The Mediaeval Masochist
England. The year of Our Lord 1462.
Thomas Mickle, the local scallywag and petty thief, once again found himself languishing in the village stocks, surrounded by the good folk of the village, being mocked and pelted with rotting fruit and vegetables.
Thrice before he had been confined thus in the wooden, kneeling stocks, and the patience of the local squire was wearing thin. Thomas had been informed he would sin no more, for this time, on his release from the stocks, he shall be sent to the dungeons – never to be free to steal again.
He is therefore subdued and contrite as he observes, from his enforced kneeling and penitent position, the dirty bare feet of the numerous young, peasant women who surround him, tormenting him not just with their dirty, rancid, bare feet, but also with their rancid produce – the spoilt and rotten leftovers from their smallholdings, no longer fit for human consumption, but ideal for throwing at a helpless prisoner in the stocks!
The young peasant women cackle and crow at the hated thief’s misfortune and demise, for they are good, law-abiding people who fear the Lord – unlike Thomas, who now fears only for his future. A future without daylight; a future without hope – languishing in the dark dungeons of the squire’s castle, begging the guards for his daily rations of stale bread and putrid water.
Suddenly, amongst the tattered and frayed hems of the young peasant women’s plain, brown, ankle-length dresses, and their equally brown and stained-with-mud, bare, white feet, he espies the white-ruffled hem of a young lady’s dress, together with her black leather, lace-up ankle boots.
Though the boots are caked in mud – the same mud from the village street that adorns the bare feet of the peasant women around her – the boots clearly belong to a lady of class. This point is reinforced when the bare feet deferentially make way for the booted feet, until the boots are standing directly beneath the bowed and humbled face of the exhausted, rotten-fruit-soiled miscreant in the stocks:
‘Make way for the Lady Rowena, daughter of the squire!’ cries a male voice from the crowd. ‘The Lady Rowena doth wish to observe and mock the thief in the stocks!’
‘Ha! Ha! Welcome, my lady. Dost thou wish to avail thyself of some rotting fruit with which to regale the prisoner?’ enquires a sweet, but dirty and smelly, young peasant woman, proffering some rotten tomatoes from her humble whicker basket.
The Lady Rowena turns up her aristocratic and somewhat pointy nose, thereby making no secret of her disgust at the smell emanating both from the peasant girl and from her basket of rotten fruit:
‘No thank you, girl…I merely wish to converse with the prisoner in the stocks!’
‘Ha! Ha! Mock him well my lady, for he is truly your prisoner now – and the prisoner of the entire village. We shall soon see him rot in your father’s dungeons like the fruit in our baskets!’ exclaims another female voice from the baying crowd.
The Lady Rowena, but 19 years of age, has indeed come to mock the afflicted. She daringly hitches up the ruffled hem of her long, white dress to expose more of her muddy, black ankle boots and a pair of white, silk stockings to the gaze of the kneeling prisoner confined helplessly beneath her:
‘Ha! Ha! How dost thou like the view from thy wooden window, varlet? Likest thou the sight of a young woman’s muddy boots as thou kneelest in the dirt, covered and stinking in rotting fruit?’ she enquires of him.
The varlet’s answer to the arrogant and supercilious young lady, whom he now knows to be the all-powerful squire’s daughter, is contrite and honest, for he is quite undone after some 5 long hours kneeling in the heavy, wooden stocks:
‘Oh prithee, good Lady Rowena, this dirty rogue and vagabond kneels contritely at thy feet and begs the good lady for sweet, feminine clemency. Truly he is a contrite and penitent wretch, and doth wish only that he may be released from his wooden bonds in order that he may lick the dirt from the sweet and kind gentlelady’s boots as a demonstration of his remorse for his crimes. Oh pray, sweet lady. Oh pray! This dirty criminal truly repents! Pray do not consign me to your father’s dungeons! Pray release me from these wooden bonds, that I may serve thee as thy bondsman!’
The crowd laugh:
‘Ha! Ha! Do not trust him, my lady, for he is a vile and miserable wretch, and sporteth with thee! If thou dost release him from the stocks he shall like as not return to his wicked ways after a brief period of contrition,’ counsels a male voice in the crowd.
‘Aye, my lady…he will like as not steal the mud from your boots as lick it!’ cries a female voice.
The crowd collapse into a fit of gleeful merriment.
The Lady Rowena, however, is not so disposed to raucous laughter. She likes what the wretched prisoner has just said – for the thought of having him as her personal bondsman appeals to her.
But it is not, in any case, within her gift to release him here and now from the wooden contraption, that he may lick the mud from her boots! They are her father’s stocks, and only the sergeant at arms holds the keys.
‘Spit on him, my lady. Display your contempt for the vagabond and his weaselly words!’ suggests yet another female counsellor from amongst the streetwise, barefooted, young peasant women.
The young Lady Rowena decides to take the nameless and faceless peasant woman’s advice, and to the great amusement and approval of the crowd, puckers up her lips, engorges her pretty mouth with saliva in a most unladylike manner, and expels her sputum down upon the balding head of the middle-aged vagabond – the vagabond in bondage at her aristocratic feet.
‘Thou hast not felt the last of my wrath,’ she informs the sinner, as she unhitches the hem of her skirt, and turns her pretty, booted ankles to return to her horse.
Tom Mickle, meanwhile, remains cramped in the stocks – at the mercy of the mainly female crowd.
Later that evening the Lady Rowena was dining with her beloved father, the squire, in the opulent surroundings of their castle’s large banqueting room. There were just the two of them, and their servants, for the squire was a widower of some 6 years, and had chosen not to remarry. His lands and vast estates were his mistresses now – taking up most all of his time; that, and the need to maintain law and order throughout his troublesome domain.
The Lady Rowena suddenly asks a question of her father as she delicately breaks open a piece of roast chicken breast:
‘Dearest father…that wretch who is languishing in the village stocks…what shall become of him?’
Her corpulent father, who prefers the leg of the chicken and is devouring the cooked fowl with gusto, replies to his beloved daughter whilst slapping heartily on his greasy food:
‘The vagabond Thomas Mickle?...Why, my dear, he shall like as not be flogged on the morrow, and then sent to our dungeons! Why dost thou trouble thy pretty head with such matters?’
‘Oh father, it is not a worry to me, and truly he is a miserable knave who deserveth punishment, but I cannot but feel that he deserveth worse than just the sting of the lash and the peace and quiet of the dungeons!’
‘What say thee, daughter dearest? Hast thou other plans for him perchance?’
The Lady Rowena pouts. She is in the habit of pouting when she desires something from her doting father:
‘Oh pray, father, give me the wretch as my personal bondslave! Let him pay for his evil crimes by serving at the feet of a young woman for the rest of his miserable existence!’
Her father laughs:
‘Ha! Ha! As thy personal bondslave?! But my dear, thou already hast Agitha thy personal maidservant! What need hast thou of a male bondslave?’
The Lady Rowena feigns disappointment and surprise:
‘But father, do I not have boots that need cleaning? Stockings that need washing? Feet that need pampering? Imagine thee how humiliating it would be for that despicable thief to have to serve his remaining days as my personal footslave – the footslave of a woman! Ha! Ha! Truly I would make him repent of his crimes father!’
The squire belches out loud, rubs the chicken grease off his fat lips, and takes a swig of wine from his chalice.
He also laughs. He can never resist the will of his beloved, only daughter:
‘Very well, my dear…thou shalt have thy foot-servant on his release from the stocks on the morrow. But, my God, he shall demonstrate his submission to thee by crawling through the mud and paying slavish homage to thy boots. Be sure to wear thy muddiest pair, my darling – for I shall have him eat my daughter’s boot mud in full view of the villagers as a public demonstration of his enslavement to thee!’
The Lady Rowena drops her chicken breast, wipes her pretty lips and delicate, feminine fingers on a napkin, jumps up from her seat and rushes to embrace her indulgent father at the other end of the long, wooden dining table:
‘Oh father… I bless thee and thank thee. I shall not let thee down. The wretch Thomas shall truly be made to suffer at my feet, and shall come to pine for the respite of the dungeons, I assure thee father!’
‘Ha! Ha! Enjoy thy power and authority over him, my dear. He is thine to command as thou wishest!’
The next morning the villagers were once again gathered around the criminal in the stocks, expecting to witness a good flogging. But the spectacle that instead greeted them was of much more import – for the squire himself, and his daughter the Lady Rowena – were for some reason present at the unlocking of the varlet from the wooden stocks.
The sergeant at arms, on the instructions of the squire, revealed all, both to the miscreant himself and to his ragged audience:
‘Wretch, you are now to be the personal footslave of the Lady Rowena on the orders of the squire. Crawl thee through the mud and pay homage to the boots of thy new mistress!’ and with that the sergeant kicked the crawling, kneeling vagabond in the rump, instigating him to crawl on all fours over to the Lady Rowena’s waiting, ankle-booted feet.
‘Ha! Ha! Kiss the feet of my daughter, wretch, and praise God for thy deliverance from the dungeons,’ ordered the squire. ‘Thou shalt languish henceforth instead at my daughter’s feet, for as long as she so desireth it. Embrace her boots with thy scurvy lips, that these good folk may witness thine enslavement and bondage at the feet of thy female better!’
Tom Mickle was now, after a long night in the stocks, a broken man, and in no mood to argue. Besides, he much preferred the prospect of a lifetime of bondage at the feet of the squire’s pretty daughter, to a lifetime of lonely incarceration in the dark hole of the squire’s dungeon! Had he not been the one to implant the idea in the young woman’s head in the first place?
He duly, and dutifully, crawled through the mud, past a row of dirt-encrusted, bare, peasant-women feet, until he reached the obligingly outstretched, booted foot of the lady Rowena.
He noted she was wearing the same black, lace-up, muddy ankle boots as the day before, and wondered whether she may also be wearing the selfsame white stockings inside her boots as yesterday!
The lady spoke down to her new vassal:
‘Didst thou not implore me for the honour of licking the mud off my boots, slave? Ha! Ha! Well now thou hast the opportunity to fulfil thy humble wish!...’
She again coquettishly hitched up the frilly hem of her white dress beneath her fur overcoat, until it reached the top of her ankle boot, thereby exposing the white of her silk stocking:
‘…Lick my boot…Lick thy new mistress’s boot mud, that all may see thy shame and humiliation at the feet of a woman! Ha! Ha!’
The crowd, especially the women, laughed and then fell silent – eager to hear as well as to witness the abasement of the newly enslaved, erstwhile male criminal, in their midst.
Tom Mickle lowered his head and licked the village mud from the toe of the Lady Rowena’s outstretched boot, admiring a small crease in the silk of her white stocking just above her shapely, outer ankle bone as he did so.
The crowd roared!
‘Ha! Ha! See how the thief hath fallen off his high-horse! He kisseth and licketh the muddy boots of a woman! Ha! Ha!’ cried a male voice in the crowd.
‘Ha! Ha! Present thine other foot for the wretch to acknowledge, my lady!’ shouted an excited, young female voice.
The Lady Rowena, filled with a hitherto unfamiliar sense of female power and authority over the hapless, male wretch at her feet, duly withdrew her saliva covered right boot from under her new bondsman’s nose, and, again hitching up the hem of her dress, extended her left ankle-boot through the village mud for her vassal to pay public homage to.
Slave Thomas, for that was what he had now become, noted that the mud on his new mistress’s left boot tasted the same as that on her right.
Meanwhile the squire had an enquiry of his daughter:
‘My dear, wilt thou have thy bootlicker whipped? Shall I have the sergeant fetch the whip?’
The Lady Rowena looked down at the weak and feeble man grovelling in the dirt at her boots; her property:
‘Nay, father…I fear that he is too weak to withstand the whip at present. His back would better serve as my mounting block, for I feel we should now to horse and return to the castle, where I may educate him further in his duties!’
The squire, though a little disappointed, as he always relished witnessing the public flogging of criminals, nevertheless, as always, acceded to his daughter’s request:
‘In that case he shall in any event bare his back for thee my daughter, for I will have the imprint of thy boot on his bare back for all to see!...Sergeant, divest this manslave of his shirt!’
‘Aye, my Lord!’ and with that the burly, sergeant at arms bent down to roughly rip the erstwhile vagabond’s ragged shirt from off his back, that he may better resemble the slave that he had now become.
The slave was just glad that his back was being cleared as a mounting block for the Lady Rowena to climb up onto her horse, rather than as a canvas for the sergeant at arm’s whip!
Now bare of back, he followed the Lady Rowena’s booted heels on his hands and knees towards her horse, catching only the occasional glimpse of the backs of her black leather ankle boots beneath the ruffled hem of her long, white dress as she walked somewhat gingerly through the village mud, her father supporting her arm, until they reached her animal.
Slave Thomas then knelt still to allow the Lady Rowena to gain purchase on his bare back as she mounted onto her horse. Sure enough, to the entertainment and delight of all present, his pale, white back now displayed the muddy imprint of the Lady Rowena’s left boot-sole as she settled imperiously onto her horse – a further symbol of his newly-found servile status; the mark of a lady’s boot on his back!
The squire remarked upon it:
‘Ha! Ha! Thy back and body is now the property of my beloved daughter, scurvy knave. Submit to her will as thou hast submitted to her boot, or thou shalt feel the wrath of her whip!’
‘Yes, my lord, if it pleaseth thee, my lord, this wretched slave shall henceforth seek only to do the Lady Rowena’s bidding, and shall not seek to resist either the power of his mistress’s boot or the power of her whip!’
‘Ha! Ha! Fine words for a slave, wretch, but we shall see how thou farest under the yoke of my daughter!... Sergeant, shackle this humble vagabond and convey him to the castle forthwith!’
And with that the Lady Rowena and her father galloped off on their respective horses, leaving the sergeant at arms to shackle the Lady Rowena’s new bondslave and convey him in the back of a wooden cart to the castle.
On arrival at the castle the slave was led, on his hands and knees, and in chains, by the lady’s 18 year old maidservant, miss Agitha, directly to the Lady Rowena’s bedchamber.
The Lady Rowena herself was seated by her window, divested of her overcoat, but not of her dress and boots. She was awaiting the arrival of her new slave for the purposes of requiring him to take off her boots. No longer would her maid, Agitha, be tasked with such menial and degrading chores as the donning and removal of her lady’s outer footwear!
Lady Rowena explained as much to her maid in the presence of the new, male bondservant, whilst seeking to reassure her that she would still have the honour of divesting her of her undergarments – her stockings and bloomers and suchlike– since such items of a lady’s clothing were much too intimate for a dirty, male bondslave to be permitted to touch whilst they still adorned a lady’s body.
Slave Thomas was now kneeling in front of the Lady Rowena’s dirty boots, her muddy boot-imprint still clearly visible, much to the maidservant Agitha’s giggling amusement, on his kneeling and bare back.
‘Unboot me, slave!’ snapped the Lady Rowena arrogantly, yet again hitching up the hem of her long, white dress to afford her slave access to her black, leather ankle boots.
The bondslave Thomas gingerly placed his dirty slave fingers on the lady’s black bootlaces and began to untie them.
The two ladies - the mistress and the maid – both now his superiors and betters despite being members of the ‘weaker’ sex, watched him work in silence, relishing the sheer degradation of his humble task of having to unlace his mistress’s boots, for it is surely so much more humiliating for a man to have to unlace a lady’s boots, and in the very presence of her maidservant! Is he not a traitor to his sex?!
And yet, as we have remarked already, the wretched Thomas was undone as a man. He was now but a slave, resigned to obeying the superior young woman at whose stockinged feet he now knelt! And, indeed, to humbly obeying anyone else who saw themselves as his better, including his mistress’s maidservant, miss Agitha.
Slave Thomas was surprised – surprised at the stench emanating from the Lady Rowena’s freshly liberated, white-silk-stockinged toes. He had, naively, assumed that the feet of a lady of class would have smelt of rose petals, rather than the sweaty smell he was accustomed to experiencing from the peasant girls’ dirty, bare feet as they stood around him, mocking him whilst he knelt in the stocks.
Truly my Lady Rowena is but a human being like the rest of them, he thought to himself! Her feet will warm and perspire inside her boots as the feet of any young woman would do, be she noblewoman or peasant, especially when, as evidenced by the yellowy-brown stains on the soles of her white, silk stockings, my Lady Rowena has clearly been attired in the same hosiery for several days!
The Lady Rowena is aware of her stench, and cares not for the discomfort of her footslave:
‘Ha! Ha! Thou must accustom thyself to the odour of thy mistress’s feet, bondslave, for thou art now their servant and vassal. Get thee down to my toes and pay homage to my stockinged feet, ere I call for the whip!’
Given the choice between sniffing and licking his lady’s sweaty, stockinged toes, or feeling the sting of her lash cutting through the muddy imprint of her boot on his back, slave Thomas wasted no time in complying with his new mistress’s command.
He respectfully and slavishly lowered his lips to the Lady Rowena’s stockinged toes, inhaling her aroma and beginning the long process of accustoming himself to the smell of a noble lady’s unwashed feet.
Not that the Lady Rowena’s feet were to remain unwashed for long, for she too was offended by their smell. She ordered her maidservant, Agitha, to divest her of her stockings, and then to bring a bowl of lukewarm water and a towel for the male bondslave to wash her feet.
She then dismissed the maidservant temporarily from her presence, as she had no further immediate need for her assistance. The slave could be tasked with bathing her dirty, stinking feet!
As he made to lift the Lady Rowena’s right foot into the bowl of soothing, clean water, she suddenly clicked her fingers and ordered him to stop:
‘Thou shalt first kiss thy lady’s bare feet, ere thou touchest them with thy dirty hands, wretched slave! Forget thee not that thy lady is thy mistress, not thy lover, and thou shalt only touch her feet by way of service and supplication, as befits a foot-serf. Kiss thee my bare feet this instant, and crave thy mistress’s permission to touch and wash her fair feet, or I shall call for the sergeant and have thee soundly whipped!’
‘Yes, my lady...at once my lady. Please forgive this wretched, dirty slave, my lady!’
And the wretched, dirty slave, slave Thomas, then duly lowered his lips to the source of the stench in the Lady Rowena’s bedchamber – her still unwashed feet – which he duly kissed in a respectful manner befitting a bondslave, supplicating her all the while for the honour of touching and bathing her hot and tired, but noble, feet with his dirty, bare hands.
His supplication was heard.
As he ladled the water over the Lady Rowena’s soft, white aristocratic feet he noticed yet further imperfections on the meanest part of his new mistress’s body. Her heels were chapped and dry. There was the appearance of a small bunion on the big toe of her left foot; and she had several small, brown moles running along the side of her right foot. Nevertheless they were, undoubtedly, the proud and pampered feet of a noble lady – a young lady of leisure. This lady had never walked barefoot through the mud of the village. The only mud he would be tasting from now on would be mixed in with the taste of her leather boots, boots which he eyed up lasciviously as they lay on the floor of the bedchamber, discarded to one side, whilst he cupped water onto his lady Rowena’s right, bare foot.
Having dried his lady’s bare feet with the towel, he was then set to work cleaning those discarded, still muddy, black-leather ankle boots – using only his tongue, for the Lady Rowena was not inclined to supply him with a cloth for the purpose.
To his foolish pride he had, in any case, no need of a cloth – for the Lady Rowena’s boots soon glistened with his saliva, and were free of mud.
And it was the first time his belly had felt full in 24 hours!
Miss Agitha was summoned to the lady’s bedchamber once more in order to dress the Lady Rowena for dinner. Her father was throwing a banquet for the local noblemen and their wives, in part to celebrate the capture and subjugation of the rogue, Thomas Mickle; and in part to celebrate their continued success and wealth, thanks to the exorbitant taxes they levied on the poor villagers in the surrounding areas.
It would be a lavish affair, with dancers and jesters, and a table groaning with food and wine.
It was a good thing that slave Thomas had a belly full of his mistress’s boot mud, for none of the sumptuous fare was destined for his slave gullet. Instead, he spent the banquet as a footrest, lying face down under the long, upper table at his Lady Rowena’s feet, which were now clad in soft, black, silken slippers and fresh, white stockings.
She had her right foot resting on his upturned left cheek, and her left foot resting on the wooden floor of the banqueting hall directly in front of his dirty face. Though he could hear the laughter and merriment above him, therefore, he could observe nothing other than the tiny creases and folds in his lady’s shapely, left, stockinged foot as she subconsciously flexed and twisted her foot muscles as she ate, drank and was merry, engaging all the while in animated conversation with her father’s guests.
One young beau, in particular, was taking up her attention. Her father had deliberately sat him beside her at the table as an honoured guest, as he saw the young man as a worthy suitor for his daughter. He was known as the Duke of Ellingham – a handsome, young man from a neighbouring village, whose father the squire had long sought to forge closer alliances with. The marriage of the Duke of Ellingham to the squire’s only daughter, Rowena, would be a significant gain, both financially and politically, so the squire was quite prepared to overlook the fact that the young Duke was an insufferably arrogant, young bore!
The Lady Rowena too was prepared to overlook the Duke’s personality flaws, in part because she wanted to please her father; but in part also because, for all his arrogance and brash boastfulness, or perhaps indeed because of it, she actually found the Duke of Ellingham quite attractive.
He had already been courting the Lady Rowena for some time, and was now, seemingly, curious to know about the strange, new creature lying in the dirt at his soon-to-be-betrothed’s, silk-slippered feet:
‘Tell me, my dear, that wretched creature on whom thou art resting thy shapely ankle…be he my rival, or just a dog performing thy bidding? Ha! Ha!’
The Lady Rowena laughed at the normally self-confident Duke of Ellingham’s seeming insecurity, as well as his witty remark on the matter. As she laughed, her ankle moved and flexed, causing her silken white stocking to crease in front of her footslave’s eyes:
‘Ha! Ha! Rest assured, kind sir, he is but a dog; a dog to lick and wash my dirty feet and footwear, and for me to rest my feet on…Thou mayest kick him, if thou so desirest, kind sir, for he is but a wretched slave, a slave to all whom he encounters. For that is my will!’
‘Ha! Ha! Forsooth, fair lady, I dare not kick him lest I sully my boot. Ha! Ha!...’
The duke then lifted up the table cloth in order to gain a better look at the Lady Rowena’s new foot-accoutrement:
‘Ha! Ha! You down there… the wretched knave …I trust thou art enthralled by thy lady’s stockinged foot, since thou art in her thrall! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes, my lord, this wretched slave is truly honoured to be lying at his mistress’s feet, and is in awe of the beauty of the mistress’s stockinged foot, if it so pleaseth the master.’
The duke seemed pleased at the slave’s verbal obsequiousness:
‘Ha! Ha! Well said, slave…I see that thou art broken in spirit as a man. I shall not fear thee as a rival for my Lady Rowena’s affections, for thou art clearly but the dirt beneath her feet! Ha! Ha!’
The Lady Rowena placed a reassuring hand on her suitor's big, manly hand:
‘He shall indeed not come between our two souls, my lover – only between the dirt on the ground and the soles of my shoes! Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! I love thee, my darling! Just say the word and I shall have this fool who lieth under thy feet whipped in front of thee, should he ever displease thee or disobey thy commands!’
The Lady Rowena melted. The young duke was so handsome and manly, especially after she had consumed several flagons of red wine! She dared to kiss him on the lips, the sole of her right slipper digging into the upturned cheek of her human footrest as she did so.
For his part, slave Thomas was just glad to be able to give his mistress’s foot more purchase as she kissed her handsome, monied lover on the lips. Nor did he hunger and thirst for the succulent food and the fine wine that festooned the long dining table above him. For the sight of the tiny creases and folds in his Lady Rowena’s silken white stockings was feast enough for his senses. When he thought of where he could have been languishing right now – in her father’s dungeon – he could only praise and bless the gods for the unexpected twist in his fate.
He had them to thank and, of course, the Lady Rowena!
The End
Thomas Mickle, the local scallywag and petty thief, once again found himself languishing in the village stocks, surrounded by the good folk of the village, being mocked and pelted with rotting fruit and vegetables.
Thrice before he had been confined thus in the wooden, kneeling stocks, and the patience of the local squire was wearing thin. Thomas had been informed he would sin no more, for this time, on his release from the stocks, he shall be sent to the dungeons – never to be free to steal again.
He is therefore subdued and contrite as he observes, from his enforced kneeling and penitent position, the dirty bare feet of the numerous young, peasant women who surround him, tormenting him not just with their dirty, rancid, bare feet, but also with their rancid produce – the spoilt and rotten leftovers from their smallholdings, no longer fit for human consumption, but ideal for throwing at a helpless prisoner in the stocks!
The young peasant women cackle and crow at the hated thief’s misfortune and demise, for they are good, law-abiding people who fear the Lord – unlike Thomas, who now fears only for his future. A future without daylight; a future without hope – languishing in the dark dungeons of the squire’s castle, begging the guards for his daily rations of stale bread and putrid water.
Suddenly, amongst the tattered and frayed hems of the young peasant women’s plain, brown, ankle-length dresses, and their equally brown and stained-with-mud, bare, white feet, he espies the white-ruffled hem of a young lady’s dress, together with her black leather, lace-up ankle boots.
Though the boots are caked in mud – the same mud from the village street that adorns the bare feet of the peasant women around her – the boots clearly belong to a lady of class. This point is reinforced when the bare feet deferentially make way for the booted feet, until the boots are standing directly beneath the bowed and humbled face of the exhausted, rotten-fruit-soiled miscreant in the stocks:
‘Make way for the Lady Rowena, daughter of the squire!’ cries a male voice from the crowd. ‘The Lady Rowena doth wish to observe and mock the thief in the stocks!’
‘Ha! Ha! Welcome, my lady. Dost thou wish to avail thyself of some rotting fruit with which to regale the prisoner?’ enquires a sweet, but dirty and smelly, young peasant woman, proffering some rotten tomatoes from her humble whicker basket.
The Lady Rowena turns up her aristocratic and somewhat pointy nose, thereby making no secret of her disgust at the smell emanating both from the peasant girl and from her basket of rotten fruit:
‘No thank you, girl…I merely wish to converse with the prisoner in the stocks!’
‘Ha! Ha! Mock him well my lady, for he is truly your prisoner now – and the prisoner of the entire village. We shall soon see him rot in your father’s dungeons like the fruit in our baskets!’ exclaims another female voice from the baying crowd.
The Lady Rowena, but 19 years of age, has indeed come to mock the afflicted. She daringly hitches up the ruffled hem of her long, white dress to expose more of her muddy, black ankle boots and a pair of white, silk stockings to the gaze of the kneeling prisoner confined helplessly beneath her:
‘Ha! Ha! How dost thou like the view from thy wooden window, varlet? Likest thou the sight of a young woman’s muddy boots as thou kneelest in the dirt, covered and stinking in rotting fruit?’ she enquires of him.
The varlet’s answer to the arrogant and supercilious young lady, whom he now knows to be the all-powerful squire’s daughter, is contrite and honest, for he is quite undone after some 5 long hours kneeling in the heavy, wooden stocks:
‘Oh prithee, good Lady Rowena, this dirty rogue and vagabond kneels contritely at thy feet and begs the good lady for sweet, feminine clemency. Truly he is a contrite and penitent wretch, and doth wish only that he may be released from his wooden bonds in order that he may lick the dirt from the sweet and kind gentlelady’s boots as a demonstration of his remorse for his crimes. Oh pray, sweet lady. Oh pray! This dirty criminal truly repents! Pray do not consign me to your father’s dungeons! Pray release me from these wooden bonds, that I may serve thee as thy bondsman!’
The crowd laugh:
‘Ha! Ha! Do not trust him, my lady, for he is a vile and miserable wretch, and sporteth with thee! If thou dost release him from the stocks he shall like as not return to his wicked ways after a brief period of contrition,’ counsels a male voice in the crowd.
‘Aye, my lady…he will like as not steal the mud from your boots as lick it!’ cries a female voice.
The crowd collapse into a fit of gleeful merriment.
The Lady Rowena, however, is not so disposed to raucous laughter. She likes what the wretched prisoner has just said – for the thought of having him as her personal bondsman appeals to her.
But it is not, in any case, within her gift to release him here and now from the wooden contraption, that he may lick the mud from her boots! They are her father’s stocks, and only the sergeant at arms holds the keys.
‘Spit on him, my lady. Display your contempt for the vagabond and his weaselly words!’ suggests yet another female counsellor from amongst the streetwise, barefooted, young peasant women.
The young Lady Rowena decides to take the nameless and faceless peasant woman’s advice, and to the great amusement and approval of the crowd, puckers up her lips, engorges her pretty mouth with saliva in a most unladylike manner, and expels her sputum down upon the balding head of the middle-aged vagabond – the vagabond in bondage at her aristocratic feet.
‘Thou hast not felt the last of my wrath,’ she informs the sinner, as she unhitches the hem of her skirt, and turns her pretty, booted ankles to return to her horse.
Tom Mickle, meanwhile, remains cramped in the stocks – at the mercy of the mainly female crowd.
Later that evening the Lady Rowena was dining with her beloved father, the squire, in the opulent surroundings of their castle’s large banqueting room. There were just the two of them, and their servants, for the squire was a widower of some 6 years, and had chosen not to remarry. His lands and vast estates were his mistresses now – taking up most all of his time; that, and the need to maintain law and order throughout his troublesome domain.
The Lady Rowena suddenly asks a question of her father as she delicately breaks open a piece of roast chicken breast:
‘Dearest father…that wretch who is languishing in the village stocks…what shall become of him?’
Her corpulent father, who prefers the leg of the chicken and is devouring the cooked fowl with gusto, replies to his beloved daughter whilst slapping heartily on his greasy food:
‘The vagabond Thomas Mickle?...Why, my dear, he shall like as not be flogged on the morrow, and then sent to our dungeons! Why dost thou trouble thy pretty head with such matters?’
‘Oh father, it is not a worry to me, and truly he is a miserable knave who deserveth punishment, but I cannot but feel that he deserveth worse than just the sting of the lash and the peace and quiet of the dungeons!’
‘What say thee, daughter dearest? Hast thou other plans for him perchance?’
The Lady Rowena pouts. She is in the habit of pouting when she desires something from her doting father:
‘Oh pray, father, give me the wretch as my personal bondslave! Let him pay for his evil crimes by serving at the feet of a young woman for the rest of his miserable existence!’
Her father laughs:
‘Ha! Ha! As thy personal bondslave?! But my dear, thou already hast Agitha thy personal maidservant! What need hast thou of a male bondslave?’
The Lady Rowena feigns disappointment and surprise:
‘But father, do I not have boots that need cleaning? Stockings that need washing? Feet that need pampering? Imagine thee how humiliating it would be for that despicable thief to have to serve his remaining days as my personal footslave – the footslave of a woman! Ha! Ha! Truly I would make him repent of his crimes father!’
The squire belches out loud, rubs the chicken grease off his fat lips, and takes a swig of wine from his chalice.
He also laughs. He can never resist the will of his beloved, only daughter:
‘Very well, my dear…thou shalt have thy foot-servant on his release from the stocks on the morrow. But, my God, he shall demonstrate his submission to thee by crawling through the mud and paying slavish homage to thy boots. Be sure to wear thy muddiest pair, my darling – for I shall have him eat my daughter’s boot mud in full view of the villagers as a public demonstration of his enslavement to thee!’
The Lady Rowena drops her chicken breast, wipes her pretty lips and delicate, feminine fingers on a napkin, jumps up from her seat and rushes to embrace her indulgent father at the other end of the long, wooden dining table:
‘Oh father… I bless thee and thank thee. I shall not let thee down. The wretch Thomas shall truly be made to suffer at my feet, and shall come to pine for the respite of the dungeons, I assure thee father!’
‘Ha! Ha! Enjoy thy power and authority over him, my dear. He is thine to command as thou wishest!’
The next morning the villagers were once again gathered around the criminal in the stocks, expecting to witness a good flogging. But the spectacle that instead greeted them was of much more import – for the squire himself, and his daughter the Lady Rowena – were for some reason present at the unlocking of the varlet from the wooden stocks.
The sergeant at arms, on the instructions of the squire, revealed all, both to the miscreant himself and to his ragged audience:
‘Wretch, you are now to be the personal footslave of the Lady Rowena on the orders of the squire. Crawl thee through the mud and pay homage to the boots of thy new mistress!’ and with that the sergeant kicked the crawling, kneeling vagabond in the rump, instigating him to crawl on all fours over to the Lady Rowena’s waiting, ankle-booted feet.
‘Ha! Ha! Kiss the feet of my daughter, wretch, and praise God for thy deliverance from the dungeons,’ ordered the squire. ‘Thou shalt languish henceforth instead at my daughter’s feet, for as long as she so desireth it. Embrace her boots with thy scurvy lips, that these good folk may witness thine enslavement and bondage at the feet of thy female better!’
Tom Mickle was now, after a long night in the stocks, a broken man, and in no mood to argue. Besides, he much preferred the prospect of a lifetime of bondage at the feet of the squire’s pretty daughter, to a lifetime of lonely incarceration in the dark hole of the squire’s dungeon! Had he not been the one to implant the idea in the young woman’s head in the first place?
He duly, and dutifully, crawled through the mud, past a row of dirt-encrusted, bare, peasant-women feet, until he reached the obligingly outstretched, booted foot of the lady Rowena.
He noted she was wearing the same black, lace-up, muddy ankle boots as the day before, and wondered whether she may also be wearing the selfsame white stockings inside her boots as yesterday!
The lady spoke down to her new vassal:
‘Didst thou not implore me for the honour of licking the mud off my boots, slave? Ha! Ha! Well now thou hast the opportunity to fulfil thy humble wish!...’
She again coquettishly hitched up the frilly hem of her white dress beneath her fur overcoat, until it reached the top of her ankle boot, thereby exposing the white of her silk stocking:
‘…Lick my boot…Lick thy new mistress’s boot mud, that all may see thy shame and humiliation at the feet of a woman! Ha! Ha!’
The crowd, especially the women, laughed and then fell silent – eager to hear as well as to witness the abasement of the newly enslaved, erstwhile male criminal, in their midst.
Tom Mickle lowered his head and licked the village mud from the toe of the Lady Rowena’s outstretched boot, admiring a small crease in the silk of her white stocking just above her shapely, outer ankle bone as he did so.
The crowd roared!
‘Ha! Ha! See how the thief hath fallen off his high-horse! He kisseth and licketh the muddy boots of a woman! Ha! Ha!’ cried a male voice in the crowd.
‘Ha! Ha! Present thine other foot for the wretch to acknowledge, my lady!’ shouted an excited, young female voice.
The Lady Rowena, filled with a hitherto unfamiliar sense of female power and authority over the hapless, male wretch at her feet, duly withdrew her saliva covered right boot from under her new bondsman’s nose, and, again hitching up the hem of her dress, extended her left ankle-boot through the village mud for her vassal to pay public homage to.
Slave Thomas, for that was what he had now become, noted that the mud on his new mistress’s left boot tasted the same as that on her right.
Meanwhile the squire had an enquiry of his daughter:
‘My dear, wilt thou have thy bootlicker whipped? Shall I have the sergeant fetch the whip?’
The Lady Rowena looked down at the weak and feeble man grovelling in the dirt at her boots; her property:
‘Nay, father…I fear that he is too weak to withstand the whip at present. His back would better serve as my mounting block, for I feel we should now to horse and return to the castle, where I may educate him further in his duties!’
The squire, though a little disappointed, as he always relished witnessing the public flogging of criminals, nevertheless, as always, acceded to his daughter’s request:
‘In that case he shall in any event bare his back for thee my daughter, for I will have the imprint of thy boot on his bare back for all to see!...Sergeant, divest this manslave of his shirt!’
‘Aye, my Lord!’ and with that the burly, sergeant at arms bent down to roughly rip the erstwhile vagabond’s ragged shirt from off his back, that he may better resemble the slave that he had now become.
The slave was just glad that his back was being cleared as a mounting block for the Lady Rowena to climb up onto her horse, rather than as a canvas for the sergeant at arm’s whip!
Now bare of back, he followed the Lady Rowena’s booted heels on his hands and knees towards her horse, catching only the occasional glimpse of the backs of her black leather ankle boots beneath the ruffled hem of her long, white dress as she walked somewhat gingerly through the village mud, her father supporting her arm, until they reached her animal.
Slave Thomas then knelt still to allow the Lady Rowena to gain purchase on his bare back as she mounted onto her horse. Sure enough, to the entertainment and delight of all present, his pale, white back now displayed the muddy imprint of the Lady Rowena’s left boot-sole as she settled imperiously onto her horse – a further symbol of his newly-found servile status; the mark of a lady’s boot on his back!
The squire remarked upon it:
‘Ha! Ha! Thy back and body is now the property of my beloved daughter, scurvy knave. Submit to her will as thou hast submitted to her boot, or thou shalt feel the wrath of her whip!’
‘Yes, my lord, if it pleaseth thee, my lord, this wretched slave shall henceforth seek only to do the Lady Rowena’s bidding, and shall not seek to resist either the power of his mistress’s boot or the power of her whip!’
‘Ha! Ha! Fine words for a slave, wretch, but we shall see how thou farest under the yoke of my daughter!... Sergeant, shackle this humble vagabond and convey him to the castle forthwith!’
And with that the Lady Rowena and her father galloped off on their respective horses, leaving the sergeant at arms to shackle the Lady Rowena’s new bondslave and convey him in the back of a wooden cart to the castle.
On arrival at the castle the slave was led, on his hands and knees, and in chains, by the lady’s 18 year old maidservant, miss Agitha, directly to the Lady Rowena’s bedchamber.
The Lady Rowena herself was seated by her window, divested of her overcoat, but not of her dress and boots. She was awaiting the arrival of her new slave for the purposes of requiring him to take off her boots. No longer would her maid, Agitha, be tasked with such menial and degrading chores as the donning and removal of her lady’s outer footwear!
Lady Rowena explained as much to her maid in the presence of the new, male bondservant, whilst seeking to reassure her that she would still have the honour of divesting her of her undergarments – her stockings and bloomers and suchlike– since such items of a lady’s clothing were much too intimate for a dirty, male bondslave to be permitted to touch whilst they still adorned a lady’s body.
Slave Thomas was now kneeling in front of the Lady Rowena’s dirty boots, her muddy boot-imprint still clearly visible, much to the maidservant Agitha’s giggling amusement, on his kneeling and bare back.
‘Unboot me, slave!’ snapped the Lady Rowena arrogantly, yet again hitching up the hem of her long, white dress to afford her slave access to her black, leather ankle boots.
The bondslave Thomas gingerly placed his dirty slave fingers on the lady’s black bootlaces and began to untie them.
The two ladies - the mistress and the maid – both now his superiors and betters despite being members of the ‘weaker’ sex, watched him work in silence, relishing the sheer degradation of his humble task of having to unlace his mistress’s boots, for it is surely so much more humiliating for a man to have to unlace a lady’s boots, and in the very presence of her maidservant! Is he not a traitor to his sex?!
And yet, as we have remarked already, the wretched Thomas was undone as a man. He was now but a slave, resigned to obeying the superior young woman at whose stockinged feet he now knelt! And, indeed, to humbly obeying anyone else who saw themselves as his better, including his mistress’s maidservant, miss Agitha.
Slave Thomas was surprised – surprised at the stench emanating from the Lady Rowena’s freshly liberated, white-silk-stockinged toes. He had, naively, assumed that the feet of a lady of class would have smelt of rose petals, rather than the sweaty smell he was accustomed to experiencing from the peasant girls’ dirty, bare feet as they stood around him, mocking him whilst he knelt in the stocks.
Truly my Lady Rowena is but a human being like the rest of them, he thought to himself! Her feet will warm and perspire inside her boots as the feet of any young woman would do, be she noblewoman or peasant, especially when, as evidenced by the yellowy-brown stains on the soles of her white, silk stockings, my Lady Rowena has clearly been attired in the same hosiery for several days!
The Lady Rowena is aware of her stench, and cares not for the discomfort of her footslave:
‘Ha! Ha! Thou must accustom thyself to the odour of thy mistress’s feet, bondslave, for thou art now their servant and vassal. Get thee down to my toes and pay homage to my stockinged feet, ere I call for the whip!’
Given the choice between sniffing and licking his lady’s sweaty, stockinged toes, or feeling the sting of her lash cutting through the muddy imprint of her boot on his back, slave Thomas wasted no time in complying with his new mistress’s command.
He respectfully and slavishly lowered his lips to the Lady Rowena’s stockinged toes, inhaling her aroma and beginning the long process of accustoming himself to the smell of a noble lady’s unwashed feet.
Not that the Lady Rowena’s feet were to remain unwashed for long, for she too was offended by their smell. She ordered her maidservant, Agitha, to divest her of her stockings, and then to bring a bowl of lukewarm water and a towel for the male bondslave to wash her feet.
She then dismissed the maidservant temporarily from her presence, as she had no further immediate need for her assistance. The slave could be tasked with bathing her dirty, stinking feet!
As he made to lift the Lady Rowena’s right foot into the bowl of soothing, clean water, she suddenly clicked her fingers and ordered him to stop:
‘Thou shalt first kiss thy lady’s bare feet, ere thou touchest them with thy dirty hands, wretched slave! Forget thee not that thy lady is thy mistress, not thy lover, and thou shalt only touch her feet by way of service and supplication, as befits a foot-serf. Kiss thee my bare feet this instant, and crave thy mistress’s permission to touch and wash her fair feet, or I shall call for the sergeant and have thee soundly whipped!’
‘Yes, my lady...at once my lady. Please forgive this wretched, dirty slave, my lady!’
And the wretched, dirty slave, slave Thomas, then duly lowered his lips to the source of the stench in the Lady Rowena’s bedchamber – her still unwashed feet – which he duly kissed in a respectful manner befitting a bondslave, supplicating her all the while for the honour of touching and bathing her hot and tired, but noble, feet with his dirty, bare hands.
His supplication was heard.
As he ladled the water over the Lady Rowena’s soft, white aristocratic feet he noticed yet further imperfections on the meanest part of his new mistress’s body. Her heels were chapped and dry. There was the appearance of a small bunion on the big toe of her left foot; and she had several small, brown moles running along the side of her right foot. Nevertheless they were, undoubtedly, the proud and pampered feet of a noble lady – a young lady of leisure. This lady had never walked barefoot through the mud of the village. The only mud he would be tasting from now on would be mixed in with the taste of her leather boots, boots which he eyed up lasciviously as they lay on the floor of the bedchamber, discarded to one side, whilst he cupped water onto his lady Rowena’s right, bare foot.
Having dried his lady’s bare feet with the towel, he was then set to work cleaning those discarded, still muddy, black-leather ankle boots – using only his tongue, for the Lady Rowena was not inclined to supply him with a cloth for the purpose.
To his foolish pride he had, in any case, no need of a cloth – for the Lady Rowena’s boots soon glistened with his saliva, and were free of mud.
And it was the first time his belly had felt full in 24 hours!
Miss Agitha was summoned to the lady’s bedchamber once more in order to dress the Lady Rowena for dinner. Her father was throwing a banquet for the local noblemen and their wives, in part to celebrate the capture and subjugation of the rogue, Thomas Mickle; and in part to celebrate their continued success and wealth, thanks to the exorbitant taxes they levied on the poor villagers in the surrounding areas.
It would be a lavish affair, with dancers and jesters, and a table groaning with food and wine.
It was a good thing that slave Thomas had a belly full of his mistress’s boot mud, for none of the sumptuous fare was destined for his slave gullet. Instead, he spent the banquet as a footrest, lying face down under the long, upper table at his Lady Rowena’s feet, which were now clad in soft, black, silken slippers and fresh, white stockings.
She had her right foot resting on his upturned left cheek, and her left foot resting on the wooden floor of the banqueting hall directly in front of his dirty face. Though he could hear the laughter and merriment above him, therefore, he could observe nothing other than the tiny creases and folds in his lady’s shapely, left, stockinged foot as she subconsciously flexed and twisted her foot muscles as she ate, drank and was merry, engaging all the while in animated conversation with her father’s guests.
One young beau, in particular, was taking up her attention. Her father had deliberately sat him beside her at the table as an honoured guest, as he saw the young man as a worthy suitor for his daughter. He was known as the Duke of Ellingham – a handsome, young man from a neighbouring village, whose father the squire had long sought to forge closer alliances with. The marriage of the Duke of Ellingham to the squire’s only daughter, Rowena, would be a significant gain, both financially and politically, so the squire was quite prepared to overlook the fact that the young Duke was an insufferably arrogant, young bore!
The Lady Rowena too was prepared to overlook the Duke’s personality flaws, in part because she wanted to please her father; but in part also because, for all his arrogance and brash boastfulness, or perhaps indeed because of it, she actually found the Duke of Ellingham quite attractive.
He had already been courting the Lady Rowena for some time, and was now, seemingly, curious to know about the strange, new creature lying in the dirt at his soon-to-be-betrothed’s, silk-slippered feet:
‘Tell me, my dear, that wretched creature on whom thou art resting thy shapely ankle…be he my rival, or just a dog performing thy bidding? Ha! Ha!’
The Lady Rowena laughed at the normally self-confident Duke of Ellingham’s seeming insecurity, as well as his witty remark on the matter. As she laughed, her ankle moved and flexed, causing her silken white stocking to crease in front of her footslave’s eyes:
‘Ha! Ha! Rest assured, kind sir, he is but a dog; a dog to lick and wash my dirty feet and footwear, and for me to rest my feet on…Thou mayest kick him, if thou so desirest, kind sir, for he is but a wretched slave, a slave to all whom he encounters. For that is my will!’
‘Ha! Ha! Forsooth, fair lady, I dare not kick him lest I sully my boot. Ha! Ha!...’
The duke then lifted up the table cloth in order to gain a better look at the Lady Rowena’s new foot-accoutrement:
‘Ha! Ha! You down there… the wretched knave …I trust thou art enthralled by thy lady’s stockinged foot, since thou art in her thrall! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes, my lord, this wretched slave is truly honoured to be lying at his mistress’s feet, and is in awe of the beauty of the mistress’s stockinged foot, if it so pleaseth the master.’
The duke seemed pleased at the slave’s verbal obsequiousness:
‘Ha! Ha! Well said, slave…I see that thou art broken in spirit as a man. I shall not fear thee as a rival for my Lady Rowena’s affections, for thou art clearly but the dirt beneath her feet! Ha! Ha!’
The Lady Rowena placed a reassuring hand on her suitor's big, manly hand:
‘He shall indeed not come between our two souls, my lover – only between the dirt on the ground and the soles of my shoes! Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! I love thee, my darling! Just say the word and I shall have this fool who lieth under thy feet whipped in front of thee, should he ever displease thee or disobey thy commands!’
The Lady Rowena melted. The young duke was so handsome and manly, especially after she had consumed several flagons of red wine! She dared to kiss him on the lips, the sole of her right slipper digging into the upturned cheek of her human footrest as she did so.
For his part, slave Thomas was just glad to be able to give his mistress’s foot more purchase as she kissed her handsome, monied lover on the lips. Nor did he hunger and thirst for the succulent food and the fine wine that festooned the long dining table above him. For the sight of the tiny creases and folds in his Lady Rowena’s silken white stockings was feast enough for his senses. When he thought of where he could have been languishing right now – in her father’s dungeon – he could only praise and bless the gods for the unexpected twist in his fate.
He had them to thank and, of course, the Lady Rowena!
The End
