Exorbitant Interest


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, I am fearful – scared witless – of discovery. And of being … ‘outed’.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Penny. I’ll be there in a moment,” replied Miss Harding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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