Chivalry Is on Life Support

In late October, in the midst of a protracted Indian summer, Luke and Brooke decided they wanted to go to large Renaissance fair that was being held about an hour or so drive from our house. I had never attended one before, assuming them to be cheesy and historically inaccurate. From what I had heard of them, I envisioned lots of screaming kids, bad food (huge turkey legs and curly fries came to mind) and cheap trinket sellers. It also sounded to me that much of the costumes, and even activities, were more medieval than Renaissance, so calling them Renaissance fairs offended the historian in me. Brooke, for the most part, agreed with me, although she had expressed some curiosity in seeing what really went on at these events (if I'm really honest with myself, although I spoke dismissively and disparagingly of them, I had a little curiosity myself -- medieval was my time period, after all). However, she shared my dread of screaming kids running around everywhere.

No doubt picking up on this reservation among a certain segment of their target audience, the organizers of this particular event had set it up as an "adult only" Ren fair. This was evident from the event's advertising. While my understanding was that most of these festivals serve alcohol, this one was actually sponsored by several beer and liquor companies. In addition, the advertising emphasized the sexual appeal of such an event, showing images of buxom young women in bodices and attractive young men dressed as pirates and knights. There was even a suggestion of kink in the advertising, with one photo of a pretty young woman in a corset, her hands bound, standing next to a young man wearing a tight, red velvet jacket and shiny black boots, wielding a riding crop. She had a damsel in distress expression on her face, whereas he had a sinister gleam in his eyes. I later learned that there is a whole BDSM subculture that loves Ren fairs, seeing them as places to act out their fantasies in a period setting.

I believe it was this kinky twist in particular that got the attention of Luke and Brooke, although Luke had apparently attended a few more conventional Ren fairs in the past and enjoyed them. This fair took place only a couple of weeks after the dinner party, but Neil and Laura were already something of an item by this point, having been on four or five dates. They were invited to join us. Simply hearing that, I tried to bow out, hoping to avoid the humiliation of being the fifth wheel in the group. Luke was quite insistent that I come, however. I'm sure he knew that such an event would be replete with opportunities to publicly humiliate me in creative ways. Looking back, I have no doubt that the event exceeded his expectations in that respect. It turned out that being the fifth wheel should've been the least of my worries.

Let me start by describing what was usually a focal point of humiliation for me: my attire. The other four ordered their costumes on an on-line retailer called Medieval Collectibles. Luke dressed as a Dark Prince, Brooke as (Magenta) Lady Guinevere, Neil as Rugged Robin Hood, and Laura as Lady Robin Hood (quite ridiculous, really). Not finding anything sufficiently humiliating for me on the website, my costume was a custom one concocted by Brooke (with Luke's approval, of course). The inspiration for it was a pre-Raphaelite painting, The Little Foot Page, by Eleanor Fortescue-Brickdale. The painting was based on Childe Waters, an 18th century Scottish folk ballad by Thomas Percy that told the tragic story of a young woman named Ellen, whose cruel lover forces her to dress as page boy, and follow him around on foot while he rides on a horse. After she eventually bears him a child, her lover finally acknowledges her existence and marries her. I had shared the story with Brooke shortly after we were married, and she was quite fond of the painting.

I was dressed much like Ellen, in white tights, canvas shoes almost like slippers that came up to my ankles, and a lacy, almost see-through, long sleeved, black jacket, or doublet, that barely covered my bottom--and, worse still, barely covered my crotch. Also like Ellen, I wore a gold metal belt holding a fake knife. The jacket was Brooke's, and was remarkably similar to the one in the painting. It was too big for her, so fit me, although somewhat snugly. When I first heard that I would not be required to wear my chastity cage, I was, of course, greatly relieved, because the bulk of the cage would've been very apparent beneath the tights (and I was always grateful for increasingly rare moments of liberation from my tiny metal prison). What did not immediately occur to me, however, was that I would have a constant erection in the tights, barely concealed by the front of the short jacket or doublet. This complication should've been apparent to me immediately, of course, because I frequently wear tights around the house and the feeling of the nylon against my cock invariably (and instantly) causes me to get, and stay, hard. However, it's funny how the relief of being spared one type of humiliation can cloud your mind in such a way to leave you vulnerable to other types (not that I had any choice in the matter).

All part of the plight of a fairy cuck, as Luke was fond of calling me, I suppose. In fact, Luke had originally wanted me to dress as a fairy for the Ren festival, complete with pointed ears, tights and wings. Brooke was able to convince him that princes have pages, however, thereby mitigating my humiliation. Or that was her intent, at least. I'm not sure it worked out that way.

I did have to admit that there was something suitable about how I was dressed. It occurred to me that, like the little foot page Ellen, I was submitting myself to humiliation for the one I loved. In medieval times, a page was a young male servant to a knight, nobleman, or prince. So, it also occurred to me that, given the time I spent attending to (or worshipping) Luke's feet, "foot page" was not an inappropriate designation for me. Pages were usually, of course, boys or very young men; the fact that I was a decade older than my master only added to my humiliation.

In addition to my attire, my hair had been growing out for the last several months (at Luke and Brooke's direction), and Brooke asked her hairstylist to give me a page boy haircut two days before the fair. Whereas a slender teenage boy or young man might've been able to pull it off, I felt it looked ridiculous on me; Brooke assured me I look "cute," but the expression on her face and her stifled laugh when she first saw me after my haircut, convinced me otherwise.

When we met Neil and Laura in the parking lot of the fairgrounds, they both smiled and laughed when they saw me.

"I'm glad to see you're getting into the spirit of things, Walter. I'm actually surprised you came," said Neil.

"I'm here under duress. I bet it's going to be completely inauthentic and tacky." Luke was out of earshot at the moment, searching for something in the back of his truck, so I felt free to express my real opinion, albeit fleetingly.

"Who cares whether it's authentic or not? I told Walter that he needs to lighten up," said Brooke.

"That's easy for you to say, you're not wearing this ridiculous outfit," I said, sulkily.

Laura said, "I think it's a great costume. I love the tights. But what are you supposed to be, exactly?"

"A page," I mumbled.

Brooke said, "The little foot page, to be precise." She then told Neil and Laura the story of the ballad and about the painting, and googled an image of the latter on her iPhone to show them. As they scrutinized my costume, I tried to will myself to become flaccid. I tried to think of the least sexy thing I could (doing my taxes), but it was futile. The humiliation of the moment, the feeling of the nylon against the sensitive underside of my cock, the anxiety about what else lay in store for me that day...all of these things conspired against me. So, rather than subside, I felt my cock further stiffen. I then tried to turn the front of my body subtly away from them. Still more futility, as I felt Brooke cup my right buttock with her hand, and my cock grew harder still.

Neil laughed and said, "You're the spitting image of Ellen! Your costume, I mean."

Laura fingered the sleeve of my gossamer jacket, and said to Brooke, "This is beautiful. Where did you find it?"

"It's mine, actually. I think I bought it at a thrift store in Columbus a few years back. Walter's lost another 4 pounds since you last saw him, so it fits him pretty well. His buns are getting firmer too, thanks to Luke's personal training sessions with him." She squeezed my buttock with her hand and pinched it.

Laura said, "I bet those are interesting." She and Brooke exchanged smiles.

Neil said, "Nice work with the diet, pal."

"I bet he's sitting easier than he was the last time we saw him," said Laura. The three of them chuckled.

Meanwhile, Luke had walked up, carrying a large leather bag. He warmly shook Neil's hand and patted him on the back. "Great to see you, Robin Hood and Mrs. Robin Hood. I thought Robin Hood always wore tights?"

"I picked the Rugged Robin Hood option. Tights are not really my thing," said Neil.

"Mine either. Not very manly, are they? I see you're wearing black jeans, like me."

"Yes, but what's that hanging from your belt?"

"It's a Scottish tawse. I ordered it on Amazon. It's for keeping servants in line. No prince should ever be without one. Come on, let's go," Luke said, heading towards the entrance to the fair. To me: "Prof, I want you to walk a couple of steps behind us, and carry this bag. You're my page today, don't forget."

"Foot page, you mean," giggled Laura.

"Yes, sir," I said, lifting the bag to see how heavy it was. It wasn't too bad, but I was sure it would become increasingly challenging to carry as the day went on, especially given how unseasonably warm it was.

"Given the occasion, I think 'sire' would be more appropriate than 'sir' today," said Luke.

"Or he could refer to you as 'my lord' or 'my liege'," volunteered Neil, unhelpfully.

"Call me sire, call Brooke and Laura my lady, and call Neil my lord. Got it, page?", Luke said to me firmly.

"Yes, sire."

As I walked behind them, I was hyper conscious of my attire, and how it must've appeared to other attendees of the fair to see me dressed the way I was, walking submissively behind the two couples. And while there were plenty of other men dressed in tights walking around, most of them were wearing long tunics that completely covered their rear ends and crotches. I imagined that everyone we passed was staring directly at my crotch, and I whenever I looked down, I saw my erection tenting out the white material, only partly obscured by my doublet. My only consolation was that these tights were not sheer (like most of the tights I wore at home), but were more opaque, like the ones worn by Ellen in the painting. Brooke had ordered them specifically for the occasion.

We did see several overtly BDSM types in the crowd, including a couple of threesomes that appeared to have a cuckolding dynamic. For example, there was an attractive young man and woman, dressed in goth clothing -- they looked more like vampires than characters out of either the medieval or Renaissance eras, (although I guess vampires are timeless) -- pulling along a male of similar age by a leash. Like the couple, the male was dressed solely in black except for his pink collar. He wore black lipstick, a corset, a skirt and fishnet stockings with Doc Martens boots. He had long hair and was slender and effeminate enough to be able to pull off the look; still, it must've been incredibly humiliating.

There was also a tall, overweight male dressed like a dungeon master, a coiled bullwhip attached to his belt, walking with a petite young woman, probably half his age, in a bodice and skimpy period dress. She was gagged, with her arms tied in front of her, looking very unsure that she wanted to be there.

The man addressed Luke loudly, "I caught this serving wench prostituting herself. I'm taking her to the pillory to be shamed in public, as befits her. What of thy servant?", he said, pointing to me. "Has he spent time in the stocks yet?"

"Not yet, but we may see you there later."

"Nothing like some public shaming to teach thy chattel their place. And some discipline," he said, fingering his whip. "But I see thou hath that covered. Be that a tawse?"

"It be, indeed," replied Luke, much to the amusement of Brooke, Neil and Laura.

"May I?," said the man as he started to reach for Luke's tawse.

"Be my guest," said Luke.

Rubbing his hands along the length of the tawse, the man said, "Tis of fine leather, and should deliver a goodly sting."

I thought to myself, I wonder if the sting could possibly be any more painful than having to listen to this man butcher medieval dialect. Unfortunately, I was soon to learn that the answer to my rhetorical question was an emphatic yes.

Following that encounter, we watched a (lame) magician show and then watched a blacksmith work in his shop. Brooke mentioned that she wanted to see a jousting contest that was scheduled for 2 PM. First, they decided to have lunch. It came a little surprise to me that Luke, Brooke and Laura did indeed order huge turkey legs, whereas Neil had a pork chop on a stick. Luke and Neil ordered enormous glasses of beer while Brooke and Laura drank mead wine. I, meanwhile, ate the dressing free salad and drank the bottle of water Brooke had ordered me.

When I protested that I was still hungry afterwards, Brooke said, "But you've been doing so well on your diet. Let's not break the momentum."

Neil added, "I know it's tough, Walter, but you're making incredible progress. You've got to stick with it though. We'll all help you."

"But I only had a little bit of yogurt for breakfast," I protested meekly.

It was incredibly humiliating to be treated like a child with respect to my diet. It was bad enough to be treated that way by Luke and Brooke, but when the others chimed in, it became doubly humiliating. Neil had been on me to lose weight for years. He was one of those slender, athletic people who had never had a weight problem in their lives, who was of the vocal belief that gaining and losing weight is simply a matter of willpower and discipline, or the lack thereof. It's not that he fat shamed people, but he certainly made frequent comments about the American public being too obese and sedentary, and how that was one of the major reasons why our healthcare costs were so out of control. From a policy perspective, he probably had a point. But it was no less annoying to listen to him chide me for my weight struggles. He clearly approved of the strict diet and exercise regimen that Luke was imposing upon me. "No pain, no gain," he told me once later after witnessing Luke cane me after I gained two pounds at a weigh-in. But I'm jumping ahead of my story. The point is that I believe Neil truly did (and does) care about my health, but he believes that the end justifies the means, and found Luke's results hard to argue with. My friend Neil turned out to have a healthy, if largely benign, authoritarian streak in him that surprised me, but again I'm jumping ahead of myself.

"I've heard enough. Stop bitching. Since when do pages question their lords and ladies? You must really want to try out this tawse," Luke snapped at me.

"No, sire. I apologize. I want nothing more than to adhere to my diet."

"That's better," he replied.

It had rained heavily a couple of days earlier, so the ground was quite muddy in spots. We sat down on the stadium stands about a half an hour before the tournament was to begin. I sat on the step below the two couples.

Luke said, "Look how filthy our boots are from the mud! Fortunately, I brought along some rags and shoe polish in the bag. Page, clean our shoes. Start with the ladies."

Neil said, "Good thing you thought to bring some rags along. You always seem to be thinking ahead. It's probably one of the reasons why you're so successful in business."

I had heard Luke bragging to Neil about the exponential growth of his plumbing business while we were walking around the fairgrounds. Still, hearing him praise Luke in this way, especially when it was directly tied to another humiliation for me, was quite disappointing, to say the least.

I got the rags and shoe polish out of the bag and began cleaning and buffing Laura's ankle boots first.

She laughed and said to Neil, "Baby, we might have to get ourselves one of these."

"A shoeshine kit?", asked Neil.

"No, I mean our own little manservant." Fortunately, Neil did not take the bait. At least not then.

I next moved on to Brooke, who was also wearing ankle boots. The ladies' boots were nowhere nearly as filthy as the men's, so I was able to finish cleaning Brooke's shoes pretty quickly.

Meanwhile, as I began cleaning Neil's long boots, I became aware of something much more distressing that was unfolding. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed sitting down about 10 feet away from us to the right, four people that I knew. Not just any people, but my student Kelly and her boyfriend (the ones who had found me cleaning Luke's truck in my pink speedo) along with two other students from my class, Paul Betz (the one who humiliated me on opening day by asking me what my qualifications were for teaching a class on male masochism) and another girl named Anna Dawson. It had appeared to me that Mr. Betz and Miss Dawson were dating one another, as they were always seated next to each other in class, and often touching one another affectionately.

I really had thought the chances of anyone from the college attending this festival to be very low, in part because it was a good hour drive away. In retrospect, I realize that was a very foolish assumption on my part. An hour's drive is nothing, and I should've guessed that an event such as this Ren fair would hold some attraction to students of medieval literature. Once I thought about it, critically and objectively, I had to admit that it would almost have been shocking if none of my students had come. I guess I was simply guilty of wishful thinking (my critical thinking abilities seemed to have been in a steady state of decline since Luke's takeover had begun).

I tried my best to turn my face away from my students as I began cleaning Neil's boots. The problem, of course, was that Neil was facing them directly, and even if they had not attended his classes, they would still recognize him, as our English department was not a large one. I was soon to learn, however, that Kelly and Paul Betz had both taken Neil's D.H. Lawrence and Joseph Conrad lecture during their sophomore year.

"Thanks, pal. But you missed a scuff mark on the side. Just use a little more polish there," Neil said to me, pointing to the spot in question.

Luke said, "There's no need to thank the page. I know you like to steal from the rich and give to the poor, but a servant is a servant."

"I guess you have a good point there, prince," Neil said, laughing, as I applied polish to the place he had pointed out and began buffing vigorously. I was very conscious of the fact that, from my position on my knees, my tights-clad bottom would be partially visible to anyone looking.

Just then, I heard Kelly's voice. "Hi, Professor Lawson."

"Hi, Kelly," replied Neil.

"You remember Paul Betz, don't you? We both took your Lawrence and Conrad class together last year."

"Of course, I do. You were both excellent students. Hi, Paul."

"Hey, Professor," Paul answered. Their voices were getting closer. They were walking towards us, and I was in a state of panic. They were about to witness one of their professors cleaning the boots of another one of their professors (utenured, no less!) while dressed in a uniquely humiliating manner. What would they possibly think? What could I possibly do? I wanted to simply disappear.