The morning began with fog and obedience. He had been instructed to arrive before sunrise, a small shovel in one hand, a thermos of her favorite jasmine tea in the other. No questions, no delays. The beach was still asleep, and so was the world. But Solenne was awake, wrapped in a black silk robe that flirted with the wind, her bare feet already coated in the fine mist of salt air.
“Dig,” she said, pointing to a patch of sand near the dunes.
He did. Hands trembling, body already damp with sweat. The hole grew slowly, deliberately, until it was deep enough for his entire body to disappear — save for his head. She watched, sipping tea, as if witnessing a slow, devotional dance. The sun climbed inch by inch, warming her calves while the breeze whispered like gossip between sea oats.
When he lay down and the sand was packed tightly around him, she pressed the sole of her foot to his forehead. “Welcome to your day, darling. Today, you are not a man. You are scenery.”
She sat in a low beach chair, cross-legged, toes grazing his cheeks. Around them, the world began to wake — seagulls, distant joggers, a kite unfurling in the sky. But here, under her parasol, time was still. The early light made her skin glow like polished marble, her toenails glinting with fresh lavender polish.
She applied lotion to her legs slowly, letting excess drip onto his face. “Lick it,” she said absently. He obeyed, tongue catching the droplets, tasting the salt and coconut oil, shame and joy indistinguishable.
At times, her heel rested on his nose. At others, her sole covered his mouth. When he gasped too loudly for air, she smiled. “You’re not drowning,” she whispered, “you’re being baptized.”
She read for a while, a slim leather-bound volume resting on her thigh. Every few pages, she would stretch and idly rest one foot on his face, flexing her toes as if working out thoughts on his skin. Occasionally, she leaned over him and whispered short poems in French — he didn’t understand the words, but her voice alone made his spine tremble.
Late morning brought a visitor. A man — handsome, sharply dressed, amused. Solenne greeted him with a kiss on the cheek and a slow turn of her ankle, grinding her heel softly into the buried slave’s chest.
“This is my companion,” she said, motioning to the sand. “He’s quiet, but useful.”
The guest raised an eyebrow. Solenne merely smirked. “Would you like a footrest?”
He sat beside her, adjusting his linen trousers, and rested his loafers on the slave’s head like it was nothing. Solenne laughed, low and dark. “He lives for moments like these.”
They chatted for a while, sipping chilled rosé from silver tumblers. She dipped her toes into the sand, teasing the slave’s lips with little grains of salt and grit, watching him strain to lick each one clean. Her guest chuckled. “He’s really devoted, isn’t he?”
“More than most lovers,” she replied. “And far less disappointing.”
After the guest departed, Solenne stood and dug the slave out halfway, only to bind his wrists and gag his mouth. She stretched him across the towel like a serving dish. Her bare feet explored him again — pressing into his stomach, his throat, his trembling lips.
She leaned in close, whispering, “You wanted more, didn’t you?” One foot pressed down on his throat while the other covered his nose and mouth in rhythm, his breath staggered and stolen in waves. She watched his panic melt into surrender, the edges of consciousness swimming in his eyes. Then she shifted, and his tongue found her sole again — not in defiance, but devotion.
“Underfoot,” she whispered. “That is where you belong.”
The tide had crept closer. She led him, crawling, to the water’s edge. The crowd noticed. She didn’t care. He pressed himself into the tide-packed sand, and she climbed atop his back like a queen reclaiming her throne. Later, she invited the guest to return — and he did, straddling the slave’s spine like a lounge chair, bemused but aroused.
“He’ll hold you,” she said simply. “He was built to be beneath better men.”
The slave’s humiliation became holy. The saltwater couldn’t wash it away.
As the day faded, the beach cleared. She sat alone, her feet sandy and sun-warmed. The slave, half-buried again, waited without protest. A lone kite flapped above them in the wind, forgotten by its child.
