The Mirror - Part 1 (New Version)

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

Twenty-one-year-old James Noble was happily spending his evening where he spent most of his evenings: over at Debbie's, his twenty-year-old girlfriend.

The couple had been going steady for almost three months now. Well, reasonably steady ... considering James's all-consuming passion: his foot fetish.

Not that Debbie was complaining – because she certainly wasn't. Debbie loved it that James loved her feet. She loved the foot rubs ... and much, much more. She loved it that she could so easily stir him up so much, with her foot teasing. That she could so easily ... light his fire.

But James's uncontrollable obsession – that went back as far as he could remember, he'd told Debbie – was prone to landing him in hot water. Sometimes, resulting in a highly unpleasant experience, not only for himself, but also for anyone else who might be with him at the time ... latterly, Debbie.

Debbie was sitting to James's left and, her back comfortably supported with cushions, she had kicked off her comfy flats – her pair of black, years'-old, extremely well-worn and supple ones that she only wore about the house now – and was sitting length-wise, with her bare feet in James's ever accommodating lap. James was repeatedly tracing his fingertips along the bare sole of Debbie's right foot; from the bottom of her heel, to the ball of her foot, to the bottom of her heel ... over and over. Debbie had told him she found his various attentions, his ... ministrations, both pleasant and relaxing.

Doris owned the 3-bedroom, semi-detached house in south-west London, not far from Wimbledon. And her daughter, who was struggling, on her modest salary as a pharmacy assistant to save up enough money for a deposit on a flat, was still living with her.

Doris was very fond of James. She thought he was a nice boy, and he certainly seemed devoted to her Debbie. In fact, he and Debbie seemed to be made for each other; had hit it off, right from the get-go. And he certainly wouldn't do a runner, as Debbie's father had, as soon as Doris had told him she was pregnant. No – Doris knew that James would be thrilled to pieces. But ... why did there always have to be a fly in the ointment? she thought.

Doris was of the opinion that James's ... predilection for girls' and women's feet, was way out of hand. And that he should do something about it – and soon, before he had a real disaster. Doris said that James's "problem" was probably all down to some faulty gene, or something like that. A glitch in his biological circuitry.

But, she'd said, where there is a will, there is a way. Maybe James's GP could refer him to some sort of counsellor. Or even to a hypnotist, as outlandish as that might sound. Or, as a last resort, maybe put him on some sort of medication, some kind of ... mind-altering substance.

Debbie thought she'd found the perfect man – her Mr Right. Debbie was a very sexy, and sex-loving young woman. She loved all of the feet-based foreplay ... and the hot and passionate sex that invariably resulted from it; resulted from her saucily ratcheting up James's desire to fever-pitch levels, making him crazy for her. And she didn't want to go jeopardising all of that, by having her James put on some sort of medication, as her mum kept on suggesting. Some kind of ... inhibitor.

Debbie understood, that James's foot fetish was ingrained. Understood, that it was too inherent; too much a part of who he was, to go meddling with the balance of his psychological make-up. Understood, that it was ... intrinsic.

Debbie and her mum, with their blue eyes and blonde hair, were strikingly similar in appearance. In fact, when James had first met Doris, he'd assumed that she was Debbie's older sister – her eyes, just as sparkling, her hair, just as lustrous, her figure, just as (well, almost) well-toned – until Debbie had revealed the amazing truth, when she'd introduced Doris as her mum.

What was almost as amazing, to James, was that Doris was still a single mum. But this was because, when the sixteen-year-old Doris had told Debbie's father that she was pregnant, he'd made a sharp exit, disappearing faster than fumes from an exhaust pipe, never to be seen or heard of again. And after that, even though she'd received several offers of marriage, Doris had declined each of her besotted suitors' proposals, choosing instead to remain single.

On TV, was the 'Domestic Goddess', Nigella Lawson. She was in her kitchen, creating yet another of her to-die-for, awesome chocolaty confections – and looking good enough to eat, herself.

But James wasn't paying much attention to Nigella's cookery programme. And it was no wonder ... What, with the highly agreeable distraction of Debbie's bare feet in his lap: watching the lovely long toes of her right foot, scrunching and splaying in response to his fingertip strokes; and feeling the toe pads of her left foot repeatedly stroking his sensitive inner thigh, sending wave after wave of sensual shivers through his whole body ... how could he?

Also diminishing James's ability to concentrate on the sultry Domestic Goddess's culinary pronouncements, was Debbie's look-alike mum, Doris. Just beside James, Doris was sitting in the armchair to the right of the sofa and, with her feet propped up on her squishy dark red leather footstool, ankles crossed, one of her mule slippers was slap-slap-slapping against the bottom of her bare heel.

Upon her noticing James's ... divided attentions, Debbie raised her right leg, and gently placed the ball of her bare foot upon James's left cheek, firmly pressing her toe pads against the side of his forehead. And, to James, Debbie's toe pads were like five electrodes, connecting directly to ultra sensitive receptors in his brain. Plugged into his neural pathways, her toe pads seemed to emit a mild, regulated charge, that was like a gently pulsating, 'brainwashing' electric current. James closed his eyes, in ecstasy at the exquisite sensation.

With her toe pads, Debbie played with James's lips; pressing and probing, and pulling and tugging, before finally cupping his nose in her long toes.

"Er ... I hear you are in trouble again at work, James," said Doris, breaking the spell, and snapping James back into the here and now. "I don't suppose you've mentioned it to Deborah though, have you? Julia was telling me all about it. Haven't you got any control over yourself at all, James? I mean ... really!"

And she was Julia Carson, of Julia Carson & Associates. A small firm of south London insurance brokers, at which James was the only male member of staff.

And, a little over two months ago, it was only as a special, for-old-times'-sake favour to Doris, that Julia had taken the then unemployed James on as a junior member of staff – he knew about as much about insurance, as the Man in the Moon.

In fact, Julia Carson had created a new, minimum-wage (she couldn't justify paying more – at least, not as a starting salary), menial position to accommodate James on her staff. James's duties would entail performing the simplest and most mundane of office chores. And to make the tea, keep the office clean and tidy, and to run errands for Julia and her office girls. In other words: to be at the beck and call of all of his female colleagues – their general dogsbody and gopher. James would earn his corn, by freeing up some of Julia's office girls' valuable time, thereby increasing their productivity ... At least, that had been Julia Carson's thinking.

But Miss Carson had already given James numerous 'final warnings', and she was now fast approaching the absolute limit of her tolerance with him. And the only reason that James was still hanging on to his job by the skin of his teeth, was because she was loath to risk upsetting her long and valued friendship with Doris ... by sacking her old friend's daughter's boyfriend. But the clock was ticking, for James.

James's problem was that he was too easily distracted, in the open-plan office. He found his work as dull as dishwater. But nonetheless, he spent far too much time, watching the absentminded, under-the-seat shoe-playing antics of his black leather office pump, dark pantyhose wearing, female colleagues ... and far too little time, getting any work done.

The slightest of under-the-seat movements, would attract James's ever-alert eyes, and the faintest ruffle of dark pantyhose feet, toying with leather pumps, would reach his finely tuned ears.

Debbie was very grateful to her mum, for managing to wangle an unlikely job for her boyfriend at Julia Carson & Associates. Really, she was. But she didn't want to hear it, not now – not again!

"Aw, Mum! Leave James alone. I'll – I'll talk to him, okay?" said Debbie, removing her teasing bare foot (unplugging her five electrodes) from James's face, and returning it to his (now steeply-tented) lap.

"Oh, you'll talk to him. You'll talk to him, will you? And what good, Deborah, do you think that will do – when you are always encouraging him? Look! Even now, you're still ..."

Debbie slipped her bare feet into a newish pair of flats, and grabbed her handbag. "We won't need our coats, James – it's warm out," she said.

"Debbie, couldn't you ask Mr Marsden, at work, if he knows of any ... nullifying drug, that might help James? I mean, he's a pharmacist, so maybe—"

"I'll see you later, Mum," said Debbie, as she leaned over the back of Doris's armchair and gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek. "I won't be late, Mum."

Out on the street, walking to the pub, James said, "How come you were so keen to go out, Debs? We could have stayed in, and had a glass of wine with your mum."

"Because I wanted a chance to talk to you, about Mum ... about her birthday, in two weeks' time? And we could hardly talk about that, right in front of her, could we?"

It was Friday night, and the Cock and Bull was busy. Debbie and James were lucky though – another young couple were vacating a table just as they were coming in. Debbie sent James to the bar, and she sat at the circular-shaped table, waiting for him. The young couple who'd just vacated the table had left a copy of the local newspaper behind, and Debbie picked it up, turning to the classified advertisements pages.

The bar counter was crowded with Friday-night drinkers; the end-of-the-working-week crowd, either propping up the bar, or sitting upon the high, chrome, red leather topped bar stools.

James spotted a small gap, between two young women perched upon bar stools, and he squeezed himself into it. On the bar counter in front of the two young women were half-pint glasses of lager, almost empty. They were both stunning, Beauty-Queen gorgeous, thought James, when they both turned to ... assess him, as he invaded the small space between them.

The two beauties were a couple of years or so older than him, thought James, at maybe twenty-four or twenty-five. And they both had blue eyes, and blonde, shoulder-length hair, that was of a similar shade to that of Debbie and Doris's. Added to that, they both had the beautifully tanned, curvy, gym-toned figures of glamour models, that he'd found hard to look away from as he'd approached the small gap at the bar between them ... especially, as they were both wearing flip flops. James then felt himself blushing furiously, under their combined, frank regard. Under their ... appraisal.

James, with a £10 note in his hand, vied to catch the eye of the rushed-off-her-feet, brunette, and busty barmaid ... who then gave him a don't-hold-your-breath look on her way to the row of optics with two glasses, her flip flops slap-slap-slapping against her bare heels in a busy-busy-busy sounding rhythm, en route.

The stunning blonde to James's right – her friend and herself having now finished their drinks – then took a £10 note from her handbag ... but she made no attempt to attract the barmaid's attention.

And then James's eyes almost popped out of his head, when the barmaid, who James thought couldn't be any taller than about 5' 4", reached right up on tiptoes to push the rims of the two glasses into the adjacent vodka and dark rum optics. It was a lovely sight: the skin of the barmaid's arches, stretched taut and smooth; her heels, round and prominent.

As the vodka and dark rum were being dispensed into the two glasses, the barmaid looked over her shoulder ... and then frowned, upon her seeing where James's avid gaze was being directed. And then, upon her noticing that the stunning blonde to James's right was holding out a £10 note, she distractedly acknowledged her, "I'll – I'll be with you ... in a sec, Sharon."

After she'd served the drinks and put the takings in the till, Joan the barmaid came over and, after giving James a funny look, said, "Same again, Shaz – two halves of Stella?"

"Make it two Bacardi and Cokes, please, Joan," replied Sharon. "Oh, and grab us a couple of bags of crisps, too. Cheese and onion flavour, for Jennifer, and prawn cocktail flavour for—"

Joan the barmaid, who James thought was maybe twenty-five, gave James a bleak look, and the stunning blondes on either side of him – Jennifer and Sharon – turned their gazes on him again ... and they didn't look very happy with him, either. And as Joan the barmaid walked over to the Bacardi optic, to James's ear, the slap-slap-slapping sound of her flip flops against her bare heels now seemed to have an ... angry, quality to it.

When Joan the barmaid had served the two Bacardi & Cokes, put Sharon's £10 note in the till and given her her change, neutral-voiced, she then addressed James. "Right then, what can I get you?"

At hearing the dry white wine part of James's drinks order, Jennifer and Sharon half-spun around on their bar stools to see who the glass of wine was for, and they saw Debbie, sitting with her back to them, and engrossed in reading something in the left-behind local newspaper.

Joan the barmaid reached up, and grabbed a wineglass from the overhead rack, and then reached down, and grabbed a bottle of dry white House wine from the under-the-counter chiller cabinet. She poured out the glass of dry white wine, and placed it on the bar counter in front of James. Then, when she was pouring James's pint of Stella, the stunning blonde to his right, Sharon, said, "So ... what's with the flip flops tonight, Joan? What happened to your new shoes, those awesome red pumps?"

Joan the barmaid's face contorted, as though at painfully remembered, fresh-in-the-mind agonies, and she stopped pouring James's Stella, mid-pint. She slipped her right foot from her flip flop, and raised her leg up behind her, displaying her rather angry-red looking bare sole. "See here, Shaz, Jen," she said, pointing to the back of her heel, "they've been rubbing the hell out of my heels ... And, see here, and here," she said, pointing to the ball of her foot, and to the bottom of her heel, that were also the same sore-looking, pinkish-red colour, "they've been crippling me," she complained. "And it certainly doesn't help, that Janice has been off sick."

Well! That was certainly an unexpected treat, thought James. Joan the barmaid certainly had a lovely pair of shapely, dainty feet ... And he'd certainly love to rub lotion into her hard-working, tired and achy soles, after one of her hard night slogs behind the busy Cock & Bull's bar, he thought, as he brought the drinks over to the table where Debbie was waiting for him. He took a seat opposite her, facing towards the bar.

"You took your sweet time. Where have you been, James – to Bordeaux, to press the grapes? Ah, the lengths you will go to for me ... such devotion," said Debbie teasingly.

"Oh! Ha ha! Very funny, Debs. I was lucky to get served this quickly ... And, anyway, I would walk to the ends of the earth for you, Debs, you know that ... What's that you're reading, anyway – the local rag?"

James picked up his pint of Stella, looking forward to that first, ice-cold, nothing-else-like-it, ultra refreshing gulp of lager ... but it didn't reach his lips.

For James's eyes had been drawn, as though by some kind of magnetic pull, and become fixated upon the captivating, awesome sight directly in front of him. The two stunning blondes, perched upon their bar stools, had both let their thin-rubber flip flops – Jennifer's, pink, and Sharon's, yellow – fall from their feet, to the floor. And both of them were displaying their bare soles, albeit at a rather acute angle, as they hooked their toes around their bar stool's chrome, rounded stretcher bar.

And then Joan the barmaid, seemingly having a quiet minute between serving customers, came over and started chatting to her two drop-dead-gorgeous friends ... And then James's hand actually began to shake; the lager in his glass spilling over the rim, so that he had to put it back on the table.

Because Jennifer and Sharon, who were now engaged in an animated conversation with Joan the barmaid, were leaning slightly forward on their bar stools and, for counterbalance, they had both put their feet behind their bar stool's rounded stretcher bar ... totally exposing, to James, the bare soles of their suntanned, shapely feet.

The soles of Jennifer and Sharon's bare feet were slightly grimy, from wearing their flip flops all day, assumed James. And, as they chatted with Joan the barmaid, James avidly watched Jennifer and Sharon's toes, as they variously scrunched, splayed, and wiggled, in apparent accordance with the differing stimuli of their lively conversation ... of their girl-talk. And the two stunning blondes' sexy soles show was quickly becoming too much, for James.

"You know it's Mum's birthday in two weeks' time, James," said Debbie, obliging James to tear his eyes away from the super-sexy antics of the two stunning blondes' beautiful bare soles. "Have you decided on a present yet? This is your chance to really get into her good books. I know you think Mum has got a bit of a downer on you, because she's always going on about your ... well, you know, 'problem'. But Mum likes you, James. Really, she does. She says you are Noble by name, and noble by nature."

"Did she really say that, Debs? That really means a lot to me ... But no, I've been thinking and thinking, but I haven't decided on a present yet. I want to buy her something unusual, not just boring old, run-of-the-mill flowers and chocolates – although I'll probably give her those as well. No, I want to give her something that's, you know, not only useful and long-lasting, but a bit ... off-the-wall, as well. Something that, whenever she looks at it, it'll remind her of me."

"Hmm ... very thoughtful, James, I'm sure," replied Debbie dryly. "Well, maybe I've found just the thing, James – here, in the classifieds. It's a mirror. But not just any old mirror – although it's certainly old. An antique piece, in fact."

Debbie rummaged in her handbag, found a Biro, and circled the item. "Here. Have a read, James, and see what you think," she said, passing the twice-folded newspaper across.

Debbie watched James's face as he read the item. She thought she'd stumbled upon just the right thing, and she was hoping James would think so, too.

"Debs, this is just the right thing!" exclaimed James. "Seventeenth-century artefact, it says here, and in remarkable condition ... Wait a minute, though. This price must be a misprint, mustn't it? Only twenty-five pounds, for something like that? Besides, it's probably been sold by now – this is yesterday's paper."

"I phoned the contact number on my mobile while you were at the bar. Actually, James, it was all rather odd ... The lady who answered said she's still got the mirror, and that she can't wait to be rid of the damn thing – not that there is anything wrong with it, 'as such', she'd hastened to add. 'As such', she'd said ... whatever that's supposed to mean. In fact, she said if we can come and look at the mirror tomorrow, she'll let you have it for just twenty pounds."

"Well, that's brilliant, Debs! It's Saturday tomorrow, we're both not working ... that's settled, then! Looks like I've found your mum's birthday present, Debs."

"Yes, James," agreed Debbie. "I can't help wondering, though, why the lady is so keen to get rid of it. I mean, after all, it's just a mirror ... isn't it?"

"Yeah, okay, Debs," said James, returning to his own idea of entertainment: watching the exciting antics of the two stunning blondes' sexy feet. And Joan the barmaid, apparently having another quiet minute, had just stopped to chat to them again.

Oh, and Jennifer and Sharon's feet were certainly worth watching, thought James – talk about entertainment value! Still resting behind their bar stool's chrome, all-the-way-around, rounded stretcher bar, their gorgeous bare soles were still being displayed, totally exposed, to James. Unconsciously, Jennifer and Sharon were pushing his buttons ... If only they knew!

And oh, what awesome soles, they both had! Lightly suntanned, and shapely, with nice, generous arches, longish toes, prominent heels ... sexy as all hell! Eye-candy, at its finest. And, the fact that their soles – their heels, the balls of their feet, and the pads of their toes – were slightly begrimed, from a mixture of work-a-day dirt and sweat, only served to enhance James's rising excitement. His growing ... arousal.

But then, Joan the barmaid, chatting to Jennifer and Sharon at the bar, and positioned in between them, happened to look past them ... and she saw the look on James's face.

She beheld his dreamy expression. An expression that seemed, at the same time, to be both unfocused, and yet sharply focused. Joan the barmaid saw where James's avid, unfocused/sharply-focused gaze was being directed ... and frowned.

Upon their seeing Joan the barmaid's frown, Jennifer and Sharon looked over their shoulders, to where her gaze was being directed ... and they also frowned.

But, so totally engrossed, was James, and so oblivious was he, to the fact that his voyeurism had been well and truly rumbled, that he continued to stare ... and stare ... and stare.

"Had a good eyeful, have you, eh?" shouted Joan the barmaid, loud enough to stop conversations, and attract the attention of everyone in the Cock & Bull ... including Debbie, a look of oh-no-not-again dread, immediately clouding her lovely features.

"I thought he'd been looking at my feet, earlier!" said Joan the barmaid, hotly. "At first, I thought I must be mistaken ... well, you would, wouldn't you? But now I've caught him staring at your feet, too!" she informed Jennifer and Sharon – and all the rest of the Cock & Bull's Friday-night drinkers.

Joan the barmaid's flip flops went slap-slap-slap-slap in rapid fire as, face flushed in umbrage, she marched to the end of the bar counter. She lifted the flap (that allowed access to the customer side of the bar), latched it open, and stormed over to James and Debbie's table. Looming over James, her ample bust on a level with his now bright-red face, she demanded of him, "What's your game, then? Eh? I mean, what's with you? Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn't ban you?"

James had no answer. Shamefaced, he looked into the amber depths of his as yet untouched pint of Stella ... he couldn't bring himself to look at the mortified Debbie.

The two stunning blondes, Jennifer and Sharon, slipped down from their high bar stool perches. They slipped their feet into their flip flops, and joined Joan the barmaid, standing to either side of her at Debbie and James's table.

"So ... what have you got to say for yourself, then? Don't you know, that it's rude to stare?" said Jennifer, who then drew back her arm, and administered her summary punishment: a sharp, resounding slap to James's left cheek.

At first, the patrons of the Cock & Bull were stunned into a near, hear-a-pin-drop silence, broken only by a few females' gasps, ranging from surprise to shock, by the no-nonsense, retributive actions of the two stunning blondes. And then some of the tipsy tipplers started to giggle. And the more inebriated drinkers, to laugh, and wolf-whistle, and clap their hands delightedly.

Debbie looked at James's stricken face. She watched stark white imprints of Jennifer and Sharon's hands appearing, superimposed upon his otherwise bright red cheeks, and she wished that the proverbial hole in the ground would swallow her up. But, worse was to come ...

Joan the barmaid, performing the coup de grace, picked up James's still untouched pint of lager, and she slowly poured the entire, almost ice-cold contents over his head. "There ... Maybe now, you'll learn some manners!" she told him.

And now the Cock & Bull erupted. Erupted into a bedlam of giggles, delighted laughs, wolf-whistles, approving and appreciative hand-clapping, and drunken shouts of encouragement, urging Joan the barmaid and the two stunning blondes to further and yet more severe comeuppances, for the caught-red-handed, denounced and disgraced voyeur.

Debbie had seen enough, heard enough ... and had enough. She abruptly stood up, grabbed hold of James's shirt collar, and dragged him up and out of his chair. "Come on," she said through gritted teeth. "We're going."

Out on the street, and once out of earshot of the uproarious commotion in the pub, James said dejectedly, ”Your mum is right about me, Debbie. You should give me the boot.”

"Ooh, don't tempt me! I know where I'd like to kick you – right at this moment! And, I keep telling you: Mum doesn't say that about you, James. She just thinks you need to seek treatment, that's all. And, well ... maybe she's right, James. Don't ... don't you think? After tonight? Maybe it's for the best. I mean, maybe there is, something you could take. Something your GP could prescribe. To, you know ... take the edge off."

As he saw Debbie safely home, not for the first time, James wondered what it was that Debbie saw in him.

Why did she stick with him, through thick and thin? Through rough and smooth. Through rain and shine ... When there was so much thin, and so little smooth, and she was always getting douched on. Any other girl, he thought, would have dumped him well before now – him, and his "problem".

"I'll see you tomorrow then, James," said Debbie, giving him a decidedly chaste peck on the cheek, as she let herself into the house.

With a great, inward sigh, James told himself that the best thing he could do now, was to get home to his flat. Take a shower, and have an early night. Tomorrow, was another day.

Tomorrow, he had a mirror to buy.