necessary she pressed the bottom of her grubby heel against my lips – her unspoken command: Open up!

I opened up.

Chloe inserted the bottom of her grubby left heel; and then pushed, urging me to greater efforts of accommodation, pushing until all of it was comfortably inside.

Still hooked behind her left ankle, protruding from her well-worn black leather flat the heel of Chloe's right foot was now barely an inch in front of my eyes in magnifying-glass detail.

As absentmindedly she worked the toes of her right foot as she continued chatting to the other barmaids and Ms Leasome, Chloe wafted the ingrained odours of her well-used black leather flat's once white but now blackened insole into my face as repeatedly she popped her heel.

And the wonder of it!

Licking, sucking on, dissolving and swallowing down the same Saturday-shift run-off-her-feet grubby build-up that I could see on the bottom of Chloe's work-begrimed sweat-smudged inch-away right heel, as for one fleeting second she tantalisingly revealed it as with absentminded regularity she heel-popped.

"When you're ready, Ben: I think we are all ready for our next round now," said Ms Leasome.

I heard the rattling of part-melted ice cubes in drained highball glasses: the barmaids' confirmation that they were ready for another.

"At once, Ms Leasome!" responded the barmaid Rosalind's self-excluding foot servant.

What? So soon? To my astonishment, my watch showed that time had flown to 03:05.

I could hear Barkeep Ben jumping to it: the tinkling of ice cubes being shovelled out of the ice bucket and into five highball glasses; the snappy uncapping and bubble-popping pouring of bottled mixers; and finally, the sound of a sharp knife on a cutting-board as Ben measured off Ms Leasome's fresh slice of lime.

Then again followed the five muted thuds on the bar top and the tinkling of fresh ice cubes as devotee Ben – the barmaid Rosalind's self-disqualifying under-her-heel, token-consolation-accepting after-hours-drinks barkeep – placed the refilled highball glasses on the coasters in front of Ms Leasome and her four barmaids on duty tonight.

"Hmm ... that's nice," said Chloe after taking the first pull on her latest Bacardi and coke and returning her glass to her coaster on the bartop with a soft thunk.

I didn't know if Chloe was referring to her refreshing drink or the pleasing sensations occasioned by my tongue's in-between-the-toes explorations.

I had already cleaned to a sparkly shine the bottom of Chloe's left heel and now, plunging them ball-of-the-foot deep she had inserted into my mouth the toes of the same foot, which I interpreted as another unspoken instruction: to tongue-bathe her toes while she relaxed on her high barstool with another drink.

The amalgamations of Chloe's under- and in-between-the-toes flavours that I licked, sucked on, dissolved and swallowed down were different; more complex, than the soluble sweat-smudged accretions I had cleansed from the bottom of her grubby heel.

Starting between Chloe's big and second toes, slowly I worked towards her little toe – and then I backtracked, reversing the painstaking procedure.

Barely two inches in front of my eyes, I watched the continual appearance-disappearance-reappearance of the bottom of Chloe's begrimed right heel as with unthinking regularity she heel-popped.

But now I lost myself in the wonder of Chloe's post-work under- and in-between-the-toes flavours, totally consumed by the tastes and textures as I myself thoroughly consumed – licked, sucked on, dissolved and swallowed.

From the corner of my left eye, and then my right eye, I saw that their heads, inserted and encaptured within Barstools 8 and 10's 18-inch diameter rounded-rimmed chrome footrests, after-work-drinks barstool facilitators Neil Nelson and Larry Larson were similarly prevailed upon by Ms Leasome and the barmaid Rosalind respectively.

"I think we're all just about ready for another one now, thank you, Ben," said Ms Leasome.

"I'm on it, Ms Leasome!" responded the barmaid Rosalind's ever-obliging after-hours bartender – willing-volunteer barstool facilitator Ben Benson (Barstool Footboy 29).

Yet again, the barmaid Rosalind's No. 1 admirer got busy as bid with his token-consolation activities behind the bar.

To my surprise, my watch showed me that time had raced ahead again; had shot forward to 03:35.

The efficient Ben the Barkeep had soon served the next round of drinks to Ms Leasome and the four barmaids, working his way as usual from Barstool 6 to Barstool 10 and placing each of their fresh drinks down on their coasters before them politely: "Miss Leanne; Miss Camilla; Ms Leasome; Miss Chloe ... and Miss Rosalind."

Listen to the poor chump – he really had it bad for his special-one the barmaid Rosalind.

And now, kicking off her right well-worn black leather flat onto the narrow platform/walkway in front of her barstool, Chloe reached the now bare sole of her right foot the mere inches necessary to cup my nostrils under her toes as she took her first pull from what had to be her sixth or seventh post-work Bacardi and coke.

Oh – the wonder of it!

The heart-racing realities of facilitating the barmaid Chloe's after-hours-drinks barstool were far surpassing my insipid by comparison imaginings of the past four weeks during my ardently adoring dead-of-night devotions.

And now, as I sucked on and in between the toes of Chloe's ball-of-the-foot deep left foot while inhaling the under- and in-between-the-toes-scent of her right foot while staring at the sweat-smudged grubby bottom of her inch-away right heel, such was my excitement, I—

"Oh, well, it's four o'clock ... come on, girls. Let's call it a night, shall we?" suggested Ms Leasome to my dismay.

"We'd better let our devotees go home to bed," said Ms Leasome; although she, herself was making no move yet to uninstall her reward-based after-hours-favour winning devotee tonight, Neil Nelson, out from under her post-work-drinks barstool.

In fact, none of the four barmaids had said anything in response to Ms Leasome's Let's-call-it-a-night suggestion.

Chloe's Your-work-tonight-is-not-yet-done reaction was to remove the now sucked-clean toes of her left foot from my mouth to curl them around her barstool's rounded-rimmed chrome footrest to secure purchase, and to hook her bare right foot behind her left ankle, presenting to my inches-away eyes her grubby, work-begrimed sweat-smudged right sole.

"After all, they need their rest; they've all got another long evening of willing-volunteer barstool facilitation tomorrow. That is ..." said Ms Leasome, now directing her voice down to her successful devotee tonight, Neil Nelson, "... if they want to compete again against their rivals for our after-hours favours."

Chloe now said, "Ms Leasome ... why don't we all have another?"

I heard the supportive endorsements to Chloe's suggestion from the other three barmaids, followed by the meaningful rattling of the part-melted ice cubes in their drained-again highball glasses.

"Have another, Chloe?" said Ms Leasome.

"Yes, Ms Leasome. Let's all have another."

"Am I right, Chloe, in my ... wild guess as to your reason?"

"Yes, Ms Leasome: I want all of you to join me in celebration.

"Not only, of male citizen Carl Carson's graduation to willing-volunteer facilitator of Barstool Nine, to the immense gratification of his Case Worker at the Job Centre, my friend Pam.

"But after his more than acceptable trial performance tonight, his confirmed status as a devotee to me, and thereby a legitimate contender to challenge his rival devotees to win my reward-based after-hours favour to facilitate my post-work-drinks barstool."

"Um, Ben ..." the barmaid Rosalind said sweetly "... if it's not too much of an imposition ...? Do you think I might presume upon your indulgence to wait on us all for another half-hour or so?"

"Miss Rosalind – absolutely, yes! It's no imposition. You only have to ask," gushed the hopelessly besotted Ben Benson, the barmaid Rosalind's slave in all but name.

Ms Leasome said, "Well, in that case ... Ben? We'll all have another: A celebratory drink, to toast male citizen Carl coming into our fold as Chloe's latest devotee."

"Yes, Ms Leasome – coming right up!"

"My barmaids can have whatever they like. In fact, the occasion calls for champagne. Ben, you can crack open a couple of bottles of bubbly – the Heel Bar's finest."

"Yes, Ms Leasome. There's a few bottles on-ice. I had an idea that tonight might turn out to be a special occasion."

"Good thinking, Ben, and thank you. In fact, you can grab a beer yourself, to join us in our little celebration."

"Thank you, Ms Leasome, you are very kind."

"But Ben: mine's a double-gin and tonic with lots of ice – and don't forget the slice of lime."

"Yes, Ms Leasome, and I won't forget the slice of lime," said Ben, already busying himself behind the bar again.

"Good. Because it makes all the difference," said Ms Andrea Leasome, proprietress of the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road.

The End.