"Feelthy dogs!"
Yvette LeClaire glowered at the gawkers in the slowly gathering crowd but uttered the epitath in her mind only; the blazing look of defiance in her dark eyes spoke eloquently enough of her feelings toward these English and their "justice". She tossed her glossy back mane petulantly as the deputy constable, a pimply youth clearly uncomfortable with his proximity to so beautiful a woman, seated her on the padded "seat of discipline" and locked her shapely ankles into the stocks. Yvette glanced at the bulge in his trousers and sniffed haughtily - who were the likes of these to judge her? Another deputy busied himself locking her wrists to the manacles dangling from the crossbar and securing a thick leather restraining belt across her upper thighs; another around her waist. Once the prisoner was secured, the deputy constables resumed their positions, the youth still visibly "moved" by handling the luscious young Frenchwoman. The full fed mayor stepped forth, brimming with self-importance and hypocrisy. Clearing his throat, he read from a scroll ...
"Yvette Le Claire, having been found guilty of the crime of harlotry, and upon complaint of Goodwives Baxter, Smith, Jones, Taylor, Sims, Lee and sundry others, you are hereby sentenced to one full day of public display in the Branberry town stocks, to be followed by immediate exile back to your native land. Have you anything to say?" - Yvette refused to so much as acknowledge the question, her visage one of sullen resentment - "Very well - one day it shall be. Constable?".
At the Mayor's prompting, the chief constable stepped solemnly forward and nailed a parchment to the crossboard above Yvette's head. The parchment bore a single word - HARLOT.
Even restrained thus, Yvette LeClaire's beauty was undeniable. Her face was that of a fallen princess, high cheeks (heavily rouged), full pouting lips (painted a flaming red), dark blazing eyes with thick luxurious lashes, a pert nose, a beauty mark accenting her right cheek, lush black curly hair framing her lovely visage and filling the air around her with the heavy scent of perfume. Her clothes were well selected to accent her shapely figure - low cut white blouse which displayed her full plump breasts to best advantage, a crimson sash to accent her slender waist and a black peasant skirt, slit up the side to expose her lean legs and thighs. Around her ankle, a belled anklet jingled lightly. On her feet, a pair of saucy high heeled sandals. Her toenails painted a brazen scarlet; she even wore a ring on her right second toe.
Suddenly ... unexpectedly ... she broke her silence; addressing the townsfolk insolently.
"Eeediots, for what you are staring, hmmm? You nevair see a woman in zeese stocks before?" - then sneering at some of the women - "Not one like me, eh? Beautiful ... not like zeese sows you call wives, eh?". Yvette sneered and spat.
Appalled at the trull's insolence, Prudence Baxter whispered hurriedly into the ear of Modesty Smith. They beckoned to several other women in the throng. Yvette regarded them with contempt.
"Oui ... talk about me, you propair ladeez!" Yvette chuckled (the woman's gall was appalling, even while serving her sentence), "Zat Yvette, she is a bad one, eh? But ask yourselves zis ... what of your men, eh? Why zay come to me all the times, hmmm? Look in a mirror, ugly old beetches- zen you will know, ha ha!"
"Constable!" Prudence Baxter reacted sharply to the impudent whore's taunts, "Must decent folk endure the snipings of this gutter shrew?".
"Only if that is their wish, Goodwife Baxter." replied the constable with a wink, "Miss LeClair's is a public punishment - she sits at the pleasure of crowd! You may do as you would with her, save that you may do no permanent harm to life or limb."
Prudence Baxter's normally harsh hawkish face softened into something approaching a smile. She gathered her friends and began to whisper in conspiratorial tones. Occasionally, a shrill giggle would escape the huddle of women and one or more would glance knowingly at the defenseless Yvette; glances that made Yvette oddly uncomfortable and sapped her of much of her sassy resolve. At length, the women approached the stocks.
"You make mock of us, trollop, enjoying a laugh at the expense of decent women - a most musical and lilting laugh I might say!" Prudence's words puzzled Yvette, "Mayhap, you will share another laugh with us ... though you may not find it so merry!". Then, addressing her neighbors, Prudnce declared coldly, "Remove her shoes!"
With that, Modesty Smith and Courtney Sims busied themselves, unfastening the straps to Yvette's saucy sandals before gently sliding them off the French whore's feet. Yvette's expression progressed from confusion to bewilderment; what possible reason could these women have for removing her shoes. Her big bare feet flexed slowly and her toes splayed apart. It was if this woman, so accustomed to nakedness in front of strangers, was self conscious of having her feet bared in public.
"W-W-What are you doing?" Yvette stammered as Modesty and Courtney looped thread around the greatest and smallest toe of each foot, pullig the thread back and tying it off to cleats atop the stock, effectively pulling Yvette's soles taut as drums and splaying her toes apart, "What are you doing to ... my feets ... my b-b-bare feets?". It was then that Yvette saw it! In her right hand, Goodwife Prudence Baxter held ...
" ... (gasp) a f-f-feather? Mon Dieu, you have a (sob) a feather? W-W-What are you going to do to me?", suddenly, it was all horribly clear to Yvette, "No ... you would not ... not zat? You would not (gulp) ... teekle my bare feets?!!"
"Indeed!" replied Prudence, brightening, "That is precisly what we intend, whore! Your ugly bare feet shall be throughly "feathered", both as a punishment, sell-skirt ... and as an amusement for our neighbors. Where is your proud haughtiness now, whore? Surely one of your trade has no aversion to making a public spectacle of herself? Or ... could it be something else that worries you so? Tell me, trollop, are your big feet ticklesome perhaps?
Yvette's arroagnce was gone in an instant, likea candle snuffed by a sudden wind. The self assurred street walker was replaced by a humble terrified girl.
"P-Please, Madame ..." Yvette stammered as she addressed Prudence, "I am, errr, how you say ... contrite? Bad men ... zey force me to do it. I beg of you, have mercy on me ... on my feets. Zey are s-s-sensitive ... so vairy sensitive ... my feets ... zay cannot bear (ulp) to be teekled. Please, I beg of you ... do not do zees ... it ees torture ..."
Prudence scratched her chin thoughtfully. It was then that Yvette made a fateful mistake. She thought she detected something in the plain raw boned English girl, something vaguely ... mannish? Something she could exploit?
"If I may, Madame ..." Yvette's voice dropped to a whisper, "I have also known other women ... and I know how to please a woman as well as a man.". Yvette, pursed her lips and fluttered her lashes seductively.
"You think me depraved ... as you are?" Prudence rejoined harshly, "Enough of your filthy talk - it's your laughter I yearn to hear, Jezebel!". With that, Prudence began swirling the feather up and down Yvette's helplessly displayed soles, the fronds seeking out and exciting the rich network of nerves ... with explosive results.
"HOO HOO HOO HA HA HA ... HOO HOO HOO HA HA HA ... NO ...HEE HEE HEE ... P-P-PLEASE ... HA HA HA ... NOT ZAT, MADAME ... HA HA HA HA HA ... NOT ZAT ... HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE ... NOT MY FEETS ... HOO HOO HA HA HA ... ZEY ARE ... HA HA ... ZEY ARE T-T-TEEKLISH ... HEE HEE HA HA ... MY FEETS ARE S-S-SO TEEKLISH!!!".
"Ah, what fun!" mused Prudence, enjoying the whore's mirthful misery, "I beleive I shall tickle you up nicely, you little whore. Your feet are so soft and pampered ...". Prudence explored Yvette's plush soft soles with a diabolical skill, cruelly noting and revisiting areas of particularly exquisite sensitivity.
"That's as she's never on `er feet!" cracked Goodwife Sims, "She's always on her back, selling her wares!". This remark drew guffaws from the assembled townsfolk; many of whom pointed, and whooped at the French woman's unhappy laughter - adding to her humiliation.
"My, ain't she the merry wench, ha ha!"
"Aren't you accustomed to a little 'slap and tickle', Dearie?"
"Oooooh, she's a screamer, alrigtht! Just needs the right touch, she does!"
By now, the assault on Yvette's skin and senses was growing: Modesty Smith stood behind the hapless French woman and was vigorously tickling her ribs and armpits through her thin white blouse, causing her heavy breasts to heave uncontrollably. At one point, Yvette's right breast bounced free of her blouse - to the delight of the male onlookers. For her part, the hapless whore was far more concerned about the nakedness of her feet ... and her hopelessly ticklish soles! Where most of her skin was a rich sensual olive color, her tender soles, once peach and creamy white, were now tinged pink ... and rapidly progressing to scarlet!
"BWOOO HOO HOO HA HA HA HA ... AHA HA HA HA HA HA ... MERCY ... HA HA ... PLEASE ... HA HA HA HA ... I-I CANNOT BEAR IT ... HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE ... IT TEEKLES ... HA HA HA HA ... IT TEEKLES ... HEE HEE HEE HEE ... IT TEE-HEE-HEE-HEEKLES!"
Prudence had by now laid the feather aside. Motioning for Goodwife Sims to assist her by attending to Yvette's left foot, the two women were rapidly blazing their fingers up and down Yvette's devilishly sensitive soles, tickling the whore beyond all ability to endure. As they tickled her mercilessly, they tormented the French woman in a sing song cadence ... "Kootchee kootchee koooooo ... kootchee kootchee kooooo ... kootchee kootchee kootchee kootchee kooooooo ...".
Yvette LeClaire was going mad!
"AHA HA HA HA ... WHEE HEE HEE HEE HEE ... HA HA HA HA HA ... YOU ... HEE HEE ... YOU FEELTHY BEETCHES ... HA HA HA HA HA ... ZEES EES TORTURE ... HA HA HA HA ... HELP ... HA HA HA HA ... FOR PITY'S SWEET SAKE ... HA HA HA HA HA ... S-S-SOMEONE HELP ME ... HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE ... ZEY ARE T-T-TEEKLING ME TO DEATH ... HA HA HA HA HA ... I C-C-CANNOT BEAR IT ... HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE ... MY FEETS ... HEE HEE ... CAN'T YOU S-S-SEE ... HA HA HA HA HA ... ZEY ARE ... HEE HEE ... TOO T-T-TEEKLISH!!!"
Epilogue ...
Hours later, a bedraggled Yvette LeClaire was marched down to the docks by a jeering crowd of women. For clothing, she wore only her knickers. Barefoot, the peebles and gravel tormented her tender feet cruelly yet she dare not cry out. The once proud young beauty walked head down, teary eyed. Her torso and magnificent breasts had been bared ... but only long enough to be painted with warm tar and doused with chicken feathers! The balance of the tar bucket had been dumped on her head, ruining a once magnificent mane. In truth, her apperance strongly suggested a half plucked bird.
At the docks, the women sought out the next ship bound for France. "Ho, Captain, we've a passenger for you!" called Goodwife Baxter. Captain and crew gaped at the ruin of a woman. "She has no coin to pay her passage but she's walked these streets by night for months and made a tidy sum by all accounts. With a good scrubbing down and some time, she'll be fit to work again soon enough and would be pleased to pay you and your crew in trade, if you please!"
After a stunned moment of silence, the captain roared to bring her aboard. Gingerly, Yvette made her way up the gang plank as dozens of hungry eyes leered. The captain looked her up and down, then barked his orders.
"Fill a tub, lads, steamy water and good lye soap and scrubbing brushes. Barber, you'll have to do the best you can with this hair ... full of tar it is ... save as much of it as you can ... but she'll be prettier than any other woman as has graced this ship ...as there have never been any, ha ha!"
"P-Please, mon capitan ..." Yvette pleaded meekly, "Your men ... the scrubbing ... they must be gentle, for I am ... (sob) vairy teeklish ..."
"We'll see soon enough, lass .. we will see that soon enough!"
Yvette LeClaire glowered at the gawkers in the slowly gathering crowd but uttered the epitath in her mind only; the blazing look of defiance in her dark eyes spoke eloquently enough of her feelings toward these English and their "justice". She tossed her glossy back mane petulantly as the deputy constable, a pimply youth clearly uncomfortable with his proximity to so beautiful a woman, seated her on the padded "seat of discipline" and locked her shapely ankles into the stocks. Yvette glanced at the bulge in his trousers and sniffed haughtily - who were the likes of these to judge her? Another deputy busied himself locking her wrists to the manacles dangling from the crossbar and securing a thick leather restraining belt across her upper thighs; another around her waist. Once the prisoner was secured, the deputy constables resumed their positions, the youth still visibly "moved" by handling the luscious young Frenchwoman. The full fed mayor stepped forth, brimming with self-importance and hypocrisy. Clearing his throat, he read from a scroll ...
"Yvette Le Claire, having been found guilty of the crime of harlotry, and upon complaint of Goodwives Baxter, Smith, Jones, Taylor, Sims, Lee and sundry others, you are hereby sentenced to one full day of public display in the Branberry town stocks, to be followed by immediate exile back to your native land. Have you anything to say?" - Yvette refused to so much as acknowledge the question, her visage one of sullen resentment - "Very well - one day it shall be. Constable?".
At the Mayor's prompting, the chief constable stepped solemnly forward and nailed a parchment to the crossboard above Yvette's head. The parchment bore a single word - HARLOT.
Even restrained thus, Yvette LeClaire's beauty was undeniable. Her face was that of a fallen princess, high cheeks (heavily rouged), full pouting lips (painted a flaming red), dark blazing eyes with thick luxurious lashes, a pert nose, a beauty mark accenting her right cheek, lush black curly hair framing her lovely visage and filling the air around her with the heavy scent of perfume. Her clothes were well selected to accent her shapely figure - low cut white blouse which displayed her full plump breasts to best advantage, a crimson sash to accent her slender waist and a black peasant skirt, slit up the side to expose her lean legs and thighs. Around her ankle, a belled anklet jingled lightly. On her feet, a pair of saucy high heeled sandals. Her toenails painted a brazen scarlet; she even wore a ring on her right second toe.
Suddenly ... unexpectedly ... she broke her silence; addressing the townsfolk insolently.
"Eeediots, for what you are staring, hmmm? You nevair see a woman in zeese stocks before?" - then sneering at some of the women - "Not one like me, eh? Beautiful ... not like zeese sows you call wives, eh?". Yvette sneered and spat.
Appalled at the trull's insolence, Prudence Baxter whispered hurriedly into the ear of Modesty Smith. They beckoned to several other women in the throng. Yvette regarded them with contempt.
"Oui ... talk about me, you propair ladeez!" Yvette chuckled (the woman's gall was appalling, even while serving her sentence), "Zat Yvette, she is a bad one, eh? But ask yourselves zis ... what of your men, eh? Why zay come to me all the times, hmmm? Look in a mirror, ugly old beetches- zen you will know, ha ha!"
"Constable!" Prudence Baxter reacted sharply to the impudent whore's taunts, "Must decent folk endure the snipings of this gutter shrew?".
"Only if that is their wish, Goodwife Baxter." replied the constable with a wink, "Miss LeClair's is a public punishment - she sits at the pleasure of crowd! You may do as you would with her, save that you may do no permanent harm to life or limb."
Prudence Baxter's normally harsh hawkish face softened into something approaching a smile. She gathered her friends and began to whisper in conspiratorial tones. Occasionally, a shrill giggle would escape the huddle of women and one or more would glance knowingly at the defenseless Yvette; glances that made Yvette oddly uncomfortable and sapped her of much of her sassy resolve. At length, the women approached the stocks.
"You make mock of us, trollop, enjoying a laugh at the expense of decent women - a most musical and lilting laugh I might say!" Prudence's words puzzled Yvette, "Mayhap, you will share another laugh with us ... though you may not find it so merry!". Then, addressing her neighbors, Prudnce declared coldly, "Remove her shoes!"
With that, Modesty Smith and Courtney Sims busied themselves, unfastening the straps to Yvette's saucy sandals before gently sliding them off the French whore's feet. Yvette's expression progressed from confusion to bewilderment; what possible reason could these women have for removing her shoes. Her big bare feet flexed slowly and her toes splayed apart. It was if this woman, so accustomed to nakedness in front of strangers, was self conscious of having her feet bared in public.
"W-W-What are you doing?" Yvette stammered as Modesty and Courtney looped thread around the greatest and smallest toe of each foot, pullig the thread back and tying it off to cleats atop the stock, effectively pulling Yvette's soles taut as drums and splaying her toes apart, "What are you doing to ... my feets ... my b-b-bare feets?". It was then that Yvette saw it! In her right hand, Goodwife Prudence Baxter held ...
" ... (gasp) a f-f-feather? Mon Dieu, you have a (sob) a feather? W-W-What are you going to do to me?", suddenly, it was all horribly clear to Yvette, "No ... you would not ... not zat? You would not (gulp) ... teekle my bare feets?!!"
"Indeed!" replied Prudence, brightening, "That is precisly what we intend, whore! Your ugly bare feet shall be throughly "feathered", both as a punishment, sell-skirt ... and as an amusement for our neighbors. Where is your proud haughtiness now, whore? Surely one of your trade has no aversion to making a public spectacle of herself? Or ... could it be something else that worries you so? Tell me, trollop, are your big feet ticklesome perhaps?
Yvette's arroagnce was gone in an instant, likea candle snuffed by a sudden wind. The self assurred street walker was replaced by a humble terrified girl.
"P-Please, Madame ..." Yvette stammered as she addressed Prudence, "I am, errr, how you say ... contrite? Bad men ... zey force me to do it. I beg of you, have mercy on me ... on my feets. Zey are s-s-sensitive ... so vairy sensitive ... my feets ... zay cannot bear (ulp) to be teekled. Please, I beg of you ... do not do zees ... it ees torture ..."
Prudence scratched her chin thoughtfully. It was then that Yvette made a fateful mistake. She thought she detected something in the plain raw boned English girl, something vaguely ... mannish? Something she could exploit?
"If I may, Madame ..." Yvette's voice dropped to a whisper, "I have also known other women ... and I know how to please a woman as well as a man.". Yvette, pursed her lips and fluttered her lashes seductively.
"You think me depraved ... as you are?" Prudence rejoined harshly, "Enough of your filthy talk - it's your laughter I yearn to hear, Jezebel!". With that, Prudence began swirling the feather up and down Yvette's helplessly displayed soles, the fronds seeking out and exciting the rich network of nerves ... with explosive results.
"HOO HOO HOO HA HA HA ... HOO HOO HOO HA HA HA ... NO ...HEE HEE HEE ... P-P-PLEASE ... HA HA HA ... NOT ZAT, MADAME ... HA HA HA HA HA ... NOT ZAT ... HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE ... NOT MY FEETS ... HOO HOO HA HA HA ... ZEY ARE ... HA HA ... ZEY ARE T-T-TEEKLISH ... HEE HEE HA HA ... MY FEETS ARE S-S-SO TEEKLISH!!!".
"Ah, what fun!" mused Prudence, enjoying the whore's mirthful misery, "I beleive I shall tickle you up nicely, you little whore. Your feet are so soft and pampered ...". Prudence explored Yvette's plush soft soles with a diabolical skill, cruelly noting and revisiting areas of particularly exquisite sensitivity.
"That's as she's never on `er feet!" cracked Goodwife Sims, "She's always on her back, selling her wares!". This remark drew guffaws from the assembled townsfolk; many of whom pointed, and whooped at the French woman's unhappy laughter - adding to her humiliation.
"My, ain't she the merry wench, ha ha!"
"Aren't you accustomed to a little 'slap and tickle', Dearie?"
"Oooooh, she's a screamer, alrigtht! Just needs the right touch, she does!"
By now, the assault on Yvette's skin and senses was growing: Modesty Smith stood behind the hapless French woman and was vigorously tickling her ribs and armpits through her thin white blouse, causing her heavy breasts to heave uncontrollably. At one point, Yvette's right breast bounced free of her blouse - to the delight of the male onlookers. For her part, the hapless whore was far more concerned about the nakedness of her feet ... and her hopelessly ticklish soles! Where most of her skin was a rich sensual olive color, her tender soles, once peach and creamy white, were now tinged pink ... and rapidly progressing to scarlet!
"BWOOO HOO HOO HA HA HA HA ... AHA HA HA HA HA HA ... MERCY ... HA HA ... PLEASE ... HA HA HA HA ... I-I CANNOT BEAR IT ... HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE ... IT TEEKLES ... HA HA HA HA ... IT TEEKLES ... HEE HEE HEE HEE ... IT TEE-HEE-HEE-HEEKLES!"
Prudence had by now laid the feather aside. Motioning for Goodwife Sims to assist her by attending to Yvette's left foot, the two women were rapidly blazing their fingers up and down Yvette's devilishly sensitive soles, tickling the whore beyond all ability to endure. As they tickled her mercilessly, they tormented the French woman in a sing song cadence ... "Kootchee kootchee koooooo ... kootchee kootchee kooooo ... kootchee kootchee kootchee kootchee kooooooo ...".
Yvette LeClaire was going mad!
"AHA HA HA HA ... WHEE HEE HEE HEE HEE ... HA HA HA HA HA ... YOU ... HEE HEE ... YOU FEELTHY BEETCHES ... HA HA HA HA HA ... ZEES EES TORTURE ... HA HA HA HA ... HELP ... HA HA HA HA ... FOR PITY'S SWEET SAKE ... HA HA HA HA HA ... S-S-SOMEONE HELP ME ... HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE ... ZEY ARE T-T-TEEKLING ME TO DEATH ... HA HA HA HA HA ... I C-C-CANNOT BEAR IT ... HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE ... MY FEETS ... HEE HEE ... CAN'T YOU S-S-SEE ... HA HA HA HA HA ... ZEY ARE ... HEE HEE ... TOO T-T-TEEKLISH!!!"
Epilogue ...
Hours later, a bedraggled Yvette LeClaire was marched down to the docks by a jeering crowd of women. For clothing, she wore only her knickers. Barefoot, the peebles and gravel tormented her tender feet cruelly yet she dare not cry out. The once proud young beauty walked head down, teary eyed. Her torso and magnificent breasts had been bared ... but only long enough to be painted with warm tar and doused with chicken feathers! The balance of the tar bucket had been dumped on her head, ruining a once magnificent mane. In truth, her apperance strongly suggested a half plucked bird.
At the docks, the women sought out the next ship bound for France. "Ho, Captain, we've a passenger for you!" called Goodwife Baxter. Captain and crew gaped at the ruin of a woman. "She has no coin to pay her passage but she's walked these streets by night for months and made a tidy sum by all accounts. With a good scrubbing down and some time, she'll be fit to work again soon enough and would be pleased to pay you and your crew in trade, if you please!"
After a stunned moment of silence, the captain roared to bring her aboard. Gingerly, Yvette made her way up the gang plank as dozens of hungry eyes leered. The captain looked her up and down, then barked his orders.
"Fill a tub, lads, steamy water and good lye soap and scrubbing brushes. Barber, you'll have to do the best you can with this hair ... full of tar it is ... save as much of it as you can ... but she'll be prettier than any other woman as has graced this ship ...as there have never been any, ha ha!"
"P-Please, mon capitan ..." Yvette pleaded meekly, "Your men ... the scrubbing ... they must be gentle, for I am ... (sob) vairy teeklish ..."
"We'll see soon enough, lass .. we will see that soon enough!"
