Date: Wed, 24 Apr 2024 03:09:52 +0000
From: Charice
Subject: Chivalry Is On Life Support, Part One

Synopsis: Medieval Literature professor marries his former student and is
brutally cuckolded and emasculated by her ex-husband. His friends,
colleagues and even students get involved in the action.


I have never been good with my hands. I took after my father in that
respect. I was that kid who could never hold a nail steady, who was never
able to catch a ball in little league (or hit a ball with a bat for that
matter), who could never figure out how to fix my bike when the chain
came loose. This physical ineptitude continued into my adulthood and
remains as true as ever as I now write these words at the age of 41. When
something breaks down in my house or car, almost no matter how simple, I
call someone to fix it. I'm the antithesis to a DYIer. I can change a
lightbulb, if necessary (as long as there's nothing unusual about the
fixture and it's not too high for me to reach standing on a chair), or
tighten the screws on a loose door knob, but that's about the extent of
it. Even when I fill up my car with gas, I go to a full service pump, if
possible; I don't like the smell of gasoline on my hands.


It is, therefore, highly ironic that earlier today I found myself
replacing a toilet fill valve for the second time this weekend. This
morning I was under a woman's kitchen sink, installing her new garbage
disposal (and struggling mightily). As she watched me work, I kept
pulling up my jeans. Not only didn't I want her to see my plumber's
crack when I bent over, I especially didn't want her to see the bright
yellow, nylon thong panties I was wearing. This was not my choice of
undergarments. Rather, it was the choice of Luke, my wife's ex husband
and current lover. He could be described other ways as well: my boss, my
tormentor, my master, my king.


My name is Walter Rollins and I am not a plumber. I am a tenured
Professor of English Literature at a well respected liberal arts college
in rural Ohio. In fact, because I have Master's degree in History in
addition to a PhD in English, I am one of the few professors at my
college to sit on the faculty of two departments. Nevertheless, for the
last six months, I've been filling the role of plumber's helper in
Luke's thriving plumbing business. Luke is 29, a year younger than my
lovely wife, Brooke.


I lecture and have published extensively on the subjects of chivalry,
honor and shame in medieval literature and history. My best known work
(the one that got me tenure), published by one of the top university
presses in the world, focuses on the prominent role that shaming and
humiliation rituals have played in medieval literature -- for disgraced
knights, cuckolded earls, fallen ladies, traitorous lords, defeated
princes, etc. Shame has always been a subject that has fascinated me.
I'm sure that has something to do with the fact that I am a sexual
masochist. What's less clear is whether my masochism is responsible for
my fascination with the subject of shame in literature and history? Or,
did all of the stories and historical accounts I've read about shame and
ritual humiliation turn me into a masochist? It's a chicken and egg
question. I don't really have a definitive answer, but I suspect that
it's probably more the former than the latter.


I remember how even is a little kid, looking through an old American
history book in my parents' house, I was mesmerized by a drawing I saw
of two shirtless men tied to the back of a wagon who were being whipped
on their backs as they were paraded through the town square. I actually
found this image the other day on the Internet. It's easy to Google:
Whipping Quakers in Streets of Boston. You can see the hint of a sadistic
smile on the Puritan who is wielding the whip. Other Puritans stand by
smiling at the suffering of the Quakers. In the foreground, off to the
left, is a Puritan mother with her young daughter and slightly older son.
Although the mother attempts to shield her daughter from the scene, the
girl looks on with rapt attention; the boy, meanwhile, stares at the
flogged men with delight -- a budding little sadist. Even the family dog
seems to be excited by the scene.


I first met Brooke roughly nine years ago when she was a senior enrolled
in my seminar course, Chivalry and Courtly Love in Medieval Literature. I
had seen many beautiful coeds cycle through my courses over the years,
but with her slim build, long legs, perky breasts, wavy, long brown hair
and dimpled smile, Brooke was exactly my type and stood out from the
rest. She was a solid B+ student in my class (I'm a tough grader), and
seemed to have a genuine interest in the subject matter. There were only
about ten students in the class, roughly evenly split between male and
female.


Brooke usually sat in the front row. In the warm late spring months, she
favored short dresses or shorts. One afternoon, while reading the class
some examples of chivalric poetry, my eyes caught sight of her dangling
her flip flop off her lovely foot. It was all I could do to keep my eyes
on the poem (fortunately, I knew it well); they kept involuntarily
wandering back to her lovely arches and pretty polished toes (a light red
shade). I could swear that she caught me staring at her feet a couple of
times; we made momentary eye contact and I thought I detected a faint,
sexy smirk on her lips. She could not know how I longed to go down on my
knees, gently remove her flip flop, kiss her toes and pledge my undying
fealty to her. Could she?


I would have gladly done so in front of the entire class, but for the
fact I didn't want to do anything that would jeopardize my cushy,
tenure-track position. Like most professors, I wasn't paid well, but I
was certainly comfortable. I was respected by my peers, generally liked
by my students and had it pretty good overall. Thirty two years old at
the time, I had only had two previous sexual relationships in my life,
but had been dumped by both women. Not surprisingly, then, I was
incredibly underconfident and shy around women.


My sex life at the time, sadly, essentially consisted of masturbating to
my submissive, sexual fantasies. I didn't see Brooke for another six
years after she left my class at the end of that semester, but I would be
less than truthful if I didn't admit that she (and her beautiful feet)
played a central role in my fantasy life during those intervening years.


And then six years later, I met her again when she was my server at a
nice restaurant two towns over. That's when I entered what I think of as
my golden age. It was not long lived, but was no less golden for its
brevity.


I've always been one to enjoy good meal (as my paunch is testimony), so
had long gotten over the slight embarrassment I'd feel dining out alone.
Still, I tended to avoid the restaurants in the small college town where
I lived in walking distance to the campus, and instead usually drove to a
few decent restaurants in neighboring towns. When Brooke walked up to my
table to take my drink order after the hostess seated me, I did a double
take.


"Professor Rollins! It's great to see you. Where's Mrs. Rollins?",
she said, accompanied by her beautiful, dimpled smile.


I laughed shyly. "Hi Brooke, it's very nice to see you, too. There is
no Mrs. Rollins, I'm afraid."


"Really, that's a shame. Why's that?"


Perhaps she was wondering if I was gay. "I guess I just haven't met
'the one' yet. Maybe I'm destined to be an old bachelor."


"Nonsense. How old are you?"


"I'm 38."


"You're still a young man, professor."


"Please call me Walter."


"Okay, Walter. You're my last table of the evening. If you wait at the
bar after you finish eating, maybe you could buy me a drink when I get
off, Walter." Again, that smile.


"It would be my pleasure, Brooke."


My heart palpitated with excitement. It was a struggle to even finish my
meal, delicious as it was. I watched her move gracefully around the room,
serving a few other tables. She looked a little harder in her face,
around her eyes, but otherwise was unchanged from the beauty I remembered
from my class. She looked fetching in her black and white waitress
uniform, in this case a dress; it came down to her mid thigh with little
black overalls and a waitress apron. She wore shreer black stockings and
heels. It must've been hard on her feet running around in those heels
all evening. Something was very wrong with this picture. She was serving
me, but I should've been the one serving her. How I yearned to be able
to remove her shoes and massage her aching, stockinged feet.


I thought to myself: "Don't blow it, you idiot. Focus. You have a
chance to possibly make your fantasies a reality."


We walked to a bar a couple of blocks away. I was careful to put on and
remove her coat for her, hold open every door for her and pull out her
barstool for her.


"Brooke, I hope you'll forgive me for this question. But you're so
bright. Why are you working as a waitress?"


"The economy's not so great around here, as you may have noticed. Also,
it's not like there are a ton of jobs out there for English majors. I
needed a job after I got divorced, and I had some prior experience
waiting tables from back when I was in college."


I learned later that evening that Brooke had been married for two years
to a guy named Luke, a plumber. They had gotten divorced about a year
earlier. There was, of course, no way I could've known at the time how
central a role this individual would come to play in our lives -- in my
life.


I said, "I can't imagine a plumber keeping up with you
intellectually."


Brooke laughed. "There was nothing even remotely intellectual about our
relationship. He sort of swept me off my feet, but it was 100% physical.
I figured out pretty quickly that that wasn't enough for me. He was also
an abusive bastard."


"I hope that he never hit you."


"Yeah, he did a couple of times. That's why we're no longer together.
But what about you? How come you haven't swept some woman off her feet
by reciting poetry to her?"


Now it was my turn to laugh. "There's not too many women today that are
moved by medieval poetry, I'm sorry to say."


"I don't know. Maybe I'm different, but I was certainly moved by that
poem you recited that one day in class, the one about the chivalrous
knight addressing his lady."


"Well, you definitely are very different from most women. I think you
must mean the one by Bernard de Ventadorn."


I then recited it to her, looking deeply into her eyes, as she sipped her
martini. It was all I could do to stop myself from getting on bended knee
before her on the filthy barroom floor as I spoke.


Noble Lady, nothing do I ask of thee

But that thou shouldst take me for thy servant.

I would serve as one serves a good lord,

Whatever reward I might gain.

Behold, I am at thy command:

Sincere and humble, gay and courteous.

Neither bear nor lion art thou,

To kill me, as I here to thee surrender.



"Yes, that's the one. I remember teasing you the day you read it in
class by dangling my shoe. I was trying to distract you."


"Wow, yes, I remember. You mean that was deliberate on your part?"


"Of course it was, silly."


"Well, you certainly succeeded. You distracted me for years, in fact."


She giggled mischievously.


I decided to take a chance. This was the boldest thing I had ever done in
my life, romantically (or perhaps otherwise).


"Brooke, you are intelligent and incredibly beautiful. You deserve to be
treated like the noble lady being addressed in the poem. I could do that
for you. I could be your humble knight, if you`d only allow me."


"Well, Walter, stranger things have happened, but let's not go too fast
here. It's time for me to go home now, as I've got an early start
tomorrow. Why don't you take me out to dinner on Friday night? Maybe you
could recite another poem for me." She flashed her beautiful smile at me
again. I felt weak in the knees.


"Absolutely. I look forward to it."


I didn't want her to drive home after having had a couple of cocktails.
I had only had a glass of wine at the bar, so I offered to drive her home
and send an Uber to pick her up the following morning to take her back to
her car.


When I dropped her off at her apartment, I opened up the door for her to
let her out of the car, and walked her up the steps to her apartment
building. After she thanked me, I decided to take my second big chance of
the evening, kissing her hand as I bid her good night.


Technically, I then drove myself home. But it would be more accurate to
say that I floated home.


The next time we met, I took Brooke for a 10-course tasting menu at one
of the best restaurants in the region. We ordered the most expensive
bottle of wine on the menu, not an insignificant expense on an assistant
professor's salary. I did not recite medieval poetry to her that night.
Rather, I jumped all the way to the 19th century, and recited a handful
of lines from Anactoria, perhaps the most famous poem of the English poet
Swinburne:


I feel thy blood against my blood: my pain
Pains thee, and lips bruise lips, and vein stings vein.
Let fruit be crushed on fruit, let flower on flower,
Breast kindle breast, and either burn one hour.
Why wilt thou follow lesser loves? are thine
Too weak to bear these hands and lips of mine?
I charge thee for my life's sake, O too sweet
To crush love with thy cruel faultless feet,
I charge thee keep thy lips from hers or his,
Sweetest, till theirs be sweeter than my kiss.


"Interesting choice. Do you think my feet are faultless, Walter?"


"Honestly, Brooke, I haven't seen them closely enough to judge for
certain, but I basically think everything about you is faultless."


"Are my feet cruel, as well?"


"Cruel only to the extent that I don't get to touch them."


"Would you like to touch them, Walter?"


"Of course I would," I said, staring down at my plate.


"Would you like to do anything else to them? Smell them, perhaps?"


"Yes, Brooke"


"Anything else? Taste them, maybe?"


"Yes, Brooke. I'd like nothing more."


"Nothing more? You'd rather kiss my feet than kiss my lips?"


"No, I didn't mean it that way. I'd like to kiss every inch of you."


"Are you worthy of kissing me, Walter?"


"No, Brooke. I'm self-aware enough to know that you're in a completely
different league than l."


"I like your mind, Walter. Tell me more about Swinburne."


"Algernon Charles Swinburne was an English Victorian poet who is perhaps
best known today for being a sadomasochist. I think he was really simply
a masochist. He believed in male subordination to female authority. He
had a strong interest in medieval French culture and history, including
courtly love. Apparently, he was hopelessly in love with his own cousin,
Mary Gordon, and was completely devoted to her. He worked on and off for
twenty years on a 42,000-word poem called The Flogging-Block: An Heroic
Poem. It wasn't published until 2011, more than a hundred years after
his death. Interestingly, this poem is about teachers whipping boys at
Eaton, the famous British boarding school. It's very graphic. I remember
these lines:


He'll cut to the bone. He'll draw blood at each cut.

He'll punish your big brother Algernon first.

I don't know which he'll flog -- you or Algernon -- worst.

You'll have to look on -- won't you tingle, by God! --

While Algernon's bottom grows red from the rod.

You'll see the red mark of each twig and each bud

Till Algernon`s body is covered in blood.


"How do you remember all that?"


"It's my job."


"I thought your specialty was medieval history and poetry. How come
you've memorized a 19th century poem about men whipping boys?"


"Well, I've only memorized a very small portion of it, but, as I
explained, Swinburne is interesting to me because of his fascination with
medieval courtly love."


"Hmmm. I wonder if there isn't more to it than that?"


It took several more dates before Brooke accepted my invitation for me to
cook her dinner at my townhouse. At the end of our dates, she'd present
me with her hand to kiss. The night she came over for dinner, she dressed
less casually than I had expected. She wore a little black dress, black
stockings and heels. After our candlelit dinner, we watched a movie.
Brooke removed her heels, and curled her feet under her legs. I sat three
feet away from her on the couch, but felt her watching me glance
surreptitiously at her feet.


Suddenly, she said, "Walter, my cruel, faultless feet could use a
massage. Do you think that you can accommodate them."  Looking at me
with her teasing, radiant smile, she extended her stocking-clad feet
towards me on the couch.


Speechless, my hand trembled as I touched her right foot.


"Wait. Shouldn't a humble knight be on his knees at his lady's feet?"


"Yes, Brooke," I said as I dropped to the floor.


"Yes, who?"


"Yes, my lady." I began strenuously pressing my fingers into the ball
of her right foot. Focusing on the movie, she largely ignored me for the
next 30 minutes as I worked on both of her feet, occasionally smiling
down at me.


When she was finally satisfied, she placed both of her feet over my nose
and mouth, and said, "Go on, Walter, inhale deeply." The commingled
odor of her sweat, the residual scent of leather from her shoe and
whatever fragrance she was wearing was intoxicating.


Watching my expression, she said, "You now may kiss your lady's feet.
Gently. A chaste peck on the top of each foot."


That night she slept in my freshly made bed and I slept on the couch.


Three months later, we were married.


Brooke and I slept together twice before the topic of marriage was
broached. I am unquestionably under endowed, slightly under four inches
when fully erect (on a good day). Standing 5'9" tall, with thick, black
hair, I was somewhat overweight and certainly out of shape at the time
(that has since improved), but I don't believe that I was considered to
be especially unattractive. Having observed my classmates in the high
school locker room, however, I knew where I fell short -- quite
literally. To be honest, both length and girth were issues; I believe my
penis is what some disparagingly refer to as a gherkin. Probably the most
vexing of my many physical deficiencies, this attribute was a primary
cause of my intense awkwardness and self consciousness around attractive
women. Who knows, perhaps it was one of the root causes of my masochism;
at a minimum, it solidified it.


It was painfully obvious that Brooke was left totally unsatisfied by my
clumsy and inadequate attempts at vaginal penetration. She made no
attempt to fake it, and I probably wouldn't have believed her if she had
tried. Fortunately, I had avidly studied various how to books for
pleasuring a woman orally (the two best being, She Comes First by Ian
Kerner and The Low Down on Going Down: How to Give Her Mind-Blowing Oral
Sex by Marcy Michaels) and was able to satisfy Brooke this way on both
occasions. This was evident not only from her words of praise after the
fact but from the sounds she emitted during the act.


It was I, in another rare moment of courage, who first brought up the
possibility of marriage. I had expected to be shut down immediately, but
surprisingly was not. My second book had just been released -- the one
about ritualized shame and humiliation in medieval literature -- and was
well received. I'd been informed by my department chair that my
prospects for receiving tenure were excellent. This meant long-term job
security. I was living in a townhouse, but had saved up sufficient money
to make a substantial a down payment on a larger, standalone home.
Therefore, I was able to offer Brooke some stability and a higher
standard of living than what she had been used to. We genuinely enjoyed
each other's company. The imbalance in our relationship -- me worshiping
the ground she walked on -- worked for both of us.


When I finally mustered the courage to propose to her  -- on bended knee,
naturally, expensive ring in hand -- she initiated what I can only
describe as a very pragmatic conversation. I stayed on my knees for its
duration.


"Walter, I really like you. You are kind, selfless, devoted. You clearly
love me. I love your mind. Your body, on the other hand, is a different
story altogether. You're pretty talented with your tongue. With
practice, I'm sure you can get better. But I need much more than that.
Do you understand?"


"Yes, Brooke."


"What do you think that means?"


"I think it means that you will sometimes want to sleep with other
men...bigger men...to satisfy your needs." I found it difficult to meet
her eyes as I uttered those shameful words.


"You're no dummy, Walter. Yes, that's correct. But I don't know what
you mean by `sometimes.' I'm a very sexual being. There may be
stretches when it will be a lot more than sometimes. And it won't be
something I will want to go to great pains to hide, from you or anyone
else. Do you think you can handle that?"


"Yes, Brooke, I have studied many of the most famous cuckolds in
history, and the humiliations they endured."


"Everything is academic with you, isn't it, Walter? But reality can be
a lot different than what's in a history book. My mom openly cuckolded
my dad. He's somewhat of a masochist like you. He thought he could
handle it, too. Ultimately, he found the jealousy and humiliation to be
soul crushing. He divorced her. And he's never had a successful
relationship since."


"I'm not your dad, my darling. I'm me. There is a scene in
Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov when one of the brothers -- I
believe it was Dmitri, I can't remember for sure -- tells the woman he
loves that to stay in her life he'd gladly warm the feet of her lover,
his rival. That's how I feel about you, darling. To have you as my wife,
to have you in my life, I would do anything. I would be your lover's
chair, his foot rest. I'd be his slave, if you asked me to."


"That's interesting. I'll file that away. You do sound sincere. But,
yet again, you come back to a literary reference. At least you weren't
entirely sure about the quote, for once." She laughed.


"I was never a student of Russian literature. I just read The Brothers
Karamazov in high school. Dostoevsky had a pretty serious foot fetish,
you know."


"I didn't know. But getting back to the question at hand, let me paint
a more graphic, non-academic picture for you. You put me on a pedestal. I
enjoy being worshiped by my humble, obedient knight. But, sometimes, I
like to be taken. Roughly. Sometimes even brutally. Sometimes I like to
be the one who does the worshipping. Do you think you could handle seeing
your lady treated like a common whore by another man?"


I may have winced at those words, but I replied steadily and without
hesitation, "Brooke, I will endure anything -- I mean absolutely
anything -- to have you as my wife, and to ensure that you are satisfied
and happy."


"Very well then, Walter, I accept your proposal of marriage. You may
rise and kiss me on the lips."


Brooke and I then kissed passionately, the longest and most passionate
kiss I have experienced before or since. That may have been the happiest
moment of my life.


When we were finally finished, Brooke said, "Now, get back on your
knees, and give your lady some pleasure with that gifted tongue of
yours."


As I did as she bid, she firmly grabbed a fistfull of my hair and
presssed my face into her. It took only a few minutes before she began to
gently moan.


The wedding was a simple affair before the Justice of the Peace. Brooke
and I were both fairly private people without a large group of friends.
In attendance on Brooke's side were her mother and stepfather, her
father, and her best friend, Michelle. Both of my parents were deceased,
so my only guests were my younger brother, Tom, and my friend, Neil
Lawson, a fellow professor in the English department. Neil's area of
focus was 19th and 20th century British and American fiction. My best
man, he was roughly my age and was still single. Tom flew in from
Connecticut. He still lived close to where I had grown up in West Port,
Connecticut.


Following the brief ceremony, we all went out to dinner. There was
nothing that happened that day to reveal to any of our guests or the
outside world the somewhat unconventional nature of our relationship. Tom
and Neil certainly seemed surprised that I had finally tied the knot, and
teased me good-naturedly in private about my ability to land someone as
beautiful and intelligent as Brooke. I'm sure that they thought I was
luckiest guy in the world.


Well, in some respects, I was. But it was a lot more complex than that,
as you will see. My luck was about to run out.



Brooke moved in with me the week before the wedding, and a few months
later we closed on the purchase of an 1800 square-foot, three bedroom,
two bathroom home about 10 blocks from campus. It was an older home that
had been partially renovated, but which would still require a fair amount
of additional work. Given how incapable I was of doing renovation or
repair work myself, there was a side of me that wanted to buy a new
house. At the same time, Brooke and I thought that most of the newer
homes lacked character. Over time, I figured that we would be able to
afford to hire contractors to complete the renovations that still needed
to be done. Brooke was definitely much more handy than I, but was not up
to renovating a bathroom and bedroom and finishing a basement on her own.


She continued waitressing at the restaurant for the first year or so
after we got married, despite my many entreaties that she quit the job
and look for something more intellectually satisfying. Or that she simply
not work at all, but rather spend her time reading, exercising and
gardening (all things she enjoyed doing). After all, that's what her
humble knight was for; if I couldn't defeat opponents on the field of
battle in her honor, the least I could do was provide for her and make
her life easier. Chivalry may have been neutered by the modern world, but
was not completely dead, I told her.


She resisted at first. But she didn't resist me doing most of the
cooking, all the cleaning in the house, and waiting on her hand and foot.
And for that, I was truly grateful. A highlight of the day for me was
when she would get home from the restaurant, often at 9:30 or 10pm, and I
would serve her a glass of wine or a cocktail, remove her shoes and
massage her stocking-clad feet from my position on my knees as she sat on
a recliner and we discussed each other's day. I especially enjoyed the
warmer days -- or during the winter when she had been walking around in
winter boots -- when her stockings were moist with sweat. She would
permit me to place my nose up against the bottom of her feet and inhale
deeply. Sometimes, when she didn't feel like talking, Brooke would order
me to lie prostrate on the hardwood floor at her feet, and she would use
my face as her footrest as she watched television or read a novel. Often,
I would remain in this position for hours at a time, except when one of
us would have to get up to go to the bathroom or when she wanted me to
bring her a drink or a snack. Despite the opportunity cost -- time I
could otherwise have spent working on my next academic book or doing my
own reading -- these quiet moments of intimate submission were intensely
blissful and fulfilling for me.


Over time, my interaction with Brooke's feet evolved. One Sunday
afternoon about four months after we moved into our new house, in the
late Spring, Brooke addressed me as I was massaging her bare feet (from
my knees as usual).


"Walter, take a close look at my feet and tell me what you see? Do you
think Swinburne would describe them as faultless?"


"I see perfection, my lady." I didn't always address her as "my
lady," but certainly that was how I addressed her when on my knees
before her or during other moments of overt submission.


"Really? What is that you're rubbing now on the bottom of my right
foot?"


"A callus?"


"That's right. Is that perfection?"


"I guess not. But it doesn't matter at all to me."


"Whether or not it matters to you is of no importance. It matters to
me."


"Yes, my lady."


"Take a close look at my nails. What do you see? Do you see perfection
there as well?"


"Oh. I see a few, little chips in your polish, but your toes are
exquisite."


"I'm not happy with the calluses or the chips. I want you to learn how
to give me pedicures. You need to rub off my calluses with a pumice stone
and regularly paint my nails so that there are no chips."


"But how would I learn to do that, my lady?"


"Please Walter. That's not my problem. Watch some YouTube videos. Get
your nails done at the nail salon in town, and ask one of the girls there
for some tips. I'm sure you could buy supplies on Amazon. I don't
really care how you learn. You're a big boy. You should be able to
figure it out on your own. Just make sure you learn how to do it, and do
it well."


So that's exactly what I did. I watched YouTube videos. I purchased a
pedicure kit on Amazon. For the first (but not the last) time in my life,
I got a pedicure. My intention was to observe the pedicurist's
technique, and to ask questions if necessary. An unexpected complication
prevented me from asking the questions I had hoped.


In the middle of my pedicure, one of the students from my Medieval
English Texts seminar sat down in the booth next to mine.


"Hi Professor Rollins! I certainly didn't expect to see you here."


"Oh, hi Jessica. Yes, my new wife was unhappy with the condition of my
feet and suggested that I come here. I've never done this before." I
laughed sheepishly.


"Oh, it's okay, Professor. I think it's great that you're secure
enough in your masculinity to get a pedicure. Not many men I know would
be."


I laughed again. "Well, I'd appreciate it if you didn't share this
with everyone in the class. Some of them might think it a little odd...
You know, for the reasons you mentioned."


"Don't you worry, Professor. It'll be our little secret."


I never knew for sure whether or not Jessica was true to her word. But I
can tell you that at the next class, I saw her whispering to a male
student in the chair next to her as both of them were looking at me,
smiling and giggling.


In any event, monthly pedicures became part of Brooke's and my routine.
I learned how to give her the full treatment, including massaging her
feet and legs, washing her feet in a foot bath, placing cotton swabs
between her toes and blowing her freshly painted toes dry. The second
time I gave her a pedicure, she stopped me before I was about to place
her feet in the foot bath.


"Walter, I'd like you to bathe my toes with your mouth first."


"Of course, my lady."


I began licking the toes of her left foot. She stopped me again and said,
"Don't just lick. Suck. And make sure you get any lint out from between
my toes before you place my feet in the bath."


Toe licking and sucking became a much more frequent activity than the
pedicures. Brooke liked me to suck on her toes as a form of foreplay, but
also while we were lounging about in the living room. So when I would lie
prostate with her feet on my face as she watched a movie or read her
book, Brooke would routinely place her toes in my mouth to be sucked.


I was aware of how fortunate I was. I have no doubt that most of the
medieval knights who participated in courtly love relationships would've
loved nothing more than to have literally worshiped the feet of their
unattainable ladies. How many actually ever got the chance, I wondered.
Very few indeed, I suspected.


Brooke was capable of being moody and fickle at times. There were
occasions, especially when she had a tough evening at the restaurant --
dealing with obnoxious customers, or her sexist manager -- that she would
take her frustrations out on me with her feet.


 Finding fault with me, she would slap my face with them, saying, "You
see, Walter, sometimes my feet really are cruel." I felt no less
fortunate on these occasions, and had no doubt that most of the medieval
knights would've reveled in similar abuse from their ladies, as some
physical contact was better than none at all.


Yes, this was truly the golden period of our relationship. Of my life.


I mentioned foreplay. But let me be more specific about what sex entailed
for Brooke and I. I tried one more time to have vaginal sex with her
after we were married, with similar unfortunate results. We tried
different positions, including her on top, squeezing my sensitive
nipples, but nothing seemed to work. She was visibly bored during the
act, and clearly completely unsatiated afterwards -- until, of course, I
went down on her.


From that night forward, sex for us consisted of me pleasuring her
orally, and she very occasionally giving me a hand job or a foot job. For
the former, she would lay across from me and place her feet, either bare
or in pantyhose, against my face as she brought me off with her hand. She
liked to roughly mash her feet against my face, sometimes inserting her
toes into my mouth as she moved her pretty hand up and down my lubricated
cock. She would typically read a book or magazine while giving me a foot
job, her indifference perversely an aphrodisiac for me. In general, I
believe she viewed these rare occasions to be a form of pity sex.
However, whether due to their rarity or their rather degrading nature,
they invariably resulted in an intense orgasm for me.


On one of these occasions about three months into our marriage, after
bringing me off with her stocking-clad feet, she said to me, "Walter,
when you come, you moan like a little bitch, you know that."


"I'm sorry, Brooke."


"I also notice how much more excited you are when I wear pantyhose or
tights when I bring you off. Why is that?"


"I don't know. I guess it's just the sensual feeling of the nylon when
your foot rubs up against me. It drives me a little crazy."


"The way you moan, and how much you like the feeling of nylon against
your skin, it's almost like you're a female in some ways. You're
really more like my lesbian lover than you are a man."


"I'm sorry Brooke," I said again.


"Don't be. I had a couple of lesbian relationships during college.
You're a better muff diver than any of them."


"Thank you, I guess."


"I have an idea. Put on a pair of my pantyhose, and lay down next to me
on the bed. Here, let me get you a pair. My guess is that you already
know how to put them on without running them. Is that right, Walter?"


"Yes, you're right. As usual."


"Show me."


I rolled up the stockings in my hands, before delicately slipping one
foot over my toes, and pulling them up my leg.


"I knew it! It's like you're an expert at this. Are you a
crossdresser?"


"No. I've never worn a bra or a dress, or anything like that. I just
used to borrow a pair of tights from my mom's dresser, every once in a
while, when I was a kid. I guess I've always liked the feel of nylon
against my legs."


"And your little cock."


"Yes, and my little cock."


"Look at you! Your baby carrot is getting hard even though you just
ejaculated a little while ago. You DO love wearing nylons, don't you?
Wait a minute. It's time to come clean. Bring me your little bag."


"Little bag? What do you mean?"


"Little bag. Little box. Backpack. Whatever it is you use to store your
stash."


"My stash of what?"


Then she got angry. "Walter, do you think I'm a moron? I see how
excited you get wearing my nylons. I see how you know exactly how to put
them on. You don't really expect me to believe that you only used to
dress up when you were a kid at your parents' house, do you? When
you've been living on your own all these years. Give me a fucking break.
Bring it to me NOW."


So I did. Tail between my legs, I walked down to the basement, where I
had hidden my things on the top shelf of a storage closet. I had
considered throwing them away when we moved into to the new house
together, but somehow I just couldn't part with them. And it wasn't a
small box either. It took both arms for me to carry it.


When I got back up to the bedroom, Brooke was sitting on the bed, holding
a glass of red wine. She was still wearing nothing but her pantyhose.


She smiled at me, mockingly, dimple prominent. "Wow, it's bigger than I
thought. Dump it out on the bed."


I did as she commanded. When I had finished emptying the contents of the
box, lying on the bed were multiple pairs of panties and tights, in a
variety of colors. Most were loose, but there were a few unopened
packages as well. Mixed in among them were a pair of nipple clamps, a
leather strap, a wooden spoon, leather wrist and leg cuffs, and a leather
collar.  I covered my face with my hands.


Brooke picked up the strap and lightly smacked it against her hand. "Who
used to use this on you?"


"No one, I swear. I know I wasn't honest about having all this stuff.
But I only used the strap and spoon on myself. I promise. It's actually
kind of hard to do."


"That's pretty pathetic, but I guess that's why I'm inclined to
believe you. Because you're pretty pathetic."


"I am, I know. I'm sorry, Brooke."


"Not as sorry as your going you're going to be. There's going to be
some changes around here. First, you're going to give me a little
fashion show."


A her command, I put on and modeled for her several pairs of panties and
tights.


My cock was shamefully hard the entire time. When I put on a particularly
shiny pair of black tights, Brooke said, "Stop. Come here." She rubbed
her hand over the shiny fabric that was tented out by my cock. "Walter,
you're my knight in shining nylon." She giggled, sipping her glass of
wine.


"You've been a very naughty knight, lying to your lady. Bend over the
bed."


After I did, so, she hit me 10 times on my bottom with the leather strap
through my tights. Brooke was something of a gym rat, and was in
excellent shape. She hit hard, about ten times harder than I ever could
when trying to beat myself. Afterwards, she finished her bottle of wine,
watching a movie while forcing me to stand in the corner for 45 minutes
-- my tights pulled down halfway, my red ass on display.


That night, however, she spooned me and tenderly held me in bed, until we
both fell asleep. Still wearing my tights, I felt submissive and
protected, and slept like a baby.


Following that day, Brooke threw away all of my briefs and boxers, except
for two pairs "just in case."; I was now compelled to wear panties
every day under my pants or shorts. She purchased me several new pairs,
in a variety of styles and colors. She favored sheer, nylon mesh and
satin fabrics, rather than cotton, many with little bows or ruffles. She
also bought me several new pairs of pantyhose, tights and thigh high
stockings, including three pairs of seamed, sheer, black stockings.


From that point forward, when I gave Brooke her nightly foot massages or
recited poetry to her, I wore nothing save for a pair of panties or
tights, often with a pair of nipple clamps.


So that luck I mentioned? This was the beginning of the end of my golden
era; storm clouds were on the horizon.


About nine months after we moved in to our new house, I was awarded
tenure. Brooke and I celebrated with dinner at a nice Italian restaurant
in the next town over. The extra money that came with my promotion, while
not substantial, was certainly welcome. We hired a general contractor to
begin renovating the downstairs guest bedroom and bathroom as well finish
our basement by creating an office, a small workout room and a half bath.


Meanwhile, Brooke had gotten into the habit of going out with her friend
Michelle on Saturday nights. At first, I thought nothing of it -- two
good friends having a girl's night out. Michelle was Brooke`s age. They
had known each other since grade school, growing up together in a town
about 30 miles away from the one in which Brooke and I now lived. But
whereas Brooke went to the college nearest to where she grew up --
namely, the liberal arts institution where I taught -- Michelle had
attended Ohio State in Columbus, where she majored in business. After
graduation, Michelle moved back to her hometown, where she now works in
marketing for a midsized manufacturing company. In my humble opinion,
Michelle is not the stunner that Brooke is, but she's certainly well
above average in the looks department. She is about an inch shorter than
Brooke at 5' 6", with long blonde hair, sultry eyes and slightly larger
breasts than Brooke (whose breasts are perfect, to my eyes, along with
every other part of her).


I didn't know what Brooke had shared with Michelle (who, I'm sure, like
everyone else, must have wondered how someone so beautiful could end up
with an older, dweeby guy like me) about the nature of our relationship,
but she did not openly exhibit her dominance when Michelle came over to
visit, at least not in the pre Luke days. Don't get me wrong, I would
cook and serve dinner for the three of us, get them both drinks, make
popcorn when we watched a movie together, etc. Once Brooke put her feet
up in my lap as the three of us sat on our sectional sofa, watching a
thriller, and asked me to massage them. I thought I saw the two of them
exchange subtle smirks. But that was about the extent of it. Michelle
would make seemingly off-hand comments like, "Wow, you really have him
trained well, don't you?" And when we had a little cocktail party to
celebrate my promotion, with Michelle and Neil Lawson as guests, Michelle
gave me an apron as a gift. Everyone laughed (I'm sure I blushed).


Usually when they went out on Saturday evenings, Brooke and Michelle wore
jeans and T-shirts, or similar casual attire. However, one Saturday about
two weeks after the cocktail party, I was reading in the living room
while Brooke was upstairs getting ready for her night out. Michelle was
coming over to pick her up as usual. When Michelle rang the doorbell,
Brooke hurried downstairs. She was wearing a short black dress that
hugged her body, really accentuating her curves, with sheer black
stockings and ankle boots. Michelle was similarly dressed to kill. As I
regarded her with a stunned expression, Brooke said to me as they left
the house, simply, "Don't wait up for me, tonight, Walter. I may be
late."


"Very late," added Michelle. The two of them giggled.


The way Brooke was dressed, I couldn't imagine men being able to keep
their hands off her. I was sad and anxious all evening, but tried to
distract myself by working on my book. The feelings of jealousy I was
experiencing fit in perfectly with the subject of my book: how the rich
history of male masochism in Western literature likely originated with
the poetry and conventions of medieval courtly love. This book was to be
part literary criticism, part history and part psychology, as I intended
to trace the influence that medieval literature's depictions of male
masochism in courtly love have had not only in fiction but in real life
relationships. Such as my and Brooke's relationship, for instance.


My study was to begin with an analysis of the earliest texts describing
this type of relationship, Chretien de Troyes' Knight of the Cart (Le
Chevalier de La Charrete) in the 12th century and Chaucer's Troilus and
Criseyde in the 13th century. The Knight of the Cart tells the story of
Lancelot and Guinevere, including the public displays of humiliation that
he subjected himself to as her servant. Most notably, Lancelot had to
ride in a cart to rescue Guinevere, who was being held prisoner. In
Arthurian England, it was considered deeply dishonorable and shameful,
indeed emasculating, for a knight to ride in a cart, a conveyance used by
peasants and prisoners. Lancelot was willing to endure this permanent
emasculation, never to be seen the same way again by his friends and
rivals, to save his lady; nevertheless, Guinevere punishes him when she
learns that he hesitated momentarily when getting into the cart, refusing
to even look at him. In other words, Lancelot willingly emasculates
himself for Guinevere, yet she still punishes him for not being eager
enough to emasculate himself for her. Even after she finally forgives
him, she continues to cruelly exercise her power over him by ordering him
to perform poorly at a jousting tournament. He obediently allows himself
to be unhorsed to by his opponent to please her. Guinevere controls him
as if he were her puppet, imposing upon him humiliation after
humiliation.


Other scholars, of course, had written about the influence of medieval
courtly love on the subsequent literature of sadomasochism -- indeed
showing a direct line between The Knight of the Cart and Leopold von
Sacher-Masoch's Venus in Furs. However, I intended to go much further,
analyzing many other texts (and even plays and movies, eventually), over
the centuries, up to and including the rich contemporary body of male
masochistic fiction found on social media sites such as Reddit and on
on-line fiction sites such as Literotica, Fictionmania and Nifty Archive,
that had become so prevalent in recent years.


It is important to note that courtly love relationships were essentially
love triangles involving the submissive knight, the lady and the lady's
husband, a man of superior social status to the knight. They were really
variations of another type of love triangle relationship featuring male
masochism, namely the cuckolding relationship. The connection between
these two types of love triangles began to take serious shape in my mind
that evening as, while working on my book, I kept picturing Brooke in the
arms and in the bed of other men -- men stronger, better endowed, more
successful, more worthy than I.


Shamefully, I found myself beginning to rub my cock through the panties I
was wearing under my jeans, as I envisioned Brooke being taken by a
superior man. Something I realized that could very well be happening that
night even as I was imagining it.


My thoughts were exceedingly distressing. And yet intensely erotic.


Brooke got home about two in the morning that time. I tried to pretend to
myself that she and Michelle simply wanted to go to a nicer establishment
and that's why they had dressed up. And that they had a really good time
together; that's why they stayed out till 2 AM. Perfectly reasonable
explanations...right? I'm sure that I was quieter than usual the next
day, but I tried my best to hide any anxiety or disappointment I was
feeling.


The following Saturday, however, Brooke and Michelle dressed up once
again in sexy dresses, stockings and heels. That night Brooke didn't
come home at all. I was a wreck, tossing and turning the entire night.
When Brooke finally got home, around eight in the morning, she looked
somewhat disheveled with bloodshot eyes, and simply said to me, "Walter,
I'm hung over. Fix me breakfast."


I did as she asked, of course, but was very quiet while we ate.


Finally, I mustered up the courage to ask, "Did you have a nice time?"


"I did, actually."


"Did you spend the night at Michelle's?"


"Not that it's any of your business, but, no, I did not spend the night
at Michelle's."


I remained quiet the balance of the day, even as I served a simple dinner
of grilled salmon with rice and salad.


She said over dinner, "Walter, you're acting like a sulky, little
bitch."


"Brooke, you didn't come home last night. And you told me you didn't
spend the night at Michelle's. You must have been with...someone."


"Walter, you're 39. Isn't that a little young for dementia to set in?"


"What do you mean?"


"You're losing your memory already."


"What are you talking about? My memory is fine."


"Oh, it is, is it? Only a little more than a year ago, as you proposed
to me from your knees -- where you belong -- you said you would do
anything to make me happy and to make sure I was satisfied. I explicitly
told you that I would need more physically than you are capable of
providing. And, quoting Dostoevsky, you said it was okay. In fact, you
said you would be the slave of my lover, if that's what it took to keep
me happy and to be in my life. But now you seem to have completely
forgotten what you promised."


I stared down silently into my plate of uneaten salmon.


"Well, maybe you never really meant what you said. Perhaps you've had
second thoughts. If that's the case, let's cut our losses and get
divorced now."


Incredulous at how quickly this conversation had deteriorated, into the D
word no less, I panicked. "No, Brooke. Please. I love you. I can't live
without you. I haven't forgotten what I said. I haven't had second
thoughts. I meant every word of what I said. It just hurts so bad." I
started to cry.


"But as you've explained to me, countless times, that's how the knight
knows that he's truly in love -- the pain. The more intense the pain,
the greater the love. Isn't that right?"


"Yes, Brooke, you're right. As always," I said, wiping the tears
streaming down my face with a tissue.


"So, you really feel. You know that you're really alive, Walter. But I
won't tolerate petulance and sulkiness from you, do you understand? I
need to be sure that the sacrifices you said you were willing to make for
me are real, and not just empty words."


"Yes, Brooke. I understand."


"Show me." She pointed down at her feet.


I got off my chair, took off my pants and shirt, so that I was wearing
nothing save for a pair of white nylon panties, and crawled over to where
she was sitting. I then removed her slipper and began sucking frantically
on her toes as she finished her dinner. After I cleaned the table and
loaded the dishwasher, I went down on her in the bedroom. I think she had
showered at some point during the day, but I couldn't be completely
sure. By that stage, however, I didn't even care. I simply wanted to
submit, to make sure she knew that I understood my place, understood my
promises to her, so that she wouldn't leave me.


Afterwards she whipped me vigorously with the strap, ten times ("a
little physical pain to compliment your psychological pain, Walter"),
and then ordered me to stand before her in penance for 30 minutes while
she read her novel in bed. My cock pushed out my panties as I stood
there, legs together and hands clasped behind my head. When the 30
minutes were up, I crawled into bed beside her, and she held me in her
arms me as we drifted off to sleep.


Over the course of the following months, a few weeks might go by when
Brooke and Michelle wouldn't go out at all, or only dressed in T-shirts
and jeans as they had been at first. But then there would be other
stretches when she, dressed provocatively, would again stay out all
night, even twice a week some weeks. I suffered in silence, never again
making the mistake of exhibiting my displeasure or sorrow. Brooke
disabled the Find My app on her iPhone those nights she stayed out. I
only begged her, again on my knees -- in between abject licks between her
perfect toes -- to always keep her phone by her side and to call me
anytime she needed to.


My suffering was most acute when I would see hickeys on her neck, or
sometimes on her breasts. Once I saw a bruise on her buttocks. It was
unthinkable to me that some brute could hit her, unthinkable that she
could allow anyone to do that to her. What would Lancelot have done if
someone had so soiled the pristine body of his beloved Guinevere?
Undoubtedly, he would've found the culprit and slayed him brutally and
without hesitation. What did I do? I bit my tongue and gently kissed her
bruised skin.


Meanwhile, the renovations on our house progressed. Due to my
complete  ineptitude with respect to all such things, I had hired a
general contractor, Ed Folsom, to manage everything for us. Brooke and I
met with him at the beginning to explain what we wanted done, and then
really left it in Ed's hands to determine which subcontractors to hire
for the various improvements, such as electrical, plumbing, painting,
etc.



The painter was a nice older gentleman who would chat pleasantly with
Brooke and me from time to time. However, most of the other workers were
young men who walked through our book-filled living room with their
tools, as they worked on the ground floor bedroom and bathroom, or in the
basement. Most of them said little or nothing to me; most would simply
stare at me blankly, some even with a faint look of contempt, I thought,
as I studiously worked on my book behind my glasses, sitting at my small
desk. When Brooke was around, these men were, predictably, more chatty,
some even openly flirtatious, my presence notwithstanding. Brooke had
chosen to keep her maiden name, but hyphenated her name with mine (Brooke
Avery-Rollins). So I'm sure these young men knew that she and I were
married, and were no doubt as mystified as everyone else how this could
be possible.


One day, Ed brought a young man through the living room and down into the
basement. I believed he was to there to work on the plumbing for the new
half bathroom we were putting in the basement. However, as I explained, I
tended not to pay close attention, as I was confident that Ed was on top
of everything. Ed generally did not bother to introduce the workers to
me, knowing that I was busy with my work, and took little interest in
what they did on a day-to-day basis. This particular young man was about
6'1" tall, and it was easy to see the muscles bulging beneath his thin,
tight T-shirt; he wore jeans and work boots. He stood out not only
because of his imposing stature, but because of the way he regarded me;
he sort of looked me up and down, and shook his head, a faint smile of
derisive amusement on his face.


On the second day he was working in the basement, this young man came up
the stairs, presumably to use the bathroom, just as Brooke was getting
back from running an errand.


I looked up from my desk when I heard the young man say, "Hey baby. Long
time, no see."


"Luke. What the hell are you doing here?", Brooke replied, a shocked
expression on her face.


"Well, baby, normally I would send one of my guys to handle a job like
this. But when I saw the name on the work order, I just had to come and
see for myself. So this is the professor, huh?"


"Luke, I think it's best you leave. Now. We'll hire another company to
work on our bathroom."


"What are you talking about, baby? I'm the best plumber in the county,
probably the whole goddamn state. You know that. You know how good I am
with my hands. And my plumber's snake." He winked at me. "Why don't
we get caught up for a bit, you and me? I've missed you, babe. I bet
you've missed me, too." He looked in my direction as he spoke the last
sentence, and snickered.


"I think it's best you leave, I said," Brooke persisted.


This was obviously Brooke's ex-husband, Luke, "the abusive bastard," as
she had initially described him to me. Of all the plumbers in the region,
why did Ed have to hire this guy's firm? I was kicking myself inside for
not having told Ed to avoid this individual at all costs.


Concluding that I had been a passive bystander for too long, I got up
from my desk, and said. "Look, sir..."


Luke rudely interrupted me. "Sir? I like that, professor. At least you
know the right way to address me."


I started to move towards him. "Look, my wife wants you to..."


Luke looked at me menacingly and Brooke stepped between us. "Walter, you
don't know what you're dealing with here. Back off."


"Your wife's giving you some good advice, professor. You better pay
attention to her, if you know what's good for you. Why don't you take a
little walk, so your wife and I can catch up."


"How dare..."


Brooke cut me off, "Walter, do what he says. Take your phone. I'll call
you when it's okay to come back. I think it's best that I talk to
him."


"Your wife is awfully smart professor. I always said so. I think it'd
be wise for you you to listen to what she's telling you," he said, half
smiling and half sneering.


"Are you sure, honey?" I said looking uncertainly at Brooke. "Are you
going to be okay."


`I'll be fine. Just keep your phone with you. I promise to call you if
there's any problem. I just need to talk to him."


And, so, I left my home to take a long walk. It's never really been my
home again since.


I walked around town for about an hour without hearing from Brooke.
Growing increasingly anxious, I texted her, receiving the reply: still
talking, need more time


After another half an hour, I texted again and she responded: same


About a half an hour after that, Brooke texted: it's OK to come back
now. bring bottle of Gentleman Jack. NOT Jack Daniels Old #7! very
important!


This text confused and troubled me. Brooke liked to drink, including
whiskey, but like me, she usually preferred single malt scotch to
bourbon. I had to think this must be some request of Luke's and, as you
can imagine, that did not make me happy.


After I picked up a bottle of Gentleman Jack at the liquor store in town,
I returned to the house, opening the front door with trepidation. To say
that my apprehension was justified is a massive understatement, as I
discovered upon entering the living room the unspeakably horrific site of
Brooke, naked and kneeling on the hardwood floor. Luke, also naked, stood
over her with one of his large feet on the side of her face, pressing it
into the floor, as he was thrusting in and out of her from behind. I, of
course, was far too poorly endowed to even think of ever being able to
have anal sex with a woman, yet it was instantly apparent to me that that
was what I was witnessing. Luke was slender but muscular, clearly some
kind of athlete, with a large tattoo on his right bicep. There were red
splotches apparent on Brooke's buttocks, where Luke obviously had hit
her, or had produced the same effect by slamming his body against her.
Brooke was moaning loudly, whether in ecstasy or in pain -- or some
combination of the two -- was not immediately clear to me. I threw the
bottle down on the couch and started to walk over towards them with some
ridiculous notion of rescuing Brooke from Luke's anal onslaught.


Brooke said through her moans, "Oh, god, Luke...Walter, stay the fuck
away from us!"


Thus, she made it unambiguously clear to me that she had zero desire to
be rescued. So much for defending her honor. So much for chivalry. But,
if I'm being honest, there was part of me that was relieved, because I
couldn't imagine how physically confronting Luke would end in anything
other than disaster for me.


Luke, mid thrust, looked at me, and said, "I see you got my whiskey. You
better get three glasses, professor. You're going to need a drink."


In a state of semi shock, I went into the kitchen and came back with
three tumblers.


Luke said, "You might as well sit down and enjoy the rest of the show."


Absurdly, I did just that, sitting down on the couch, a few feet away
from where Luke was brutally assaulting my precious, pure lady. Maybe
Brooke wasn't pure in reality, but having never seen her with another
man before, to me she was inviolate. Until then, at least. That illusion
of mine was now shattered. Luke's crotch was shaved, as was Brooke's,
and I have to admit that it felt like I was watching a porn film --
except it wasn't a film, it was live, in my living room, and it wasn't
a porn star I was seeing being ravished, it was my beautiful, cherished,
my superior Brooke. Seeing her treated in this degrading, even somewhat
savage fashion, and (from the sounds she was making) seemingly enjoying
it, caused me to experience genuine cognitive dissonance.


From his thrusts, I could see that Luke was huge. I later learned, in a
humiliating measurement comparison performed by Brooke, that Luke was 7.4
inches long when erect. More impressive, however, was his girth (5.5").
Not to mention the size of his scrotum.


Brooke was not smiling certainly, but had a wanton expression on her
face. After a few more minutes, she began crying out, a similar sound to
what she made climaxing when I went down on her, but appreciably more
intense. I tortured myself by wondering how many orgasms she had already
experienced that afternoon.


Luke showed no signs of stopping. He removed his foot from her head, took
himself out of her-- it was then, seeing it glistening before me, that I
really took in the sheer enormity of his cock-- picked her up easily off
the ground and put her back on her knees in a different position. He then
inserted himself back into her and began thrusting again. He suddenly
smacked her buttocks twice sharply with his large hand, looking over at
me with a malicious grin. Brooke yelped. Ashamed, I averted my glance.


But not for long, I'm still more ashamed to admit. It's hard to
describe the complexity of conflicting emotions I was experiencing:
revulsion, anger, fear and angst commingled with fascination and -- as
much as I didn't want it to be true -- yes, arousal. Underneath my
jeans, my cock was rock hard in the panties I was wearing. Luke pulled
himself out of her again, wiped his wet cock with his right hand,
reinserted it back into Brooke's anus and then stuck his wet fingers
into her mouth. Obediently, she sucked his fingers. She continued to moan
for the next several minutes until he pulled out of her and ejaculated
copiously onto her buttocks and back.


Brooke took a moment to compose herself, before speaking. "Don't just
sit there, Walter. Get me a towel."


"Make it two towels," added Luke.


I hurried upstairs to the linen closet. When I came downstairs, I handed
a towel to each of them. Luke was sitting naked on the couch. It struck
me how comfortable he was being naked. I had always been painfully
self-conscious not wearing clothes. I used to marvel at the guys in my
high school gym class who would walk around the locker room and showers
in the nude as if it was the most natural thing in the world, while I
would hide behind my locker door and get dressed as quickly as possible
(to shower later in the privacy of my own bathroom).


Brooke wiped herself off and put on her panties. As she stared to put on
her T-shirt, Luke said, "No, babe, keep it off. Man, how I've missed
those tits." He winked at me.


Brooke rolled her eyes, but followed his request (or was it a command?).
She sat down on a recliner.


"Pour us all a glass of whiskey, professor. Is it okay if I call you
prof, for short?," said Luke, grinning.


"I guess so," I replied as I poured the bourbon.


Luke said, "Here's to unexpected reunions, right babe?" He clinked his
glass against Brooke's and they both took a sip. I could see Brooke
wince as the bourbon went down her throat.


He then turned to me. I was sitting on the opposite end of the sectional
sofa from him. "And here's to new friendships, prof. I have a feeling
you and I are going to be tight." He chuckled.


"Cheers," I said lamely, clinking my glass against his. I thought the
bourbon was pretty mediocre.


Luke got dressed, and said, "Well, I'd love to stick around and have
one of your wonderful dinners prof. I hear you're a great cook. But I
have a dinner meeting tonight. So I'll leave you two be. I'm sure you
have a lot to talk about. And I'll take a rain check on the dinner."


And with that, he tossed his soiled towel over my head and left the
house.


As I removed the disgusting towel from my head, I saw Brooke, still
topless, staring at me and trying to suppress a laugh.


"Brooke, I don't understand."


"What don't you understand? You better not start acting like a sulky,
little bitch again, Walter. I'm warning you."


"I don't understand why you let him do that to you. You told me he was
an abusive bastard who used to hit you. I don't understand why you
texted me to come back when you knew I'd see him..."


"See him fucking my brains out, you mean?"


"Yes."


"Well, let me try to clear some things up for you. Luke was a lousy
husband. But he is, far and away, the best fuck I've ever had or ever
will have in my life. Yes, he hit me a couple of times. That's why I
finally ended it. That, and the fact that, outside of sex, we were
totally incompatible. Sort of the complete inverse of us."


I wasn't sure if I should be more pleased or hurt by that last remark.


Brooke continued, "He used to slap me around a little when we had sex.
He's very dominant. I liked that part. It loosens me up to give up
control and be submissive sometimes, at least with someone who's so
naturally dominant. And it turned me on when he punished me, like it
turns on a lot of women. You remember how popular that Fifty Shades of
Grey book was back when I was in college?"


"It was very poorly written."


"I just knew you read it. I agree, it was a crappy book. But it was very
popular, and there's a reason why. The protagonist was an English Lit
major, just like me. Only my dominant lover wasn't a wealthy tech
entrepreneur, mine was a blue-collar plumber. Luke has actually turned
out to be a pretty successful entrepreneur himself, more so since we got
divorced. He's not stupid; he's just really anti-intellectual -- which
is almost worse than being stupid, in some ways. But I'm digressing.
Blue collar or not, I bet Luke could do things in bed that Christian Grey
could only dream of doing. If he were real, that is. You saw what Luke's
packing."


I simply nodded and looked downwards.


"So what happened was, after a while, he started to slap me around a
little bit outside of the bedroom sometimes. I didn't mind it at first,
because the lines can blur somewhat, as you know. But then he did it a
couple of times too hard, and about disagreements that had nothing to do
with sex. I didn't find that sexy at all. It really made pissed me off,
to be honest. Finally, I thought to myself, `Why are you putting up with
this bullshit? You don't share any interests with this man. You can't
stand his politics. You think he's a misogynistic asshole, in fact. So
why are you with him?' I couldn't think of any good answers to those
questions, so I divorced him."


"So, what happened today? Do you want to be with him again? Do you want
to divorce me?"


"Walter, for someone so smart, sometimes you're pretty stupid. No, I
don't want to divorce you, and I definitely don't want to remarry him.
What happened today is, I started talking to him, and the sexual
chemistry between us is as strong as ever. I felt it immediately, in
spite of myself. For all of his many faults, Luke is a very pragmatic
guy. He suggested an arrangement, unconventional to say the least, but
one I think that might just work for everyone. It was obviously something
he had given a fair amount of thought to before he showed up at our house
today."


"What's that?"


"A love triangle of sorts. A subject near and dear to your heart,
professor! I stay married to you, but I get to have sex with him whenever
I want. I get the best of both worlds. My submissive knight for
intellectual stimulation, to provide for me, and to do things for me. And
the best lover I've ever known to satisfy me sexually. I told you I'm a
very sexual being. Luke really misses having sex with me, so that's what
he gets out of it. He says I'm still the best he's ever had. And he
says he'd enjoy nothing more than cuckolding a libtard, elitist egghead
like you. He'll be spending a lot of time here, but he'll keep his own
place, of course."


"And what do I get out of it?"


"Quite a lot, actually. First of all, you get to keep me as your wife.
Second, you get a satisfied and happy wife -- what's that saying?
`Happy wife, happy life.' Third, I will no longer have to go out
Saturday nights looking for something you can't give me. I'm tired of
meeting mostly a bunch of losers. I'm tired of having to always use
condoms with them. I know you don't like me going out either. Fourth,
you get to prove to me that you were sincere when swore to me that you'd
be the slave of my lover to be with me and to keep me happy. Finally, I
would think that this fits in perfectly with the subject matter your new
book. You're writing about male masochism and love triangles, including
cuckold relationships, right?"


"Yes, that's right."


"Think of it as an incredible opportunity, really a unique opportunity,
for you to do firsthand research for your book."


"What if I refuse?"


"Oh, come on, Walter. We both know that you won't. Look, if you
absolutely refuse, I would have no choice but to divorce you. Not because
I want to get remarried to Luke. That will never happen. But I couldn't
stay married to someone who lied to me. You swore to me on your knees
that you'd do whatever it took to make me happy, including submitting to
my lover, if that's what I wanted. Well, that's what I want. That's
why I arranged it for you to come back to the house when you did. For you
to see Luke in action. To see what I get from him that I can't get from
anyone else. I expect you to honor your commitments. If I can't believe
you about something so important, something you agreed to when you
proposed to me, than I can't trust you about anything."


"This is a lot for me to digest."


"Of course it is, sweetheart. Look, I'm going to take a shower. Let's
continue this conversation when I'm done. Go put on a pair of tights,
and meet me in the bedroom. Wear the bright green ones I like. You know,
the ones that remind me of Peter Pan or Robin Hood. And bring your nipple
clamps."


"Okay," I replied, meekly.


After showering, Brooke put on a pair of sheer black stockings and got
into bed next to me. She leaned over me, and I felt her wet hair touch my
chest as she squeezed my nipples to get them hard for the clamps. After
she put the clamps on, she leaned on her shoulder and said, "Look,
Walter, I think the kind of threesome that Luke is proposing could bring
the two of us closer together sexually, too. I would be lying if I said
that the thought of seeing Luke dominate my submissive knight isn't a
huge turn on for me."


Up until that moment, I had been sufficiently agitated that my cock had
been shriveled up, even when I put on the tights. Hearing these words
from Brooke, however, it began to stir. This did not escape her
attention.


"Look at you! I think the thought of that excites you too."


She began gently stroking my cock through the nylon with her forefinger,
which, of course caused it to grow still harder.


"I still remember that time you read me the Swinburne poem about masters
flogging their students at boarding school. The fact that you had
memorized part of that poem suggested to me that you were interested in
more than its iambic pentameter. I think that deep down you're a little
excited about the thought of men whipping men, aren't you, sweetheart?"


"Maybe."


"Think how exciting it would be for me to ask my king, or my superior
knight, to whip my submissive knight, in my presence."


As she said this, she started to apply more pressure to my cock with her
finger, and also began squeezing my balls through my tights with her
other fingers while, at the same time, pulling the chain that held the
two nipple clamps together with her other hand.


A moment later, I moaned and ejaculated through my tights and onto
Brooke's finger.


She stuck her finger into my mouth. I sucked it as she said to me, "I
thought so. The three of us are going to have so much fun."


The next day, Luke returned with two of his employees to continue working
on the bathroom in the basement. One of them was probably about five
years older than him. The other, a teenager, looked like a younger
version of Luke, nearly as tall with similar facial features. Even a
similar haircut.


I was working on my book at my desk in the living room when the door bell
rang, so Brooke opened the door. Getting ready to go work out at the gym,
she was wearing yoga pants and a Lycra workout top, her sexy midriff
bare.


"Hey, baby. You're looking hot," Luke said. He proprietarilly put his
large hand on her bottom and drew her to him, kissing her on the lips. As
if I wasn't even in the room.


"You remember Kevin, babe. You can see that he's grown up a lot the
last couple of years."


"Hey, Brooke," said the teenager.


Brooke replied, "Hey, Kevin. I barely recognized you. You've really
filled out since I last saw you."


"Yeah, I've been lifting weights with Luke a lot."


"I can tell. You might end up being even taller than your brother. So,
he's got you working in the business now?"


"Damn right. Kevin's a star," interjected Luke. "He's officially
apprenticing under Joey here, but he's gonna get his master plumber's
license next year when he turns 18. He'll be running one of my branches
by the time he's 20, I bet."


Kevin said, "That's right. And then Joey is going to be working for me
rather than the other way around." It was apparent that Kevin shared
some of the cockiness and arrogance of his older brother, in addition to
his good looks.


Joey laughed and said, "Well, we're not there yet, kid. Let's go
downstairs and get to work."


Kevin and Joey smirked at me as they headed towards the basement stairs.
I learned that evening from Brooke that Kevin is, in fact, Luke's half
brother, 10 years his junior, the product of Luke's mom's second
marriage. Little could I have predicted at the time I met Kevin that
within a year I would be working directly under him as a plumber's
assistant and his all-purpose lackey.


Luke said to them, "I'll be down in a few minutes." He then turned to
me and said, "Prof, I'll cash in that rain check for dinner tomorrow
night. Brooke knows what I like to eat. Meanwhile, there's some stuff in
the backseat of my pickup truck. While I'm downstairs working on your
bathroom, you can bring it inside for me."


I looked up at him and also looked over at Brooke, who nodded to me
almost imperceptibly, before I replied, "Okay, Luke."


Looking at me intently, he responded, "I liked how you addressed me the
first time you met me yesterday better than I do you calling me Luke. Do
you remember what that was, prof?"


"Sir?", I replied, uncertainly.


"That's right. Instead of saying, `Okay, Luke', why don't you try
saying `Yes sir', when I tell you to do something."


I looked again at Brooke, who was covering a smile on her face with her
hand. Her dimpled smile is always radiant to me, but somewhat less so
when she's smiling at my expense.


"Yes, sir." I felt my face burn in humiliation.


"That's better," Luke replied, grinning, as he headed off to the
basement.


When I was confident that they were out of earshot, I asked Brooke, "Do
I really have to call him `sir'?"


"That's what he said, didn't he? Look, I told you Luke's a very
dominant guy. When he's around, he's going to be in charge. Of you and
of me. But of me, mostly in the bedroom. Of you, pretty much everywhere,
I'm guessing. He's sort of like an alpha dog marking his territory.
It's really about that simple with Luke. So you better get used to it,
Walter. If you resist, he's going to make things incredibly unpleasant
for you."


"I have a feeling he's going to make things incredibly unpleasant for
me whether I resist or not."


"You're probably right. But it's going to be a whole nother level of
unpleasant if you resist. You might think he'd respect you for standing
up for yourself. But what he's really going to want to do is break you
completely, so there's no confusion whatsoever about who the alpha dog
is."


In our driveway was an enormous, four-door Ford pickup truck (I later
learned the model was a Ford F-150 Lightening Platinum and that it costs
more than I make in a year). The back door was unlocked and on the seat
were two heavy black suitcases that I lugged into the house. Great, I
thought to myself, this guy is moving into my house. Brooke, meanwhile,
left for the gym.


I was very anxious about being left alone in the house with Luke and the
two others. After about an hour, Luke came up stairs and said to me, "Do
you have sweet tea?"


"No, only unsweetened."


"Try again, prof."


"No, sir. Only unsweetened."


"That's it, you learn quick. From now on, I expect there always to be
at least two large bottles of sweet tea in the fridge."


"Yes, sir."


"And always have on a hand a full bottle of Gentlemen Jack. Not Old No.
7. You got it?"


"Yes, sir."


"Good. Now bring a pitcher of ice water and three glasses down to the
basement."


"Yes, sir"


I was irritated, because I had been making real progress on a chapter I
was writing about Barbara Palmer, aka 1st Dutchess of Cleveland, Countess
of Castlemaine, the most notorious mistress of King Charles II and a
truly fascinating figure. Less than a year after marrying her husband,
Roger, Barbara began her affair with Charles II, still in exile at the
time, following his defeat by Oliver Cromwell. After Charles II returned
to the throne, he fathered multiple children with Barbara, a woman known
for her beauty, flirtatiousness, fierce temper and sexual promiscuity.
Together, they turned Roger into "the most famous cuckold in Europe."
Although Charles granted him the Earl of Limerick title (as compensation
for openly sleeping with his wife), apparently Roger was so humiliated
that he wouldn't even serve in Parliament and eventually left the
country. Charles II's favorite court dance was "Cuckolds All A Row,"
which must have further humiliated Roger. For her part, Barbara had so
bewitched Charles ll that she had him publicly begging her on his knees
at one point, and got herself appointed to the powerful position of Lady
of the Bedchamber to the actual queen, Catherine of Branganza. In that
capacity, she taunted the mild mannered Catherine, who was unable to bear
children, rubbing her relationship with Charles in Catherine's face. So
Catherine was both Queen and humiliated cuckquean.


After I served the three of them water, I decided to walk into town to
buy sweet tea (I loved unsweetened, iced tea but had always found sweet
tea cloying) and a few other things we needed. When I got back, I found
Luke sitting at my desk reading my notebook (I know it's somewhat old
fashioned, but I still like to put pen to paper when writing, and then
later type my notes).


I was incredibly annoyed at this invasion of my privacy, but tried my
best to suppress it. "Can I help you, sir?"


"This is some crazy shit. What are you, a professor of cuckold studies
or something?"


"I'm a literature professor, sir. And history."


"Students actually pay good money to learn this crap? Incredible. I
always said college was complete bullshit. This proves it."


"I'm working on a new book, sir."


"About cuckolding and humiliation?" He snickered contemptuously,
seemingly incredulous.


"Sort of, sir, but more than just that."


"Well, you're in luck, prof. You don't need to read about Charles II
and Roger whatever his name is. I'm going to teach you all about it.
Practical knowledge is always better than learning shit in books, don't
you agree, prof?"


I didn't. But I replied, "Yes, sir."

My studies under Luke's tutelage began in earnest the next evening
during and after dinner. I'm sorry to report that he proved to be an
excellent, possibly even world class instructor. If there was a graduate
program in cuckold humiliation studies, Luke would've been a
distinguished professor with an endowed chair. To be fair, I suppose such
a program would require at least three faculty members: the bull, who
dishes out the humiliation; the cuckoldess who may or may not assist the
bull in humiliating the cuckold, but who herself might also be a target
of humiliation at times; and the hapless cuckold who is the primary
recipient of it. So, to be more accurate, the three of us would have been
an all-star academic team in my imagined scenario. This turned out to be
not too far removed from the reality of what unfolded, but more on that
later.


Brooke coached me on preparing dinner for Luke. She wanted him to feel
welcome in our home and wanted to set the right tone with my respect to
my subservient status in the relationship. Luke played football in an
amateur league (he was a linebacker, a position requiring both speed and
strength) and also lifted weights, so he favored lean proteins. I
prepared grilled walleye in a lemon, butter sauce with steamed asparagus
and roasted potatoes. I also had his favorite beer on hand, Yuengling. I
purchased a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc for Brooke and me, as neither of us
were big beer drinkers.


At Brooke's insistence, I wore a tight, white button down shirt with a
black bow tie and tight black pants with the black apron that her friend
Michelle had given me tied behind my neck. I generally favored loose
clothes because I was highly self conscious about my paunch -- and hated
the restrictive feeling of tight clothes, which made me feel fat -- but
Brooke said that baggy clothes did me no favors. I think this was all
part of her game: to accentuate my physical shortcomings in front of her
ripped ex husband. She also wanted me barefoot.


When Luke arrived, Brooke brought him into the kitchen. He was dressed in
tight jeans, a form fitting, button down blue shirt and brown leather
cowboy boots. Brooke was wearing a short green dress with open toed,
heeled sandals, her long bare legs and pretty toes on full display. The
contrast in how we were all dressed made me feel like a submissive waiter
to this beautiful, alpha couple -- which is more or less what I was, I
suppose. Thinking back on how I've been forced to dress over the
intervening three years, however, my attire that evening was downright
dignified.


"Hello, sir. May I get you a beer?"


"Sure, prof." Pleased that I served him his favorite brand, he said,
"I see she's got you barefoot and working in the kitchen. You're not
pregnant too, are you?" He rubbed my paunch with his hand, smiling and
chuckling. I really hated it when someone touched my stomach.


Brooke giggled at his joke.


"We're going to have to put you on a diet, prof."


"Walter doesn't exercise much."


"We can work on that too," Luke said before the two of them went into
the living room to sit down and have a drink as I finished cooking
dinner. I found Brooke straddling his lap and kissing him passionately
when I went to ask them to please be seated at the table.


"Shouldn't a good host seat his guest?," asked Luke.


"Yes, sir, of course." I pulled out the chair at the head of the dining
room table for him to sit down.


Brooke said, "What about me, Walter?"


"Of, course, darling." I then pulled out Brooke's chair, before
sitting down myself.


"I'm not sure I like him calling you darling when I'm here. When I'm
in this house, you're mine," Luke said to Brooke.


She replied, "What would be a more appropriate way for him to address me
when you're around? I know, how about `Miss Brooke'?" She smiled
brightly at me.



Luke said, "That works for me, at least until we can think of something
better."


"Yes, sir and Miss Brooke. I will be right back with your plates."


Although I prepared and served the dinner and cleaned up afterwards, I
was at least permitted to eat at the table with them that first night.


"This fish isn't half bad," Luke sad, looking at me.


"Thank you, sir."


"I told you Walter's a good cook."


"Do you fish, prof?"


"I did when I was a kid with my brother and my dad, but I haven't in
years, sir."


"Where was that?"


"In Connecticut, on the Long Island Sound, sir. We lived near the water
and had a small boat."


"Walter's father was a big time M&A attorney in New York City. Walter
had a pretty privileged upbringing. A family maid. Boarding school. Yale
University," said Brooke.


"M&A attorney, huh. Those are the pricks I have to pay huge fees to
whenever I buy a business."


I learned over dinner that Luke had started a residential plumbing
business shortly after graduating from high school. It grew rapidly,
becoming the biggest in the county by the time he was 25. Over the last
three years he had acquired three single branch competitors, buying out
older plumbers who were starting to think about retirement.  He typically
got good prices for these companies because his business was hurting them
in the market. Luke's company had grown to five branches in two counties
with almost $30 million in sales. He planned to grow it to $50 million
and then sell it to a private equity investor. His goal was to be a multi
millionaire before he turned 35.


Luke continued, "Goddamn lawyers are parasites. They don't make or fix
anything, they just take money from the hard working people who do. The
whole damned system is rigged."


Great, an aggrieved conspiracy theorist, I thought to myself.


"My dad lost most of his money when he was older due to poor
investments," I volunteered, hoping to dispel the image of privilege I
could see forming in Luke's mind.


"Sounds like karma to me," he said. "How long did you live in
Connecticut?"


Brooke answered for me. "Walter lived his whole life in Connecticut
before moving here to take his position on the college faculty. He tried
hard to find a position with a good East Coast college, but wasn't able
to."


"It's pretty competitive out there in academia," I added, sheepishly.


"So, you had to settle for a position in one of the flyover states. Nice
of you to grace us with your presence, professor."


"Not at all. I mean, I had never been to Ohio before coming out here for
my job, but I really like it. It's a beautiful state." I added, lamely,
"Sir."


"I'll bet." He looked at me somewhat contemptuously, I thought, before
he added, "Get me another beer and your wife needs a refill on her
wine."


"Yes, sir."


After getting them their drinks, I served the dessert I had prepared. I
had baked a peach pie and served it with vanilla ice cream. After putting
everyone's plate down and picking up my fork, Luke said, "Hold on
there, prof. Remember what I said earlier tonight about you going on a
diet? Well, there's no time like the present to start."


Brooke added, again with her mischievous smile, "That's a great idea,
Luke. It's going to be good to have someone to instill some discipline
around here, right Walter?"


I was furious, but knew how disastrous it would be to raise any
objection. It wasn't so much that I was looking forward to satisfying my
sweet tooth. It was really the incredible humiliation I felt at being
treated like a child by this overbearing brute. And, of course, Brooke's
complicity in my humiliation. She was clearly enjoying it all way too
much.


My face was burning in shame, as I replied, "Yes, Miss Brooke. That's a
good idea, sir. I need to watch my calories. Here, let me split up my
piece for the two of you to enjoy."


As he finished off the pie, Luke said, "That was delicious, prof.
You're quite the little homemaker, aren't you?"


"Or big homemaker," said Brooke, tittering. She was clearly a bit
drunk.


"Good one, babe," said Luke.


As I was about to finish off the bottle of wine by emptying it into
Brooke's and my glasses, Luke said. "You know, prof, liquor has a lot
of calories. It's probably a good idea that we watch your wine intake as
well. Empty your glass into Brooke's?"


"Yes, sir," I said, as I followed his command.


Brooke said, "Now I'm really gonna get tipsy," and giggled.


After dinner, Luke said, "Now it's time to unpack my suitcases. Why
don't you both show me the bedroom?"


And, so, Luke's hostile takeover -- hostile to me, at least --
continued.


That morning, Brooke had insisted that I thoroughly clean the entire
house, including putting clean sheets on the bed. It was June at the
time, and my summer break from classes had started, so fortunately, I had
time to do more chores around the house (as well as to work on my book).
Brooke explained that Luke is very fastidious when it comes to a clean
house. When they were married, he expected her to do all of the housework
and used to berate her and occasionally spank her (at first, ostensibly
as part of their sexual games, but over time she said it really felt more
like pure punishment) when the house was not kept up to his high
standards. Brooke did a little tidying up that morning as well, but left
it for me to do most of the work, including scrubbing the bathrooms and
kitchen, and doing all of the laundry. This was the typical MO in our
house, but it was certainly the first time I had cleaned in anticipation
of her lover coming to spend the night (or multiple nights, as the case
may be). Insisting that I clean wearing nothing but a T-shirt and a pair
of skimpy nylon panties, Brooke teased me relentlessly me as I worked,
periodically swatting my rear end and making fun of my constant erection.


After dinner, I lugged Luke's suitcases up to the bedroom and, under his
and Brooke's supervision, unpacked them and began hanging up his clothes
next to my own in the closet. Because I didn't have an office job,
requiring multiple suits, I didn't take up a lot of room in the closet,
so there was plenty of space for for him to use; I simply pushed my
clothes off to the far right so that he'd have easy access to his
clothes when he slid open the closet door. He brought with him one suit,
multiple pairs of pants, dress shirts, polo shirts, T-shirts and shorts
as well as socks, underwear (boxer briefs), a football uniform, workout
clothes and (I'm sorry to report), a jockstrap.


Luke watched carefully to make sure that I put his things away in a
manner acceptable to him. Everything had to be folded or arranged just
so. I dreaded the part when I had to make room for his underwear and
socks in my dresser. When I opened up the top drawer of my dresser, he
was staring directly at my collection of panties and tights. My guess was
that Brooke had already told him about finding my stash and forcing me to
throw away almost all of my male underwear. Nevertheless, he acted
surprised to discover all of the female undergarments in my dresser.


"What do we have here," he said, picking up some of my panties and
tossing them onto the floor. "Well, prof, I was planning on helping you
get more in touch with your feminine side, like any good cuck should be.
But it seems like you already are. Let's see what you're wearing under
that waiter's uniform."


I looked up at Brooke and must've had an expression on my face that
said, "Do I really have to do this?"


Her arms were folded, and she had a fairly serious on her expression on
her face as she said, "What are you waiting for? You heard what your
master said."


So now he was my master?! This was unbelievable! It felt like things were
spiraling out of control quickly. And yet, at the words "your master,"
I felt my already semi erect cock kick into a new gear of arousal in the
very panties I so wished to conceal from Luke. And from Brooke with Luke
present. It was a totally different dynamic than when Brooke and I were
alone together, and I didn't like it one bit. Or did I? My head was
spinning.


"Yes, Miss Brooke." I stared down at the floor, profoundly ashamed, as
I undid my belt and removed my pants. I stood before them absurdly,
wearing nothing but my shirt, bow tie and red nylon panties, the tails of
my white shirt still partially covering my hard-on.


"Take the shirt off too, Walter," ordered Brooke.


"Yes, miss." I removed the tie and shirt and stood before the two of
them, both still fully clothed, in nothing but my panties.


"Wow, you weren't kidding, babe, when you said he was small. I think I
was bigger when I was in third grade. And this is with him hard. You must
need a fucking magnifying glass when he's not. Well, have no fear, babe,
big Luke is here." Turning to me, he said, "Put your frillies somewhere
else. My underwear and socks will go in this drawer. When is that bedroom
in the basement going to be finished? I think we can fast track the
plumbing and have the bathroom ready to be finished by the middle of next
week?"


Brooke said, "I spoke to Ed, our GC today, and he thought everything
could be finished by late July or early August."


"Good. When I'm here, prof, you'll l sleep in the basement. You can
shower in the bathroom on the first floor. Until the basement bedroom is
finished, you can sleep in the guest bedroom downstairs, I guess. When
I'm not here, I don't care where you sleep. Got it?"


"Yes, sir."


"Now unpack my other suitcase."


In Luke's second suitcase, I was shocked to find, in addition to a
toiletries case, two pairs of cowboy boots, a pair of tall black leather
boots, a pair of leather ankle boots, three pairs of dress shoes, four
pairs of sneakers and a pair of football cleats. I thought to myself, if
this is what this guy is bringing along for when he stays here, how many
shoes does he have at home?!


Brooke giggled, "Some things never change, I see. She turned to me, "I
used to joke that Luke is the male Imelda Marcos. He owns more shoes than
any woman I've ever known."


Luke responded, smiling, "Like I always say, it's not only the clothes
that make the man, it's also the shoes."


I was to learn that Luke has a huge shoe and foot fetish. But not like
mine, not like most men you've probably heard about (or maybe yourself).
I loved everything about Brooke's feet and, ever since I was a kid, had
been drawn to pretty women's feet. This fetish was one of the
cornerstones of my submissive nature, in fact. By contrast, Luke wasn't
into admiring or worshiping women's feet or shoes. He was into having
his feet and shoes worshipped. A lot. He seriously couldn't get enough
of it, as I was to learn from extensive, firsthand experience.


"Prof, like any good cuck, you'll be responsible for caring for my
footwear. You can order a Johnston & Murphy cedar shoeshine kit on-line.
If you order it tonight, you should have it in a couple of days. I expect
of all of my boots and dress shoes to be cleaned and polished every time
I wear them, and every month whether I wear them or not. You can tape a
cleaning schedule inside the closet door with a pencil and mark down
every time you clean them to keep track. In fact, I'd like similar
weekly cleaning schedules posted inside the door of every bathroom and
somewhere in the kitchen that's not too obvious. You know, like the kind
you see in a public restroom. That way Brooke and I can monitor your
work. It will keep everyone honest. You can clean my sneakers and cleats
with a dry brush or a toothbrush, vinegar, baking soda, leather
conditioner and a soft cloth. Shouldn't you be writing all of this
down?"


Stunned as I was, I simply said, "No, sir, I'm paying close
attention."


"You better be, prof. I'm pretty particular about things. Cleanliness
is next to godliness."


I was a committed agnostic, borderline atheist. I also detested cliches.
I decided, however, that it might not be prudent to share my views with
Luke.


Luke next moved on to our en suite bathroom (it was an old house with
only one sink and a small medicine cabinet). Luke instructed me to have
most of my toiletries out of the bathroom prior to any of his future
visits. This included -- most depressingly, for some reason -- moving my
toothbrush out of the two brush holder next to Brooke's.


When his bags were fully emptied, and all of his things put away, he said
to Brooke, "Alright, babe, it's time we try out this mattress."


Brooke smiled and said, "It's about fucking time," before kissing him
passionately. Luke then hoisted her over his shoulder, smacked her
playfully on her bottom and threw her on the bed.


Thus, Luke's methodical takeover moved on to its next phase.


That night I watched Luke penetrate Brooke anally, vaginally and orally
-- what she later described as "the triple threat" posed by his
enormous cock (speaking very much like someone who enjoys being
threatened, I might add). But it wasn't only his cock that he used to
penetrate her, it was also his fingers and toes.


After he threw her onto the bed, Luke said to me, "Prof, your wife and
me shouldn't be the only ones to get some cardiovascular exercise
tonight, especially when you're the one that needs it most. Stand at the
end of the bed and run in place."


Resisting the impulse to correct his grammar ("wife and I"), which I
didn't think would be particularly well received, I simply asked,
"Now?"


Luke replied, "No, next month. Of course, now. Get your lazy, fat ass
moving!"


Brooke giggled. Feeling ridiculous, I started running in my panties as
the two of them undressed.


"Raise your legs higher, up to your waist. If I wasn't busy at the
moment, I'd give you some motivation with my belt."


"I'm trying, sir."


Positioned on top of Brooke -- I won't say lying on her, because Luke
was in a state of perpetual, frenzied motion whenever he was in the act
of intercourse -- he inserted himself in her vagina, and stating pounding
her. He pushed her right leg up far back behind her head and placed his
large left hand around her throat. I was worried that he was choking her,
but she definitely sounded more aroused than distressed. As she started
moaning louder he slapped her face four times, alternating cheeks, with
his right hand. The slaps weren't hard exactly, but they weren't soft
either. I'm sure they hurt, but I suspected they hurt my ego more than
they did her face. Though I was to witness many similar scenes of Brooke
being degraded by Luke in the months and years to come, I never really
got used to them. What sort of knight would allow the lady he cherishes
to be so mistreated? What kind of husband could be so impotent as to obey
the commands of the man who was simultaneously violating his wife in such
a humiliating fashion? Only a truly pathetic and contemptible one,
that's who. Me. Professor Walter Rollins. Cuckold.


I felt completely ridiculous running in place with my cock and balls
bouncing around in my panties. I was erect at first, but as I grew
increasingly fatigued, I grew increasingly limp. Eventually, I got so
winded that I had to kneel down on the floor to catch my breath.


This did not escape Luke's attention. "You're tired already? You've
been running for what, like three minutes? That's sad, prof. Go in the
bathroom and get yourself some water and then get back out here. Hurry
up!"


"Yes, sir. Thank you sir," I said, panting heavily.


When I returned to the bedroom, still struggling to breathe, Luke said,
"Speaking of my belt, take it out of my pants and toss it to me." I did
as he commanded, fearful, of course, that he would strike Brooke with it.


Instead, he said to me, "Now get down on the floor and give me 50
situps." I had managed to catch my breath somewhat, but I'd always been
terrible at sit-ups push-ups, or pretty much any other kind of exercise
one could think of.


Meanwhile, Luke wrapped his belt around Brooke's neck and then pulled
her by it off the bed and onto her knees on the hardwood floor. He stood
directly in front of her with his huge, erect cock in her face, and then
yanked the belt, drawing her face up to his ball sack. As if this was
something they had done countless times before -- and, during their two
years of marriage, perhaps they had -- Brooke began first licking and
then sucking on his balls before he gestured for her to start sucking on
his cock. She could only fit about a third of it into her mouth before
she started to gag. He, nevertheless, aggressively thrust his cock in and
out her mouth -- or to be more precise, he guided her head back and forth
by grabbing a fistful of her long brown hair. I saw a long thread of her
saliva hang down from his cock. Repulsed as I was, my cock stiffened
again even as my stomach muscles started to burn.


Without warning, Luke abruptly pulled out of her mouth, lifted her up and
turned her round so that she was then leaning against the side of the
bed, her feet on the floor. He then spit on her anus as lubrication
before entering her anally, while pulling her head back with the belt.
With his other hand, he began sharply smacking her ass until it turned
bright shade of red. I could see the pain of the smacks register on her
face, but it was an expression of agonized ecstasy that dominated her
expression. Soon the unmistakable sounds of Brooke climaxing filled the
room, but they were more intense sounds that I had ever heard her utter
before. By that point, I could barely raise my back off the ground.


Luke looked over at me and said, "Sure beats what they show on TV at the
gym, doesn't it, prof?", he laughed. "Not that you have the slightest
fucking idea of what I'm talking about."


When Brooke recovered somewhat, Luke, indefatigable, took her again from
behind, but this time vaginally. His leather belt was still wrapped
around her lovely neck like a collar.


Remembering my presence, Luke said, "Bring me a glass of Gentlemen Jack
and bring us both a glass of water."


"Yes, sir," I said, lifting myself off the floor and trying to turn my
body away to hide my erection. In retrospect, as I reflect back on the
frequency and intensity of the exposure and humiliation I subsequently
suffered, this moment of self consciousness strikes me as an almost
laughable moment of innocence. I wasn't laughing at the time, however.


When I returned with a serving tray, I saw Luke continuing his assault,
but now with both of his hands inserted into Brooke's mouth, each on
opposite sides, pulling her jaws open and apart. I wondered to myself
what purpose such an action could possibly serve. It's not as if holding
her mouth open in this way was resulting in any direct source of sexual
pleasure for him. It was purely a raw display of power and control. But
moments later, when he grunted and ejaculated all over her ass and back,
I realized that the power and degradation was the whole point for Luke.


It got him off. It got her off. Soon, I would fall in line.


That night was the first one that Brooke and I did not sleep in the same
bed together since we were married: it was to be far from the last. The
thought of them sleeping in each other's arms on the soiled sheets was
somehow particularly distressing to me. But what sleeping they actually
did is questionable.


After I left the them in the bedroom, I put on a pair of shorts and a
T-shirt, and went down to my desk in the living room to work on my book.
I thought that perhaps I could use the humiliation I had just experienced
as inspiration for finishing the chapter I had been struggling with on
Sir William Hamilton, the publicly cuckolded husband of Emma Hamilton in
her long affair with Lord Nelson, the famous British naval hero. Sir
William was about twice the age of Emma, who was known for her great
beauty. After she began her affair with Lord Nelson, the three of them co
habited together in Surrey until Sir William's death in 1803. Emma even
gave birth to two of Nelson's illegitimate daughters during this time.
Over the long affair, Sir William was frequently mocked by caricaturists
in the newspapers as the cuckolded husband. This scandalous relationship
was presented to the public as an unconventional "three-way
friendship."


I, of course, had to wonder if there was more to the real story of what
went on behind the closed doors of their home in the Merton neighborhood
of Surrey. Was Sir William admitted into the bedchambers of the two
lovers? Was her permitted to watch them have sex together, and, if so,
did he enjoy it? Perhaps there was still more to it: perhaps he waited on
the two young lovers (Emma was 28 and Lord Nelson was 35 when their
affair began, while Sir William was 62) hand and foot, perhaps dressed in
feminine undergarments, perhaps even dressed as a maid? Perhaps William
polished the admiral's boots as he sat on the couch kissing his young
wife. Before you judge me for having an overactive imagination, I hope
you can at least appreciate why that might be the case.


Around midnight, I went to the guest bedroom to go to sleep. It was quiet
upstairs at the time, but at about 2 AM, I was awoken by the sound of the
bedsprings violently shaking in the bedroom upstairs -- my and Brooke's
bedroom before today. What had it become? My part time bedroom? I tiptoed
halfway up the stairs to listen.


"Oh, gawd, Luke. Please."


SMACK


"Please, what?"


"Please, I'm begging you."


SMACK


"Please, who?"


SMACK


"Please, sir. Please fill me up with your beautiful cock, sir. I'm
begging you."


SMACK


"Are you and your cuck my slaves?"


"Yes, sir. We are your absolute slaves. I promise you! Now, please sir,
I beg you. Fill me up again."


SMACK


"Well, okay, babe. Since you promise."


I then heard Brooke cry out, "Oh, yes! Thank you, sir."


I found a pair of noise canceling headphones I used for flying, put them
on and crawled back into bed.


 I didn't sleep a wink.



I was awoken the next morning with a text from Brooke: Walk into town and
get us two iced coffees. Then make us breakfast. Luke likes pancakes with
syrup and bacon.


I texted back: Yes, miss.


I could imagine the two of them sitting in bed, laughing at my obsequious
response to her demand.


After I returned, I brought the iced coffees upstairs to the two lovers
lying happily in bed reading their iPhones.


"Here are your drinks, sir, and miss. I'll now go make the pancakes and
bacon."
I received no thanks or acknowledgment whatsoever as the two of them
began kissing, Luke squeezing Brooke's right nipple. I left the room to
the sound of her softly moaning and their lips smacking.


When I was finished making breakfast, I texted Brooke accordingly, asking
them to come down to the dining room, where I had set the table for
three.


She texted back: Bring our breakfast upstairs.


I placed their plates on a serving tray and brought them up to the
bedroom, along with two glasses of orange juice. As I started to leave to
go eat my breakfast that was getting cold downstairs, Luke said, "Where
do you think you're going, prof?"


"I was going to eat my pancakes in the kitchen."


"Well, there's a couple of problems with that. First, pancakes and
bacon have a shitload of calories. Your wife and I are in good shape --
better shape after last night, right babe? -- so we can treat ourselves
to high calorie and high carb foods once in a while. But pancakes and
bacon are definitely not on your new diet."


"My new diet, sir?"


"Yes, we're going to weigh you after breakfast, but just looking at
your fat ass running last night, I'd say you could stand to lose at
least 30 pounds. So Brooke and I are going to figure out a low carb, low
calorie diet for you."


Brooke added, "We have some strawberries and blueberries in the fridge.
You can make yourself a fruit salad for breakfast, and go shopping later
after we plan your diet."


As Brooke was well aware, I was not a big fruit eater (I was better with
vegetables), so was less than thrilled with her idea. Besides, the bacon
smelled so good (I had already treated myself to a slice while preparing
their plates).


"Yes, miss."


"The second problem with you going downstairs, is we'd have call you if
we wanted anything, like more orange juice or second helpings," said
Luke. "You can stand there until we finish eating, in case we need
anything."


"Yes, sir."


After he ate a pancake, Luke said, "On second thought, you're not
burning off any calories by just standing there. Give me 50 jumping
jacks."


"Now? In my jeans? And I haven't had any breakfast yet, sir."


"Prof, you ask `now?' way too often. When I tell you to do something,
I always mean now, unless I say specifically otherwise. Don't ever ask
me that again. You're not gonna die if you do a little bit of exercise
before you have breakfast. Looks to me like you got plenty of fat on your
body to sustain you through a little bit of work. You have a point,
though, about the jeans. Put on a pair of those pantyhose I saw in your
drawer last night."


Brooke giggled. "Walter, put on your yellow tights."


"Yes, miss." I pulled out the bottom drawer of the dresser where I had
moved my undergarments yesterday to make room for Luke's underwear and
socks, and pulled out the bright yellow tights.


As I started to go into the bathroom, Luke said, "Uh-uh. We're all
friends here. You can change right here in front of us."


"Yes, sir." It is hard to describe how ashamed I felt undressing and
then putting on a pair of tights under the watchful stare of my wife and
her ex-husband. But my shame only intensified from there.


Brooke said, "Look at the way he's putting on his tights, babe. He
rolls them up his legs like he's been doing this all his life. You
don't want to get a run in your pretty stockings, do you, Walter?"


"No, miss."


Despite my humiliation, or perhaps because of it, I was mortified to find
myself getting hard as I pulled the tights up of my legs.


"Now he looks like a proper little fairy cuck," Luke said with a smug
smirk.


"Look, he has a little stiffy," Brooke laughed, pointing at me.


"It seems like professor cuck likes wearing women's clothes. Well,
you're in luck, prof, you're going to be wearing a lot more of them
from now on, at least when I'm around."


"I told you that I always make him wear panties or tights under his
clothes already," said Brooke.


"Yeah, but from now on, I only want him wearing feminine clothes in the
house, not just as underwear. Now, start jumping." Luke picked up his
belt, lying on the floor next to the bed, folded it over and struck it
sharply against my tights-clad bottom. Hearing Brooke's laughter, I
began jumping with enthusiasm (or, at least outwards enthusiasm, as I
hated the situation that I found myself in and, as I already explained,
hated exercising and was in no shape to be able to do it for long).


As I did the jumping jacks, feeling my cock bounce around in my tights as
I moved, I could see my face turn a deep shade of red in the mirror over
Brooke's dresser. Whether the redness was more a consequence of my
physical exertion, or my profound embarrassment, was difficult to say for
sure.


As I jumped, I listened to their conversation.


"Man, I do love bacon," said Luke.


"You always have, babe. Here you can have mine." Brooke began feeding
Luke her strips of bacon, smiling sexily as she did so.


"I'm not sure I like all that body hair on him. It doesn't seem right
for a fairy cuck. What can we do about it?", said Luke.


"Well, I guess we could use a depilatory cream, but a waxing would last
longer. And look better."


"Where could he get that done?"


"There are a few spas around that will do a full body wax," said
Brooke.


"Well, you better make ab appointment soon, then, prof."


After I finished the required 50 jumping jacks, I collapsed on the floor,
breathing heavily with a pain in the side of my ribs.


"It's pretty pathetic that you got winded after 50 measly jumping
jacks. But Rome wasn't built in a day, I guess. Get yourself some water
in the bathroom and then go downstairs and get me some more bacon and
orange juice," ordered Luke.


After I came out of the bathroom, having had three glasses of water and
having caught my breath somewhat, I said to Luke, "Sir, would it be okay
for me to put my jeans back on to get you your bacon? Our general
contractor, Ed, is supposed to be coming around this morning with the
electrician to do some work in the basement. Ed has a key to the house."


"No, you may not. I guess you just better be very careful when you go
downstairs," Luke replied. I heard Brooke snicker.


So I tried to be just that. When I went down the stairs, I listened
carefully for any voices and peeked into the living room before
scampering in my tights into the kitchen. Sure enough, just as I had
plated the bacon and refilled Luke's and Brooke's glasses with orange
juice, I heard the front door open and the voices of two men talking.


I then heard Ed say to the other man, "The basement is down those
stairs. I"m going to get myself a glass of water and I"ll be right
down. Want anything?"


"No thanks," said the other man, presumably the electrician.


Knowing that Ed would come into the kitchen, and that there was no other
way for me to leave the room without going through a door that led out to
the patio, I panicked and ran into our walk-in pantry, closing the door
as quietly as I could. I listened to Ed get a glass from the cabinet and
fill it up at the sink, hoping that he wouldn't have any reason to open
the pantry door.


Fortunately, he did not, and as soon as the coast was clear, I ran
upstairs with the bacon and orange juice. I felt at the time that I had
dodged a bullet, but again, with the benefit of hindsight, I look back on
that moment with a sense of irony. It is ironic that I was so fearful of
being momentarily glimpsed in my tights by the two men, given how trivial
that would have been compared to the degree of public humiliation and
ridicule I was subjected to in the months to come.


Standing next to the window, Luke said, "I see the workers have arrived.
Did they get a chance to admire your new look yet?"


I was troubled by the word "yet," but simply replied, "No, sir." I
was also troubled to discover that all of my anxiety about being caught
notwithstanding, my erection had not subsided in the least.


"I'm sure they'll have other opportunities. Now get down on the floor
and get me 20 push-ups."


Brooke laughed disdainfully. "I doubt he can give you ten."


"That's why he needs a little motivation." When I got down in the
floor, Luke brought his belt down on my buttocks. I yelped and Brooke
giggled.


Because of the exertion, my nerves, the fear of being caught, my shame
and my overall anxiety about how my life had been turned upside down over
the course of the last 48 hours, I was sweating like a pig. I was prone
to sweat a lot in general, but especially during moments of stress or
humiliation.


Luke walked around and positioned his bare feet directly under my face,
and said, "Prof, you'll find that I'm big on accountability and on
measurement. KPIs, we call them. That stands for key performance
indicators. It's a big reason I've been so successful in my business.
I'm gonna be applying that focus to everything I expect from you. The
diet, the cleaning, the exercise. I'm sure other things as well, once I
think of them. We can start right now with you kissing my feet every time
you lower yourself to the ground. But be careful that you don't touch
the ground completely. That would be cheating, and you'd need to be
punished for that. Keep your back straight."


"Walter, when you feel your little stiffy touch the floor, that's when
you'll know to push yourself up again," Brooke said, laughing.


Brooke was right. I planted 6 kisses on Luke's right foot, before I felt
my arms trembling badly. I was able to eke out two more before I face
planted into Luke's feet.


Luke said, "Okay, prof, for every push-up you fall short, you get one
thrash with my belt. Right now you've got 12 coming. Do you think you
can reduce that some?"


I was able to lower myself for two additional foot kisses before my arms
pretty much gave out altogether.


"Alrighty, then. Stand up and bend over the bed."


Luke then proceeded to thrash me vigorously ten times.


On the fifth stroke I cried out. "Ouch."


"Luke hits harder than I do, right?," said Brooke, walking to the other
side of the bed and looking in my eyes, smiling.


"Yes, miss. Much."


"You'll find that Walter is an even bigger baby when it comes to pain
tolerance than he is when it comes to endurance."


"I'm just gonna have to toughen him up all around I guess." And with
that. Luke delivered an especially brutal stroke across my upper thighs.


Brooke, who had returned to her position behind me, said, "Now that's
what I'm talking about. Teach him who's boss, babe."


The next stroke was even harder, if possible. My tights offered really no
protection and the pain was intense. The damage to my ego was worse,
however.


It was not helped when I heard them kissing behind me and Brooke say,
"This is getting me hot. I need you in me again, baby. Please, now."


And, so, after Luke administered two final strokes, I was summarily
dismissed. I wanted to go back downstairs to the living room to work on
my book, but I was afraid of being seen by Ed and the electrician. I was
also afraid to change out of my tights, lest I encourage Luke's wrath
for being disobedient. So I instead returned to the guest bedroom room
and thought about all of that had changed over the last two days, as I
listened to the bedsprings bounce violently above me. This man, my
wife's ex-husband, had displaced me in my bedroom; had imposed a diet on
me; had turned me into a servant, a feminized servant, in my own home;
had forced me to exercise; had whipped me and forced me to kiss his feet.
And he had done all of this in front of my dear wife, who appeared to be
completely in thrall to him sexually. So much so that she willingly
allowed herself to be degraded by him in ways I simply could not square
with her strong, confident, even (when it came to me, at least) dominant
character.


I knew Brooke was a proud feminist. I was a feminist as well, and it was
one of the things I respected about her. But when I heard the loud
SMACKing sounds again, his hand no doubt striking her ass, I once again
experienced that feeling of cognitive dissonance.


How could I have realized at that moment that Luke's takeover of our
lives had barely even begun?


The next day Luke was busy visiting one of his recently acquired
businesses in another county.


I tentatively approached Brooke in the living room, "Miss Brooke, may I
ask you a question?"


"You just did, Walter. Do you mean a second question?" She flashed me
her full dimpled smile.


"Yes, miss. Sorry."


"Yes, you may. And you don't have to call me miss when Luke isn't
around. Unless I tell you to, of course."


"Thanks. I'm not being a sulky little bitch, I swear. But when I see
him treating you the way he does sometimes...like when he slaps your
face...or...never mind."


"No, go ahead. Finish your question."


"How can you be a feminist and allow him to do that kind of stuff to
you?"


"Okay, Walter. I'm not going to insult you by calling that a stupid
question. I know you've been through a lot the last couple of days. So
I'll simply say that that isn't one of your brighter questions. It's
not inconsistent for me to be feminist and to be treated that way,
because I WANT to be treated that way. It's my decision. I told you
already, more than once I'm pretty sure, that I find it sexy when Luke
dominates me. I may find it even sexier when he dominates you. You
should've seen your face when he told you to change into your tights and
do jumping jacks!" She laughed. I loved her laugh (even when it was at
my expense).


She continued, "As I explained before, Luke is a prick, but I'm in love
with his prick. It's not just his size -- don't get me wrong, that's a
big part of it; pun intended-- but it's also his technique, it's his
attitude, it's even his smell. He makes me feel like no other man, or
woman, ever has. The humiliation is all part of it. It makes it hotter.
It's part of the game. When he smacks me around, it's like a stress
reliever. It's like I'm escaping from myself or something. It's hard
to explain. But the point is, if I don't want him to do it at some
point, all I need to do is to tell him to stop. If he doesn't stop,
I'll tell him to get the fuck out of my house. Our house. It was a lot
harder when he and I were married. That's the beauty of this
arrangement. Do you get it now?"


"So it's all a game?"


"Yeah, it is, sort of. Isn't life sort of a game when you really think
about it?"


"I guess. But what if he doesn't stop when you tell him to. What if he
actually seriously hurts you someday?"


"He won't. He's got the potential to have a really good thing going
here. He's no dummy; he doesn't want to blow it. Remember, it was his
idea to begin with. And you know what?"


"What?"


"I think the power trip of controlling you -- a liberal, elitist college
professor from the Northeast, no less -- is icing on the fucking cake. I
think Luke might enjoy that part of it even more than having sex with me.
He loves it."


"You really think so?"


"I really do. And you know what else?"


"What?"


"I think that deep down you like it too. I'm not saying you like every
part of it. You may even hate it at any given moment, when he's
belittling you or thrashing you. But, big picture, you like the game too.
It fits in with your whole masochistic persona. You're writing a book
about it, for Christ's sake. And, most of all, you like it because you
know I like it. And you love your lady, don't you my little knight
errant?"


"Yes, my lady." I knelt down and kissed her hand.


"And you know what else?"


"What?"


"The game is just getting started."


Once again, Brooke utterly disarmed me. I was simply no match for her.


When Luke returned the next day, I weighed in at 203 pounds. He also
calculated my body mass index at 30.0, which was borderline obese. Luke
and Brooke planned out a strict diet for me, one that virtually
eliminated many of my favorite foods (bread, pasta, beef, cheese, ice
cream, chocolate, and, yes, bacon  -- and many other things I enjoy,
including alcoholic beverages) in favor of foods I could barely tolerate
(yogurt, low fat cottage cheese, oatmeal) or like, but only in moderation
(vegetables, fruits, steamed chicken, beans, fish, etc.). The rich sauces
and condiments I'm so fond of were also eliminated, or sharply
curtailed. Since I cooked almost all of Brooke's and Luke's meals and
had the ability to dine out unsupervised in and around campus, there
certainly were opportunities for me to cheat. And I did. I considered
myself a foodie and truly loved good food. There was also a part of me
that rebelled; I found having a diet imposed upon me as if I were a child
(by a man twelve years my junior, no less) to be deeply humiliating. But
there were repercussions for cheating. Painful repercussions. And more
humiliating than the diet itself.


Luke set a goal for me to lose 2 pounds each week. I had a standing
weekly weigh-in every Saturday morning. Somehow Luke had managed to
procure one of the scales that are used in a doctor's office; he claimed
these were more accurate (that may have been true, but I also found them
more institutional, and therefore more humiliating). After I would strip
down to my panties and stand on the scale, Brooke would play the part of
the Dr.'s nurse in adjusting the balance of the scale to get the proper
reading. She would then announce my weight for Luke to record on the
chart that was posted on the back of the bathroom door next to my weekly
cleaning chart.


Luke's method of accountability with respect to my diet was
straightforward: if I lost the requisite 2 pounds, I was rewarded with a
glass of wine. If I lost more than 2 pounds, in theory, I could have two
glasses of wine or a glass of single malt scotch (that only happened
once, early on). If I lost only a pound, I received half a dozen strokes
of the strap, paddle, or cane, depending upon Luke's mood (when he was
traveling or busy, Brooke would administer the punishment, often with
Luke watching on FaceTime). If I actually put on weight, it was another
half a dozen strokes for each pound. All three implements were hung
conspicuously by Luke in the entrance foyer, almost like some avant-grade
work of art (or so I liked to tell myself). I quickly learned that it was
distinctly more painful to be caned than to be strapped or paddled (or to
be on the receiving end of Luke's belt). Unfortunately for me, Luke
favored the cane. I once heard Brooke tell him that the mere sound of him
swishing it through the air as a prelude to correcting me caused her to
tingle with excitement. I guess it wasn't coincidental that my
punishments were generally followed by the two of them having
intercourse. It ultimately took me nearly a year to attain the weight
loss goal set for me, and it was roller coaster. On my worst day, I put
on three pounds after having previously lost ten. That setback earned me
24 welts on my ass; I couldn't sit for a week.


In the meantime, Luke set about finding ways to maximize my
self-consciousness about my body/weight. For example, around the house, I
was required to wear tights or panties along with tight T-shirts, often a
size or two too small, so that part of my midriff would be exposed -- the
part of my body with the highest concentration of body fat. This was, in
fact, a highly effective method to incentivize me to do what was
necessary to shed the pounds. He started to routinely refer to me as fat
boy, tubby or lard ass in addition to prof, cuck or tightsboy. This
verbal humiliation was also effective (though did not end when I finally
lost the weight --  but neither did the canings, for that matter).


I was absolutely mortified one afternoon, about three weeks after he came
onto the scene, when Luke ordered me to wash and detail his behemoth of a
pickup truck in our driveway, wearing nothing but a pink speedo and a
white T-shirt with an image two horns with a padlocked heart in the
middle (both birthday gifts from Brooke) -- clearly the horns of a
cuckold to anyone in the know. But what was more humiliating than the
image on the shirt was its length; it ended approximately 4 inches above
the speedo. It would be one thing if I had washboard abs, but mine more
closely resembled jelly at that point (they never got to be washboard,
but I did make significant progress eventually). Luke had not yet
purchased my chastity cage at this time, so I was erect throughout the
three hours it took me to complete my task. And that was before Luke's
inspection. I had to work another hour afterwards, addressing what he
identified as the shortcomings in my efforts.


It was then, naturally, that one of my students walked by with her
boyfriend. Kelly was a smart, pretty junior who had completed her second
class with me in the spring semester that had recently concluded. I was
kneeling on the ground scrubbing the crevices of a hubcap with a
toothbrush when I heard her voice.


"Hi, Professor Rollins!"


"Oh, hi Kelly." I stood up and grabbed the bucket I was using to try to
shield my erection from their view. I had never worn a speedo before and
found the the snug fit and synthetic material against my cock to be quite
arousing. But, to be honest, my entire humiliating ensemble, and the
humiliating situation in which I found myself -- cleaning my wife's
lover's truck -- were all contributing to my unwanted arousal.


"I never would have pegged you for an oversized pickup kind of guy."


"Ha ha. You're quite right. I lost a bet with an old family friend. The
truck belongs to him."


"What was the bet about? It must have a been a doozy."


"Oh, we just bet on an Ohio State football game."


Kelly's boyfriend said, "But it's July. It's not football season
yet."


"Did I say football? I meant basketball."


"The basketball season is over," Kelly said, grinning.


"Well to be honest, I didn't really pay attention to what I was betting
on. I don't follow sports very closely. That's probably why I should
never bet on them, I guess. Ha ha."


"Come to think of it, I may have seen Mrs. Rollins having lunch at the
diner with your family friend last week. I think I remember seeing the
truck parked out front. Is he a young, tall guy with dark brown hair?",
asked Kelly.


"That's him," I said.


"Well, if I don't see you again, professor, have a great rest of your
summer."


"You too, Kelly."


"And be careful of those bets," she said over her shoulder, as they
walked away. I heard the two of them crack up as they got halfway down
the block.



I resumed my scrubbing, my face roasting in the July sun and in my shame.


I learned from Brooke that Luke was far from a novice when it came to
being the dominant bull in a cuckold relationship. Before he met her,
when he was still in his late teens, Luke had bedded the wife of his
first boss, the owner of a local plumbing business in his mid-50s. The
wife, an attractive woman in her early 40s (a MILF, in Luke's words),
was the dominant partner in a female-led marriage who showed Luke the
ropes (literally and figuratively) when it came to dominating a
submissive cuckold husband. An eager student, Luke readily embraced the
tried and true traditions of such a relationship: tying his boss up and
forcing him to watch him have sex with his wife; forcing the man to fluff
him first and clean his mess out of his wife afterwards; having the older
man serve as his lackey at the couple's home (and eventually even at the
man's business); making his boss massage and worship his feet;
ultimately compelling him to wear feminine clothing and a chastity cage,
etc. Sort of a greatest hits compilation of cuckold humiliation. That's
one thing about these types of relationships: since there are limits to
what can realistically be done to the cuckold, a certain degree of
repetitivenesses is inevitable. For better or worse, however -- just as
he utilized new, cutting edge technologies to more efficiently run his
business -- Luke proved to be quite the innovator in his methods of
tormenting me. But he played the greatest hits album for me (and Brooke)
as well -- on repeat.


Some of the more creative varieties of humiliation he subjected me to
were quite public in nature, but they evolved over time.


With Brooke advocating on my behalf, I was able to negotiate -- well,
perhaps negotiate isn't exactly the right word, as I was on my knees,
massaging his feet, during this discussion -- some early, minor
concessions from Luke when it came to public displays of my emasculation.
From the start, he was very big on establishing that there was only one
man of the house. One man, one woman and one "fairy cuck," his
preferred moniker for me. Nevertheless, we were able to persuade him
that, as a professor in the college around which the town revolved, I had
a certain standing in the community that would be endangered, or at a
minimum greatly complicated, by me being seen in public dressed as a
woman or performing other over-the-top acts of submission. He and Brooke
both thought my encounter with Kelly and her boyfriend was "funny as
hell," but she was able to make him see how too much of that sort of
thing had the potential to damage my career and livelihood. Given his
contempt for higher education, I'm sure he didn't give a damn about my
career per se. Brooke maintaining her financial independence from him was
part of the arrangement, however, so my income mattered.


One of the concessions Luke agreed to early on, when the contractors were
still finishing up their work in our house, was to not require me to wear
only panties, pantyhose or translucent, footed tights during the day
while the men were walking in and out of the living room, where I was
usually at my desk writing. Instead, I was permitted to wear
nylon/spandex yoga pants and undersized T-shirts that at least covered my
belly button (or mostly). Don't get me wrong, these yoga pants were
still humiliating; they were very tight, my small erection and balls
clearly visible beneath the clingy fabric, and the colors Brooke
purchased included white, lavender, turquoise and pink. But at least they
weren't sheer and footed. Rather, I was required to be barefoot, my
nails painted various shades (sometimes matching the color of my yoga
pants). I liked to tell myself that perhaps the workers or delivery
people who saw me thought I was wearing compression tights for some
health reason or perhaps believed I was a serious yoga practitioner or
something. But deep down, I knew that wasn't the case. I got some real
stares (and snickers) from the young tradesmen, who must've thought I
was a freak. I'm sure they also took note of the fact that I was dressed
quite differently after Luke came onto the scene than before.


 I remember one afternoon when Ed brought in two young men who were
putting up drywall in the basement. They did a double take when they saw
Luke and Brooke sitting on the couch kissing, while I, dressed in white
yoga pants and a pink T-shirt, knelt near their feet strenuously buffing
Luke's work boots. He, of course, was wearing his boots at the time and
had propped one of them on top of the cedar shoe shine kit that he had
ordered me to purchase that first time he spent the night. The men
chuckled openly at the sight. When I briefly caught Ed's eye, I saw him
shaking his head almost imperceptibly and frowning. It was a relatively
small, tight knit community of workers who refurbished houses in the
area, and I have no doubt that Luke had developed a reputation among them
as a guy who ruthlessly took out the competition -- whether in business
or in the bedroom. Eliminate, then humiliate. Luke's motto.


While I was not forced to dress en femme in public -- running errands in
town or teaching classes -- I was compelled to integrate at least one
feminine element into my daily attire (besides my obligatory
undergarments, of course), such as unisex pants that ended mid calf,
socks with a lace trim, women's sneakers, bracelets and/or necklaces,
women's T-shirts with short sleeves, subtle makeup, etc. Luke even had a
chart to keep track of my attire: "Wednesday: white lace panties with
bows, white lace socks;" "Thursday: lime green nylon panties, Cuban
heeled ankle boots," etc. He and/or Brooke would inspect my attire
before I left the house. In class, in particular, I was acutely
self-conscious and always imagined students (or colleagues) zeroing in on
the accessory or article of clothing in question. Actually, I shouldn't
say "imagined;" I'm sure they noticed. I saw their smirks and eye
rolls, their exchanges of knowing smiles; I heard their titters. The
clothes became increasingly feminine the more weight I lost. Wouldn't
the opposite have been the right incentive system? No matter, the canings
ultimately did the trick.


Not wanting to get ahead of myself, I will save for later the account of
how I became the first professor in the United States (or, to my
knowledge, anywhere in the world) to lecture my class dressed as a sissy
maid (this didn't happen until I reached my present weight of 165
pounds, starting just six months ago).


Long before the maid uniform came the chastity cage, a birthday present
from Luke  to Brooke, along with 14 karat gold ankle chain to hold one of
my keys. Luke, naturally, kept the other key.


After the renovations were finished, the new room in the basement became
my de facto bedroom when Luke was around. The room was quite small and
spartan, with a single bed and small dresser. At least I had a half
bathroom down there (I showered in the first floor bathroom). Luke and
Brooke texted me whenever they needed anything, day or night. My frequent
trips up and down two flights of stairs, fetching snacks or drinks or
whatever else they wanted, played its part in my ultimate weight loss.
Occasionally, I was permitted to sleep on the floor of my
former/part-time bedroom, like a dog, at the foot of the king size bed
where Luke and Brooke slept comfortably. Sleeping on the floor did not
agree with my back, however, so I didn't look forward to those nights.


Next to my bedroom downstairs, we had put in a small gym, with a
treadmill, a stationary bike and a weight bench. The three of us got into
a routine of working out together twice a week. Luke entertained Brooke
by playing the part of my sadistic personal trainer. As I ran on the
treadmill, usually wearing only a pair of sheer, footed tights, Luke
would spur me on with slashes of the riding crop he bought for the
purpose across my buttocks or back. Mixed in with the timed sprints on
the treadmill (at different elevations and speeds of Luke's choosing)
were squats, deep knee bends, sit-ups, push-ups, jumping jacks and high
steps, all with the relentless encouragement of Luke's crop on my
backside. Like any good trainer he also peppered me with motivational
words: "Look alive, fat boy!", "Move that fat ass now, if you want to
keep it!" Brooke was most amused when Luke, using rare double entendre,
would conjure Jane Fonda from her old aerobics videos and tell me, "Feel
the burn, butterball" as he struck my buttocks with the crop (how the
two of them were familiar with these ancient videos was a mystery to me
-- probably some nostalgic repost on TikTok, I suppose). My tights were
invariably soaked in sweat at the conclusion of these sessions.


But life at our modest home in town was only part of the story after
Luke's arrival on the scene. There was also life at Luke's 6,000 square
foot McMansion in the country. The fun for me never ended.


I didn't keep careful track, but looking back over the last three years,
I would say that Luke slept in the same bed as Brooke about 70% of the
time on average. Of that 70%, two thirds of the time was spent at our
house in town and one third at Luke's, especially during the summers so
we could spend time in his huge back yard and large inground pool. My
favorite times, of course, were the 30% when he was not around, as back
in the early days of our marriage. These were when Luke was traveling on
business (scouting out potential acquisitions, meeting with investors or
simply managing his growing empire) or for away games with his amateur
football team. And there were other periods where Brooke wanted to put
some distance between them, usually after Luke pushed the envelope a bit
too far in exerting his physical dominance over her in non sexual
contexts. To his credit, I suppose, Luke always honored the spirit of
their agreement, backing off when she told him to, and he never seriously
hurt her. He never sent me to the hospital either, but made minced meat
out of my bottom on numerous occasions (and once hit my balls so hard
with a wooden spoon that I thought I might have to go, but I weathered
the storm).


But after those intervals when she wanted him to stay away for awhile,
Brooke invariably wanted him back, usually with renewed hunger. Luke, or
perhaps more accurately, his cock, was like a drug to her, and she was a
junkie. He always wanted to be back with her as well, after these periods
of separation -- and, no doubt, to be back lording it over me -- but that
didn't mean he wouldn't sometimes make her beg for it. I remember one
day, after one of their longest periods of not seeing one another (about
two weeks -- prompted by him spanking her particularly brutally following
an argument over politics), I came into the house after teaching all day
to find Brooke naked and on her knees, vehemently sucking Luke's big toe
from where he sat imperiously on the couch. She had been imploring him to
come back for about a week and he had been playing hard to get.
Increasingly desperate, she had been highly distraught for several days,
and very short tempered with me.


So now he was really making her humble herself before him. It pained me
to see it, but I knew she at least was happy that he was back. He simply
looked up at me from the couch with a malicious grin, and pointed down at
his other foot. I knew what that meant. I quickly took off my coat,
pants, socks, and shirt, and knelt down in front of his other foot,
wearing only my panties. I removed his boot, stuck my nose in it and
inhaled deeply (as I had been taught), removed his sock, and began
sucking his other big toe with the same abject enthusiasm being shown by
my wife. The king was back in control again. How good it must've felt to
him to have his two lowly subjects abase themselves at his royal feet.


Savoring the moment, he kept us both there, sucking abjectly, for 20
minutes before he finally said, "OK, babe, I guess you really did miss
big Luke. Let's go upstairs. You too, prof."


Brooke removed her lips from his soaking wet toe and, with tears in her
eyes (whether of joy, relief, humiliation, or some combination of the
above, I couldn't say for sure), said "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."


Once we were upstairs, Luke said to Brooke, "Babe, I have another one of
my brilliant ideas. In the future, if I'm punishing you for something,
something outside of the bedroom, and you don't like it, why don't you
tell me and I'll punish the cuck here, instead? Sort of like your
whipping boy. Didn't they have whipping boys back in the olden days
you're always writing about, prof?"


"The evidence is a little mixed, sir, and historians disagree about
whether or not whipping boys, and whipping girls for that matter, really
existed or not. The first mention of a whipping boy came in 1605 in
Samuel Rowley's play `When You See Me, You Know Me.' After that, they
were quite frequently mentioned in literature. But there are a couple of
historical references to them as well. I tend to be of the school of
thought that they were very real, indeed. At a minimum, in Eastern
monarchies, but I tend to think in Europe as well."



"Way too much fucking information, prof. I'm not one of your loser
students. `School of thought.' What bullshit! So, what do you think of
my idea, babe?"


"Yes, I think that could work. I don't want to be apart from you for so
long again. Please, just fuck me now."


"Now wait just a minute, babe. Let's get into the proper mood first. I
just know your whipping boy here shares your woke, bleeding heart beliefs
that we argued about last time. So, he's going to take the punishment
for you that I didn't get to finish last time. I know seeing that will
get you nice and randy, too. Kill two birds with one stone."


"I'm randy already, sir, believe me. Please just let take me now. I've
been waiting SO long."


"Now, now, a little more waiting isn't gonna kill you. Boy, put on your
white tights and fetch that new thin cane I hung downstairs awhile back.
Time we finally try it out."


"Yes, sir." I pulled out my tights from the bottom dresser drawer
changed right in front of them, feeling my cock stiffen. I then ran
downstairs and retrieved the cane. When I got back up to the bedroom, I
presented it to Luke in the manner in which I had been taught: on bended
knee before him, head bowed, and arms extended, holding the cane flat on
my upturned palms.


He took a key off the key chain in his pocket, and handed it to me. "You
may remove your chastity cage, cuck. I know your wife enjoys seeing your
little cock get hard when I beat your ass."


After I removed it and handed him back the key, Luke said, "Okay, tights
boy, stand up, bend over and touch your toes."


"Yes, sir."


Luke swished the supple cane in the air three times, standing next to me.
He said to Brooke, "Time to tune in for the latest episode of the
Misadventures of Tightsboy, the most pathetic superhero in history. Go
ahead and touch yourself, babe. You know you love watching me put your
loser, libtard husband in his place."


Luke tapped the cane against my buttocks a few times. This honestly was
the most erotic part for me; my humiliating position, completely at
Luke's mercy, knowing that Brooke was watching, excited, expectant. I
knew from experience that once the punishment began, what was arousing a
moment ago quickly turned into pure agony. I was rock hard, but they
couldn't see my erection the way I was bent over. I looked across Brooke
sitting on the bed and she indeed was fingering herself. I kept bracing
myself for the first cut, but Luke made me wait for it, the cane resting
motionlessly on my bottom for about 90 seconds. The room was silent,
except for my heart beating and the barely audible sound of Brooke
rubbing skin against skin. Then, in a flash, Luke struck.


The bite of this new, thinner cane was searing. To keep my mind off the
pain, I tried to envision myself in a royal court, the King, Queen and
errant teenage prince looking on, along with many other noblemen, women
and their children, enjoying the spectacle of delicious injustice of the
whipping boy suffering for his prince's misdeeds. It was a vivid picture
I had in my head, but it was insufficient to distract me from the
intensity of the pain.


After the second stroke, Luke pulled down my tights to my knees. It was a
totally superfluous action, as they offered no protection whatsoever from
the sting. Luke swished the cane again before delivering the third and
fourth strokes. I reflexively lifted my right leg up after the fourth. He
then made me wait again, rubbing the cane along the welts that were no
doubt already forming on my bottom. I heard Brooke moan softly as she
continued to pleasure herself.


Abruptly, with incredible swiftness and ferocity, Luke struck again.


"If you're so smart, prof, how come you're bent over getting your ass
beat while I'm up here -- someone who barely graduated high school --
dishing out the punishment? Makes you wonder who's really the smart one?
Doesn't it, babe?"


"You're the smart one, baby. No question," Brooke said between her
soft moans.


"And what about you, Professor? Who do you think is the smart one is
between us?"


"All the evidence would suggest you are, sir," I replied, trying to
hold back my tears.


And then came the sixth stroke. Luke did not announce how many he planned
to give me, and I began to panic.


"Sure looks that way," he said. "Rather than a bleeding heart, it
looks to me like you've got a bleeding ass." He laughed.


Then he delivered the seventh and eighth strokes in quick succession.


"Mercy, sir," I said, bringing my leg up again. The tears were now
streaming down my face.


"Maybe someone in your position, PROFESSOR Rollins, might want to try
using the word master instead of sir. Or maybe sire; that's sir with an
e at the end, but it's more appropriate. I am your king, after all. I
think that would be the smart thing to do, if you really want me to show
you some mercy. You see, I'm not a bleeding heart. I am the opposite."


"Mercy, master. Sire. Please, I'm begging you."


"One more, for good measure."


With the 10th stroke, I fell to my knees. When I finally was able to
compose myself somewhat, I got down on my belly and began kissing Luke's
bare feet.


"Thank you, sire, for showing your whipping boy mercy."


"You're not my whipping boy, prof. You're your wife's. You're my
slave. Now wipe the blood off your ass, pull up your tights and then
stand in the corner. Face the wall. You don't get to watch this time."
He then turned to Brooke on the bed and said, "OK, wench, your wait is
finally over. Turn around, bend over and spread your cheeks."


"Yes, sir, thank you sir."


For the next 45 minutes, I listened to my king take my lady. The moans,
the slaps, the whimpering, the groaning, the yelps, the begging. I had
never heard Brooke so vocal before, and had to use my imagination to
envision exactly what was happening behind me. My ass was on fire, but
before too long, my cock began to harden again.


When it was finally over, I had to guess that Brooke had climaxed at
least twice, maybe three times.


Luke said to me, "You can turn around now. How's your ass feeling?"


"It's extraordinarily painful, master."


"Good. I guess that new cane works pretty well, huh? Look at his little
cock, babe. I guess he gets off on the pain. Pathetic. Get on your knees
and clean this mess off my cock."


I crawled over to him on my knees, and began my humiliating task. I had
done this once before. Brooke had warned me in advance that this demand
would be forthcoming. I'd expressed concerns about getting AIDs or some
other STD, but she assured me that Luke no longer slept around with too
many women besides her, and that when he did, he always used a condom.
She said she believed him and expected me to as well. Who was I to
question the trust that my lady had placed in someone?


I was repulsed as I licked up Luke's semen off his cock, which was still
impressively large, despite his recent, copious ejaculation. After I
finished licking him clean, he ordered me to lick Brooke clean as well.
This took some time as there were multiple parts of her anatomy involved.
He reclined next to her on the bed, reading his iPhone, as I worked. I
saw red blotches and marks all over her body, her breasts, neck, back and
ass. Even her face. But also on her face, was her bright dimpled smile.


"I'm so happy our little family is back together again," she sighed
contentedly.

Brooke was always sexually submissive to Luke, but I noticed a subtle yet
distinct shift in the dynamics of their relationship after that day. As
much as he enjoyed having sex with her, it was clear that she was more
sexually dependent upon on him than the other way around. Brooke became
increasingly reluctant to distance herself from Luke, even when he did
things to her that crossed the line, fearful that doing so might again
lead to a protracted period of separation-- or, worse yet, that he might
choose to end the arrangement altogether. I actually believed (and still
believe today) the likelihood of him ending things with her to be very,
very low (he had things far too good to put an end to it, his ex-wife
basically his sex toy and her new husband basically his slave). Luke
being Luke, however, he pressed his advantage, of course. He did this
primarily by humiliating Brooke more frequently and intensely and by
increasingly exerting his control over her outside of the purely sexual
domain. So by extension, of course, he humiliated me more and controlled
me in more and more areas of life.


Take, for example, football.


One afternoon in early September, about six months after Luke's invasion
began, Brooke and I were alone together in the house, while Luke was out
supervising a big plumbing job in a school in the next county. I looked
up from my desk to see Brooke come down the stairs dressed in a short
cheerleader's uniform, with pom poms. It was blue and white, showed a
bit of her midriff, and had the word "Daddy" printed across the bosom
in big white letters.


"What do you think?", she asked me.


"I think you look incredibly sexy. Probably the sexiest cheerleader
I've ever seen. But you're one of the last women on earth who I'd ever
expect to want to dress as a cheerleader. So, it's a little strange, to
be honest."


"Yeah, most of the cheerleaders I knew in high school were total bimbos.
And I've always thought the whole concept of cheerleaders -- the way
they dress, the super short skirts like this and so forth -- is just
another kind of institutionalized exploitation of women. All these
hypocritical, uptight Christian men (and probably some of the women, for
that matter) have no problem getting their jollies by looking up
cheerleaders' skirts or at their bouncing tits when they jump around.
Even as they preach to the rest of us about modesty and morality."


"So why are you dressed this way? Not that I'm complaining."


"Because Luke's football season starts on Saturday, and he said he
wants to be cheered on."


"I've never really liked football. I've always found it a little
barbaric for my tastes."


"I completely agree. You know me, I'm not that big into sports in
general. And football seems to be especially violent. All those traumatic
head injuries and everything."


"Did you ever dress up this way for him when you were married?"


"Once or twice, but I always resisted it. I felt it was demeaning."


"So what changed?"


"Maybe I've lightened up a bit. Or maybe it's because I know now that,
since we're no longer married, it's easier for me to tell him to shove
these pom poms up his ass, if I really want to."


"But you don't want to."



"Is that a question or a comment?"


"Either. A question, I guess."


"A part of me does. But part of me just wants to keep him happy. I'm
gonna try to have some fun with it. And you are too."


I really took no special notice of her last remark; I simply thought she
meant that I would enjoy watching her in her skimpy little uniform. Which
I'm sure I would. When I went upstairs to the bedroom about an hour
later, however, she followed me. Laid out on the bedspread was a matching
uniform to what Brooke was wearing, except in pink and white, along with
two matching pom poms.


I turned to look at her, and she had a huge grin on her face.


"You don't really expect me to wear this, do you?"


"I absolutely do. Put it on now. I ordered the largest size they have
and I want to see if it fits."


I stripped down to my panties and put on the uniform. It was snug, but it
fit. I felt beyond ridiculous.


Brooke giggled. "Now pick up the pom poms and give me a cheer."


"Rah rah," I said lamely and without enthusiasm, waving the two large
pom poms in the air.


Laughing, she said, "Well, you definitely need a lot of work.
Fortunately, I found some great how-to videos on YouTube. It's amazing
how you can find anything on YouTube these days, isn't it? Come on,
let's go downstairs and watch some of them on the TV. We have at least
two hours to practice before he gets home."


"Do I really have to do this, Brooke? I'm sure he doesn't want to see
me dressed in this little uniform. He wants to see you, not me. Look at
my stomach."


Patting my stomach with her hand and speaking mockingly, she said, "Poor
baby. I know you're sensitive about your belly fat. But you've lost
some weight. It's looking better. I think the sit-ups are starting to
have some positive effect, too."


"Not nearly enough."


"Look, Luke said he wanted both of us to cheer him on, and both of us
are. I picked out the uniform with the least visible midriff that was
available. I did that for you. Besides, you're lucky, you only have to
dress up this way at home. He's going to expect me to wear a
cheerleading uniform to all of the home games as well. You'll be
cheering there too, just not in uniform. But before he leaves for any
away game and anytime he gets back from a game, win or lose, you're
gonna put on this uniform and cheer right next to me. Got it?", she said
firmly.


"Yes, miss."


"Great, now let's go practice. It will be good exercise for you too."


I felt more ridiculous wearing that uniform than in just about anything
else I had worn so far, including the speedo and cuckold T-shirt, or even
panties and tights. Nevertheless, I watched the how-to videos with Brooke
and we rehearsed several different cheers.


On Saturday, when Luke was putting on his football uniform in the
upstairs bedroom, Brooke and I changed into our uniforms in the basement
and were ready to greet him in the living room when he came downstairs
with the following cheer:


Stronger than steel (clap, clap)

Hotter than the sun;

Luke won't stop (clap, clap)

Till he gets the job done.


We then picked up and waved our pom poms and yelled in unison, "Go,
Luke, go!"


He laughed and said "Babe, I told you that you'd look smokin hot in
that uniform." He walked up to her, reached up under her skirt and
cupped her right buttock with his large hand, kissing her. She swooned
over him like a high school girl being kissed by the star quarterback.
Turning to me, he said, "And I've never seen a more ridiculous sight in
my entire life than you, prof, wearing that uniform. It's fucking
hilarious. I expect to see you in it a lot."


"Yes, sir."


The game was a couple of hours drive away so Brooke and I didn't attend
that particular one. When Luke got home that evening, we greeted him at
the door with the same cheer, but it was clear as soon as we saw him that
he wasn't happy.


"We lost, 6-3. Our defense totally shut them down. They only scored two
lousy field goals. You should've seen a couple of my open field tackles.
But our quarterback totally sucks. He couldn't get shit going on
offense. I told our coach, he's got to bench him and go with our second
string quarterback next game. It was a fucking disaster."


Brooke said, "I'm sorry, babe. But wouldn't our cheer cheer you up?"


Already starting to undress, Luke said, "Save it. What WOULD cheer me up
is if I get to fuck the pretty cheerleader while the fat, butt ugly one
cleans my cleats and washes my jock strap."


Luke removed his jock strap and threw it at my face, "Here, you can hand
wash my jock with some mild detergent later. First, get an old toothbrush
and clean my cleats on your knees next to the bed while I take out my
aggressions on your wife's pussy and ass."


"Yes, sir."


Luke was now naked and fully erect, his uniform and cleats in a pile at
his feet. Looking at his cock, Brooke said, "Now that's really
something to cheer about."


"Bring my dirty clothes and cleats upstairs, along with a bucket of
water with some mild soap and a roll of duct tape. You do know what that
is, don't you?," he said to me.


"Yes, sir."


"I'm surprised."


After I had gathered all of the required materials, and we were all
upstairs, Luke commanded, "Scrub my cleats carefully with the brush and
soap. I expect them to be clean enough to eat off them. In fact, the way
I'm feeling, I'm thinking of having you eat dinner off them and then
clean them again. I stepped on some dog shit out on the field, so you
better clean them well, cuck."


"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."


So upstairs, still wearing the ridiculous uniform, I scrubbed Luke's
cleats with the toothbrush as I watched him manhandle Brooke. He first
threw her onto the bed, and roughly removed all of her clothing except
for her ankle socks. She had put her hair into two pigtails for the
cheerleader look, and he pulled her by her pigtails up to his huge cock,
forcing her to suck it. He then abruptly pulled her off, and shoved her
nose into his right armpit. The sweat from the game had largely dried, I
imagine, but it was a warm fall night and I could see a faint sheen of
fresh sweat on Luke's muscular torso; his armpits couldn't have smelled
good. Nevertheless, Brooke nuzzled her face into his pit and inhaled
greedily, sighing. Gripping her ponytail, he then pulled her back onto
his cock. He alternated back and forth several more times between cock
and both armpits. The second time he pulled her up to his right armpit,
he said simply, "Lick." She obediently did as commanded, and didn't
have to be told to lick the left one when he pulled her up to that one, a
few minutes later.


I had licked rivulets of sweat off Brooke's smooth armpits and had
smelled them before, even after she worked out. It was, without a doubt,
erotic. But watching her lick Luke's hairy, sweaty armpit disgusted me.
Or did it? My cock throbbed painfully in its cage watching this scene
unfold, hyper conscious of the utter shame of the position in which I
found myself. There was indeed dog shit on the bottom of his right cleat,
and I worked hard to remove every trace of it (wondering if he was really
going to follow through on his threat to make me eat off the bottom of
his shoe).


"How are you coming with my shoes, cuck?"


"I've cleaned them multiple times, and I believe I've gotten all of
the grass stains and poop off of your cleats, sir."


I heard Brooke laugh as Luke said, "You better have, for your sake. But
you can't clean the inside of a shoe, can you?"


"No, sir." When I had lifted his cleats off the floor to bring them
upstairs, I felt the inside still moist with sweat from the game. They
were far from new, and the smell certainly wasn't pleasant as I scrubbed
them clean.


Luke, with his typical abruptness and ferocity, lifted Brooke or up off
the bed, and put her back down on it on her hands and knees. He swatted
her bottom sharply with his hand, saying "Spread your cheeks with your
fingers, keep your ass up in the air and don't move. I'll be right
back."


To me, he said, "You're in luck, cuck. You're going to get to watch
today. Sit down in that chair." He shoved me onto the chair. He then
picked up one of his cleats along with the duct tape on the floor and
quickly placed his shoe directly over my nose, wrapping it in place twice
tightly with the tape. The tape was in my hair at the back of my head and
it hurt like hell when Luke ripped it off later, after he was finished
pummeling my beloved Brooke. Meanwhile, he ordered me to put my wrists
together and tightly wrapped them with the tape as well.


The odor of his foot sweat was overpowering, but that was my immersive
sensory experience for the next 30 minutes or so. That, and watching him
roughly penetrate all three of Brooke's orifices. On this occasion, as
he took her anally, he placed his foot not on her face (as he did first
time I saw him take her) but rather right next to her face.


"Lick my big toe, slut." And so Brooke began licking it, between her
moans. He next made her kneel before him, and using her pigtails as
grips, forced her to suck her own anal secretions off his cock. He next
threw her back onto the bed, slapped her face a few times and roughly
pinched her nipples, as he took her vaginally. Brooke was
characteristically vocal (sounds rather than words for the most part,
except for the occasional "Yes, baby," "Softer, no harder" "Please,
baby" and "Yes, I'm your dirty little slut"), again experiencing
multiple orgasms. He finished by ejaculating all over her face. I
resented his mistreatment of her, and imagined myself wrapping my bound
hands around his neck and yanking him off her from behind before pounding
his face with my bound fists. What can I say, I have a vivid
imagination...That's probably one of the key reasons I became a
literature professor focused on medieval legend.


After pulling the sneaker off my face (I screamed when my hair was
pulled), he said, "Time for you to kiss your wife, cuck." I kissed her
on the lips, through Luke's  reservoir of semen, repulsed but
nonetheless hard against the confines of my chastity cage.


Brooke and Luke showered together. I too was permitted to shower (which
was not always the case after I cleaned them, but I still had to prepare
and serve dinner). Luke insisted that I put back on my cheerleader
uniform to serve them. I made veggie and cheese omelettes and a salad,
and stood at attention tableside, as usual, as they ate, dressed like
some dirty old man's idea of a fetishized waitress.


After they finished, Luke did indeed compel me use his cleat as my plate
as I ate my omelette. The two of them watched me with amusement. When I
picked up my knife and fork, Luke said, "Whoa there, prof, I'd rethink
that if I were you. You want to damage my cleats? Are you stupid? Use
your hands."


"Yes, sir. I wasn't thinking, sir." I began pulling the egg up and
eating it, but when I finished there were still bits of egg around the
studs of his cleat. When I got up to take the cleat to the kitchen to
clean off the egg, Luke said, "That omelette was delicious, prof. We're
all members of the clean plate club, here. Lick it clean."


Deeply humiliated, I did as he commanded, with the two of them looking
on, laughing. The evening concluded with the three of us watching an
action movie on cable, with Luke using my back as a foot rest. We had all
changed into our sleep clothes (Luke into a pair of boxers, Brooke into
panties and a T-shirt, and me into a pair of sheer gray tights). At one
point, they requested popcorn. After I served them, Luke told me I could
get myself a bowl. I thought with relief that perhaps his foul mood had
finally lifted.


But he then ordered me to place the bowl on the floor at his feet and
then fed me kernels between his toes. Brooke looked at him, giggling, and
said, "You're terrible," before kissing him passionately.


"That's me, Luke the Terrible."


I found myself wishing fervently that Luke's team went the rest of the
season undefeated.


Brooke made it clear to me from the first day Luke showed up at our house
that the thought of him dominating, punishing and humiliating me turned
her on -- a lot. It certainly did not surprise me to hear her say that.
Being a scholar, as I was, of ritualized shaming and humiliation in
literature and history, I had long been aware of the strong sexual
undercurrents involved in men dominating other men. Throughout history,
the explicit purpose of such domination has often been to impress,
seduce, or outright conquer women; but even when that was not the primary
purpose, it was often a meaningful side effect. A very welcome one for
the victor; not only does he defeat his rival, he wins the attention,
admiration and allegiance of women for having done so, frequently in
direct proportion to the level of ruthlessness he used to prevail.
Indeed, there is a very primal quality to it, going back to the basic
laws of the jungle. However, these power dynamics become much more
interesting, complex and unpredictable within the context of human
society.


In society -- ostensibly civilized, but usually less so than meets the
eye -- superior physical strength is often not enough for one male to
prevail over another. Intelligence, class, race, wealth, education,
political power, and many other factors come into play. In the history of
society, it has not always been the case that the physically stronger
male triumphs over the physically weaker ones, like a dominant silverback
gorilla expelling his weaker rivals from the troop. Far from it, in fact.
In society, it is often the wealthier, better educated men who dominate
the poorer, less educated ones, even though the latter tend to be
stronger physically because their sustenance is dependent upon manual
labor.


That was even true in the classic courtly love triangle, in which the
physically strongest member of the threesome, the knight-- stronger
obviously than the lady to whom he pledged fealty, but also stronger than
her husband, a (usually older) nobleman of superior social standing --
was also the least powerful of the three in every respect outside of the
purely physical. In courtly love literature, the beloved's husband was
often humorously portrayed as older, boring, lacking in charm or physical
attractiveness, and also oblivious to the relationship between his wife
and her adoring knight. This concept was referred to as "courtly
cuckoldry" (even though the vast majority of knights and their ladies
never consummated their relationships). However, it is important to note
that the relationship between the knight and his beloved was fraught with
danger (particularly for the knight) and had to be kept secret. If
discovered by the noble husband, it might be problematic for the lady,
but it could be absolutely devastating (even lethal) for the knight due
the social power wielded by the husband.


The chivalric love triangle is quite different, obviously, than most of
the varieties of cuckold relationships that followed in history,
including up to the present day. Including up to my relationship with
Brooke and Luke. There are so many intriguing twists and turns these
relationships can take, and the power dynamics are often inverted. I
think this is what makes cuckolding relationships so interesting, what
makes cuckoldry the so-called intellectual fetish. In most cuckolding
relationships, of course, physical prowess does indeed matter. One thinks
of D.H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterley`s Lover  in which a young married
woman, Connie, has a passionate affair with Mellors, the gamekeeper on
her upper class baronet husband's estate, because her husband, Clifford,
is paralyzed from the waist down and unable to satisfy her sexually.


In Lawrence's novel, there is a clear inversion of power of sorts, in
which the servant, the gamekeeper, becomes the master in the bedroom. And
his mastery is largely due to his physical superiority (Connie thinks of
Mellors' "lordly" and "proud" penis, for example). Poor Clifford,
meanwhile, regresses almost into a state of infantilism in his relations
with his nurse, Mrs. Bolton (paradoxically, as his power as an
industrialist grows). There are many other accounts of cuckoldry, in both
fiction and nonfiction, in which power relationships are inverted, and
humiliation usually figures prominently. Servants cuckolding their
masters, employees cuckolding their bosses, politicians cuckolding their
political rivals, plumbers who barely graduated high school cuckolding
college professors with PhDs from Ivy League universities...the list goes
on and on. You get the picture.


As in Lady Chatterley`s Lover (until the end of the novel, at least),
the husband is often clueless that his wife is being unfaithful. However,
in many cases, both real and fictional, the cuckold is all too aware of
the relationship between his wife and her lover(s). While there have
undoubtedly been occasions in which the cuckold's knowing participation
in the relationship is completely nonconsensual (in cases of blackmail or
extortion, for example), most of the time he is consenting, at least to
some extent. This can run the gamut from the voyeuristic man who simply
gets a sexual thrill from watching his wife having sex with other men and
may not find it humiliating in the least; to the man who may no longer
enjoy sex with his wife, and does not wish to unfairly deprive her of
sexual gratification; to the man who is in such a relationship under
duress, fearful that he will lose his wife if he does not consent, and
who therefore is willing to endure the accompanying humiliation; to
relationships in which the cuckold is a virtual slave to his wife and her
lover, and humiliation is his daily bread and butter. I'll leave it to
you, gentle reader, to determine which of the above best describes me.


As I explained previously, part of my new book focuses on the present
resurgence of interest in cuckoldry, one that rivals, if not surpasses
that of medieval times. It is really quite remarkable. Our contemporary
fascination with cuckoldry has certainly been fueled by the Internet, as
there are now an enormous (and seemingly ever expanding) number of
cuckold forums and cuckold erotica sites. Many of these sites focus on
the darker side of cuckolding, in which the cuckold's emasculation,
subjugation and even enslavement is featured. My thesis is that this
resurgence of interest cuckoldry goes hand-in-hand with concomitant
increases in masochism and in sadism in contemporary society, two
separate but interconnected phenomena. I also argue that some of the
cuckold erotica now being published online at places like the free
fiction website Literotica, the transgender fiction archive Fictionmania,
and on subreddit communities such cuck_femdom_tales on the social
network, Reddit, are of sufficient quality that they are worthy of
serious literary critical analysis.


I also analyze the homoerotic aspects of cuckolding, a complex subject.
There are no doubt some cuckolds and some bulls who are simply repressed
homosexuals, who somehow view this type of relationship (in which a woman
is shared) to be more socially acceptable or more acceptable to their own
sense of identity than a straightforward homosexual relationship.
However, speaking from my own experience as a submissive cuckold, I
believe that much of the eroticism derives from the sadism of the bull,
the masochism of the cuckold and, crucially, the effect the relationship
between the two has upon the woman. Although I believe that there is some
truth to the notion that everyone is bisexual to greater or lesser
degrees, I think a majority of people are probably 70-80% or more
attracted to the opposite sex. I view these people as essentially
heterosexual. I always thought of myself as being in that category (and
still do).


However, I cannot deny that I now grow aroused when submitting to
Luke--including fluffing him, being punished by him, even worshipping his
feet. I believe that this has more to do with the effect my submission
has on Brooke (her undisguised arousal), and with my intrinsic masochism,
than it does with any pure sexual interest in Luke. I am aroused by both
the thought and the fact of Brooke's arousal, and if my submission to
Luke is the cause of it, or enhances it, that alone makes it arousing to
me to submit to him a sexual way. And there have been a few occasions
when Luke has forced me to give him a blow job when Brooke was out. Or
once he made me hump the living room floor through my tights while
slashing my bottom with a riding crop (and lick up my semen oafterwards,
naturally). Was I still aroused? Yes, I was. Does this disprove my
theory? I don't believe so. Because I knew Brooke would have been
aroused if she knew of my submission to her lover, probably all the more
so if she I knew I was submitting to him even when she wasn't present (I
had little doubt that Luke told her). I was her submissive knight
fighting battles in her honor, willing to emasculate myself for her like
Lancelot was for Guinevere. The big differences were that I never had
victories, only defeats and my battlefield was almost always in the
domestic realm, not on the jousting field. But Lancelot couldn't hold a
candle to me when it came to emasculating myself for my lady; I could
have schooled him in that department.


And what about Luke? I am quite sure that he has no fundamental sexual
attraction to me (or probably to most men, but how can I know for sure?).
Luke is a natural sadist. I'm entirely certain that he is aroused by the
effect his domination of me has on Brooke. But for Luke, it's
essentially all about control and power. That's what floats his boat,
whether who he is dominating is male, female, transgender, whatever. It
matters not to him. I'm sure he was completely untroubled by any thought
of the gayness of having me suck him off, as he was in the position of
power; I'm sure he would not have consented in a million years to being
the one on his knees (with me or any man -- or woman, for that matter. I
never once saw him go down on Brooke). Indeed, he called me "fag" as I
performed my act of submission.


I mentioned to you before Luke's insatiable desire to have his feet
pampered and worshiped. I had never had any attraction to men's feet
before, but I have to admit that for a man, especially an athlete,
Luke's feet were pleasing to the eye. His toes had a sculpted
appearance. And his his soles and heels were relatively smooth and
unblemished. Perhaps he is one of those men who treat themselves to
pedicures in professional nail salons. Honestly, however, I had a tough
time envisioning that or squaring that with his entire macho persona.
Nevertheless, once Brooke told him about my pedicure skills, he had no
problem with me giving him regular ones. In fact, he demanded it. That,
and much more.


Even before Luke entered the our lives, Brooke had taken to having me
compose poems celebrating her feet (one can only read Swinburne so many
times, after all) and recite them to her while massaging her feet on my
knees,. I love reading and studying poetry, but I'm a horrendous poet,
so I resisted at first. But I was incapable of refusing any demand of
Brooke's for long.


When Luke heard about this, he, of course, insisted I also compose poetry
to worship his feet. My first sad attempt:


My master's glorious feet

Are the instruments of my defeat

As he trods upon my unworthy face.


To smell his perfect toes

Now the sole purpose of my nose

As I genuflect before him.


Such intoxicating scents

Destroy my meager defense

As I try in vain to resist his power.


So, obediently I lie beneath

My master's majestic feet

Content in my enslavement.


Well, I warned you it sucked. But Luke seemed genuinely pleased. In fact,
he rewarded with me with a rare glass of wine -- a quite delicious
Willamette Valley Pinot Noir. Unfortunately, I had to suck at least half
of the glass from his toes.


Brooke looked as pleased as punch as the two of them walked off to the
bedroom, leaving me to finish the remainder of my glass alone.


Returning to teaching in the fall semester, I had been nervous about
possible repercussions from my student, Kelly, encountering me washing
Luke's truck in my driveway wearing a pink speedo and the cuckold horns
T-shirt over the summer break. I checked the enrollment list and noticed
that Kelly was indeed signed up for another one of my lecture classes,
Male Masochism in Medieval Romances, a new class. I was surprised to see
that the class was full; I had actually been concerned that it would be
dropped due to low enrollment, but apparently six new students had signed
up over the summer. On the opening day of class, I noticed Kelly sitting
in the front row, dressed in short shorts and a tight T-shirt.


I saw her whispering to another female student sitting next to her who I
didn't recognize, both of them smiling.


"Hi, Professor Rollins."


"Hi, Kelly. I hope you had a good summer."


"I did. It was too short, as always. How about you? I hope you didn't
lose any more bets," she said with a grin.


"No, I learned my lesson last time. No more betting on sports for me.
It's great to have you back in my class. It's really a full one."


"Yes, I might have had something to do with that. I love your classes so
much, I really talked you up to some of my friends."


"That's very nice of you. Thanks, Kelly,"


"Don't mention it. You've been losing weight, Professor Rollins. The
tighter pants look good on you. I like the silk scarf, too." She smiled.


"Thanks." I quickly turned away. I'm sure I was blushing deeply.
Brooke had picked out a purple silk scarf that she wrapped around my neck
that morning. Also, even though Brooke and Luke had recently brought me a
smaller chastity device, I was still concerned that the outline of it was
visible beneath my tighter pants. When I looked at myself in the mirror
that morning, I could definitely see it, but I think one would have to be
looking for it to really notice. But perhaps they were? I heard Kelly
giggling with her classmate behind me.


There were a total of ten students in the class, seven female and three
male. After I gave them an overview of the class and what they could
expect in the coming weeks, I asked them if they had any questions.


One of the male students -- a tall, slender junior who I had seen walking
the halls of the English building but who had not been in any of my
classes before -- said, "Professor, what are your qualifications for
teaching this class?"


I thought to myself, what nerve this current generation has. Never in a
million years would I have ever even thought of asking such a question of
one of my professors at Yale. Looking down at my class list, I said,
"Well, Mr. Betz, is it? I have been lecturing on medieval romantic
literature for nearly a decade and have published..."


"Excuse me, Professor," he interrupted, "but I wasn't asking about
your qualifications for teaching about medieval romantic literature. I
was asking about your qualifications for teaching about male masochism.
Do you have any first-hand experience?"


Kelly covered her mouth with her hand in an unsuccessful attempt to
restrain her laugh. Several other students also smiled and started
tittering.


I felt my face burning as I replied, "Well, it so happens that the book
I'm currently working on is partly about male masochism, but one does
not have to have first-hand experience with a subject to teach it. I have
never been a knight before, after all, yet I teach about courtly love."


"Well, you see Professor, I'm sort of a dominant guy myself, so I was
hoping to learn about masochism from a true expert in the field. And
I've always found that there's really no substitute for first-hand
experience."


I saw Kelly roll her eyes and and heard the girl next to her whisper to
her, "I can't believe he just said that."


"Well, Mr. Betz, I'm sure that if you apply yourself, you will learn
plenty about the subject. Class dismissed." I realized after I said it
that there were still 15 minutes left of the class. I was visibly
flustered.


I heard several students laughing and whispering to one another as they
left the classroom. Perhaps I was being paranoid, but it sure seemed to
me that the class was full of Kelly's friends, who she no doubt had
urged to enroll after catching me in the humiliating act of washing my
wife's lover's truck. I had lost control of my class -- a place where I
was usually in command, arguably the only place left where I was still in
command -- before I even really started it, and I was now going to be in
a position of weakness from the get go. I guess there was something
appropriate about that, given the subject matter. Mr. Betz and his
classmates were, in fact, going to be taught by a true authority in the
field. I felt my cock throb within its cage. It was going to be a long
semester...


I should've taken my experience in class that morning as an omen for
what was to come, as I was about to enter an increasingly public phase of
my humiliation. Luke was traveling on business, so that night Brooke and
I dined alone and were able to talk more freely than when in his
presence.


"Luke wants to meet some of our friends. He wants us to invite them over
for dinner," said Brooke.


"You know I don't really have too many friends."


"He's heard us talk about Neil Lawson. He wants you to invite him."


"Brooke, you know Neil is my colleague. I can't have him knowing what
goes on here. I'm having enough trouble at work as it is, thanks to
Luke."


"What do you mean?"


"You know that girl, Kelly, the one who saw me in the driveway. She's
in my new Male Masochism in Medieval Romances class. I thought they might
drop my class because there were so few students enrolled, but I think
she invited all of her friends and the class is now full. I think
they're all coming to laugh at the masochistic professor who washes his
wife's lover's car in a speedo. A pink one."


"Well, if that's the case, you owe Kelley a big thank you. When you
think about it, you owe Luke a big thank you, too. If he didn't make you
wash his truck, your class probably would've been canceled."


"I think I might've preferred that. It was humiliating today."


"Don't be silly. You were super excited about your new class. It fits
so well with the new book you're writing. You seem like you're having a
little writer's block, so you need all the inspiration you can get. Luke
is teaching you about masochism in ways reading old romantic poetry never
could. You're indebted to him. In more ways than one, when you really
think about it."


"First-hand experience," I laughed, somewhat bitterly.


"Exactly. No substitute."


I looked at her incredulously. It was almost almost as if she were
conspiring with my obnoxious new student, but I knew that wasn't
possible. Maybe they were both right. As usual, it was exceedingly
difficult for me to prevail in an argument with Brooke.


"What about you? I assume you're going to invite Michelle. I haven't
seen her in a while."


"Actually, Michelle and I haven't been talking for a few months. I
think I'll invite my friend Laura from the restaurant instead."


"What do you mean you haven't been talking to Michelle? She's your
oldest and best friend. What happened?"


"Look, Michelle and I have a complex relationship. We're good friends
but we've always been highly competitive, too. She's always been
jealous of me, because I almost always come out on top. Better grades,
won more awards in school. Beat her consistently at tennis. I'm even a
better chess player than her, although she's pretty good. The guys she
was interested in usually went for me instead. So we go through these
periods from time to time when she's pissed off with me and doesn't
want to talk to me. I'm not worried about about it. She'll come
crawling back. She always does."


"What set her off this time?"


"Luke, if you must know. She doesn't approve of me being with him
again, even in the new arrangement we have between the three of us. She
thinks it's bullshit. She says that I'm just asking for trouble. But I
think the truth of the matter is that she's just jealous again. You see,
she's the one who saw Luke for the first time when we were out together
at a bar. She thought he was really hot and asked me to go over to him
with her to chat him up, so that she could hook up with him. I was
supposed to be her wingman, or wingwoman, I guess. Well, he ended up
hooking up with me instead. And she was incredibly pissed off. She
didn't speak to me for months that time. She didn't even attend our
wedding. But she eventually got over it. Or, at least, I thought she had.
But maybe she never truly did. I think that's what's really going on
here. She's just jealous again."


"Wow, I had no idea."


"Our relationship is even more complicated than that. Back in high
school, we both kind of experimented with each other, if you know what I
mean."


"You mean kissing each other? That sort of thing."


"Yes, kissing and more. We went down on each other a few times. Or, I
should say that she went down on me several times. I tried it once on
her, but I didn't really like it very much. I think she still resents me
for that too, to be honest with you."


"You mean she resents that you didn't reciprocate?"


"Yes, I think so. I thought she had gotten over that too. But maybe not.
Anyhow, like I said, I'm not too worried about it. She'll be back. So
you need to invite Neil for dinner next weekend, and I'll invite
Laura."


"He can't humiliate me in front of my work colleague.


"Of course, he will. You know that."


"Oh, my god." I put my hands over my eyes.


"It won't be THAT bad. I've already talked to him about it. You're
going to have to prepare the meal and dress as a waiter, sort of like you
did the first time Luke had dinner with us. But you won't have to dress
in anything feminine, or at least not overtly so. You'll have to serve
the food, but you can sit at the table with the rest of us."


"How generous of him."


"Hey, I advocated for you! It could be a lot worse."


She was right. It could. It probably would.


"Now, clean up the table and meet me upstairs. I've been missing that
tongue of yours."


Brooke and I really had a wonderful time together that night. It
reminiscent of the best of the pre-Luke days. After I went down on her,
she unlocked me -- after much teasing, pleading and foot kissing-- and
gave me a hand job with her stocking-clad feet pressed up against my
face. My pathetic poem aside, it was not the scent of Luke's feet I
found intoxicating, it was the flawless feet of my lady.


Afterwards, we gave each other a pedicure, cuddled and watched a movie
before spooning in bed as we slept through the night.


Although we had had other nights like that when Luke was away for awhile,
that one was particularly sweet. Looking back today, two years later, it
almost seems like that night was the eye of the storm. When the back end
of it hit, it hit fiercely, a category 5 hurricane. The only problem with
my analogy is that it's still hitting at full force, leaving a growing
path of destruction in its wake. Will this storm ever end?


At my weekly weigh-in on Saturday morning, the day of the dinner party, I
was alarmed to discover that I had gained 1 pound. It didn't matter that
I had already lost nearly 15 pounds. Each week was a new one with respect
to my weight loss target. A 1 pound gain meant 12 strokes of the strap or
cane. I had a lot of work to do cleaning the house and then preparing
that evening's meal, and really dreaded doing it after 12 cuts of the
cane from Luke; in addition, I would barely be able to sit down at the
dinner table (during the few breaks I would have from serving everyone).


Luke said, "Well, fat boy, it looks like you've been cheating on your
diet again. Probably sneaking back to that Thai restaurant in town you
like so much." He was correct, sadly; I had treated myself to some
shrimp Pad Thai and Tom Kha Gai soup the day before yesterday. I knew I
should've stuck to the chicken satay with no rice.


"Put on those green punishment tights Brooke likes and bring me the
cane," Luke said. I looked pleadingly at Brooke. She caught my eye and
understood.


"Babe, Walter has a lot of work to do today to get ready for dinner
tonight, and it's going to be hard for him if you give him 12 with the
cane. Do you think that maybe you can use the strap this time instead?"


"The cane's a lot more effective. It's important that tubby here
learns his lesson."


"But you want him to be able to do a good job cleaning and cooking,
right? You know what he's like after you cane him that many times. He's
a blubbering mess and has trouble moving around for a full day. Isn't
there something he could do to convince you to punish him a different
way, just this one time? Pretty please, babe."


I didn't wait for Luke to answer, but rather fell to my knees, lowered
my face to his bare feet, and began begging in between kissing them. I
knew he liked me to call him master or sire when he wanted me to really
humble myself.


"Master, I beg you." Kiss. "Please use the strap today." Kiss. "It
hurts plenty, I swear." Kiss "I promise to make it up to you by losing
3 pounds this coming week." Kiss, kiss, kiss.


"I'll hold you to that. I'll tell you what, cuck. I guess I'm feeling
merciful today. Get the strap and a wooden spoon from the kitchen. Just
make sure it's not one you're going to use for dinner tonight."


"Yes, master. Thank you master."


I changed into my Peter Pan tights and returned with the strap and the
spoon, presenting them to Luke as I would the cane, on bended knee with
my head bowed and palms upturned.


"Cuck, get the key to your chastity cage from your wife's ankle and
hand it to me."


After I handed it to him, he pulled down my tights and removed my cage. I
got immediately hard and heard Brooke giggle. Luke roughly pulled my
tights back up and I stared down in shame at my green nylon tent.


"So, here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna give you twelve with the
strap on your fat ass and then I'm gonna give you six smacks with the
wooden spoon on your tiny cock and balls."


"But, sir, that's 18," I objected meekly.


"I can count, cuck. Unbelievable. Here I'm showing you mercy, and
you're fucking complaining! I'm not feeling as merciful now. So I'll
give you a choice. You either get eighteen strokes with the cane on your
ass or twelve with the strap on your ass and twelve with the spoon on
your cock. Do you want to complain again?"


"No, master. I'm so sorry. Please give me 12 with the strap and 12 with
the spoon."


"Are you sure about that, prof?" He grinned at me wickedly.


"Yes, master. I think so."


"Bend over the bed. After each stroke I want you to say, `Thank you for
being merciful, master. May I please have another.'"


I repeated the clichéd, humiliating phrase the required 12 times. Brooke
was watching from the recliner behind us, and I tried to envision the
expression on her face. Was it one of amusement? Arousal? Maybe one
would've been able to detect a hint of empathy in her eyes (or so I
hoped)? Probably some combination of all of the above, but at least not
contempt. Or I didn't think so, in any case. That wasn't Brooke's
style -- unless she was exceptionally angry with me, which was rare. By
the time Luke was finished, my ass was searing. But it wasn't as bad as
the cane; not even close. And while I'm sure my ass must've been a deep
shade of red, at least I wouldn't have to contend with the welts.


Brooke walked over and rubbed my buttocks through my tights, not too hard
but not too gently either. I squirmed to evade her touch--a rarity, but
it really hurt. She said to Luke, "Babe, I'm hotter than his ass. And
it's smoking. Take me upstairs now and fuck me, please."


"Wait, his punishment is only half over! Aren't you paying
attention?", he said to Brooke.


"Yes, sir, I'm sorry. You're going to spank his little balls."


"Damn straight. Lie down flat on the floor, cuck."


"Wait, sir," said Brooke. She reached into the dresser drawer and
pulled out a pair of nipple clamps. "Let's add some extra punishment
with these."


"Good idea, babe. Put them on him."


As she leaned over me, I gave her a look meant to convey, "Hey, I
thought you were on my side." As she tweaked my nipples and affixed the
clamps, she mouthed to me (out of Luke's view), "Trust me."


My cock had shriveled to a nub during my strapping. The clamps hurt like
hell, but my cock instantly hardened as Brooke secured them tightly.


Luke said, "OK, keep your hands at your sides, and your legs straight
out and pressed together. Don't move, or I'll start over."


He brought spoon down with force, partly on the base of my cock and
partly on my balls. I yelped, but my cock stayed hard. I was lying next
to the bed where Luke and Brooke were seated. She stuck her bare right
foot under the chain between my nipple clamps and pulled up on them with
it, causing me still more pain. But Brooke was well aware that there is a
direct connection between my sensitive nipples and my cock. She continued
to jerk the chain on my clamps with her foot as Luke administered
additional strokes with the spoon. As I'm sure Brooke knew, having had
no release in almost a week since she gave me a hand job, the smacks of
the spoon on my cock were bringing me close to ejaculation. Especially
with the assistance she was providing of nipple stimulation. Not to
mention the visual stimulation of her pretty foot moving inches from my
face.


When Luke hit me with the 12th and final stroke of the spoon. I was very
close, but not quite there yet.


Even though I was not required to say "Sir, may I please have another"
for this segment of my punishment, that's exactly what I said when Luke
was finished, thrusting my pelvis upwards, as if pleading for additional
abuse.


Luke knew what was going on, of course. He said, "This is supposed to be
a punishment, not a reward. But if you're so pathetic that you'll
actually get off to me abusing your little cock, I guess I'll allow it.
But I think you need to do a better job of begging for it first. Convince
me you really want it."


I continued thrusting my pelvis upwards as Luke rested the spoon against
my balls, my cock throbbing helplessly through the nylon.


"Please master. Please smack my pathetic little balls again."


"Why, cuck?"


"Because I need to come, master. And the only way I deserve to come is
by having my pathetic, little cock and balls beaten by a real man like
you."


He struck my cock smartly with the spoon again, followed by my balls.
Meanwhile, Brooke continued pulling up the chain with one foot, while
placing the toes of her other foot over my lips and nose. As I inhaled,
with Luke's continued assault on my cock, I entered the state of mind
known as subspace. The pain of Luke's strikes started to feel
pleasurable. I began to try to utter more abject words of beseechment,
but my tongue was tied. I felt blissful, at peace, confident that I was
where I belonged. After Luke stuck me a number additional times with the
spoon (I was long past being able to count), I ejaculated profusely
through my tights.


I was given perhaps 30 seconds to savor the after affects of my orgasm,
before Brooke lifted her foot up with sufficient force to yank the nipple
clamps off me. The fire in both of my nipples was intense. I heard both
of them laugh as I grimaced and writhed on the floor beneath them.


Still half out of it, I heard Luke say, "Congratulations, prof, that was
one of the most pathetic things I've ever seen in my life. Okay, babe,
let's go upstairs now." He then turned to me. "Time for you to get up
and get to work. Make sure you wash that spoon about a hundred times."


After the two of them went up to the bedroom, I rinsed off and soaked my
tights in soapy water and took a shower. I then put on a pair of black
women's boyshorts and a black T-shirt and began mopping the kitchen.
About an hour into my cleaning, I unfortunately experienced the sensation
known as sub drop, an occasional corollary to the much more enjoyable
subspace. I suddenly felt sad and depressed, and questioned what I was
doing with my life. How could I allow myself to subjected to such
degradation. How could I actually get off on it? Why did the intensity of
my orgasms seem directly tied to how humiliating they were? Did Brooke
really love me? I was consumed with doubt and self-loathing, listening
the bedsprings rock violently above me. I had experienced this sensation
a couple of times before after similar scenes with Luke and Brooke.
Sometimes the depression lasted a day or more, but that afternoon it only
lasted for only a couple of hours, thankfully. I think that's because I
had so much to do to prepare for dinner that evening; I didn't have the
luxury of wallowing in my despair for too long.


As discussed, guests were my friend, Neil Lawson, and Brooke's friend
from the restaurant, Laura, a waitress who was in her mid-20s, a few
years younger than Brooke. I would be meeting her for the first time that
evening. I planned out and prepared a three course meal, including beet
and goat cheese salad for an appetizer, roasted chicken and vegetables, a
side dish of creamed spinach, and a dessert of strawberry shortcake with
homemade whipped cream.


As it was getting closer to the time when our guests were due to arrive,
I dressed in the same waiter's uniform I had worn the first time I
served Luke dinner. I felt ridiculous wearing a bow tie and apron with my
tight black jeans, and barefoot (my nails painted a vivid shade of blue),
thinking to myself how I could possibly explain the situation to Neil and
also wondering what Brooke had shared with Laura about our relationship,
and Luke.


Meanwhile, Luke and Brooke had gotten dressed for dinner and we were
sitting in the living room, playing music and talking, as I was running
around, getting things ready. Luke ordered me to get a him a Yuengling
and Brooke a glass of red wine. My ears recoiled at the particular
variety of grievance-filled country music he was blaring through my Bose
speakers. I grew up on an eclectic mix of alternative, classic and punk
rock -- as well as classical music, loved by my mother-- and while I
occasionally enjoyed some urban country such as Lucinda Williams or even
Johnny Cash, I truly despised the kind of country Luke favored, mostly
about men celebrating their intellectual mediocrity and whining about
those they viewed to be elites. I knew Brooke agreed with me in her
feelings about Luke's music. But I no longer got to pick the music in my
house -- if it could even be called that anymore. I love music, firmly
believe my tastes are superior and find it exceedingly unpleasant to
listen to what I consider bad music. Luke's brand of country was the
worst, and being forced to listen to it was a type of non physical
domination that I found especially humiliating (not to mention tortuous).
I felt the same way about other cultural and political issues, where
being forced to suppress, or in some cases, act directly counter to my
views, was an extreme form of humiliation for me. It was in these
instances that I was most prone to rebel. I did a couple of times, most
unwisely. But more on that later.


When I served them the drinks, Luke said, "Where's your chastity
cage?"


"In my bathroom, sir."


"Bring it to me."


After he locked it back on me, Luke said, "Take off those jeans and put
on those black stretchy pants you wear. What are they called babe?"


"Yoga pants," answered Brooke.


"But, sir, Neil is my colleague. Everyone will see the medal of my cage
beneath yoga pants. Please don't make me wear them."


"You're lucky I'm not making you wear your stained green tights.
Change now, or maybe our guests will be treated to seeing you get the
caning you managed to wiggle your way out of earlier today."


Wishing to avoid a still more compromising situation, I did as commanded.
Examining myself in the mirror, the bulk of my chastity cage was clearly
visible beneath the clingy synthetic fabric of the pants, whether one was
looking for something there or not.


After I put it on, Luke ordered me to present myself for inspection.


I thought I would venture a small request. "Sir, may I please wear some
sneakers or socks, at least?"


"What, and hide your polished toes? No, I like you barefoot when you're
working in the kitchen. I don't know what you're so worried about? I'm
sure your woke professor buddy will love your new look. Maybe his wife
locks up his cock too?"


"Neil is still single, sir."


"What, is he a fag?"


"I don't believe so, sir. He has dated several women before. I just
don't think he's met the right woman yet."


"Maybe we can set him up with Laura," said Brooke.


"See, prof, this evening is full of possibilities."


The doorbell rang. Luke said, "It sounds like our first guest has
arrived. Prof, I want you to say `Welcome to our home, sir or miss. May
I please take your coat?' After you hang up their coat, I want you to
bring him here, introduce them to me and get them a drink. I want you to
address our guests respectfully all evening. Got it?"


"Yes, sir."


I hurried to the door, opened it and stood face to face with my friend
and colleague, Neil.


"Welcome to our home, sir. May I please take your coat?"


Neil looked me up and down, and said, "Sir? Are you okay, Walter? What
the hell is going on?"


I whispered to him, "Everything is fine, Neil." I tried to smile.
"I'll explain later. Now let me introduce you to Luke."


As I led Neil through the entrance hall into the living room, I saw him
look up at the two canes, riding crop and strap hanging on the wall. He
said to me, smiling, "You're such a a medievalist, Walter, you even
have instruments of torture as wall art. I love it! They're kind of
modern though, aren't they? I guess Catherine's Wheels and Pears of
Anguish are pretty hard to come by, huh?"


I laughed nervously in response. "I couldn't fit my rack on the wall,
ha ha."


When I brought Neil into the living room, Brooke got up off the couch and
kissed him warmly on the cheek. "Hi, Neil. Long time, no see. Thanks for
coming."


"Great to see you too, Brooke. Thanks for having me"


I stammered, "Neil...uh, I mean, sir. I'd like to introduce you to an
old family friend of Brooke's and now mine too, of course. Neil Lawson,
please meet Luke Hanover."


As Luke vigorously shook Neil's hand (the first time he shook mine, I
thought he would break it), he said, "Oh come on, prof, I'm a lot more
than just an old family friend, aren't I? You see, Neil, I was married
to Brooke earlier, but we're still pretty close. Right, baby girl? Come
sit on big Luke`s lap."


Luke sat down on the couch and patted his lap. Brooke and I exchanged
glances, and I saw Neil watching the three of us closely, no doubt trying
to figure out exactly what it was he was witnessing.


Brooke sat down on Luke's knee, and he wrapped his arm around her waist
in a proprietary manner. "Did you offer Neil a drink?", Luke said to
me.


"I'm sorry. Neil, I mean, sir, may I get you a drink? We have wine and
beer. Or I can also make you a cocktail?"


"I'm not sure what's happening here, Walter. But you certainly don't
have to call me sir."


"That's where I beg to differ with you, Neil. You know the kind of
stuff that your friend Walter writes about and teaches about. The book
he's working on now is all about cuckolding and humiliation. Isn't that
so, prof?"


"Yes, sir. Much of it, at least," I replied, staring down at my painted
toes.


"Well, I'm trying to help Walter out with his research for his book.
Walter told Brooke that he feels it's important that he experience
firsthand what a submissive cuckold goes through, so his book will have...
What's the word you used, babe?"


"Credibility," answered Brooke.


"That's right, credibility. As someone who knows a fair amount about
putting cucks in their place, I'm trying to lend Walter a hand. And
since he's going to be the one serving the rest of us dinner tonight,
we've all agreed that it's important that he show respect to the people
he's serving. It's all part of making sure that his book is credible.
Isn't that right, prof?"


"Yes, sir."


Neil looked confused, but had a slight smile on his face as he replied,
"I see, I guess. Well, in that case, I'll have a Yuengling, too."


"Good man. Walter looks down his nose at Yuengling. He says he's just
not a big fan of beer, but I think it's really more of a political
thing. Walter doesn't approve of the politics of the brewery's owner."
Luke was correct about that, but it was certainly nothing I had ever
shared with him. Perhaps Brooke had; I know she felt similarly to me. Or
perhaps it was just a deduction he made based on his hypersensitivity
about such matters (the fact that his hypersensitivity was often correct,
and therefore perhaps somewhat justified at times, was a separate matter,
and one I didn't like to dwell on).


Neil replied, "I don't really keep track of any of that stuff. I just
like their beer. It's got a good flavor and it's not too filling."


Luke said, "You sound a lot more sensible than your friend here." Then
to me, firmly: "Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Get the man a
beer and get me another one while you're at it."


"Yes, sir," I replied, as I hurried off to the kitchen.


When I returned to the living room with the beers, I heard Luke ask Neil,
"So, did you also grow up in the Northeast like your buddy?"


"I grew up in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. I did my undergrad and grad
school at Duke. I sort of stayed local."


"You're from the South. That's good! You don't seem like one of those
coastal snobs who think they're better than everybody else."


Neil smiled, "Well, North Carolina is a coastal state, too."


"But it's the South. Not like those elitist snobs where your friend
comes from in the Northeast. Do you study cuckolds, too?"


Neil laughed. "No, I focus mostly on 20th century British and American
fiction. There have been plenty novels with cuckold protagonists in that
period, though. I think of Joyce's Ulysses, Ford Maddox Ford's The Good
Soldier, Saul Bellow's Herzog. There are plenty of other examples in
modernist fiction, but it's nothing compared to the medieval period
Walter studies. But Walter tells me that cuckolding fiction has become
huge on the Internet, and that some of the contemporary pop fiction is
actually lof pretty high quality. I find the subject interesting, in the
way all love triangles are interesting, but not to the same extent Walter
does."


"Well, that's probably because you're not a submissive cuck like he
is," said Luke, with his impeccable logic.


Neil laughed, somewhat shyly, and said, "I'm learning some things about
my good friend I wasn't aware of before." I felt Neil's glance shift
over to me but I couldn't look him in the eye.


"I bet there's a lot more you don't know about your ole buddy. You
look like you play sports, Neil. I play in an amateur football league
myself and lift weights."


"I was on a nationally ranked swim team as an undergrad at Duke. I still
love to swim when I can. There's not a lot of good options in this town,
unfortunately. Even the college pool is pretty small and often crowded. I
lift weights a bit too, just to keep in shape."


"I could tell by looking at you that you were an athlete. Not like tubby
here. Although he's been losing some weight lately. He just needs some
encouragement. I've been giving him a hand there too, haven't I,
prof?"


"Yes, sir."


"I tell you what, Neil. I built a 30' by 60' gunite pool at my house
out in the country last year. This summer, you can come out and swim in
it anytime you'd like."


"Thirty by sixty! That's huge! That's very kind of you, Luke. I may
just take you up on that generous offer."


"Let's plan on it. We'll have some great parties this summer."


"I'm looking forward to it. What do you do, Luke?"


"I'm a plumber. I run what's now the largest residential plumbing
company in the region. We're expanding into commercial plumbing, too."


"That's awesome. My dad was a master plumber. I spent many hours during
my teenage years working as his assistant on jobs."


That was something I never knew about Neil. I was watching this unfolding
lovefest with a mixture of incredulity and distress when the doorbell
rang again.


I hurried to answer it, and saw an attractive dirty blonde, slightly
chubby perhaps (at least compared to my fit, lean lady), but with nice
curves and very pretty features. "Hello, miss. You must be Laura.
Welcome to our home. May I please take your coat. I'm..."


"Wait, don't tell me," she said, looking me up and down and zeroing in
on my toenails and then on my crotch. She chuckled. "You must be Walter.
Nice to meet you." She shook my hand. "Now, I've got to see this
Luke."


"Of course, right this way, miss." She giggled again. She probably
wasn't accustomed to being addressed as "miss," at least outside of
patrons trying to get her attention at the restaurant, especially by a
man nearly 15 years older than her.


"Hey, Laura. Thanks for coming." Brooke got off Luke's lap to kiss and
hug her friend.


Looking back and forth between Luke and Neil, Laura said, "Wow, two good
looking guys in the room." Smiling at Luke, she continued, "But you
must be Luke, unless Brooke is on super close terms with all three of the
men here." She laughed.


So, obviously Brooke had shared quite a bit with Laura about her
relationship with Luke. It was still unclear how much she had shared with
her about MY relationship with Luke. I suspected that she had shared far
more than I was comfortable with, however. In retrospect, my concerns
really didn't matter, as my status in the relationship was pretty
unambiguous to everyone present by the time the evening was over.


After Laura shook Luke's hand, she turned to Neil and, smiling
flirtatiously, said, "Well, isn't anyone going to introduce me to this
gentleman?"


I said, "My apologies. Of course. Laura, this is my..."


Luke interrupted, "Prof, didn't I tell you your first responsibility is
to offer the lady a drink? And remember the right way to address her.
It's not Laura to you, it's miss or Miss Laura. Once you find out what
she wants to drink, Brooke and I will introduce her to my new friend,
Neil." Luke patted Neil warmly on the back.


"Yes, sir. My apologies. What would you like to drink, miss? We have
beer, wine, or I could make you a cocktail."


Barely looking at me, Laura said, "I'll have a glass of red wine.
Whatever Brooke is drinking is fine. Thanks."


"Yes, miss." I added lamely, "Right away," before leaving the room
quickly to fulfill her request.


The dinner was more of the same. Luke sat at the head of the table,
naturally, with Brooke to his right and Laura to his left. Neil sat next
to Laura. When I down sat at all (gingerly, due to the soreness of my
bottom), I sat next to Brooke, across from Neil. I, of course, served the
various courses, but also was expected to keep everyone's glasses filled
with wine, water or beer. Luke even suggested it would be a nice touch
for me to fold everyone's napkins when they got up to use the bathroom,
or or any other reason. I did receive a few compliments on the meal, but
was up so frequently I found it difficult to get into the flow of the
conversation. I was present enough to notice Laura's persistent
flirtation with Neil, and what seemed like his receptiveness to it.


One of the more humiliating moments of the evening came when I attempted
to pour myself a second glass of the Pinot Noir Brooke and Laura were
enjoying. They were already on their second bottle, and Luke and Neil
were on at least their fourth beer. Everyone but me seemed to be getting
mildly tipsy and increasingly uninhibited.


As I began to pour my glass, Luke said, "Uh uh, prof. Two glasses is not
on your diet. Neither is dessert. I'm surprised I have to remind you of
that after earlier today."


Brooke tried to subtly redirect the conversation by interjecting,
"Walter needs to look after his girlish figure. He's lost almost 15
pounds over the last few months, you know."


Laura was not to be redirected, however. "That's great, but what did
you mean by `earlier today'?", she asked Luke.


"I guess you didn't notice his expression whenever he sits down, sort
of a grimace," said Luke.


Neil said to Luke, "Now I understand what you meant about giving him a
hand with his diet." And then to me: "I guess it's always a good thing
when art has a practical purpose as well, right pal?" He laughed.


Mortified, I looked downwards and simply said, "Let me clean the table
and then I'll bring your desserts."


As I left the dining room, I heard Laura say, "I don't understand. What
do you mean about art having a practical purpose?"


Neil answered, "You must have missed it hanging in the hall. I'll show
you later."


I heard boisterous laughter as I plated the strawberry shortcake in the
kitchen, rebelliously treating myself to a large spoon of my freshly
whipped cream. "I'll show him," I thought to myself, pathetically.


When I served dessert, Neil said, looking at me, "I really hadn't
noticed, Walter, but you have lost some weight. It looks good."


Laura, visibly a bit drunk, added, "Those pants you're wearing show off
your figure. They look good on you, even though they're a little
bulky." She giggled, and the others sort of tittered. She then said to
Brooke, "He did a great job with dinner. Maybe after he loses another 15
pounds or so, you can buy him a little maid's uniform. I bet he'd look
cute in it." More titters.


"Let me open another bottle of wine," I said, quickly leaving the room.


Behind me, I heard Luke say, "I think you might be onto something there,
Laura. Thanks for the suggestion."


More laughter. Would this interminable evening ever end?


The evening did finally end, of course, but not until quite late and not
until I had experienced still more humiliating moments. Brooke and I
discussed it the next morning at the kitchen table after Luke left for
football practice in anticipation of a game the following Sunday.


"What am I going to do?"


"Why are you so worried? It wasn't that bad."


"Wasn't that bad?! One of my best friends, who also happens to be my
colleague, now knows that I'm a submissive cuckold who is kept in
chastity and punished by his wife's ex-husband. Not to mention your
friend, Laura. How much worse could it be?!" When I was upset, my voice
was annoyingly (even to me) high pitched.


"With Luke? A hell of a lot worse. I thought he was remarkably
restrained, if anything."


She was probably right, but that was little consolation. "I can't
believe this." I cupped my forehead with my hand in despair.


"Calm down. You can trust Neil, can't you? He's not going to tell
anyone if you ask him not to, I'm sure."


"I hope you're right. I'm going to talk to him on Monday. But how can
I ever look him in the eye again? We're peers. How can he ever respect
me again?"


"Neil is an intellectual. He respects you for your mind. Like I do. And
he'll continue to respect you."


"You really respect me for my mind?"


"Not when you ask me stupid questions like that, I don't."


"Great."


"Look, Walter, we've been over this 100 times. I love your mind. I love
you. But, physically, it's a different story. When it comes to the
physical, the sexual side of things -- even your ability to stand up for
yourself -- you're a complete beta. But Neil isn't going to care about
that. As far as Laura is concerned, I'll make her promise not to tell
anybody. And even if she does, it's not like she travels in the same
social circles as you. I don't think she has any other connections to
the college besides me."


"I sure hope you're right, Brooke. Otherwise, I'm completely
screwed."


I silently cherished her phrase "I love you," believing it and yet
thinking how complex a thing love is. There are supposedly eight
different types of love. I believed then (and still do today) that I hold
the central place in Brooke's heart when it comes to Philia (deep
friendship), Ludus (playful love), Pragma (longstanding love) and even
Storge (family love). Unfortunately, it is Luke who owns her heart with
respect to perhaps the two most uncontrollable types of love, Eros
(sexual passion) and Mania (obsessive love). It seems to me that those
two, arguably lust more than love, go hand in hand, usually.


"You need to chill out. Everything's fine. I can tell you one thing,
though. I think my matchmaking experiment might've been a resounding
success. Laura really likes Neil, and I think he feels the same way. In
fact, he's already asked her out on a date."


"Well, that's good, at least," I replied. Even though I wasn't sure
it was good at all, to be honest ("Where did you two meet each other?"
"Oh, we met at the dinner party where I learned that my good friend is a
submissive cuckold. He waited on us all night like a servant." "Wow,
that's interesting. Who's your friend?"...).

On Monday morning, I ran into Neil in the hallway of the English
department. He had just finished his lecture class on the Bloomsbury
Group novelists as I was walking to my Male Masochism in Medieval
Romances class.


"Hi, Walter. Saturday was a lot of fun."


"Yeah, I'm glad you enjoyed it. Neil, I need to talk to you for a few
minutes."


"Sure. Why don't you come by my office around 3:30?"


"Thanks, I'll see you then."


"Great. Would you mind bringing me a large coffee from Corner Cafe?"
Corner Cafe was our on-campus coffee shop, about a ten minute walk from
our building.


"Uh, okay...how do you take your coffee?"


"Just a little milk and one package of sugar. It's just that I'm going
to be coming directly from class and I always need a pick-me-up around
that time of day. I won't have time to stop by the coffee shop myself.
You understand, right?"


"Yes, sir. Wow, I can't believe I just said that. Yes, Neil, no
problem. I'll see you at 3:30."


Neil smiled at me and said, "We all make Freudian slips once in awhile,
don't worry about it. I'll see you in a bit."


As I was standing in line at Corner Cafe to get him his coffee, I
wondered to myself if, after my servile performance on Saturday evening,
Neil now viewed me as his gofer? Could I blame him if I did? I then told
myself I was being foolish and should simply accept his explanation at
face value that he didn't have time to go to the coffee shop himself. He
was doing me a favor by meeting, after all.


Neil and I started teaching at the college the same year, and are about
the same age (he's about 9 months older than me). We've always had a
friendly rivalry, but have been professionally supportive of one another.
Neil hadn't made tenure yet when we had this awkward conversation in his
office (I had good-naturedly teased him about me getting tenure first),
but did receive it less than a year later. As I explained early in my
story, neither Brooke nor I had many close friends, but in Ohio at least,
Neil was my closest. As I now look back on the surreal two years that
have elapsed since that conversation, I'm pleased to say that he remains
a good friend. That's not to say he hasn't partaken in my humiliation.
He has, as you shall see.


"Here's your coffee," I said, handing him the cup as I entered his
office and closed the door behind me that afternoon.


"What, no `sir'?" My face must've dropped because he immediately
said, "Come on, Walter, I'm only kidding. Sit down."


"I'm sorry, my sense of humor is not so good these days. I wanted to
talk to you about Saturday, obviously. I'm so humiliated. I want to ask
you -- no, beg you -- to please not tell anyone else. Especially not
Benkins." Andrew Benkins was our Department Chair.


"Don't be silly. Of course, I won't. I'll admit that the whole
situation is strange to me, but I have to admire the lengths you're
willing to go to do research on your book."


"Thank you. But that's not the real reason."


"I didn't think so."


"Look, I really do want to better understand the psychology of
submission and masochism in cuckolding relationships. I really do believe
there are fascinating parallels between these relationships and the love
triangles in medieval courtly love. Maybe Luke is helping me understand
the dynamics of this kind of relationship better. I'm certain he is, in
fact. There's a big difference between the fantasy of it and the reality
of it."


"There is with most things."


"Yes. And Luke is also helping me with my diet and fitness, I suppose."


"That's super important! You know how I've been on you for years about
taking better care of yourself."


"I know. But none of those are the real reason. The real reason that
I'm...submitting myself to this...humiliation...the real reason is that I
don't want to lose Brooke. She is the best thing to ever happen to me. I
love her."


"Brooke is awesome. So, she wants this?"


"Yes. She doesn't want to be married to Luke again. She wants to be
married to me. She doesn't have much in common with him intellectually.
But physically, she is addicted to him. To his...you know." I stared down
at the floor.


"His cock, you mean."


"Yes. He's hung like a walrus."


"I see."


"But it's not just his cock. It's his dominance. The way he dominates
her, and...the way he dominates me. It turns her on like nothing else. And
not just sexually. It turns her on mentally. Brooke thinks of it all as a
game, in some ways."


"And you? Does it turn you on, too? Do you also see it as a game?"


"I don't know. Yes, and no. I'm terribly conflicted, to be honest. It
turns me on that it turns her on. The fact that it turns me on, turns her
on even more. It's sort of a vicious cycle. There are many aspects to it
that do feel like a game, but a very serious one, with high stakes. And
the game is exciting sometimes. It's also incredibly humiliating, not to
mention painful, much of the time. But sometimes that makes it more
exciting. This is probably not making any sense to you. You probably have
to be true masochist to really understand. I guess that's what I am."


"Look, I can't say I personally understand what you're talking about,
but I've read Krafft-Ebing and Albert Moll, and Wilhelm Stekel. I have a
general idea of what you're getting at. I don't judge you for it,
Walter. Either of you."


"Thank you, Neil. I truly appreciate your keeping it quiet."


"Don't mention it. You don't need to worry about me." Then, almost as
if reading my mind, he added, "How about that Laura? She's a lot of
fun. I'm taking her to a movie and dinner next Thursday."


"Good luck with her. She's very pretty."


As I started to leave his office, Neil said, "You probably could do a
lot worse than Luke as your dominant bull, you know."


"You really think so? To me, he's an arrogant, anti-intellectual,
autocrat-loving, grievance-filled, misogynistic brute. Not to mention a
dumb jock, the kind I used to hate in high school."


"To me, he seems like a pretty nice guy. He's also very successful, so
it sounds to me like you're underestimating his intelligence. Maybe he
has a bit of a point about your elitism, Walter."


"Maybe you're right. But you don't really know him like I do. You've
only spent a few hours him, one evening. Believe me, Luke is a textbook
asshole. Anyhow, thanks again. I really mean it."


"I know you do. See you later."


So, overall, I felt somewhat better about things after that conversation.
Still, I also had a feeling of unease--one no doubt exacerbated by
Neil's unbelievable remark that Luke seemed like a nice guy.


The following Sunday, Brooke and I attended Luke's team's second home
game. Brooke dressed in her skimpy cheerleading uniform, much to the
delight of Luke's teammates (as well as their opponents, no doubt). I'm
sure Brooke was humiliated, but seeing her erect nipples pushing out the
top of her uniform, she was clearly aroused as well. Observing her with
Luke these past several months, I had concluded that Brooke must be a
switch of sorts -- so in control with me, so acquiescent with him.


In public, I was spared from having to wear my matching pink uniform that
I wore at home to send off and greet Luke before and after his away
games. Instead, I wore a male cheerleader's uniform Brooke and Luke
ordered for me from some on-line retailer that made customized uniforms.
It was in the colors of Luke's team (white, blue and gold) with the name
of his team emblazoned across the chest. The pants and shirt were long
but tight, a clingy, synthetic, uncomfortable fabric. The shirt exposed
about an inch of midriff (more when I jumped or stretched, in mid cheer)
and the gold was glittery (unlike the players' uniforms). It was about
as emasculating as it could possibly be for a nominally male uniform,
especially on an overweight, 38 year old wearing a chastity cage. This
effect, of course, was made much worse by the fact that, with Brooke, I
was required to wave pom poms in the team's colors during several of the
routines we had rehearsed. The field was only about a half hour's drive
from campus, so I was constantly in dread of being seen by one of my
current or former students, or someone else who knew me through the
college.


Because it was a brisk, windy fall afternoon, we both wore jackets when
not cheering; Brooke's completely bare, taut midriff was especially
vulnerable. Luke expected us to cheer at the start of the game, anytime
his team scored, and especially anytime he made an open field tackle, or
some other notable play. And also, of course, if they won -- which they
did decisively (24-6) that afternoon. Luke had three quarterback sacks
and 8 open field tackles, so Brooke and I cheered our asses off. We moved
so much that we didn't need to wear our jackets for most of the game
despite the temperature; in fact, we were both quite sweaty by its
conclusion.


With the exception of twin 10-year-old girls, the daughters of the
team's place kicker, Brooke and I were the only cheerleaders in
attendance. Luke's teammates thought it was hilarious that he had his
ex-wife and her new husband cheering him on, in such humiliating attire.
The two girls were also highly amused. When not cheering, I did double
duty as the team's towel boy-- though I was probably at least a decade
older than all of them except possibly for the kicker--bringing Luke and
his teammates towels and liquid refreshments throughout the game. I also
had to pick up their sweaty towels and stuff them into an enormous duffel
bag at the conclusion of the game, following which Luke generously
volunteered my services of washing everyone's towels back at our home.
Why not their dirty uniforms, socks and underwear, too, I wondered
bitterly to myself. As it turned out, the following season and
thereafter, after the city's new field was completed with adjacent
locker rooms and shower stalls, I did indeed become responsible for
collecting all of their sweaty clothes to take home to wash and dry.
That's still the case today. It takes five or six loads each time, and
multiple hours.


While Luke was on the field playing defense in the fourth quarter, his
team's running back, a light skinned black man, probably only in his mid
20s, said to me (in front of Brooke and two offensive linemen), "Damn
man. You're married to Luke's ex, and you're wearing that ridiculous
uniform and cheering him on and shit? Bringing him towels and shit? With
your wife dressed that way, jumpin around with her tits bouncing up and
down. That's fucked up."


Before I had a chance to respond-- not having any clue what I would say
to him (and basically agreeing with everything he had said to me)-- one
of the offensive lineman (a huge white guy, probably 300 pounds) bailed
me out.


"Leave him alone, Buckner. Luke's just up to his usual shit."


The third player (also huge) added, "Yeah, come on, Buckner, you know
Hanover. He's got trophy cucks the way some guys have trophy wives."


"Yeah, but this is the first time I've ever seen him with a trophy
EX-wife," said the first lineman. All three of them laughed.


Just then Luke had his third and final sack of the day. The larger of the
two massive lineman said to Br, "Your man just got another sack, sugar
tits. Time to look alive. You too, cuck." I could take being called
cuck, but I resented this gigantic oaf referring to Brooke in that
demeaning manner. I wanted to punch him in the face. Still, I did not
wish to be hospitalized, so I grabbed my pom poms and followed Brooke out
onto the sidelines.


And, so, we launched into our cheer celebrating Luke specifically
("Stronger than steel..."). I executed my moves with enthusiasm, still
recalling the pain of the spanking Luke had administered with his bare
hands in our living room following his team's victory in its home opener
three weeks earlier, after finding my cheerleading efforts to be
lackluster.


 At the conclusion of today's game, after being named MVP by his
teammates, Luke sat on the top step of the bleachers surrounded by them,
sipping a large bottle of Gatorade I had brought him. Brooke and I sat on
the bottom step, catching our breath after our post game cheer.


"Man, my feet are killing me," he announced. Looking at Brooke and me,
he simply said, "Massage," nodding at his feet.


Brooke and I quickly ascended the steps, kneeling on the one two below
where his feet were resting. We each removed one of his shoes and socks,
and began kneading his soles in unison. Luke looked around with an
entitled, self-satisfied expression.


His teammates were not shy about commenting on this unusual spectacle.


"Must be good to be Hanover."


"Must suck to be the cuck." General laughter.


"The way you were running around there today, Hanover, your feet must
stink to high heaven.


The running back was the first to leave, while Brooke and I were still
working on Luke's feet. As he walked down the steps past me, he looked
down and caught my eye momentarily, saying, "Fucking pathetic. Have some
dignity, man." He was like a one man Greek chorus in the sordid, surreal
little drama in which I found myself. Would it end in tragedy, I
wondered?


Luke and Brooke couldn't even wait until they got home. He took her from
behind in the backseat of his truck, after instructing me to drive to an
empty corner of the field parking lot. I sat in shame in the driver's
seat, glancing several times in the rear view mirror, usually following
some particularly loud moan or yelp emanating from Brooke or loud
smacking of flesh against flesh. Afterwards, I drove them home (nervous
driving such a huge vehicle for the first time, a very different
experience than driving my 2011 Prius), thereby adding chauffeur to
cheerleader, towel boy and foot masseur on my ever expanding list of
servile responsibilities. And all of those on that one day alone.


Fucking pathetic, indeed.


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 losing and gaining 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 begin 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.


The next thing I knew Kelly was standing directly above me, as I
continued to buff, hoping somehow that my efforts would obscure me from
notice.


 "Oh, hi Professor Rollins. I certainly didn't expect to see you
here," Kelly said. I heard Paul Betz laugh out loud and Anna giggle. All
four of them (Kelly's boyfriend included) had walked over to us.


Trying my best to think on my feet (or my knees, I should say), I
replied, "Hello, Kelly. Mr. Betz, Miss Dawson, sir. Yes, I've never
been to one of these festivals before, but my wife and my friends here
talked me into it."


"Oh, I didn't mean see you at the fair. Although that is a little
surprising. I meant that I didn't expect to see you shining the boots of
Professor Lawson." Kelly giggled.


Brooke said, "Walter is a page, you see? I'm Mrs. Rollins."


Kelly replied, "Very nice to meet you. My name is Kelly Blythe." She
shook Brooke's hand. "Your husband is one of my favorite professors.
Well, actually, both your husband and Professor Lawson are two of my
favorites. I've seen you around town with your family friend here."
Kelly smiled at Luke.


Luke extended his head to Kelly and said, "Luke Hanover. Nice to meet
you." Luke then shook Paul's, Anna's and Kelly's boyfriend's hands
as well.


I said, "Yes, I drew the short end of the stick today and am the page.
I'm trying to get into the spirit of the day. Ha ha."


"I thought you might've made another one of those foolish bets,
professor." She laughed. "But I can see that you put a lot of thought
and effort into your costume. You even have a pageboy haircut."


Brooke said, trying her best to rescue me, "Walter doesn't go into
things half measure. Once we convinced him to come to the fair, he wanted
to look, and act, as realistic as possible."


"Well, you've certainly succeeded, Professor Rollins. You really do
look the part of a page. Although your jacket might be a little short,"
said Kelly. I reflexively covered my bottom with one of my hands, and
Anna snickered.


Kelly then said, "The show's about to start, so we better go back to
our seats."


"Nice to meet you all," said Luke.


Paul said, "Same here. You know, our shoes are filthy, too. I don't
suppose there's any way that we could borrow your page to clean them for
us, is there?"


Brooke said, "No, I don't think..."


Luke interrupted her. "Now, Brooke, you may be Lady Guinevere, but
remember, Walter is my page, so it's up to me to decide if I want to
offer his services to anyone. This tournament isn't too crowded, so
after he finishes with Neil's boots, he can go over and clean the four
of your shoes. There should be plenty of room for him to work. He can do
mine later."


"Why that's very generous of you, Luke," said Paul.


"Don't mention it. Make sure he calls you `my lord' and `my lady'
while he cleans your shoes. The prof is a big stickler for things being
authentic, so we want to make sure he stays true to his beliefs,
right?  Let me know if there are any issues." Luke moved his hand up and
down the tawse, as he spoke.


"You seem like a really good family friend, Luke," said Kelly. Even
Brooke had to giggle at that (along with Neil and Laura).


So, that is how I came to endure the maximum humiliation -- or at least
what I perceived to be maximum at the time (it's amazing how relative
things are) -- of cleaning and polishing the shoes of Kelly, her
boyfriend, the thoroughly obnoxious Mr. Betz and his girlfriend, Anna.
How could a professor possibly ever recover any sense of dignity or
authority after kneeling at the feet of three of his students and
cleaning and polishing their shoes? Kelly and Anna were highly amused
while I worked beneath them, smiling and giggling. Paul, on the other
hand, regarded me with a supremely smug expression while I cleaned his
incredibly muddy boots. I tried to tell myself that this was merely some
elaborate cosplay, a playfulness in the spirit of the day that would have
no bearing on reality tomorrow and thereafter. But I knew that wasn't
true.


As I worked, Paul said to me, "I guess I owe you an apology, professor,
for questioning your knowledge of the subject matter of male masochism.
You're obviously a true expert. Wipe the dried mud from the bottom of my
boot as well."


"Yes, my lord."


Anna said, "I can't believe this. This is a trip." She then kissed
Paul fervently.


When I had finished, I said to them, "My lords and ladies. I appreciate
the opportunity to have been of service to you. Can I assume that what
happens at the Ren fair, stays at the Ren fair? I would be ever so
grateful to you--truly, humbly grateful--if you could keep this between
us, and not say anything to your classmates, or to other professors. Or
anyone, for that matter." I was still on my knees, in the position of
supplicant, as I made this request.


"Of course, Professor Rollins, we're all just having a bit of fun is
all."


"Thank you, Kelly."


"Kelly?," said her boyfriend.


"I'm so sorry, my lord. I meant to say, thank you, my lady."


"You are welcome, page," Kelly giggled.


I was so disoriented by the surreal nature of what was happening, so
consumed by my request that they keep things quiet, that I completely
forgot to try to prevent them from seeing my erection. I didn't realize
this until I stood up to return to where Brooke, Luke, Neil and Laura
were sitting. As I stood and looked into their astonished, mirthful
faces, I realized in horror that the four of them were staring directly
at the tent in my hose. Because I was standing on the step below them, my
crotch was directly at their eye level.


Covering her grinning mouth with one hand, Anna pointed at my crotch with
the other and said, snickering, "Don't worry, professor, that will stay
between us too."


I hung my head in shame and said, "Thank you, my lords and ladies," as
I hurried back to my section of the stadium. I heard them cracking up
behind me, and was fairly sure I heard Kelly say "so tiny" amidst their
laughter.


If nothing else, I was confident that my humiliation that day had reached
its apotheosis. It so happened that my confidence was misplaced, as
usual.


In the late afternoon, as the sun was beginning to set, we wandered over
to the public square, me carrying the heavy bag behind the others,
growing increasingly weary and sweaty. In the middle of the square were
positioned three pillories. One was empty, but there was an attractive
(attractive face, at least, as it was difficult for me to see her body,
from her position or mine) middle aged woman, probably in her mid to late
forties, in the center pillory. Luke placed me in the one next to her.
Because this festival was an adult affair, I suppose, it was possible to
lock the pillories, as I discovered when I was unable to escape as Luke
walked the other way to join the others sitting on a hill nearby. He had
hung the tawse on a rope from a hook on the pillory. The rope had plenty
of slack, so it could be used and rehung without untying it. Before
placing me in the stocks, he had taken from the bag a sign and a string,
and put it around my neck, so that the sign would be visible on my back.
I later learned that the sign read "I'm an errant page. My master
requests that you correct me with the tawse hanging to my right. Thank
you." I did not believe that the word "errant" was in Luke's
vocabulary (although he sometimes surprised me), so had to wonder if
Brooke (or worse still, Neil) had helped him in writing it.


After I was there about ten minutes, watching Brooke, Luke, Neil and
Laura talking, laughing, and drinking nearby (and watching me, waiting to
see what would happen), the woman locked up next to me addressed me. "So,
what's your story?"


"Excuse me, are you talking to me?"


"No, genius, I'm talking to the oak tree. Do you see anyone else
here?"


"I'm sorry, I've had a really bad day."


"Tell me about it. Okay, I'll go first. My name is Claire and I'm a
cuckquean. It sounds like I'm in alcoholics anonymous, doesn't it?
Cuckqueans anonymous, I guess. You know what a cuckquean is?"


"Of course, the female equivalent of what I am."


"I thought so, but I think of you as the male equivalent of what I am.
No matter. See that man and woman at that picnic table over there?
That's my husband and his lover. I'm an equity partner in the Cleveland
office of a national law firm. She's my paralegal. She's also half my
age. She gave me ten with her sorority paddle a little while ago.
Tomorrow, after she sleeps with my husband all night, I will serve the
two of them breakfast in bed, before I go clean her condo in a maid's
uniform. It makes

for interesting Monday mornings, I can tell you, as we review her work
for the week."


"I'll bet."


"She's a sexy young thing, I'll give her that. It makes it easier when
she forces me go down on her after my husband fucks her. Not all of my
husband's choices have been as easy on the eyes. Ok, now it's your
turn. Watch out!"


"OUCH!" Someone had struck me brutally on my tights-clad bottom with
the damn tawse from behind. It was impossible for me to see anyone
approaching or leaving from behind me.


"Sorry, I couldn't give you more notice. I just caught a glimpse of
someone in my peripheral vision reaching for the strap."


"Wow, that hurt. Thanks for trying. Could you see whether it was a man
or a woman?"


"I think it was a man, but I can't be sure. I think they're gone now.
Probably just some college kids fooling around." That was precisely what
I was afraid of.


"Anyhow, it's your turn."


"See those four people sitting on the hill off to your right. The woman
on the left is my wife. The guy next to her is her lover. He also happens
to be her ex-husband. He's a plumber. I'm a college professor."


"Who are the other two?"


"The guy is my friend and fellow professor. The woman is his new
girlfriend, my wife's friend."


"Interesting. Brace yourself."


"Ouch!" I heard Laura's laughter from across the lawn.


"I think that one was a woman. She was dressed as a pirate, I think."


"It didn't hurt as much as the first one."


"Does your bull make you eat his cream pies out of your wife's vagina,
like my husband makes me clean his out of my cake?"


"Yes."


Just then I saw approaching the last four people I wanted to see: Kelly,
her boyfriend, Paul and Anna.


Kelly said, "Hi Professor Rollins. Long time no see." She waved over at
Luke and the others.


"Hi, Miss Kelly. I'm sorry, I mean, my lady."


"'Miss Kelly.' I like that. Well, it's getting late, we need to be
going soon. I'll see you in class on Monday."


"Yes, my lady. Good night."


The four of them moved on, to my great relief. Meanwhile, the young
cuckcake, who was dressed as a princess, came over and liberated my
neighbor, who promptly lowered herself to the ground and kissed the young
woman's feet. "Thank you, princess."


"You're welcome, piglet," said the young woman. It was true, she was
quite sexy.


As she was walking away, the lawyer said to me, "See you around. Good
luck. It sounds like you're going to to need it."


As if she were prophetic, I felt someone caressing my ass. It felt like a
feminine hand.


"Kelly? Anna? Is that you?"


I heard giggling, but no answer. Next I felt hard swat on my right
buttock. It felt like the same hand. More feminine giggles.


It was getting dark and things went silent. About ten minutes passed
before someone struck me suddenly and viscously with the tawse.


"Ouch! Who is that?"


Another viscous strike.


"Mercy, I beg you."


I then heard Paul Betz whispering in my ear, "I told you I was a
dominant guy, professor. Sometimes the student has to teach the
professor. I'm going to help you learn even more about male masochism."
More feminine giggles in the distance. "If you really don't want anyone
to know about what happened today, I'm sure we can work out an
arrangement that works for everybody."


"But, my lord, you promised."


Another biting cut of the tawse. it wasn't as bad as the cane, but it
still hurt like hell.


"I didn't promise anything, professor. That was Kelly who promised, not
me. We'll talk. Good night."


He struck me again. "Ouch! Good night, my lord."


After about another 10 minutes or so, Luke released me, and the five of
us returned to the parking lot.


After we said goodbye to Neil and Laura, I drove Luke and Brooke home as
they kissed passionately in the back seat.


Obviously, my subjugation had entered a new public phase. I was to learn
that there was, and is, no going back.


Brooke and I took full advantage of Luke's absences, such as his Sunday
morning football practices, to have candid conversations with one
another. To do that, and other things. The conversation we had on the
Sunday after the Ren fair was one of the more difficult ones.


After Luke left, Brooke walked up to me and gave me a big, long hug. I
would be less than honest if I didn't admit that I started to weep. My
ego was bruised as was my ass, and I was worried about losing my job. I
was already feeling very vulnerable, but Brooke's expression of sympathy
pushed me over the edge.


She guided me onto the couch and tenderly wiped the tears from my eyes
with a tissue, saying, "I know that yesterday was incredibly difficult
for you. I'm sorry."


"What am I going to do? Should I submit my resignation on Monday to
Benkins?"


"Are you crazy? Of course not. I know you're upset, but it's important
not to overreact."


"But you saw what happened, Brooke. You were there! Three of my students
saw me shining Neil's boots on my knees, dressed in tights. I cleaned
their shoes! Like a submissive fool. I'm sure they took photographs.
Then they saw me in the stocks. I'm pretty sure at least one of them hit
me with that damn tawse. It still hurts to sit down."


For whatever reason, I had not yet decided whether to tell Brooke about
Paul Betz's threat of exposing me. I wasn't sure if that was because it
was too humiliating to share even with her, or because I wasn't yet sure
if the threat was real. I had no idea what he expected from me in return
for his silence, and hoped he was just joking around. I sincerely doubted
that, however.


"My reputation will be completely destroyed. I'll be the laughingstock
of the entire campus," I persisted.


"Wait a minute. Think this through. First of all, we were all at a Ren
faire. It's all about fantasy, playing a part. In medieval times, there
were the powerful and the powerless, just like today. You know this
better than anyone. So you were playing a submissive part. Big deal. The
key word here is `play'. The fact that you don't have such a huge ego
that you allowed yourself to play a submissive part is to your credit, if
anything. And I'm sure Neil would back you up on that, if it ever did
get back to other faculty members or students."


I groaned, but, as always, Brooke made a lot of sense, and I found it
difficult to argue against her coherently. Nevertheless, I was convinced
that real damage, likely irreparable damage, had been done yesterday and
I wasn't ready to let it go that easily.


"But I was on my knees shining their shoes! And I'm pretty sure they
saw my erection. They were laughing their asses off at me."


"No one cares about your little erection, Walter."


"Thanks a lot."


"Think of it like playing a part in a play, a period piece. That's
really all it was. You think actors and actresses don't have
embarrassing moments in dressing rooms and on stages every day, including
people seeing erections? It's really not that big a deal. If anybody
ever brings it up, which I doubt, just make a joke out of it. Humor is a
pretty potent neutralizer."


"I think I may have lost my sense of humor. Permanently. Something else
he's taken from me."


"Oh, come on. I know that's not true. You're just upset, and
understandably so. Sometimes the game is more fun than other times.
Yesterday wasn't fun for you, I get it. But I had a lot of fun, for what
it's worth."


"Laughing at my expense, you mean."


"Well, not just that. The whole day was fun. It was fun losing myself in
another era for a little while; I quite enjoyed being Lady Guinevere. I
really enjoyed hanging out with Neil and Laura. Neil's a great guy. He
and Laura seem to be really into each other. And, surprisingly, he and
Luke have really hit it off. I'm glad he's going to be around more.
But, yes, I have to admit that it was pretty funny watching your
reactions yesterday. You should've seen the expression on your face when
Luke agreed to loan you out to your students. And when he locked you in
the pillory. And you were so cute in your costume. I meant what I said
about your buns getting tighter. They're super spankable, now." As she
said this, she reached under my sweatpants and caressed my bottom through
my mesh panties. I started to throb in my cage.


I wanted to continue our discussion, to continue to make my argument that
a line had been crossed with respect to my reputation at the college and
in the community, but Brooke had succeeded in completely distracting me.
Part of the issue was that I hadn't been granted sexual release in over
two weeks -- not since the morning of the day of the dinner party, when
Luke literally beat my meat with a wooden spoon. I wondered to myself how
many times Neil had had sex with Laura over that same period of time.
Five? Ten? And real sex. Not submitting himself to some guy punishing his
cock, while Laura abused his nipples. How pathetic was I?


I answered my own question with a question. "Would you unlock me and
spank my bottom, please? Or did he take your key?"


Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly dominant or was annoyed with
one or both of us, Luke would remove my chastity key from Brooke's
anklet and put it on his keychain next to his own copy. I'm sure that
his primary motivation, as usual with him, was simply to demonstrate who
was really in control of my cock. Not Brooke. Certainly not me. If you
haven't had the experience of having another person--especially another
man--control your orgasms, control your cock, let me tell you, it makes
you feel owned. It brings you to your knees. Or at least it brings me to
mine. Luke took (and still takes) great delight in making me beg for
release. Sometimes I have to lick the lint from between his toes or give
him an extended foot massage. Other times I have to compose some
ridiculous poem celebrating his feet, athletic prowess, business acumen,
whatever. Still other times, I have to perform some chore, like raking
the leaves in his enormous lawn or detailing his enormous truck. I know
he is from Ohio not Texas, but if Texas were a man, it would be Luke.
Everything about him is big: his house, his truck, his pool, his lawn,
his ego, the chip on his shoulder, his muscles, his feet, and...you know
what else. Big Luke, indeed.


"Why don't you get on your knees and pull my socks off, and we'll
see."


I knelt before her and started to remove the sock from her right foot.
She said, "Uh uh, not with your hands. Clasp your hands behind your back
and use your mouth."


I was happy to see the key dangling from the chain around her pretty
ankle.


"You're in luck! I think you've earned a release for what you endured
for your lady yesterday."


"Thank you, my lady."


"But before you remove it, make sure you kiss every toe."


I did as directed and then began to remove the key from the chain with my
clumsy fingers.


"Wait. My other foot is feeling neglected. Remove the sock, and kiss
each toe on my left foot first."


"Yes, my lady."


After I handed her the key, I said "But I didn't ask him for
permission. Remember how he said last month that we both have to ask him
for permission before you release me to masturbate...or for you to...help
me? Every time, he said."


"You know how I love watching you beg him to let you masturbate.
There's just something so incredibly sexy about that. But he doesn't
have to know about it this time. It'll be our little secret."


"But what if he comes home? What if he finds out somehow?"


"How's he going to find out? He won't be home for another two hours at
the earliest."


After she unlocked me, she pulled my sheer panties back up. Free at last,
my cock grew instantly hard. Brooke gently squeezed my balls and giggled.
"It's been awhile, hasn't it?"


"Yes, miss. Too long."


"Three hours would be too long for you, wouldn't it?" She smiled.


"Very funny. It's been much too long. The day of the dinner party. I
was starting to go a little crazy."


"Even professors think with their cocks, I guess. Look how excited your
baby carrot is to be out of its tiny prison! Wait a minute."


She ran upstairs for a moment and then sat back down on the couch. She
then pulled a pair of nipple clamps and a blindfold out of the pocket of
her sweatpants. "Come closer." First, she put the blindfold on me. Then
she squeezed my nipples until they were hard, put on the clamps and
tightened them until I winced.


"Too tight?"


"Ow, ah, yes. I mean, maybe." I waited a few seconds to get used to the
pain. "No, they're okay."


"Good. Now lay across my knees." She pulled down my panties. I heard
her doing something and the next thing I know I felt something cold and
damp press against my anus. Except for rectal/prostrate examinations
during annual checkups with my doctor, I hadn't had anything inserted
there since I was a kid when my mom used a rectal suppository a couple of
times (heaven only knows why) to treat a high fever.


I flinched. "What are you doing?"


"Don't sound so panicked. Just relax. Try to enjoy it."


"Enjoy what? What are you doing? It's cold and wet."


"It's a butt plug. That's lubricant."


She started to push it slowly inward.


"Ow, stop. It hurts."


"Please. Don't be such a baby. It's a starter size. It's smaller than
your baby carrot. Try to think about what it's like for me when Luke
takes me from behind. His cock is at least five times larger than this
little thing."


"But YOU like it."


"Yes, but it still hurts. You'll like it too, if you just learn to
relax."


"I feel so full."


"Exactly. I might just start you making you wear one of these around the
house when you do your chores. Maybe even out in public. We can gradually
work our way up to larger and larger ones. Your anus will stretch out
over time, like mine has. You've heard the phrase tight pussy? Well,
right now you have a tight anus." She smacked my ass sharply with her
hand. "You'll learn to love it! From what I understand, men can
actually have a prostate orgasm from wearing a butt plug. It can open up
all kinds of new possibilities for you!"


"Don't I get any say in this?"


"Not really, no. Now, do you still want that spanking? Your ass is still
pretty bruised"


"Yes, please. But not too hard, please."


"You really are a glutton for punishment, aren't you?"


She pulled up my panties and began striking me (not too hard) with her
hand, alternating between my right and left buttocks.


"So how do you feel now, my little knight errant? Your nipples are
burning, your ass is full and now I'm warming it up for you. You better
not come all over my sweatpants."


"I'll try not to, but I can't promise."


"Get up for a minute." After I did, Brooke removed her sweatpants and
ordered me to lay back over her bare legs. She then resumed spanking me.


"Yup, your buns are definitely getting tighter. Those hip thrusts and
squats Luke makes you do are having an effect. I might just have to buy a
strap-on and really fill you up." She hit me harder. "Would you like
that, sweetie?"


"Ouch. I'm not sure. Maybe."


"Think about it. I'll make you wear a corset with thigh high stockings
and a garter belt, and I'll take you from behind like a little slut.
Maybe even Luke will want to nail you. Then you'll really know what
it's like to be filled up"


"No, please. Not that. I'm not gay."


She laughed. "Not gay? You're over my knees in panties and I'm
spanking you with a butt plug up your ass. What do you call that, then?"


"I call it submissive. Or sissy. But I want to be your sissy, not
Luke's."


"We'll have to see about that." She smacked me sharply again. Just
then I heard a car door slam.


"Oh my god, is it him?!", I asked, terrified.


Brooke practically pushed me off her lap and ran up to the window,
peeking behind the curtains.


"It's Kevin. Quick, get dressed!"


Kevin, as you may recall, is Luke's teenaged half brother who works in
his company. He, in fact, had done much of the work on the half bathroom
-- now my bathroom -- in the basement. I had probably met him another
four or five times over the last several months since the bathroom was
finished. Most of those times were at Luke's house and our interaction
had been limited. I did not know how much Luke had shared with Kevin
about the unconventional nature of his relationship with Brooke and me
(quite a lot, I suspected), but clearly he was aware that I was in a
subservient position. That much was apparent from the very first time I
met him when Luke ordered me to serve him and his coworker sweet tea. He
had since seen me dressed in yoga pants, as I was now, and generally
spoke to me with few words and regarded me with barely disguised
contempt.


"Thank god it's not Luke. Can't we just pretend we're not home?"


"Your car and my car are both outside. Besides, he may have seen me
looking out of the window. Just get dressed. Hurry!"


Kevin was already knocking on the door by the time I was pulling my yoga
pants back on. I didn't even have time to remove my nipple clamps, so
just pulled my T-shirt over them, hoping he wouldn't notice. The butt
plug was still inside me as well.


"Hi, Kevin," said Brooke. "Luke's not here. He's at football
practice."


"Hey, Brooke. Walter." He nodded at me. "I'm not here to see Luke. I
think I may have left some tools down in the basement. Mind if I take a
look?"


"Not at all, be our guest."


"Thanks. Okay if I help myself to a drink first? Do you have any sweet
tea in the fridge?"


"Of course. You know Luke. There's always sweet tea in the fridge. Sit
down and make yourself comfortable. I'll get some for you."


"Thanks, Brooke. How you been, Walter?" Kevin sat down in the recliner
across from me on the couch.


I noticed with alarm that my chastity cage was lying next to where I was
sitting on the couch. I smiled at Kevin, trying hard to maintain eye
contact as I surreptitiously tipped a nearby throw pillow over it, hoping
like hell he didn't notice.


"I've been well. How about you? How's your work coming?"


"Great. I turn 18 next month and then I can sit for my plumbing license
exam. I already have more than the 4000 I need as a journeyman."


"That's terrific." These were the most words Kevin and I had ever
exchanged, and everything about his presence that Sunday morning was
making me suspicious. Meanwhile, my nipples were burning and I still had
a hard-on beneath my yoga pants. I knew I had to get the clamps off.


After Brooke handed him his tea, she started to sit down next to me on
the couch right where the pillow was covering the chastity cage."


"Honey, why don't you sit next to me here," I said, patting the other
side of the couch, "so you can be closer to Kevin." I tried to make eye
contact with her but she wasn't paying attention.


"Okay," she said, sitting where I directed her.


"Could you please excuse me for a moment?", I said, as I went to the
first floor bathroom, moving quickly so that Kevin hopefully wouldn't
see my erection pushing through the stretchy, synthetic fabric.  One
would think my nervousness would have caused my erection to subside; it
seemed to have the opposite effect, unfortunately.


When I removed the clamps, my nipples were on fire. I knew the pain would
subside in a couple of minutes. After I urinated, I returned to the
living room. I couldn't have been gone more than three or four minutes,
but I when I entered the room, I was very distressed to see that Kevin
was sitting alone there. I simply had to hope that he hadn't noticed me
tipping that pillow over earlier, or didn't take notice of my trying to
get Brooke to sit in a different place on the couch.


I sat back on the couch just as Brooke walked back into the room with
Kevin's refilled glass of sweet tea.


"Thanks. I guess I'm really thirsty today," Kevin said, smiling. I
thought I detected a trace of smugness in his smile, but possibly he
simply took after his brother and smugness was his default expression.


"Well, I better go look for my tool downstairs," he said.


"I'm pretty sure you didn't leave any tools down there," I said.


"I think I might have left my spud wrench down by the washing machine. I
don't use it very often and the last time I remember using it was here.
I've looked everywhere and I can't find it anywhere else."


Brooke said, "I sure hope you find it. Let me know if you need a
flashlight or anything."


When he went downstairs, I whispered to Brooke, "Do you think he's
spying on us?"


She shrugged her shoulders. "It does seem strange that he wouldn't have
missed a tool for all these months," she whispered.


"Did you notice how he said plural `tools' when he first got here, and
just now he said singular `tool'? I have a bad feeling about this."


"But he didn't see anything."


"Unless, he saw this." I said moving the pillow and revealing the cage.
"I covered it with the pillow. I don't think he saw it, but I can't be
sure." Meanwhile, I put the cage in my desk drawer.


Kevin came back upstairs, empty handed.


"No luck?", Brooke said.


"Nope. I guess I'm just going to have to buy a new one. Well, I better
go to the supply store. Thanks again for the tea."


"Anytime," said Brooke. "Don't be such a stranger."


When he left, I said, "What if he saw my cage? Or my clamps? What if he
tells Luke?"


"I really doubt it he saw anything. Chill out. Luke won't be back for
at least another hour. If you still want to me to get you off, we'd
better hurry."


"Kevin kind of spoiled the mood."


"Come over here." Brooke kissed me on the lips with some passion, and
rubbed my cock through my yoga pants. I got instantly hard again. "Mood
unspoiled now?"


"Yes," I said breathlessly.


She sat on the couch. "Lie down." She then proceeded to give me a
footjob through my mesh panties, efficiently rubbing both sides of my
cock, but also pressing her toes against my balls. Sensing when I was
close, she placed one of her feet over my nose. Within seconds, I erupted
through my panties.


Looking down at me, she said, "I really do appreciate the sacrifices you
make for me. I want you to know that. You're really my little foot page,
not Luke's. But we won't tell him that. You know how he is about his
feet." She laughed. Her dimpled smile is so contagious, I even laughed a
little too. My sense of humor may have been in the ICU, hooked up to a
respirator on the bed next to chivalry, but it wasn't entirely dead.


Then she said, "Okay, we better clean up. Then take a shower, and I'll
lock you back up." She removed the butt plug.


Right after she locked me back in the cage, both of our phones pinged
simultaneously. We looked at each other. Brooke was the first to grab her
phone.


"Shit." She handed me the phone. There was a group text from Luke to
her and me. It was a photo of my chastity cage on the couch, accompanied
by the words: Disobedience = punishment.


"That little fucking little snitch," said Brooke.


"Oh, no. I had a bad feeling. What are we going to do?"


As if in answer to my question, our phones pinged again: "By the time I
get home, house better be spotless and both of you naked and on your
knees to greet me at the door."


"Clean." said Brooke. "We're going clean faster than we ever have in
our lives. That's what we're going to do."


Brooke and I cleaned as well as we possibly could in the hour or so
before Luke got home. I say "home," but it was my home and Brooke's,
not Luke's, wasn't it? A man's home is his castle, right?  But the
reality is, when Luke stays with us, it is his castle, not mine. Brooke
is either his queen or his wench (or, at times, some odd amalgamation of
the two), depending on his mood. I am his servant on good days, and his
slave on middling or bad ones. This day promised to be a bad one. Brooke
frenziedly mopped the kitchen floor, emptied and loaded the dishwasher
and scrubbed the countertops while I frantically scrubbed the bathroom
toilets, sinks, showers and floors. We got started on the bedroom and
living room, but it simply wasn't possible to finish by the time Brooke
heard Luke slam his truck door shut. She yelled up at me that he was
back, and I hurriedly stripped off my T-shirt, yoga pants and panties. I
momentarily debated what would be worse: to leave my clothes strewn about
the bedroom floor, or to fail to be in position--naked and kneeling--
when he walked through the door.


I decided the latter would be worse, and practically killed myself
running down the stairs naked. In fact, I stubbed my toe quite painfully
on the railing. Brooke was virtually ripping off her panties as I got
downstairs, and we both ran to the entrance foyer and quickly dropped to
our knees on either side of the front door as our king entered, dressed
not in robes but in a sweat soaked football uniform and cleats. I stared
fleetingly at Brooke's proud breasts and anxious face, before bowing my
head down like her and looking at my caged cock. I was too worried to
even be aroused at that point.


We both knew from past experience that some serious kowtowing was called
for in this situation to hopefully at least reduce the ferocity of our
inevitable punishment. Luke said very little, which somehow made things
even scarier-- for me, at least. He walked into the living room, plopped
down on the couch, snapped his fingers and pointed down to his feet. We
both crawled on our hands and knees to where he was sitting, one of us in
front of each foot. I more or less followed Brooke's lead in removing
his cleat, covering my nose with it, inhaling deeply and then pulling off
his sweat sock. We then brought the damp socks up to our noses, and again
inhaled deeply. It was all I could do not to gag from the overwhelming,
acrid odor. I don't know if Brooke is simply much better at acting than
me, or if she was behaving genuinely, but she appeared to almost savor
the odor of his sock, taking second and third deep, long whiffs. Both of
us then started vigorously massaging one of his bare feet, planting
kisses on the bottoms intermittently.


After about 30 minutes of massaging and kissing, during which Luke barely
acknowledged us while reading his iPhone, he said to me, "Cuck, iced
tea?" And to Brooke, simply, "Pits."


When I walked back into the room with his iced tea, she was hungrily
nuzzling the right armpit of his sweat stained football jersey. I knelt
before him and held out the glass.  After about five minutes, my extended
hand began to shake a little from the stress of holding it out and he
finally took glass and drank from it.


He then said, "Let me take a look at the condition of this place. Cuck,
get a pen and paper and follow me. On your fucking knees. Disobedient
slut, stay here on your knees, hands on top of your head."


He then proceeded to inspect the entire house in his usual methodical way
(which he usually did after I cleaned without Brooke's assistance) and
instructed me to write down anything he found to be lacking (including
our discarded clothes, books and papers out of place on my desk, the half
made bed, a couple of small hairs in the bathroom sink, etc.). I actually
crawled up and down the stairs on my hands and knees behind him as he
inspected our work.


When his inspection was finally complete, he said, "Get the strap, cuck.
Both of you bend over and touch your toes."


We were standing in the middle of the living room. He then proceeded to
pull back all of the curtains and raise all of the blinds in the room.
Our house was not right up against the street and had some large trees,
fortunately, but anyone walking up to the front porch would have had a
fairly unobstructed view. Mercifully, no one did that day (at least not
to my knowledge), but Luke's message was clear: disobey him, and all
bets were off. Retribution would immediate, brutal and (potentially)
public (in the future, there was no "potentially" about it, we were to
learn).


Our king proclaimed our sentence: fifteen stokes of the strap on our on
bare backsides, ten for disobedience and five for deficient cleaning.
Both judge and executioner, he then delivered ten unsparing strokes of
the strap, alternating back and forth between us. While administering the
punishment, he became more vocal.


"When I'm sleeping in this house, I'm the one who calls the shots.
I'm the one who decides if, and when, the cuck is unlocked."


SMACK  SMACK "Got it?!"


"Yes, sir," we answered in unison.


"I'm the one who decides if, when and how the cuck gets to come."


SMACK SMACK "Got it?"


"Yes, sir."


"Every time. Do you college grads fucking understand the meaning of the
word `every'?"


SMACK SMACK


 "Yes, sir."


Brooke was crying by the seventh or eighth stroke. I tried my best to
hold back my tears, but as I noted, my ass was still badly bruised from
the tawse at the Ren fair , so I too was crying by the ninth.


After he delivered tenth stroke, Luke said, "I had a feeling you two
were up to some shit when I was at practice. That's why I asked Kevin to
check up on you. If you say jack shit about it to him, if you show even
the tiniest hint of resentment towards him, I'm going to let him punish
you both after he turns 18 next month. It's probably not a bad idea that
he start to get involved in keeping you two in line, anyhow, once he's
legal. Old enough to vote, old enough to beat your sorry, disobedient
asses. Now each of you are due five more, but I'm not going to give them
to you. You're going to give them to each other. If either of you holds
back, I'm going to add ten more apiece. Do you understand?"


"Yes, sir," again in unison.


"You first, slut."


Luke handed her the strap and she struck me five times with force -- if
not equal to Luke's, certainly approaching it. I kicked my shin and foot
up and down, and fell to my knees at one point, before quickly resuming
my position.


"Now, it's your turn, cuck."


As I pulled the strap back, hearing Brooke's subdued sobbing and seeing
her lovely, battered bottom, I asked myself what knight in history has
ever raised his hand against his lady. It was an abomination to even
consider it. I couldn't possibly harm Brooke. My compromised sense of
chivalry kicked in, and I acted. Did I act with courage? I will leave
that for you to decide, dear reader.


I dropped to the floor and clasped Luke's ankles. "Please, sir. Please,
sire, I beg you. Please don't make me hurt Brooke. Please give me the
additional strokes, instead." I began kissing his bare feet
frenetically.


"Cuck, if you don't give her the five strokes, at least as hard as she
hit you, I will give her ten more. Harder than the first ten."


Brooke said to me, "It's okay, Walter. Do what he says."


In that moment, I truly despised Luke. He was a cruel, cunning,
autocratic bastard. But Brooke wanted him there. Brooke wanted this.
Wasn't the ultimate duty of the knight to obey his lady, to accede to
her wishes and desires? Who was I to question them. Was me striking her
part of the game, too? It was a twisted game, to be sure, but it was the
game she wanted. There is a cliched, generally ironic phrase sometimes
uttered when one is about to punish someone: "This is going to hurt me a
lot more than it's going to hurt you." In this case, although I did not
utter those words, I thought them and really believed them to be true.
Because whereas my blows temporarily wounded Brooke's flesh, they
permanently wounded my spirit; they were blows against my conscience and
my sense of honor. Nonetheless, seeing no viable alternative, I delivered
the five strokes, trying to achieve just the required intensity to
appease Luke and not a smidgen more. Brooke cried out for the final two,
and her entire face was tear stained when she stood up. Seeing this, I
went into the bathroom and threw up.


Luke next sat down on the couch and turned on a football game, while
requiring Brooke and me to stand naked on either side of the TV, legs
together and hands clasped behind our heads, our fire red asses on
display. He had inserted one of his sweaty socks into each of our mouths
as a gag, taping them together from behind with duct tape. I remained
conscious of the open blinds as we stood there for 30 minutes, both
resisting any impulse to scratch an itch or rub our tender backsides.
After the alarm went off on his phone, he ordered us to prepare him a
steak, baked potato and creamed spinach. Still naked, we then served it
to him, standing at attention next to the table while he leisurely ate
his meal. Like naughty children, we were not permitted supper that night
and went to bed hungry. After dinner, Luke watched a two hour action
movie, resting one of his feet on my back from my position on my hands
and knees and his other foot on top of Brooke's face as she lay prostate
on the floor next to the couch. We were permitted one bathroom break, but
the only other times we left our positions were to bring him popcorn or
beers. Both of us were too cowed to sneak so much as a kernel of popcorn
in the kitchen, terrified he would catch us and subject us to still more
humiliating punishment. Finally, we went to sleep. Brooke was permitted
to share the bed with him at least, while I curled up on the floor at the
foot of the bed, pillowless, blanketless and shivering.


Luke certainly had delivered his message.


In the past, after enduring Luke's abuse over the course of a weekend, I
looked forward to walking to campus on Monday mornings to teach. The
classroom had been a refuge of sorts for me, a place where (my effeminate
articles of clothing notwithstanding) I was still relatively in command,
still safe. After the events of the Ren fair, that sense of security was
now in doubt.


Kelly smiled brightly at me as she entered the classroom with one of her
female classmates.


"Hi, Professor Rollins! How are you feeling today? I hope you're not
sore." The other girl giggled. "From all of the walking, I mean. My
feet were killing me yesterday."


In class, I was often left wondering these days if many of the questions
and comments from my students were innocent or innuendo. Coming from
Kelly, and her given her friend's giggle, I strongly suspected the
latter.


"Yes, there was a lot of walking, but I'm fine."


Paul Betz walked in with Anna and sat down towards the back of the
classroom. Paul rather disrespectfully propped his feet up on the seat in
front of him. He regarded me with a smirk, as if daring me to ask him to
take his feet off the chair and sit up straight (which I longed, but did
not in fact dare, to do). I surveyed the room of nine students present
that day to see if I could discern anything from their expressions to
indicate whether Kelly, Paul and/or Anna had told any of the others about
what had happened on Saturday at the Ren fair. To my relief, nothing
obviously indicated that to be the case. Then again, it was only Monday.
Was it possible they would honor their promise to keep quiet about it,
and that Paul's threat was nothing more than teasing, possibly fueled by
inebriation (I was fairly certain that they had been drinking, although
they were probably under age)? I allowed myself to hope that may be true,
but remained highly skeptical.


In an effort to exert control, to reassert my authority in the classroom,
I announced a pop quiz. Anna rolled her eyes and Paul almost
imperceptibly shook his head at me (as if saying, "You will regret
this."). The students dropped their quizzes off on my desk as they left
the room. Reviewing them in my office immediately after class, the first
two scores were 80 and 72. The third quiz I reviewed was Paul's. Written
on the bottom of the page was the following:


Professor page boy,

You can save yourself the trouble of grading Kelly's, Anna's and my
quizzes. We will each receive an A. You will meet me tomorrow at one of
the back booths at O'Riordans at 6 PM. We have important business to
discuss.


O'Riordans was a well known pub in a town a few miles away. It was less
likely to be frequented by students and faculty than the bars closer to
campus. I guess that was something to be grateful for, at least, because
the rest of Paul's note caused me nothing but distress. First of all,
how dare he demand that I falsify his, Anna's and Kelly's grades?! I
took my job as a professor, and academic integrity, very seriously. I
couldn't possibly artificially inflate the grades of certain students;
it was unfair to all of the other students, not just in my class, but in
the entire college. Out of curiosity, I graded their quizzes: Kelly
scored an 82, Anna scored a 64, and Paul didn't even bother answering
the questions. He was not that bad a student; this was a total power play
on his part.


Secondly, it was now obvious that Paul was not teasing and had every
intention of following through on his threat of blackmail, or extortion
or whatever it was he had in mind.


That evening at home things were largely back to normal, or what had
become my new normal. Brooke and I walked on eggshells around Luke, but
he seemed to have largely gotten over his anger. He even permitted me the
glass of wine I was entitled to from having exceeded my weight loss goals
on my weigh-in on Saturday before the Ren fair. And he had missionary sex
with Brooke, making allowances for her battered bottom; he was still
somewhat rough and degrading, as always (slapping and pinching her
nipples), but less so than usual. Dressed in turquoise colored tights, I
was permitted to watch, my cock throbbing against my cage. Brooke's
moans were as intense as usual. Though I was back in my bed that night, I
slept very poorly for the second night in a row, filled with anxiety
about my impending meeting with Paul Betz.


I had only one class on Tuesday, so was able to spend a few hours in my
office doing research for my book. I was reading some of the scholarly
literature on the Earl of Essex, aka "The Great Cuckold." To be more
precise, Robert Devereux was the 3rd Earl of Essex, who lived life in the
shadow of his father, a favorite of Queen Elizabeth 1. At the age of 13,
Lord Essex married Frances Howard, only one year older than him and known
as pretty, strong willed and spoiled. Soon after marrying her, he was
sent off on the typical European Tour for two years, before having
consummated his marriage to Frances. During his absence, she began a
passionate affair with Robert Carr, Viscount Rochester, a favorite of
King James, Elizabeth's successor. Upon Devereux's return, Frances
sought to annul the marriage on the grounds that he was impotent,
resulting in a very public trial and tremendous public humiliation for
him. He claimed that he was quite capable with other women and only
impotent with Frances, because of the very poor, verbally abusive manner
in which she treated him. The annulment was nonetheless granted and
Devereux became a laughingstock at court and a "national joke." One
suspects Frances' beauty undermined Devereux's claims that he performed
adequately with other women. Frances married her lover after the
annulment. Devereux got some measure of revenge three years later when
Frances and Carr, who had meanwhile been named Earl of Somerset, were
tried for poisoning Sir Thomas Overbury. Devereux was a member of the
jury and pushed for the death penalty for his ex-wife and the man who
cuckolded him. They were condemned to death but the sentence was never
carried out.


At the age of forty, Devereux married a second time to Elizabeth Paulet.
Paulet bore him a son, who died of the plague within a month of birth.
Devereux then filed for judicial separation (as divorce was not a legal
option at the time) on the grounds of adultery, not believing the son to
be his. Whether it was his impotence that was the reason for that, or
simply his paranoia after what had transpired with Frances, it is
impossible to know. But, without question, the failure of his second
marriage cemented his reputation as "The Great Cuckold" and deepened
his public humiliation. Devereux also had an undistinguished career as a
military leader. He had some successes on the battlefield to be sure, but
as many or more defeats, and his military career ended ignominiously in
the First English Civil War in the Battle of Lostwithiel. Outmaneuvered
by the Royalists, Devereux's 6,000-man army was forced to surrender
while he shamefully escaped in a fishing boat to escape humiliation.
Thus, compounding his ultimate professional humiliation, of course.


As I drove to O'Riordans to meet Paul Betz, my thoughts continued to
dwell on Devereux, a failure personally as well as professionally-- in
both the bedroom and on the battlefield--who became an object of public
ridicule. It was impossible for me not to identify with this unfortunate
historical figure. Clearly a failure in the bedroom, so that Brooke had
to look to her abusive ex-husband to satisfy her sexual needs, I now
seemed on the precipice of failing professionally, losing my position of
authority with my students. And like Devereux, my humiliation was
becoming increasingly public.


Was I destined to become "The Great Cuckold" of the modern era? History
does have a funny way of repeating itself...


O'Riordans was fairly empty at 6 PM on that particular Tuesday. The
place had a distinctive, unpleasant odor (stale beer and vomit, most
likely). All three of the back booths were unoccupied. I ordered a myself
a Diet Coke at the bar, and sat down at a booth in the corner that seemed
like it would offer the most privacy, as no other tables were very close
to it. I sipped my soda and looked nervously towards the entrance, hoping
against hope that Paul might have lost his nerve. After all, I was pretty
sure that what he was threatening to do was illegal. However, I knew
little about the law and figured I'd better hear him out before jumping
to any conclusions. I also thought that perhaps I could reason with him
about the importance of maintaining academic integrity. Surely, he would
understand that by inflating his, Kelly's and Anna's grades, it would
devalue the grades of everyone in the college, including their own.


Nevertheless, driving over, it occurred to me that I probably should have
brought along a tape recorder to record our conversation. But I wasn't
even sure THAT was legal. While sitting there waiting, it dawned on me
that I might be able to record him with my iPhone somehow. My knowledge
of technology rivaled my knowledge of the law; it was nearly nonexistent.
I did a quick Google search, however, and discovered that it indeed was
possible to record an external conversation with my iPhone.


Following the directions that I read on Google, I hit record on my Voice
Memos app and put my phone back in my pocket. I figured that I could
always research the legality of recording conversations without consent
later. For the moment, I was chiefly concerned with protecting myself.
Meanwhile, I continued to wait.


Paul finally sauntered into the bar at around a quarter past 6. This was
deliberate, no doubt. He was demonstrating that he was the one in
control; I was adhering to his timetable, not the other way around. He
sat down confidently on the seat across from me and put his iPhone on the
table. As I had mentioned previously, Paul was tall and slender. He was
dressed in jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers. I really had not paid close
attention to his physique in class, but sitting across from him, I
noticed that he was quite muscular beneath his shirt, especially around
his shoulders and neck.


"Put your phone on the table next to mine, Rollins."


"Why?"


"Just do it."


For whatever reason, I did as he commanded. Perhaps it was because of the
authoritative tone of his voice. Perhaps it was because I was worried
that he was in a position to damage my reputation. Perhaps it was simply
what Brooke had said to me on numerous occasions-- that I was
fundamentally a beta male, unwilling and/or unable to stand up for myself
when challenged by an alpha male. Or alpha female, for that matter.


"Power down your phone. I would too, but I think you're going to want
to see some of the photos in my library."


I again followed his command. That was to become the defining
characteristic of our relationship going forward, as you shall see. So
much for recording our conversation.


 He said, "What are you drinking, Rollins?"


"A Diet Coke."


"Get me a pint of the IPA they have on top. You probably should get
yourself something stronger than a soda. I have a feeling you're gonna
need it."


"Aren't you under age? I could get in trouble for buying you a beer."


"I'll be 21 in a few months. I drink here all the time and know most of
the bartenders. I live just down the road. You don't need to worry about
getting into trouble. Now, bring me my beer."


After I returned the table with his IPA and my refilled Coke, he said,
"You're sticking with soda, I see. Suit yourself. How much time do you
have? I know you have other masters to serve."


"Other what? What are you talking about?"


"I asked you a question. How much time do you have?", Paul repeated,
firmly.


"I'm expected home by 7:30."


"Why?"


"I'm cooking my wife dinner tonight."


"You mean Brooke. That's her name, right?"


"Yes."


"I bet you cook dinner more than occasionally. And what about Luke? Are
you cooking dinner for him as well? Don't lie to me. I'm eventually
going to find out the truth, and you will seriously regret it if I ever
find out you're lying to me."


"Yes, I'm cooking dinner for both of them."


"I figured. Alright, I wanted to know how much time we have. We have
quite a bit to cover in a limited amount of time. By `other masters,' I
mean that, effective immediately, you have a new master to serve. Well,
two actually. I told you on the first day of class that I'm a dominant
guy. Kelly knew that when she convinced me to take your class. That was
after she and Jake saw you cleaning Luke's truck wearing a pink speedo.
Hearing about that, and about you teaching a class on male masochism, I
was naturally intrigued. Anna and I get off on dominating and humiliating
betas like you. We live together in a condo just a couple of miles away
from here. You'll get to know it well. Kelly and Jake are our good
friends. They haven't owned slaves like Anna and I have, but they enjoy
a little domination, too, now and again. It's a bit more recreational
for them, whereas Anna and I are pretty serious about it."


"Look, Mr. Betz, I don't know what misconception you're operating
under that makes you think I'm going to change your grades because you
tell me to, or serve as your slave or something, just because I am
teaching a class on male masochism. But I..."


"Shut the fuck up, Rollins. I'm not operating under any misconception
whatsoever. It's obvious that you're submissive to your wife and Luke.
A submissive cuckold. Luke is her ex-husband, right?"


"Yes. How did you know that?"


"Rumors get around. I guess she must have missed him. Looking at the two
of you, it's not hard to understand why. Anyone who washes his wife
lover's truck dressed the way you were, or polishes his wife's lover's
boots in public dressed the way you were, is obviously more than just a
run of the mill cuckold. You're obviously some kind of serious
masochist. I was sincere when I said that I was mistaken for questioning
your credentials to teach the class. You were even polishing Neil
Lawson`s boots, for fuck's sake. That's seriously kinky! What's that
all about? Are you submissive to him as well? Your fellow professor?"


"Of course not. We were at a Ren fair! I was just playing a part. I drew
the short straw and had to be the page. That's all it was, nothing
more."


Paul laughed, dismissively. "Just like you simply lost a bet, which is
why you were washing Luke's truck dressed in a pink speedo, right?
`Nothing to see here folks.' Get real, Rollins. No one`s going to be
stupid enough to buy that bullshit. Especially knowing the kind of stuff
you're teaching. And all of the feminine shit you wear to class. Kelly
said you didn't used to dress that way before you got married. When
photos start mysteriously appearing on social media and in people's
inboxes

around campus, it's basically just going to confirm everybody's
suspicions about you. But I'm sure people will be surprised by the
extent of it. Of your submission, I mean. Why don't you take a look at
some of the candid shots of you I have on my phone. Don't worry, I keep
them in a password protected secret photo vault." He smirked at me.


After punching in a code, he handed me his phone and directed me to
scroll through the pictures with my finger. There were at least a dozen
shots, each more humiliating and high resolution than the one before it.
A crystal clear shot of me kneeling before Neil in my white tights and
page boy haircut, buffing his boots. The same scene from two additional
angles, one in which Neil's face was plainly visible, a self satisfied
smile on his face. Another one showed him kissing Laura as I worked.
Clear individual shots of me cleaning and buffing the shoes of Paul,
Anna, Kelly and Jake. Another of me cleaning Luke's boots (taken later,
obviously with the phone camera's zoom lens, as it was a little
pixelated). Shots of me in the pillory, both from the front and back. The
rear shot showed my tights-clad ass fully exposed, and the sign inviting
people to punish me with the tawse (also evident). Another shot of me in
the jousting stadium, standing, with my erection tenting out my tights; I
was trying to turn away, but both my face and erection were clearly
visible. Much to my surprise, there were also a few shots of me in the
pink speedo cleaning Luke's truck. One was of me on my knees, scrubbing
a hubcap with a toothbrush. There was another shot of me from behind,
scrubbing the fender with a sponge, and a third one of me staring
directly at the camera, my belly fat protruding from beneath the cuckold
horns T-shirt and my erection protruding from beneath the pink spandex.
These must've been taken by Kelly's boyfriend, Jake, because I had
really been focusing most of my attention on her. I suppose that
stumbling upon me that day in such a compromising position was just too
remarkable to let go by undocumented. Still, I had no idea when he
could've possibly taken them. The same was true of the photos from the
Ren fair. I was so humiliated on both of these occasions that I must not
have been very observant, I suppose. Now, however, seeing these pictures
for the first time in the bar, I was absolutely gobsmacked.


"Oh, god," I groaned.


"I told you these iPhone cameras have gotten really good. Now let me
show you some of the videos we took."


This was unbelievable. More of the same. Several short videos of me, both
from the day I cleaned the truck and at the Ren fair. Vigorously buffing
boots, walking submissively behind Luke, Brooke, Neil, and Laura,
carrying the heavy bag. Video with clear audio of me addressing Kelly and
Anna as "my lady" and Paul as "my lord." Jake, once again, must have
been responsible for most the filming and picture taking, as I focused
the least on him. I was flabbergasted.


"But you can't post these on social media or show them to anyone.
That's illegal."


"I hate to break it to you, professor, but I'm a real wizard when it
comes to technology. I get the feeling you might not be, am I right? My
older brother is a computer scientist, and a first rate hacker. I usually
don't need any help, but when I do, he's always happy to provide some
expert advice. Such as in how to flawlessly cover my tracks when I post
something or send something. No one would ever know the source, I can
promise you that. I wonder how Professor Bevins would feel about his
newly tenured professor shining the boots of another one of his
professors? Would be a great lead story for the campus newspaper,
wouldn't it? Notice that I'm using the conditional tense here. Whether
anybody sees these or not is entirely up to you."


"What is it you want from me in exchange for not showing them to
anyone?"


"Are you sure you don't want that drink now, Rollins? I'll even buy it
for you, just this one time."


"I'll have a Jamison's, on the rocks, please. Thank you."


"Try, `Thank you, sir.'"


"Thank you, sir."


"That's more like it." I felt my heart beating rapidly and my face
sweating.


 Paul had me. When I had entered the bar, I believed I had a couple of
different lines of defense. He had efficiently circumvented or demolished
them. I tried think of a medieval battle -- perhaps the Battle of
Hastings -- that was analogous, but what really came to mind was the
ineffectiveness of the Maginot Line in protecting France against
Hitler's army. Paul easily outflanked me, and his occupation was about
to begin.


When he got back to the table and handed me the drink, he said, "I got
you a double."


"Thank you, sir."


"So, we've only got about an hour left and have a lot to cover. How old
are you?"


"I'm 39."


"Don't forget the `sir' next time. That's good. You're almost twice
as old as I am. You're old enough to be my father. Anna and I have
always wanted to dominate an older guy like you. How old is Brooke and
Luke?"


"Brooke is 28. Luke is 27, I think. Sir."


"Now, I need you to tell me about your schedule, in great detail. I need
to know about your work schedule and your home schedule. I need to fully
understand your obligations, your time commitments, so that we can work
around them. I don't intend to be unreasonable here, Rollins. I know you
have a job, obviously. And, like I said, I know you have other masters to
serve. Given that you're married to one of them, I recognize they will
be your primary obligation."


That was something at least, I thought. At the same time, I must confess
that when Paul uttered the words "dominate an older guy like you," my
cock swelled instantly in its prison. Instantly and painfully.


Paul took careful notes about my work schedule, my routine at home and at
Luke's house, and other obligations such as cheerleading at Luke's
football games and even the status of and deadlines regarding the
publication of my next book. He was amused when I shared more details
about the subject matter.


"Anna and I are going to help you with your research. You won't be a
submissive cuckold with us, technically. But it will be a very similar
dynamic. We should get a percentage of your royalties." He laughed.
"Not that I imagine it will make any best seller lists."


Why was everybody so obsessed with helping me do first-hand research, I
wondered. So unnecessary.


Once he got a thorough download on my time commitments, he said, "I will
give this further thought, but based on what you told me, you should have
time to clean our condo and do our laundry once a week. You should plan
on about two hours. You should also plan on preparing and serving us
dinner once a month. Those evenings will require at least a four hour
commitment. You'll have to figure out a way to make that work. I realize
some things will be out of your control, and that you might have to
occasionally cancel. But then I will expect you to make it up to me the
following month. I will also require you to provide sporadic services for
me, and for Anna, when things come up. Do you understand?"


"Yes, sir."


"Do you have any sabbaticals planned?"


"Yes, sir. I'm off the next Fall semester, actually. I thought I could
use the time to finish my book, if necessary."


"Well, you should have lots more time to devote to Anna and me when
you're on sabbatical. I will expect at least twice the amount of time as
this semester. I strongly suggest you finish your book in the spring, or
over the summer at the latest."


"Yes, sir. I will try."


"Do Luke and Brooke keep you caged all the time?"


"How did you know about that? Sir."


"Depending upon what you wear to class, it's pretty obvious
sometimes."


"Oh, I see...sir." How humiliating!  If it was obvious to him, then to
whom else? Hopefully, it was obvious only because he was looking there
for something...


"So, answer my question. Are you caged all of the time?"


"Not all of the time, sir. As you could tell from the Ren fair." I
looked down, ashamed, and took a big swig of my drink. "But, most of the
time, yes."


"Too bad. Anna and I like to control the cocks of our betas. At least
the ones with cocks. I'll have to give some thought to what can be done
about that. Who is your keyholder?"


"Luke, mainly. But also Brooke. How many betas do you have, sir?"


"Presently, we have three slaves in our stable, one cis male, one cis
female and one transgender biological male who is starting hormone
therapy and will be transitioning. You will be our fourth. Tell me more
about Luke. How old is he? What does he do for a living? What are his
interests? What's he like? I want to know everything about him."


I was simply stunned by what Paul had just told me. This twenty year-old
college kid and his girlfriend (presumably the same age, if not younger)
had already accumulated a stable of submissives. Of different genders, no
less. I was merely to augment their collection. I was certainly curious
about the others, however. That curiosity would be satisfied before too
long.


I went on to tell him everything he wanted to know about Luke and Brooke,
and their relationship with one another. He was clearly intrigued by the
fact that Brooke was so dominant with me, and yet so submissive with
Luke. However, he was also intrigued by the terms of their agreement with
one another, and took note that the appeal of it to Brooke was that she
had an escape hatch she could use if she ever chose to do so.


Paul was quite interested to learn that Luke owned a large house with an
enormous pool.


"Is he a swimmer?"


"I've only seen him in the pool a couple of times, because he only
first... started staying at our house early last summer. I think he plans
for us to spend a lot more time at his house next summer. He ikes to
swim, but is not a swimmer per se. As I explained, his sports are
football and weightlifting, sir."


"Still, with a pool that big he must like to swim a lot. I'm on the
college swim team. It's probably an area where I can connect with him.
Besides, I would love to swim in his pool."


Oh great, I thought to myself. Someone else to bond with Luke over sports
and swimming. Maybe Luke, Neil and Paul could form their own little swim
team and I could be their pool boy. When not serving cocktails poolside
to Brooke, Laura and Anna. In retrospect, I can't really say be careful
what you wish for, in this instance -- as I wouldn't describe these
thoughts as wishes, exactly -- but I guess I can say be careful what you
joke about, or what you imagine. Because my thoughts weren't far off
from what eventually transpired.



"How do you dress at home?", he asked next. When I hesitated in
responding, he said, "Look, like I said before, I'm eventually going to
find out the truth. Likely from Luke or Brooke directly. And there will
be holy hell to pay if I find out you were anything short of 100%
truthful with me. A hundred percent, which means not holding back
anything either. You will learn that I'm highly detailed oriented, and I
don't forget shit. So watch yourself, Rollins. I'll ask you again. How
are you required to dress at home?"


"Sometimes I'm allowed to wear shorts or jeans, but usually yoga pants.
The tight , spandex kind. Always with panties underneath or tights with
the jeans. Most of the time at home, I just wear tights or panties.
Sometimes thigh high stockings. Usually with a T-shirt, or no shirt
during the summer."


"Are you fully shaved? I notice you have no hair on your arms."


"Yes, sir. Fully."


"Waxing or depilatory cream?"


"Waxing, sir. A full body wax every month."


"Good. It looks, and smells, better than the cream. Bras?"


"No, sir."


"Maid uniforms?"


"No, but.."


"But what?"


"But there has been talk of me wearing them once I lose more weight."


"I've noticed that you've lost quite a bit of weight since the
semester started. They have you on a diet?"


"Yes, sir." This led to a whole new line of interrogation regarding the
specifics of my diet, the weigh-ins, and Luke's punishment and reward
system. It also led to a detailed account of my exercise regimen with
Luke.


"So, you have workout tights, punishment tights, and just tights to wear
around the house. Is that right?"


"Yes, sir."


"It sounds like a lot of tights. Different colors, I imagine?"


"Yes, sir. A lot of them. Different colors and patterns. Brooke picks
them out and orders them online, along with my panties."


"How does Luke discipline you?"


"Usually, corporal punishment, sir."


"How? What implements?"


"It depends on his mood, sir. Sometimes a strap or a riding crop.
Sometimes his belt, or his bare hand."


"He doesn't cane you?"


"Yes, sir. Sometimes he does. When he's particularly angry."


"What did I say about not holding details back? Is there anything else
you're holding back in terms of punishment?"


"I'm sorry, sir. Not in terms of corporal punishment, sir. No."


"Where does he hit you? Always on your ass?"


"Usually, sir. But sometimes on my back and upper thighs. Sometimes
he..."


"Sometimes he does what? Spit it out."


"Sometimes he punishes my cock and balls, with a wooden spoon."


"Interesting. Anywhere else? Bastinado?"


"No, sir."


"That offers some interesting possibilities. I imagine you are usually
pretty marked up on your ass. I will need to find some ways of
disciplining you that don't leave marks that are too obvious. The
bastinado could be one good option. It will be a challenge to think of
others, but I enjoy a good challenge. What other types of punishment?"


"Holding stress positions, especially after corporal punishment."


"You mean, standing in the corner, holding a book on your head, or a
penny against the wall with your nose? That sort of thing?"


"Yes, sir."


"What else?"


"Sometimes withholding dinner. Punishment exercises. Chores of various
kinds. Like washing his truck, raking leaves in his yard. Those types of
things."


"Sounds fairly routine. What kind of personal services does he make you
provide? Do you suck him off?"


"Sometimes, sir. Usually only to fluff him, but a couple of times he
has...ejaculated onto my face."


"Ever swallow?"


"No, sir. Not yet, at least."


"What else? Does he make you clean his cock after sex?"


"Yes, sir, sometimes."


"With your mouth or with a towel?"


"Both, sir."


"How big is he?"


"Very big, sir. Brooke measured us once. He's 7.4 inches long when
fully erect with a circumference of 5.5 inches."


"Impressive. Bigger than I am, but I punch well above my weight, as
you'll find out soon enough. Does he make you clean his creampies out of
your wife?"


"Sometimes, sir."


"What about their feet? Do they make you worship and/or care for their
feet?"


"Yes, sir. Both."


"Frequently? I want details."


"Yes, sir. Very frequently. I have always spent a lot of time worshiping
and massaging Brooke's feet, and she insisted that I learn how to give
her pedicures. I regularly do that for...him now too."


"Interesting. What else does he make you do with his feet?"


"Massage them. Kiss them. Sort of tongue bathe them. Suck his toes,
sometimes. Sometimes..."


"Sometimes, what?", he asked impatiently, obviously growing tired of my
periodic reticence.


"Sometimes he makes me compose and recite poetry, honoring his feet. And
other aspects of him. I do that for Brooke's feet, too."


"That's one I haven't heard before. That's a trip."


"Sir, it's 7:25. I'll be in trouble, if I'm late."


"Very well. We've covered quite a lot of ground today, haven't we,
professor?"


"Yes, sir. Sir, if I do everything you ask of me..."


"Command, you mean. I'm not asking you to do anything."


"Yes, sir. If I do everything that you command me to do, you will erase
the photos and videos and not tell anyone?"


"If you do everything I command you to do, they will not be made public.
You have my word."


"But, you won't delete them, sir?"


"Why would I want to do that? Then I would lose my leverage over you."


"But if you don't delete them, my... position of powerlessness...may
never end."


"Yes, in theory, your position of servitude to me, and to Anna, may
never end. But it likely will. I'm sure we'll grow tired of you at some
point. New and more entertaining, and better looking, submissives will
undoubtedly come along. Even then, it will still be unlikely that I'll
delete all of the photos and videos. You just never know what's gonna
happen, right?"


"I guess so, sir."


Paul casually knocked his pen off the table and it fell down onto the
floor.


"Pick up my pen for me. When you're down there, kiss my sneaker to
memour new relationship. I better feel your lips through the mesh."


"Here, sir? In a bar?"


"There's almost no one around. And you're getting onto your hands and
knees to look for something you dropped. No one is going to see what
you're doing down there. But I better feel it."


"Yes, sir." I got down onto my hands and knees and put my head under
the table. I picked up the pen and kissed his sneaker. I felt the mesh
material against my lips and pressed down harder into his foot to make
sure he felt it.


I then stood up, glancing around furtively to see if I had been observed.
It didn't appear so. I looked at Paul, smiling smugly at me.


"You better run along now. You're going to be one very busy male
masochist, Rollins."


Looking at my watch, I thought to myself that if I caught all the lights,
I probably would only be about five minutes late or so. I hoped that Luke
would be in a fairly good mood that night.


Driving home, I reflected on my meeting with Paul Betz. It was incredibly
humiliating to have to provide such a detailed account of the punishments
and humiliations I endured at the hands of one man to another man
planning his own unique dominion over me. My student, no less. I didn't
even have time to discuss with him the ethical issues of inflating his,
Kelly's and Anna's grades. Well, I was sure we would have the
opportunity to discuss that sometime in the future, I thought to myself,
as I ran a red light in my rush to get home.


I was going to be very busy, indeed.


November was a very eventful, and therefore exceptionally busy, month for
me. It was also an exceptionally humiliating one, at least compared to
what came before it (if not to what came later, as everything is
relative).


Luke's and Neil's bonding continued, much to my chagrin. After the Ren
fair, they started lifting weights together at the gym on Saturday
mornings. On the second Saturday of the month, I had a setback in my
weight loss momentum, having gained a pound at my weekly weigh-in that
morning. Consequently, I was to receive 12 strokes of one of the
punishment implements hanging on the wall. My primary focus at that point
was on persuading Luke to use the paddle, strap or riding crop rather
than the cane, or Scottish tawse. I went straight into kowtow mode, with
Brooke looking on amusedly.


"Sir, I can't think what happened. I have been very careful this week.
I haven't cheated at all."


That was not completely true, as I did enjoy a delicious vindaloo curry
at my favorite Indian restaurant in town on Wednesday for lunch. After my
conversation with Paul Betz the prior day, I decided I needed to allow
myself some sort of indulgence. I was aware that I tend to eat more when
highly stressed, and could see how my diet might be endangered by the
additional stress that Paul's demands would be placing on me. That self
awareness, however, did not prevent me from ordering the rich curry,
along with garlic naan bread and vegetable samosas. I was now paying the
price for my lack of self discipline.


"The scale doesn't lie, prof."


"Sir, sometimes it's just water weight. I drank a lot of water last
night and this morning. Could we please try again this afternoon?"


"I think that's total bullshit, but I'm willing to let you do another
weigh-in when I get back from the gym. I don't have time to punish you
now anyway. I'm meeting Neil at the gym in 20 minutes."


"Thank you, sir. I'll work out with Brooke on the treadmill while
you're at the gym, and I'm pretty sure that I'll sweat out the excess
water weight."


"Knock yourself out, prof."


"But, sir, in the unlikely event that I don't lose 3 pounds by this
afternoon, may I humbly request that you correct me with the paddle or
the strap?"


"Why not the cane, prof? It's without a doubt the most effective at
changing your behavior."


"I understand, sir. And you certainly know best. However, I still have
some bruises that haven't fully healed from the Ren fair and from our
training session on Thursday. And you are so powerful, sir, that the cane
in your hands is exceedingly painful."


"Well, that's the whole point, isn't it?"


"Yes, sir. As I said, you know best. I simply ask that you please
consider it, although I'm hopeful it won't be necessary at all. Here,
sir, let me tie your shoes for you." I dropped to my knees and double
tied both of his sneakers, as he liked. I heard Brooke snicker.


"Wait, sir. There's a little smudge here. It doesn't look good. Let me
get my brush. It will only take a minute."


As I ran upstairs to get the brush I used to clean Luke's athletic gear,
I heard Brooke say, "Wow. He really doesn't want you to use that
cane."


When I came back downstairs, I quickly ran into the bathroom to wet the
brush before I hurried back over to where Luke was standing by the front
door. As I scurried over to him and dropped to my knees, I practically
slid to his feet on the hardwood floor in my tights, in an attempt to
demonstrate my sense of urgency in the most obsequious manner possible. I
quickly scrubbed the mark on his shoe until it faded.


"There now, that looks much better, sir." I then placed a quick peck on
the toe of each sneaker before standing. "I hope you have an excellent
workout, sir."


"You too, cuck. Good luck losing 3 pounds by this afternoon," he said,
chuckling, as he walked out the door.


After Luke left, Brooke said, "You are an incredible suck-up, you know
that?"


"I learned from the best," I replied with a smile.


"You better watch it, mister, or I'll be the one using the cane on you
before he even gets back," she said, returning my smile.


Brooke then changed into her incredibly sexy spandex workout top and
shorts, which showed off her tight abdomen and long, toned legs.


"Can I put on my gym shorts?", I asked.


"No, leave the tights on. I like watching you run in them."


I rolled my eyes, but complied, of course. We went down into our basement
gym and began a rigorous aerobic workout, me on the treadmill and Brooke
on the stationary bike. After about a half an hour, we both took a water
break. Following the break, I went back on the treadmill while Brooke
went upstairs. She returned a moment later holding the riding crop, and
walked over to me, swishing it in the air, theatrically.


I looked at her incredulously. Smiling mischievously, she said, "I
thought you could use a little motivation. It's gonna be pretty hard for
you to lose so much weight in a few hours."


"Brooke! I'm trying to avoid punishment, not get more. Besides, we both
know there's no way I'm going to lose 3 pounds. I'm just hoping maybe
it's a pound or so, so that I can reduce the number of strokes. God,
please don't let it be the cane."


"You don't believe in God."


"It's just a figure of speech."


"I know, dummy. Don't worry, I'm not going to hit you too hard. I'm
just going to give you a little encouragement whenever I notice you
starting to slow down. You'll thank me for it later."


While I doubted that, I had to admit that Brooke looked unbelievably sexy
in her skimpy clothes, swishing that crop--like a dominatrix personal
trainer. My cock swelled against its cage. She adjusted the treadmill to
give me a much higher incline to run up. After about five minutes, I did
start to slow down a bit and she swatted me on my right buttock with the
crop. It stung mildly, but was honestly more playful than anything else.
I stayed on the treadmill for another hour or so, taking sips of water
periodically as I ran. Brooke was true to her word in that she continued
to encourage me with the crop throughout my workout. The final two
strokes were a little more painful than the others, but still essentially
playful in nature. I was drenched in sweat by the time I finished and
removed my soaking tights before taking a shower.


After my shower, I changed into a pair of black yoga pants and a T-shirt.
Not surprisingly, I decided to skip lunch that day. I sat across from
Brooke at the table, drinking a glass of water and staring enviously at
her salad as she ate.


"Well, I hope you managed to lose something at least, and I hope he
agrees not to use the cane. He seems to be in a pretty good mood today.
Maybe he'll go easy on you."


"You probably wish that he goes harder on me," I said with a half pout,
half smile.


"Don't be silly. I enjoy watching him punish you, but I don't want him
to really hurt you."


"Can I ask you something?"


"Sure. Ask away."


"Why DO you like seeing him beat me so much?"


Rather than make a joke, she paused and looked reflective. "That's a
good question. It's complex, I guess. To be more accurate, it's complex
in one way, but pretty simple in another way. It's not that I like
seeing him cause you pain. Or like seeing you in pain. But I do like that
you're willing to suffer for me. Does that sound terrible?"


"No. It's what the chivalric code is largely about."


"Right. But it's more than that. We've talked about this before.
There's just something so incredibly hot about seeing a guy like Luke
completely control and dominate a guy like you. And it's weird. Knowing
that you're smarter than he is, and a lot nicer than he is, that just
makes it hotter. It's really not that much different than then when he
smacks me around or spanks me. Would I be turned on by a big, beefy
intellectual guy -- a progressive feminist -- taking me over his knee and
blistering my bottom? Yeah, I probably would. But not to nearly the same
extent as when Luke does it. It's the dichotomy of it that makes it more
humiliating, which makes it more erotic. Does that make sense to you?"


"I think so, yes. You're sort of a masochist yourself, as well as a
sadist, is what you're saying. And it all really does always come back
to the game for you, doesn't it?"


"Largely, yes. But it's not all intellectual. It's the physical
sensations, too. I quite like having my bottom warmed up. Don't you?"


"Up to a point, yes. But when it's too hard, my arousal sometimes goes
away pretty quickly. It depends on the situation, I guess. Who's there?
Who's watching?"


"Exactly. But the combination of the humiliation with the physical
sensations is what can be truly erotic. Sometimes you just have to go
with the flow of it, even when it's really humiliating. That would be my
advice to you, Walter. Luke is clearly amping things up with you. With
us. Try to go with the flow."


"I'll try to remember that when he's beating my ass later today."


"I'm being serious, you know."


"I know you are. I'll try. Do you think I could maybe have a couple of
your cherry tomatoes?"


Just then we heard doors slam in the driveway, and a moment later, Luke
walked into the house with Neil. Who was supposed to be MY friend. Not
his. As fond as I am of Neil, I was not happy to see him that afternoon.
He and Luke were both talking animatedly and laughing together at some
joke.


Brooke stood up and gave Neil a peck on the cheek. "Hey, Neil. Nice to
see you. How's Laura? I haven't seen her since the Ren fair."


"She's fine. She had me over for dinner last night. She's a great
cook! I haven't yet properly thanked you for introducing us. Thanks,
Brooke. Laura's terrific."


"You're very welcome. It sounds like you two have been pretty
inseparable."


"Hey, pal," said Neil to me.


"Hi, Neil."


Still in their workout clothes, Neil and Luke sat down at the table with
us.


"Get the man a beer," Luke said to me. "And get me one while you're
at it. I tell you this guy is a lot stronger than he looks. He benched
250, ten reps, with no problem."


Neil laughed, and said, "Well, that's nothing compared to what you can
do. You pressed 290 like it was nothing."


"See, prof, not all college professors are wimps. This guy knows how to
take care of himself."


"Well, I do work hard to keep myself in shape." Neil turned to me,
"Speaking of which, Luke told me about the setback with your diet. I was
disappointed to hear it. You were doing so well."


"Well, it's just a temporary setback. I think it may have been water
weight. We're going to do another weigh-in later today."


"I think more likely it was that doughnut I saw you eating on Thursday
at the Corner Cafe. You know doughnuts are fried, don't you? They're
one of the most fattening foods there are, and one of the worst for your
health." Shit, I had completely forgotten about that chocolate doughnut!
And now Neil had busted me to Luke.


"Doughnut! You promised me this morning that you didn't cheat! You're
in big trouble, prof," said Luke, angrily.


"Thanks a lot, Neil," I said.


"Neil is a guest in this house, and you will treat him with respect. I
don't care how you address him at your college, but when I'm staying
here, he's my guest and you will address him as `sir.' Got it, cuck?"


"Yes, sir."


"As a matter of fact, when we were lifting weights, I told Neil how
disappointed I am  in you for taking so long to lose weight, all your ups
and downs, and backsliding. Every time you seem like you're making real
progress, you screw it up by cheating. And then, on top of it all, you
fucking lie me?!"


"I sincerely apologize, sir. I honestly forgot about the doughnut." I
hung my head.


"Yeah, I'll bet. What else did you forget, I wonder. Probably lunch at
that Thai joint you're so addicted to, and god knows what else."


"No, sir."


"How can I believe anything you tell me?"


"Babe, remember that Walter has lost over 20 pounds even with the weight
he gained this past week. He's doing pretty well," Brooke interjected.


"Brooke, this is a conversation between the men. Men's bodies are
different than women's." He turned back towards me: "As a matter of
fact, your friend Neil gives more of a damn about your health than you
do, which is sad. He tells me he's been trying to get you to lose weight
for years."


"Yes, sir. That's true," I said.


"Well, I've asked him to help me keep you on the straight and narrow,
and he has generously agreed. Because he actually gives a shit about you.
I've asked him to keep an eye on you at your work, because that's where
you obviously do most of your cheating."


"Thank you, sir," I said to Neil.


Neil nodded his head at me.


"Neil, you can be more helpful than just keeping an eye on your friend
here. As I told you, one of the ways I keep him honest--or at least,
somewhat honest, I should say-- is by disciplining him. Because he's so
lacking in self discipline."


Neil smiled. "I remember he was having a little trouble sitting down at
dinner a couple of weeks ago. It's hard to argue with your methods,
Luke. You've had more success in getting Walter to lose weight in 4-5
months than I've had in over five years, with my words."


"Words don't mean a damn thing with Walter. He's full of empty words.
So, I'd like you to help me in disciplining him today. Humiliation is
also a powerful motivator, and I bet he'd work extra hard to avoid
repeating the humiliation of being disciplined by his friend and
co-worker. Wouldn't you, cuck?"


"Yes, sir."


"Will you help me out, Neil? Will you help out your friend?", asked
Luke.


"Like I said, I can't find fault with your methods, Luke. All I care
about are the results, and Walter's health. So yes, I'll help in any
way that I can."


"That's much appreciated, Neil. Prof, I think you better express your
gratitude to your friend. He's a really good friend."


This was unbelievable. I was not only going to have to endure the
unspeakable humiliation of being punished by my long-time friend and
colleague, I was going to have to actually thank him for it! In front of
Brooke, no less. The best man at my wedding.


I turned to Neil. "Thank you, sir. Thank you for caring about me." Then
I said to Luke, "But, sir, what about the second weigh-in? I sweated a
lot when you were at the gym."


"Well, there's the issue of your weight. But there's also the issue of
your cheating, and then lying about it. But let's address one at a time.
Let's do the weigh-in now."


We all walked over to the scale. To no one's surprise, my weight was
identical to what it had been four hours earlier. All of that hard work
for nothing.


"So, 12 strokes it is. For the weight gain. The lying is a separate
matter. We can deal with that another time. So, the only remaining
question is what implement to use. You see, Neil, the cane is by far the
most effective implement in convincing tubby to reform his behavior. But
he really hates it, and was trying his damndest this morning to convince
me to use the strap or paddle instead. I tell you what, cuck. Since Neil
is going to be the one disciplining you today, it's him you've got to
convince, not me. Neil, your buddy has gotten real good at giving foot
massages. He could even become one of those reflex...."


"Reflexologists?", offered Neil.


"Exactly. Reflexologists. And I don't know about you, but my feet are
killing me after that workout. Maybe if he does a really good job, you
could consider his request to not use the cane this time, despite it's
proven results. We can have another beer and talk while he works. I'd
like your opinion on a new business venture I'm considering." Luke put
his arm on Neil's back and steered him towards the couch.


Neil chuckled. "Nothing beats a good foot massage. My feet are pretty
sore, too. And I'd love to hear about your new possible business
venture. When I was a kid, I ran a small business, mowing neighbors's
lawns, painting houses, fixing stuff around their houses. Plumbing too,
of course. Though I'd get my dad to do any major plumbing work they
needed. Small time stuff, but I had a couple of other kids working for
me. The point is, I've always been fascinated by business, especially
residential services. Walter, would you mind getting us a couple of fresh
beers."


When I returned with the beers, Luke said, "Masssge our guest's feet
first."


"Yes, sir."


When Neil bent over and started to untie his sneaker, Luke said, "You
don't need to do that. This is a full service establishment. Prof will
take care of everything, won't you?"


"Yes, sir."


Brooke sat on the recliner, pretending to read her iPhone, but I could
tell she was surreptitiously watching this new twist in our ever evolving
game with interest. And

as I observed Brooke's interest, right on cue, my cock throbbed with its
own interest.


When I untied Neil's sneakers and removed his socks, he said, smiling,
"Sorry, pal, I imagine they're a bit ripe after all the sweating Luke
and I did today at the gym. It was quite a workout."


"No problem, sir," I said as I began kneading his soles.


"Don't worry about him. He's pretty used to the smell of foot sweat,"
said Luke. I heard Brooke lightly snicker.


At Brooke and Luke's insistence, I had learned various massage
techniques, including thumb walking, finger walking, toe bending, heel
squeezing, foot spreading, achillies and toe massage and pressure point
rotation (I had consulted one of the pretty young Asian women at the nail
spa a few times, and tipped her handsomely). From the satisfied sounds
and praise coming from Neil, I had learned my lessons pretty well,
apparently.


"Oh, my god, that feels good. I can almost feel the stress leaving my
body. Where did you learn to do this, Walter? You're better at this than
most of the girls in the massage parlors I've been to."


Luke answered for me, "We had him get some lessons from the pros. But
you're right, he's pretty damn good. He's a natural."


"You're not kidding. That feels amazing. I could easily get used to
this," Neil replied.


"He's at your disposal," said Luke. "Maybe he can even come by your
office when you're at work together. I bet your feet must hurt after
standing up in front of a class all day."


"Well, usually I just have a couple of classes, so I can rest in between
them. But on Wednesdays, I've got four classes back to back."


"Maybe you should have a standing appointment on Wednesdays after your
last class, assuming Walter doesn't have a conflict," said Luke.


"You don't have any classes on Wednesday afternoons this semester, do
you, Walter?", Neil asked me.


"No, sir."


"That might not be such a bad idea, Luke. Thanks," said Neil.


"We're big believers in the benefits of reflexology. In addition to
making your feet feel better and relieving stress, I think they also help
with back pain and improving your overall mood. They sort of work like
acupressure," said Brooke.


"I completely agree," replied Neil.


I was so happy that they were all in such harmonious agreement about the
wonders of foot massages. When did I get my feet massaged by anyone
(other than the lessons I took at the nail salon)? Why did I always have
to administer these massages from my knees, in the most humiliating
position possible? The same way I administered pedicures. Luke would no
doubt be offering that service to Neil soon as well.


 I continued to work hard on Neil's feet, trying to balance my deep and
growing resentment at being in that situation with my desire to please
him sufficiently that he would agree to punish me with something other
than the cane. That was what I had been reduced to. I could feel my face
burn with shame, and I tried to avoid eye contact with any of them.


After about 45 minutes, I moved on from Neil's feet to Luke's. But not
before putting Neil's socks and shoes back on his feet and getting them
both fresh beers (and Brooke a cup of tea). I worked on Luke's feet as
he and Neil discussed Luke's plan to acquire a business in Indiana that
did residential heating and air-conditioning service in addition to
plumbing. Luke thought he might be able to leverage the expertise from
his new potential acquisition, and start offering those services in his
existing plumbing branches in Ohio. He was interested in Neil's opinion.
Notably, he never asked mine.


"I think that idea has a lot of promise, Luke. HVAC and plumbing go
together naturally. My dad always wanted to break into the HVAC side, but
was never able to. You've started to do commercial plumbing work
already. Maybe this strategy would allow you to also do commercial HVAC
work in the future. It could grow your company substantially."


"That's exactly what I was thinking! Great minds".


Their bonding was actually starting to make me feel a bit nauseated, to
be honest. But there was not much I could do about it.


After I finished with Luke's feet, he said, "Well, no more delay
tactics, prof." As if the humiliating foot massages were my idea.
"It's time to pay the piper for fucking up on your diet. Neil, have you
decided what implement you want your use on your buddy's backside?"


Neil laughed softly. "Not really. What are my options?"


"Come with me, I'll show you," said Luke. Then to me: "Go change into
your punishment tights. The bright red ones. No shirt."


"Yes, sir."


When I returned to the living room, I was greatly relieved to see Neil
holding the paddle and lightly striking it against his palm. Not that the
paddle didn't hurt like hell, but it was far less brutal than the cane.


Luke said, "Prof, it's your lucky day. Your good buddy has decided to
go easy on you. He was pretty impressed by your foot massage."


"Yes, that, and I know how to use a paddle. There was one hanging up on
the wall of our frat house at Duke. I was on the receiving end of it once
or twice, but fortunately I was the one using it more than feeling it,"
said Neil.


I stood before Neil in my tights, deeply ashamed. He peered down at my
crotch and said, "So that's what one of those things looks like. I
noticed the bulge under your yoga pants, but I've never really seen one
on someone before. It's really small."


"He doesn't need a big one, trust me," said Luke.


"Better you than me, pal." Luke said. "Well, bend over that chair, I
guess."


I caught Brooke's eye briefly, and the hint of a smirk on her beautiful
face, before I bent over. I then felt the paddle resting against my ass.


Luke said, " After every stroke, I want you to say, `Thank you for
caring, sir. I promise to do better on my diet next week.'"


Neil efficiently administered the 12 strokes of the paddle, each
punctuated by my humiliating expression of gratitude. While he did not
hit as hard as Luke, he hit plenty hard. I was kicking legs up and down
by the fifth stroke and tears formed in my eyes by the eighth. "Just go
with the flow," I told old myself, trying to heed Brooke's advice. When
Neil had finally finished, Luke ordered me to stand in the corner of the
living room for 30 minutes with my legs apart and my hands intertwined
behind my head. He pulled my tights down to just below ny buttocks,
leaving me exposed to the three of them.


"Nice work, Neil l. It's hard to tell what's redder, his tights or his
ass."


I heard the three of them chuckling.


Then Neil said, "I just hope it helps Walter stick to his diet. Another
twenty pounds or so, along with regular exercise, and he'll be fit as a
fiddle."


Luke said, "What was the name of that stupid book by Crooked Hillary?"


Brooke said, "`It Takes A Village', and it wasn't stupid."


Luke said, "Whatever. But that's it: it takes a village to get the prof
to stay on his diet and get in shape. Thanks for being part of our little
village, Neil."


"You're pretty funny, Luke. My pleasure."


It was such a happy, supportive little village, I wanted to puke.