Chivalry Is On Life Support

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.

Meanwhile, a new village was forming that would also be making unreasonable demands upon my time (and dignity).

The following Monday evening, I met Paul Betz at O'Riordans again to finalize the schedule of my impending, part time servitude to him and Anna. Given Luke's and Brooke's schedules (she was still waitressing at the restaurant three to four days a week at this point), it was decided that every Thursday afternoon I would present myself at their condo with a specific set of cleaning supplies and then clean it from top to bottom. I would be expected to wash and fold their laundry for the week as well. We also decided that the third Tuesday of each month would be the target date for me to spend a minimum of four hours at their apartment preparing and serving them dinner and completing any other miscellaneous chores I was assigned. Paul brought along some clothes of his and Anna's for me to take to the dry cleaners that afternoon. I was to pick up the clothes and bring them on Thursday when I showed up to clean for the first time.

It was left unsaid but was understood that I would be responsible for paying for the cleaning supplies and dry cleaning (and, later, for the food I prepared for them and their friends). That this was primarily another form of control and domination became clear when I showed up at their condo for the first time. At 2300 square feet (considerably larger than Brooke's and my house), the condo was in a luxury high rise building that had been built a few years earlier in the town adjacent to the college. It was without question the most upscale residential building in the area with a large inground pool and gym on the third floor. I learned that Paul was a trust fund kid from an affluent family in northern New Jersey. Anna was also the product of a privileged upbringing and clearly fancied herself a princess. Paul's parents had purchased him the condo as well as his BMW. So they didn't need me to buy them anything; in fact, the financial sacrifices I made to do so, while not huge, were clearly noticeable on my professor's salary. I was a serf paying tithes to my feudal lord and lady. And like the budding Medieval literature scholars they were, that's exactly how they referred to me (at least some of the time).

My servitude to Paul and Anna was qualitatively different than my servitude to Brooke and Luke. For one thing, it was the first time that my subjugation was involuntary. I suppose one could argue that I was so in thrall to Brooke that my servitude to her -- and, by extension, to Luke -- was not entirely voluntary either. But, in fact, it was. As Brooke made clear, not following through on my vow of being willing to subjugate myself to her lover would result in me losing her, but that was still my decision to make (unthinkable as it may be). By contrast, I was being blackmailed by Paul. Failure to comply with his demands could very well result in me losing my job, not to mention in widespread public exposure, and ridicule. Those aspects ultimately proved to be academic (no pun intended), as you will learn, but I did not know that at the time, and they were powerful motivators in my early capitulation.

Another way it was different is that it did not involve the direct participation of Brooke. And while Anna certainly made her presence known to me -- in ways that were routinely humiliating and often painful -- it was Paul who really pulled my strings. So, although Luke was clearly my primary master, he held that position by virtue of his hold over Brooke. By contrast, Paul's mastery of me was a more straightforward affair.

Our relationship was different for Paul and Anna as well. The other three submissives in their stable (all of whom I was eventually to meet and serve alongside at various times) were their contemporaries. As Paul pointed out at our initial meeting at the pub, I was old enough to be their father. The fact that they had an older authority figure under their thumbs, or to be more accurate, under their feet, was an endless source of amusement to them. This was reflected in some of their many nicknames for me: old man, professor page boy, professor serf, professor pantyboy, Dr. Deviant, professor pet, professor maid, Dr. Cuck, the old loser, etc. Another distinction was that their relationships with their other submissives were more or less consensual, I believe -- closer in nature to my relationship with Brooke and Luke. They were driven by sexual obsession, masochism or possibly even some twisted form of love (or some combination of the above) on the part of their supplicants. And by what on the part of Paul and Anna? Sadism? Entertainment? Brooke would probably say they were driven by their love of the game. As an inveterate masochist, it was difficult for me to get into their heads. In any case, I was somewhat of an experiment for the young sadists; perhaps they had concluded that some form of coercion was required to ensnare the older victim they coveted.

When the doorman asked me my name that Thursday afternoon during the third week of November when I first showed up at their condo in my jeans and L.L. Bean jacket, mop and bucket in hand, I answered simply, "Walter."

"Walter who?"

"Just Walter, please."

"Mr. Betz, a Walter to see you. He doesn't want to give his last name."

The doorman was a skinny guy, roughly my age, dressed in a traditional doorman's uniform such as one would routinely see on the Upper East Side of Manhattan (which somehow seemed a little absurd to me in a small city in Ohio, but Neil would probably say that observation was yet another manifestation of my elitism).

He smirked at me. "He said you must be the new maid. He said in the future that you should announce yourself that way -- the maid -- to avoid any confusion. Apartment 11B. The elevator is around the corner." He spoke in a dismissive tone, thus establishing the hierarchy of servants in the building.

When I rang the doorbell to 11B, Paul answered it. He was dressed in a T-shirt, sweatpants and sweatsocks.

Would this be the point when Paul said, "Hi Professor Rollins This is all just an elaborate practical joke. Thanks for being such a good sport about it. Welcome to our home. Let me get you a drink.", or something to that effect? Not that I really thought that was likely, but I did allow myself to hope momentarily.

Those hopes were quickly dashed when Paul said, Get on your knees."

I looked at him, unbelieving, and said, "Out here? In the hall?"

"Yes, out here. I expect you to be waiting on your knees every time you come here until we open the door. You might consider getting yourself some kneepads, since you're going to be spending a lot of time on your knees when you're here."

"But what if one of your neighbors sees me?", I said, looking around the hallway apprehensively.

"How do you address me? That's twice you've fucked up already."

"Sorry, sir. But what if your neighbors see me, sir?"

"That's really not my concern. But you shouldn't worry too much about it. We only have two neighbors on this floor and, believe me, they've seen a lot more memorable things than someone kneeling at our doorway. They're cool with it. And none of them have any connection to the college. At least none that I'm aware of."

I dropped to my knees and looked up at him, now perversely hoping that he would admit me into the apartment as quickly as possible.

"You may enter. Shuffle on your knees." I did as he commanded. He then inspected the contents of my bucket: Murphy's Oil Soap, Lysol All Purpose Cleaner, scrubbing brushes, sponges. "Everything seems to be here. Where are our dry cleaned clothes?"

"In my car, sir. I didn't want to wrinkle them, sir, with my hands full. Shall I get them now, sir?"

"No, you can get them later. Now stand up and strip."

Incredibly ashamed, I removed all of my clothes but for my sheer white panties, the metal of my chastity cage clearly visible beneath the delicate fabric. At that moment, Anna came down the stairs of what was obviously a duplex condo.

"Fancy meeting you here, Professor Rollins!", she giggled.

My cock throbbed uncomfortably in its cage. How could something so incomprehensibly humiliating -- standing in skimpy female undergarments and a chastity device, in a position of utter powerlessness, before two of my students -- be arousing? Yet it undoubtedly was, and the shame of it brought tears to my eyes.

Anna was dressed similarly to Paul except she was wearing tight, black yoga pants as opposed to his loose fitting sweatpants. About 5' 8" tall with what I could see was a slender, athletic build, she had straight, long blonde hair. I later learned that she was co-captain of our college's women's volleyball team. In class I had noticed that she was attractive, of course, but I had never really taken stock of her until that moment. Since Brooke had entered my life, I had quite consciously paid less attention to the attractive students in my classes; why did I need to fantasize about any of them when I was married to my dreamgirl? However, as I regarded Anna that afternoon, it was clear that she was a quite lovely, sexy, young woman. I would soon come to learn that she had the imperious sneer and contemptuous smile down pat. Perhaps these qualities were not attractive to everyone, but to a masochistic male such as myself, they were quite alluring. I had to reluctantly admit that she and Paul made a remarkably attractive couple. A quite formidable one too, especially when it came to tormenting people with submissive natures. People like me.

For my book, I had been researching a fetish, sort of an offshoot or variation of the cuckold fetish, that had been rapidly growing in popularity recently in online forums and on social media: submissive men in service to "alpha couples," who were typically young, attractive, athletic and dominant. Characteristically, the physically inferior, submissive male in such a relationship suffers from unrequited love for the female member of the couple, his "crush," and simply accepts that a more deserving rival is worthy of her affections. This acceptance may happen after he is dumped by her (usually before the passive creature even makes it to first base), but just as frequently she makes it crystal clear from the very start of their relationship that he will never be more than her friend (or even her simp). It then becomes his duty to serve not only the object of his unrequited affection but to also serve the man whose affections she does return. Sometimes the rejected "beta male" is kept around by the woman in "the friendzone," almost like a neutered pet whose presence is tolerated by the alpha male because he so obviously represents no threat. At the other extreme, the rejected male becomes a virtual slave to the couple, performing demeaning chores for them or even buying things for them in a form of financial servitude. Interestingly, in these extreme cases, the beta male sometimes develops a worshipful sexual attraction to the alpha male as well; surely the physical attributes that win the heart, and bed, of his beloved are worthy of his desire, too? And not only the physical attributes. Also the alpha male's confidence, his dominance, perhaps even his cruelty. Usually, such relationships fall somewhere between these two ends of the spectrum. However, as you can see, many similarities to the chivalric love triangle and to certain types of cuckolding relationships.

Well, Paul and Anna were right out of central casting for the types of alpha couples I had been reading so much about. In fact, I later discovered that two of the other submissives in their stable almost precisely fit the description I just gave of servants to such couples. One was a young man, Issac, who was hopelessly in love with Anna but who had grown quite abjectly devoted to Paul as well. The other was more unusual, a female "friendzoned" by Paul, who had quite enthusiastically embraced her role as Anna's lackey and doormat. This individual, Cindy, was a variant of a submissive cuckquean. Issac and Cindy differed from true cuckolds and true cuckqueans in that they had never had a sexual relationship with their beloved to begin with. In that way, one could argue that they were even more pathetic than I was. Never fear, Paul and Anna found creative ways of making me feel inferior to them as well.

"Well, aren't you going to say hello?", asked Anna.

"It's just that I don't know how to address you, miss."

"Outside of the classroom, you may address me as Princess Anna or simply as princess. Kneel before your princess and kiss my foot, professor."

I got back down in my knees, bent over and kissed her right foot through her sock.

"Now the other one."

"Yes, princess."

After I planted a kiss on her left foot, Anna said, "What about the feet of your prince?"

I kissed both of Paul's feet through the thick wool.

"Ok, let's give you a tour and then you can get started. You may walk," said Paul.

"Thank you, sir," I replied.

"Why don't you make him call you my prince'? Or, my liege'? I like that. Especially since he teaches that kind of shit." Anna was a sub par student, so I was not surprised by her vulgar, reductive description of the subject matter of my class.

"`Sir' is fine when he's working as maid. Follow me," said Paul.

First they showed me around the first floor, where there was a large kitchen with high-end, stainless steel appliances and granite countertops, including a large island. In addition to a large living room (at least twice the size of mine and Brooke's), there was also a sizable guest bedroom, a full bathroom and an office on the first floor. We then walked up the stairs to the second floor, which was slightly smaller than the first, including an open area that looked down onto the first floor. On the second floor was Paul and Anna's spacious master bedroom with a large en suite bathroom. Paul then unlocked a door to what I presumed was a third bedroom That's probably what it was intended to be when the developer built the place, but Paul and Anna had converted the room into a makeshift dungeon. It contained a St. Andrews Cross, a padded punishment bench of some kind and a cage in which the prisoner could sleep or lay down (although not very comfortably). There were multiple riding crops, canes, paddles and straps hanging on the wall (similar to our hallway at home, but much greater in number).

Paul then opened a large closet containing a compact washer and dryer. I was at least relieved that I wouldn't have to go down into some communal laundry room in the basement of the condo to do their laundry. On the other hand, following my tour, my first thought was that there was no way it would be possible for me to clean the entire place and do their laundry in only two hours (which turned out to be correct).

Paul said, "When you're finished cleaning, Anna and I will inspect your work. Any shortcomings will be recorded in this notebook." Paul pointed to a leather bound notepad lying on a small table in the dungeon. "I will record your demerits here. You've already earned two for failing to address me as `sir' when you arrived. Of course, we still have to figure out methods of punishment that won't be detectable to Luke and your wife."

"How are we going to dress him when he cleans, babe?", Anna asked Paul. Then to me: "I don't suppose you brought a maid's uniform with you, did you?"

"No, princess."

"I like that page uniform you wore at the Ren fair. You know, with the white tights. Bring that next time."

"I will try, princess. But the jacket belongs to my wife."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out. I doubt she'll miss it," said Anna.

"With his chastity cage, I think he should wear stockings and heels like Chrissy," said Paul.

Anna replied, "At least he's shaved smooth already. He's about the same height as Chrissy. I think I have a pair of thigh high stockings that Chrissy hasn't opened yet. They should look good with his little, white panties. I'll get them."

Anna came back with a pair of sheer black thigh high stockings. They watched me as I pulled them up by legs, smiling derisively.

"It looks like he's put on nylons a thousand times before," said Anna.

"He probably has," said Paul

"Let's see if he fits into Chrissy's heels." She left the room momentarily and returned with a pair of black high heels. I had never worn heels before and was very unsteady on my feet. They were also tight and very uncomfortable.

"I think they're a bit tight for him. I'll order a pair one size larger, Anna "said Anna.

"Well, you're off the hook, maid. You don't have to wear heels today, but we will expect you to wear them in the future. Now get busy," ordered Paul.

"The professor maid. I love it!," snickered Anna.

I started by gathering up their dirty clothes from their bedroom and starting a load of laundry. I next began cleaning their master bedroom bathroom. For the most part, Paul and Anna reclined on the sofa and watched TV as I worked. Occasionally, one of them would come over to supervise my work, critically.

"Make sure you scrub behind the toilet. I check for dust on the back of the toilet, and I better not find any," said Anna.

"Yes, princess."

"The only way to clean back there properly is from on your knees." I did as she commanded and began scrubbing earnestly, conscious of her scrutinizing my efforts (and my panty-clad ass, sticking out).

"You know, I think he looks a lot more at home cleaning the bathroom floor on his knees than he does lecturing at a podium," Anna yelled out to Paul in the other room.

"He should be forced to lecture from his knees," laughed Paul.

"And to take his own tests and quizzes. That 64 I got on that last pop quiz better magically turn into a 100 by the end of the marking period," said Anna.

I had to draw the line somewhere, didn't I? "Princess, sir, I have been meaning to talk to you about that. Surely you can see how it's impossible for me to maintain my integrity as a professor, to maintain academic integrity, while inflating anyone's grades. To do so would devalue the grades of everyone in the college, including your own. Surely you..."

"I don't fucking believe this!," exclaimed Paul forcefully, causing me to shut my mouth instantly. "Is this guy for real?!", he asked Anna. "Look, you talk as if either of us actually give a rat's ass about `academic integrity.' I promise you we don't. You will change my, Anna's and Kelly's scores to A's on that quiz and on all future tests and assignments. You don't even want to conceive of what will happen to you if you don't."

"He should change all of our grades since the beginning of the semester to A's," said Anna.

"I'm afraid that might be a little too obvious, babe. But certainly everything from here on out, including that last quiz." He then turned to me: "You thought you were so clever giving that quiz after getting your ass beaten by me at the Ren fair and cleaning our shoes. Like you'd show us who was boss. Well, there's no turning the clock back. We know what a pathetic beta you are now, and you will be treated accordingly from now on by your three favorite students. Got it!"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now you have less than an hour left and a lot more to do. You better get your ass in gear." With that he swatted me sharply on my ass. Anna giggled.

I worked at a frenetic pace, focusing on finishing the bathrooms, kitchen and laundry. I was interrupted twice to bring the young princess and prince a glass of ice water and a snack.

"I think he should curtsy to us like Chrissy does when he serves us," said Anna.

"I don't know how to, Princess Anna."

"Learn how. You do know how to use the Internet, don't you, geezer?", Paul said. Anna snickered. "Now get back to work. You turn into a pumpkin soon and you've got a lot more to do still."

Despite my best efforts, as I suspected, it turned out that it simply wasn't possible to clean an apartment that size in two hours -- at least to their exacting standards. Even as it was, Anna found two hairs in the master bathroom shower and "unacceptable" grime behind the faucet in the kitchen. I had, in fact, noticed it but hadn't been able to fully remove it with the granite countertop spray they had, despite scrubbing vigorously.

Paul said, "There's a lot he didn't get to. The living room is full of dust and shit on the floor. He didn't even touch the dungeon. It's probably not realistic to expect him to finish the whole apartment in two hours."

Anna said, "It's no problem. I'll tell Chrissy to get her ass over here tomorrow morning. Professor maid should just focus on the bathrooms, kitchen and our laundry when he's here. Chrissy and/ or Cindy will take care of the rest," said Anna.

Paul said to me, "Come over here. Stand at attention in front of us." I did as he ordered, standing in my panties and the loaned thigh high stockings before my seated young rulers. Paul pulled down my panties and with his right hand gripped my balls, which were jutting out from beneath my small chastity cage.

"Squeeze his little, geriatric balls, babe. Show him who's really boss."

Admittedly they were little, but geriatric?! I hadn't yet turned 40! But the age discrepancy between the two of them and myself was a big part of the turn on for them in dominating me, and they were to miss no opportunity to rub it in in the months that followed.

Paul did in fact squeeze my balls that afternoon, causing me to stand on my tippy toes as I winced in pain. He held onto them firmly as he addressed me, "That's five demerits. Two failures to address me properly. Two hairs and counter crud. Please record them in the notebook, Anna. We don't have any more time today, so we will address them the Thursday after Thanksgiving when you prepare us dinner for the first time. We won't be so rushed then. When you return, you'll bring with you your completed writing assignment."

"Writing assignment, sir?"

"Yes, punishment lines. I want you to write out neatly, 500 times: `I will never bring up the inane subject of academic integrity with Prince Paul or Princess Anna again.' Good penmanship is important. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now get dressed and bring us our dry cleaning before you leave."

After I retrieved the dry cleaning from the car, Anna smiled brightly at me and said (absurdly, surreally), "I hope you have a very happy Thanksgiving, Professor Rollins!"

I replied (equally absurdly), "You too, Princess Anna, Prince Paul."

I heard them crack up behind the closed door as I headed towards the elevator.

I hurried past the smirking doorman to my car. Although Luke mercifully was traveling that night, Brooke would be expecting some dinner when she got home from the restaurant.

Like I said, it was a very busy November.

Thanksgiving was wonderful, pure bliss. Luke spent it with his mother and her second husband along with Kevin and his girlfriend, Kaylee. Brooke's mother and stepfather were away and her father liked to keep to himself, even on holidays. So, it was just two of us -- both Thursday and Friday. Which for me, at least, was perfection. I know it may be difficult for some to understand, but times such as this made up for all of the far more numerous days of humiliation and servitude I endured. For me, quality has always been more important than quantity. And having Brooke to myself -- a sexually satisfied (because of Luke, of course), happy, playful, indulgent Brooke -- was the ultimate in quality time. The rareness of the occasions when it was just the two of us together since Luke's emergence on the scene made them more special still. When Brooke was content, the two of us had incredibly intimate, fun and happy times together. To me, it seemed that the humiliation I suffered on a more routine basis was the price I had to pay to have this exceptional, beautiful, sexy, complex woman in my life, as my wife. Call me pathetic, call me spineless if you will (and I'm sure many of you will -- that, and much worse), it was a price I willingly paid.

One of the things that made this Thanksgiving particularly enjoyable was that Brooke and I had been able to persuade Luke to allow her to fully control my chastity until he returned on Saturday. This concession had been won the prior evening and, like most things with Luke, did not come easily.

Brooke and I approached him on the couch while he was watching ESPN. She sat down next to him, as I brought him a glass of Gentleman Jack. Wearing nothing but skimpy, light blue, nylon panties (and my chastity cage, of course), I presented him the glass on my knees, holding it out steadily on my upturned palms pressed together.

"May I massage your feet, sir, while you watch TV and enjoy your bourbon?", I volunteered, after he took the glass.

He picked his large socked foot up from the floor and pressed it against my face, eliciting a giggle from Brooke. Not wishing to have his sock inserted into my mouth, I inhaled visibly, as I knew was expected. He had worn the socks all day, so the odor was pungent, though they were dry at least, thankfully.

"You must want something. I can tell the two of you are up to something. Pull my socks off with your mouth. Then start with my right foot."

"Yes, sir."

Brooke started kissing him passionately as I worked on his foot. She said in between kisses, "Babe, could I please have my copy of Walter's chastity key back while you're away? He's been such a good boy lately, and he needs something to be thankful for on Thanksgiving."

"I knew it. You two are pretty obvious. What do I get out of it?"

Meanwhile, Brooke had started rubbing his cock through his jeans and it began to tent out the denim. "Pretty please, baby! He lost his two pounds this week and has done all of his chores."

"Sir, I will wash and detail your car. I'll clean all of your footwear."

"But you do all those things for me anyway, prof. What is something extra that you can do?"

"I'll make your favorite dinner on Sunday night, sir."

By then, Brooke had unzipped him and worked his now mostly erect cock out from his boxers and started gently licking his shaft. As many times as I had seen Luke's erect cock by then, it still took my breath away each time anew. A quite literal projection of pure masculine power. My little cock twitched in its cage in silent tribute.

"Again, all I have to do is to tell you to make it, and you will. You need to think of something above and beyond."

"Babe, stand up for a minute and take off your jeans and underwear, so I can give you a proper, mind blowing blowjob," Brooke said.

"Well, if you insist," Luke replied, smiling.

I paused in my massage until he removed his pants and sat back down on the couch. I then pressed into the ball of his right foot with renewed vigor.

"Do you need anything done around your house, sir? May I clean your garage?", I asked. Brooke had resumed her oral worship of his enormous, now fully erect cock, beginning to suck on its head.

"Same category, prof. I tell you what. Kevin's truck is a mess. It's white, but it almost looks black with all the grime and road salt. If you wash and detail his truck, that might convince me."

The thought of having to wash the truck of the arrogant brat who ratted Brooke and me out the last time I had a release from my chastity was abhorrent to me. That fact notwithstanding, I didn't hesitate in my response.

"Yes, sir. It would be my pleasure to wash your brother's truck. I will make it look like brand new."

"That feels good baby," he said, wrapping his fingers in Brooke's hair. To me: "You will treat him with the same respect you give me, of course."

"Without question, sir." I then began sucking his big toe, slurping on it in the manner I knew he liked, hopeful that this surfeit of oral attention would convince him to give Brooke her copy of my chastity key back.

"Alright, I'm feeling generous today. I'll tell Kevin you'll wash and detail his truck on Monday afternoon. The weather forecast is good. It's supposed to be in the upper 60s. I guess one benefit of you both having your mouths full is I don't have to listen to any bullshit about climate change. You can have the key back, for tomorrow and Friday at least. Now lick my ball sack while your wife services my cock."

I did as he commanded. While not the first time I had done so, I found this task distinctly unpleasant, whether more because of the intense humiliation of it or the physical repugnance of it is difficult to say. At least Luke was a big believer in manscaping, so I didn't have to contend with hair. Our lips only inches apart from each other, Brooke and I continued to work until he ejaculated, into her mouth and onto my face. We then cleaned him off with our tongues. When he went to the bathroom afterwards, Brooke and I high fived each other, the taste of Luke in our mouths and his sticky semen drying on our faces and in our hair. Absurdly, we laughed, giddy at our hard won, minor victory. That is how Brooke and I won my freedom on Thanksgiving day.

Together we made a fairly simple dinner (limited to turkey with gravy, stuffing, cranberry sauce and brussels sprouts) and ate it together with a nice bottle of red wine. Afterwards we gave each other pedicures and then cuddled on the couch while watching Roman Polanski's Bitter Moon, she fully dressed and me wearing a pair of navy blue tights and a T-shirt. Before the movie started, she took my chastity key off her anklet and unlocked me. The relief at being liberated was intense, as was the anticipation about what lay ahead that evening. During the movie, especially during the scenes when Mimi humiliates Oscar, she teased me my rubbing her nyloned feet against my balls and cock, nylon against nylon. It took real concentration (as well as skill on Brooke's part to not go too far) for me not to erupt right then and there on the couch. After the movie, Brooke indulged me by allowing me to worship her feet for 30 minutes. Knowing how the commingled scent of leather, nylon and her foot sweat drove me absolutely insane (in the best possible way), she had worn black, sheer stockings and her long brown boots all day.

When she was ready to let me worship her, she said, "Okay, my meek, duteous knight. It is time for thou to humble thyself at thy lady's feet. Strip to only thy tights and kneel before her. Thou may now remove thy lady's boot and freely partake of the aroma of her flawless feet."

After removing her boot, I brought it up to my face and inhaled it deeply and repeatedly. The scent was exquisite. After I did the same with the second boot, she placed both of her moist, stocking-clad feet up against my nose and allowed me to inhale her scent and gently nuzzle her feet with my face. She then ordered me to lay prostate at her feet, and placed both of them over my face. Over the next 20 minutes or so, she moved her feet with delightful restlessness, sometimes gently mashing my face, other times rubbing her feet through my hair (practically giving me a scalp massage) or over my nipples, and still other times inserting her toes into my mouth to suck. I was in ecstasy.

And that was before we ascended the stairs to the bedroom. It had been quite some time since I had last spent the night with Brooke in my old bed (as opposed to sleeping at the foot of the bed on the floor or being called onto the bed for some brief cleanup duty before being dismissed by Luke). When we lied down on it she started kissing me with passion. She then got on top of me, pulled down my tights and inserted me into her. She squeezed my nipples as we made love. What can I say? I did the best I could. After a few minutes of her bouncing on top of me, I ejaculated into her. She didn't look completely bored; I think she actually might have even enjoyed it a little. Maybe?

In any event, I then went down on her, bringing to her to a point that she unambiguously enjoyed, before we spooned each other and drifted off to a peaceful sleep. As I said, pure bliss. In that moment, I was as happy as I could be. Friday was similar in many ways, except we went out to a romantic dinner at an excellent French restaurant in town.

But all good things must come to an end, sadly.

Things got off to a bad start on Saturday at my weekly weigh-in when I registered a 2 pound gain. Thanksgiving dinner, the bottle of wine and Friday dinner at the French restaurant (with yet another bottle of wine) had done its damage, despite my attempts to limit my portion sizes. I had recognized this was a danger even as I was eating the meals and drinking the wine, but I was simply enjoying my time with Brooke too much to really care at that point.

I cared that Saturday, however, when Luke tapped the cane against my bottom as a prelude to administering my correction. Brooke, no doubt, must have felt conflicted at that moment. As much as she was turned on by watching Luke punish me, she knew how much I dreaded the cane, and I'm sure she felt somewhat complicit in my weight gain that particular week given our last couple of days of shared over indulgence. Accordingly, she tried to intervene on my behalf.

"Babe, don't you think you can make an exception this one week because of Thanksgiving? Everybody gains some weight after Thanksgiving dinner. I know I did."

"Stop making excuses for him. When you're on a strict diet, you're on a strict diet. It's his responsibility to show some discipline. And since he didn't, I intend to."

"I understand, and you're completely right, of course. But don't you think maybe you could at least give him the belt or the strap instead of the cane? Just taking into account that everybody goes a little overboard on Thanksgiving. And you know how I like watching you take off your belt and give it to him."

"I feel someone's always trying to talk me out of using the cane when I know it's the most effective way of keeping him in line."

She rubbed her body seductively against his and said, "But it's just so hot to watch you take off your belt and punish him like he's a naughty child. Come on babe, please. Do it for me, and then when you finish, please take me upstairs. It's been three days. I need your cock."

"You really can't get enough of Big Luke, can you, you little slut?"

"No, baby, truly, I can't."

"Alright. I swear I'm getting soft. The belt today. But the next time he puts on weight, it's the cane. I'm tired of him going up and down on the scale like a yo-yo. Neither of you had better even try to talk me out of it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir.." We said in unison. "Thank you, sir" I added.

Such is what I had been reduced to, thanking the man who was about beat me savagely with a belt. Which is exactly what he did. I then was ordered to stand in my penance position for 30 minutes as Brooke and Luke went upstairs to the bedroom. Surely, with both of them on the floor above, loudly fucking, I would not stand in the uncomfortable, stressful position in the corner of the living room? Surely, I would cheat? Well, I didn't cheat. I stood there the entire time, probably even longer than 30 minutes, until the two of them came back downstairs, naked. That's what I had truly been reduced to. The fear at being caught disobeying (hidden camera?, spying Kevin? I knew not what...) won out over my discomfort and my desire to rebel.

"Look at the lovely red glow you gave him," Brooke said, laughing as she caressed my tender bottom.

"You are dismissed, cuck. Run along and get me another glass of bourbon."

Things didn't improve the next day when Brooke and I accompanied Luke to his final home game of the season as his personal cheerleading squad. What made this Sunday worse than any of the previous ones, humiliating as they were, was that Luke had invited Neil and Laura to attend this game.

Both were sitting on the bleachers when Brooke and I walked over in our humiliating uniforms, pom-poms in hand. As I mentioned previously, Brooke was a few years older than Laura and, as one of the more experienced waitresses, was somewhat senior to her at the restaurant. I got the sense from Brooke that Laura looked up to her. Which was completely unsurprising given Brooke's looks, intelligence and poise. Therefore, I had to imagine that it must've been somewhat humiliating to Brooke to be dressed in her skimpy, degrading uniform in front of her friend. I certainly knew that it was beyond humiliating for me to appear in my uniform in front of Neil. But, of course, I had already been in very compromising positions vis-a-vis Neil (had in fact been paddled by him), whereas this was somewhat of a new experience for Brooke.

Nevertheless, she seemed to take it in stride.

"Hey Neil, hi Laura," Brooke said with a smile as she walked up to the section where they were seated. Both were dressed sensibly in sweaters and jeans.

"Hey, sexy," said Laura, looking Brooke up and down. I could see Brooke's nipples erect through her top, more so than usual I thought. I had to wonder whether the humiliation of appearing before Laura and Neil in her uniform had contributed to her obvious arousal. Having not been locked back up in my chastity cage since Thanksgiving, I knew for certain that our friends seeing me in my uniform contributed to mine. I was rock hard in my tight cheerleading pants, very conscious of the small, if unmistakable bulge created by my treacherous cock.

"Hi guys," I said, sheepishly, hoping they wouldn't notice.

However, I could see the two of them scrutinizing me with the same intensity with which they had regarded Brooke.

"Look at you two!", said Laura, laughing. "Such enthusiastic cheerleaders!"

"Hey, pal," said Neil, trying to suppress a laugh. "How could Luke have anything other than a great game with you two cheering him on?!"

And, of course, he did. Luke's team won 28 to 6. Luke had five sacks, several open field tackles and even intercepted the ball, running it in for a touchdown. He was the undisputed MVP of the game. Consequently, Brooke and I cheered our asses off, much to the amusement of everyone in attendance. It was another unseasonably hot day, and Brooke and I were both sweating quite a bit by halftime.

Luke walked over to say hello to Neil and Laura, sitting comfortably on the bleachers. The halftime score was already. 21-3. Neil got up off his seat and walked down to shake Luke's hand warmly.

"Incredible game, Luke. You're dominant out there. You're all over the field," Neil told him.

"Not a bad way to end the season. Now we just gotta keep it up for one more half," Luke replied.

"I have no doubt you will. Their team is totally outmatched," said Neil.

"You guys must be thirsty?", said Luke.

Laura said, "We have a bottle we were sharing, but it's empty."

"There's a vending machine next to the locker rooms over there," Luke said, pointing across the field.

Laura said to Neil, "I'll go get us a couple of bottles of water."

Luke replied, "Don't be silly. You're both my guests. Brooke, get them a couple of bottles of water from the machine and get me a Gatorade. Prof, I have spare pair of cleats in the back of my truck. Go get them."

"Yes, sir," I replied before running off to the parking lot.

Brooke and I got back to the bleachers about the same time. I watched her walk up the bleachers with the bottles of water.

"Here, sir. Here, miss," Brooke said with a smile, as she handed Laura and Neil the bottles. She even lifted her minuscule skirt and gave them a little curtsy.

"What service!", said Laura. "I like it!"

After the game, Neil talked to Luke in the locker room as I collected the soiled uniforms and towels of his teammates to take home to launder. One of the cornerbacks snapped my ass with his wet towel as I bent over to gather up some towels. It hurt and I yelped in surprise. I looked up to see Neil regarding me with amusement and the running back who called out my lack of dignity last game look at me with an unfiltered expression of disgust and contempt. At least we weren't asked to publicly massage Luke's feet this time, I thought to myself.

However, shortly after the four of us returned to the house, Luke ordered me to to remove his cleats and provide relief to his aching feet. He then volunteered my services to Neil, who exhibited not the slightest hesitation in accepting. My colleague and friend seemed to be increasingly at ease in Luke's company and in accepting my acts of subservience. Meanwhile, Laura sat in the kitchen talking to Brooke as she began prepping for dinner. After spending over an hour on the two men's feet, I washed my hands and joined Brooke in the kitchen in preparing dinner.

Luke insisted that Brooke and I remain in our cheerleading uniforms throughout dinner. But it was I who served all the dishes, poured the glasses of wine, cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. More humiliating still, Luke ordered me to cut my portion of steak in half and to return my baked potato to the serving plate, as he shared the "unacceptable" results of my weigh-in the prior morning. One could almost hear Neil say "tsk tsk," as he regarded me with sadness and disappointment. I was acutely conscious of my servant status as I removed everyone's dirty plates and rinsed them off in the sink. It was shameful, and yet...

Yes, my day wasn't the only thing that was hard.

I dreaded entering the classroom for my Male Masochism in Medieval Literature class on Monday morning, as it would be my first time teaching the course since my shameful visit to Paul and Anna`s condo. They had, of course, promised to keep my subservience to them a secret. However, could I trust them? Could I trust the people who were essentially blackmailing me? In addition, as a close friend of Paul's and Anna's, Kelly was also well aware of the situation. If you recall, the enrollment in my class was largely due to her personal intervention with her friends after she and her boyfriend had encountered me washing Luke's truck in my driveway wearing a pink speedo. Kelly was friends with at least two thirds of the class, and she struck me as a very social, gossipy girl in general, which was not reassuring. However, she had promised me at the Ren fair not to tell anyone about the humiliation I endured there. Paul assured me that she would honor their pledge of confidentiality in return for my servitude. He also suggested to me that Kelly would be an active participant in it.

From my podium, I scrutinized the faces of my students to see if I could discern anything about what they did or did not know. Several of them were exchanging grins and whispers, but that was really no different than usual. Part of that was probably simply a reaction to the article of feminine attire that I was required to wear to each class. That morning, Brooke had fastened a choker collar around my neck. It was a simple, unadorned piece of leather with no metal or anything that overtly suggested a slave collar. Brooke assured me that male chokers had become fashionable. That may have been true for young, edgy GQ models in New York City, but I sincerely doubted that was the case on my college campus, especially for a professor approaching 40. In any case, the choker got a number of stares and double takes from both students and my fellow faculty members that day. It was to become a regular part of my wardrobe, nonetheless, as Brooke was quite fond of the look. My hope was that people simply viewed me as an eccentric, bookish guy with a surprisingly daring sense of style. Being honest with myself, however, I thought that was pretty unlikely.

It seemed to me that Paul exhibited even more swagger than usual, again arrogantly resting his feet on the desk in front of him. Anna had a subtle, self-satisfied grin on her face as I lectured. Kelly was her usual bubbly self. However, I interpreted everything differently since the Ren fair and since my first visit to Paul and Anna's home, and was now always on edge in the classroom. I found it exceedingly difficult to concentrate on my lecture, the subject of which was the liberal use of public humiliation as a form of penance for sinners and criminals in 13th century Europe.

My loss of command of my class only seemed to be accelerating following my own public humiliation. The following exchange during my lecture that morning was particularly distressing:

"Public shaming was sometimes so intense that it was seen as a sufficient form of punishment, so that flagellation was not always considered necessary. Yes, Paul, you have a question?"

"Were pillories commonly used in public punishments in the 13th century?", he asked with a smirk.

"Yes, they were quite common in the public square. Public shaming events were announced widely so that as many people as possible would come to see the penitent, thus maximizing his humiliation."

"But wouldn't the criminal or sinner who was locked in the pillory also be beaten?" asked Paul. I heard Kelly snigger.

"Frequently, yes, of course. But my point was that the public shaming itself was often so severe that flagellation on top of it was considered overkill. Yes, Kelly, you have a question as well?" The two of them rarely asked questions in class, so their inquisitiveness that afternoon was highly suspect.

"Yes, professor. Did public shaming sometimes include the penitent being forced to wear humiliating clothes?"

"Yes, Kelly, sometimes."

"Were the male sinners sometimes forced to dress as women as part of their public shaming?", asked Anna. I believe this was the first time she had ever asked a question in class. I heard a few scattered snickers in the room.

"Not to my knowledge. In Germany, shame masks, or schandmaskes as they were known, were frequently used, but more often for women than for men. Such as the scold's bridle, used to punish, shame and silence mostly lower class women. So really not pertinent to our class on male masochism."

"What about the cucking stool? Was that when cuckolds were humiliated by being dunked in the water? As if being cucks wasn't humiliating enough," asked Paul with a snide chuckle.

Paul was a very bright young man and almost certainly knew that that was not what a cucking stool was. It was clear to me that the purpose of all of these questions was to humiliate me. However, I took some comfort from the fact that all of them came from Paul, Anna and Kelly. I hoped that it was sort of an inside joke between the three of them, although I'm sure other students were picking up on subtexts. As they typically do.

"Of course, not. You know better than that Mr. Betz, I'm sure. Cucking stools, also known as ducking stools, were generally used for scolds or gossips, typically women, in which the penitent was strapped into a chair that was dunked into the water. It was sort of a precursor to waterboarding. Sometimes dishonest tradesmen were also subject to this punishment, but it certainly had nothing to do with cuckolds, despite the name."

Paul glared at me. I realized too late that I would probably pay dearly for correcting him the way that I did. But what was I supposed to do? I did have a class to teach, after all.

Paul replied icily, "Well, it's too bad that they weren't used to dunk cuckolds. They certainly are a lot more deserving of humiliating punishment than gossips or scolds, if you ask me."

I took notice of his use of the present tense. "An interesting perspective. Well, class is over. I'll see you all on Wednesday," I said, eager to bring the class to a close.

Like I said, it was highly distressing. Paul dropped a folded piece of paper on my desk as he and Anna exited the room. I opened it with trepidation: "Had to be cute. Bring 200 additional lines + toothbrush + Johnsons' furniture polish." Just cryptic enough to be useless to me as any kind of evidence of coercion. But the message was clear enough to me: I was being punished for having corrected Paul in class and was expected to complete an additional 200 punishment lines that night as well as to buy furniture polish tomorrow. The toothbrush part was a mystery to me. I had managed to complete 450 of my 500 lines so far. It helped that we had just had a long, holiday weekend and that Luke was not around for part of it; even so, I had to do some of the lines in my office at school and some after Brooke and Luke went to bed on Sunday night. Now, I had to complete another 250 lines in just over 24 hours. My fingers ached at the mere thought.

After class, I had a light lunch in my office and knocked out 50 punishment lines before hurrying off to my next trial of the day: washing and detailing Kevin`s truck.

Because it was early December, I would mercifully not be required to wear a speedo. That said, Luke had instructed me to bring along a pair of light grey yoga pants and my cuckold horns T-shirt to wear while undertaking my chore. I had no doubt that Kevin, snitch that he was, would tell Luke if I wasn't attired as directed. I really hated the light colored yoga pants in particular, because the bulk of my chastity cage and the small protrusion of my undersized balls (pushed upwards and outwards by the ring of my chastity device) were so obvious through the light, clingy fabric. I considered changing in the restroom of one of the fast food restaurants on the way to the house, but decided against it. I just couldn't bring myself to face the humiliation of walking through the restaurant back to my car. So, instead, I chose the humiliation of changing in the bathroom at Luke's mother`s house, where Kevin still lived. Such was my life now: choosing the lesser of two humiliations. When I had any choice at all, that is.

Luke's mom lived about 10 miles from campus in a rural area. I pulled up to the curb around 1:15pm and saw Kevin's truck in the driveway. Apparently, Monday was one of his days off. The truck was indeed filthy; it looked like it hadn't been washed in weeks, if not months. A hand-me-down from Luke, it was not the behemoth that Luke's truck was, but was still an oversized pickup with four doors. Washing and detailing it would no doubt keep me busy for several hours. I thought it was unlikely that I could finish before sunset. Unsure what Kevin would have on hand, in the trunk of my Prius I had brought with me a vacuum, a bucket, sponges, brushes, wax, leather conditioner, wheel guard and rim sealant, a detail spay, VRP rubber and vinyl shine/protectant and microfiber towels. Not being a car person, I had never done more than a cursory washing of my own car a few times in the pre Luke days. But having washed and waxed his truck at least a dozen times -- followed by inspections and immediate sessions with the belt, strap or cane to address any shortcomings -- I was now quite the expert in how to do so properly and thoroughly. Still, I had never faced anything remotely as filthy as Kevin`s pickup.

I approached the front door tentatively, carrying a bag with my change of clothes. Before I could even ring the doorbell, the door was opened by a tall, attractive woman with long, brown hair, probably in her late 40s or early 50s. My guess was that this was Luke's and Kevin's mother; there was a clear resemblance.

"Who are you?", she asked.

"My name is Walter. I'm here to see Kevin."

"Oh, you must be Brooke's new husband, right? She certainly didn't upgrade, did she?", she laughed derisively. "I never thought she was as smart as she pretends to be. My name is Darla. I am Luke's and Kevin`s mom."

"Yes, I'm Brooke's husband. It's nice to meet you." I started to raise my hand uncertainly.

Rather than respond to me or shake my hand, she simply turned her head into the house, and yelled, "Kevin! Luke's latest lackey is here to see you." She then looked at me and said "See you later," and got into a car parked next to Kevin's truck. I heard her drive off as Kevin came up to the doorway.

"Hi Kevin, I'm here to wash your truck."

"Good. It can really use it, as you can see. Luke said he wants you to call me sir' when you're working for me. He also said that he wants me to start helping him look after you and Brooke when he's busy or traveling. So you probably should just start calling me sir' from now on. He says the two of you are always trying to get away with shit, like disobedient brats. When they were married, Brooke sort of babysat me a couple of times, even though I was in my early teens and didn't really need one. It's pretty funny that the shoe's gonna be on the other foot soon."

"Yes, sir. I better get started on your car because I need to be home in time to fix Luke and Brooke dinner. May I change in the bathroom?"

"It's down that hall. When you've changed, come see me in the living room before you start."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

As I was changing in the bathroom, I marveled at what a surreal, absurd situation I found myself in. Here I was, a nearly 40 year-old, tenured college professor under the control of an 18 year-old plumber, the younger brother of my wife's lover. I felt resentment bubble up inside me. Surely, I could use my superior intellect, my maturity, my experience to intimidate this young man somehow or, at the very least, to reason with him, and make him understand the absurdity of him ordering me around like a servant, the absurdity of him acting as a babysitter of sorts for Brooke and me, as if we needed one.

But I have a shameful confession to make. After removing my pants, as I pulled the yoga pants up my freshly waxed legs (I had gotten a full body waxing on Friday) and over my panties and chastity cage, any thoughts I had of trying to assert myself with Kevin quickly evaporated. There is just something about the feel of nylon or spandex clinging to my legs (or, when uncaged, to my cock) that almost instantly triggers profound feelings of submissiveness in me. It is really quite remarkable. This is especially true with pantyhose and tights; the lighter the weight and more sheer the fabric is, the greater my docility and meekness. Even the comparatively thick material of the yoga pants -- some type of nylon/lycra blend -- was more than sufficient to quell any fleeting feelings of assertiveness I may have had. I am quite certain that Brooke, and Luke, were well aware of the intense psychological effect that sensual, feminine clothing has on me, and took full advantage of it (and that was before I started being required to dress as a sissy maid, which took my feelings of submissiveness to an entirely different level altogether). The combination of the sensual material and the humiliating way it exposed my body (and its deficiencies) was a powerful one two punch (especially when I was the only one dressed that way, which was usually the case).

Thus, my rebellion was over before it even began. As I walked to the living room to face Kevin in my humiliating attire, I instead kept telling myself "go with the flow," Brooke's mantra for getting through particularly challenging or demeaning situations. In the living room, I found Kevin sitting on the couch with his girlfriend, Kaylee, playing a shooting video game on an enormous television screen. I had met Kaylee once before during the fall at Luke's house. I had been raking leaves when Luke, Brooke, Kevin and Kaylee came outside to throw a football around. She barely acknowledged me at the time. Why would she? I was clearly nothing more than a worker or servant, certainly no one worthy of her attention.

I stood awkwardly before them for a couple of minutes as they played, awaiting Kevin's instructions or at least his blessing to begin my task, but fearful of interrupting their game. The same type of insufferable, resentment-filled country music Luke favored was blaring out of a portable speaker. Kevin eventually paused the game they were playing on his wireless controller.

"Hi, Kaylee, we met in October at Luke's...", I ventured, before she rudely cut me off.

"Hi, loser. I remember," she replied, looking at me with a mixture of contempt and amusement.

"Walter, if you call me sir,' you can't call my girlfriend Kaylee'. You need to show her respect too."

"Would Miss Kaylee' or Miss' be accceptale?", I asked, figuring they could always come up with something worse, so it would be better to preempt them.

"What do you think?", Kevin asked her.

"That will work, I guess. At least until I think of something better. What do we call him? It doesn't seem like we should call him `Walter.'"

"How about `Wally'?" Kevin could not possibly know how much I despised being called Wally. Rather, he seemed to share his older brother's innate, intuitive talent for humiliation.

"That's better. Although I might just call him `loser.'" She laughed.

As I mentioned before, Kevin bore a strong resemblance to Luke and was only slightly shorter. While not yet the intimidating physical specimen Luke was, he had bulked up considerably even in the five months since I had met first him; clearly, the weightlifting was having an impact. About 5'6" tall, Kaylee has short, dark brown hair and a tomboy appearance, but is by no means unattractive. Both of them were wearing jeans and T-shirts.

"What the fuck is that bulge under his leggings? I know it's not his dick. And what's the deal with that shirt?", asked Kaylee. I was to learn that it was a distinct characteristic of Kaylee's to almost always speak of me as if I wasn't present.

"I'm pretty sure that's his cock cage. Luke tells me that he locks up his cock and that he has to beg him to unlock him so he can beat off."

"That's fucking pathetic. You mean he doesn't even get to have sex with his wife anymore? What's her name? Brooke?"

"Yeah, Brooke. Maybe sometimes he can, if Luke gives them permission. Luke let him of cock jail on Thanksgiving only after he promised to clean my truck today. You know, Brooke used to be married to Luke. He's hung like a horse. She must've missed it. Wally here is what's called a cuck. That's short for cuckold. Someone who gets off on his old lady sleeping around on him. I'm pretty sure that's what those horns on his T-shirt mean."

"My mom cheated on my dad, but he didn't get off on it. He practically killed the guy. He practically killed her too. I don't think she'd ever dare try it again."

"Well, your dad's not a real cuck like Wally. Luke says Wally gets off on the humiliation. He actually watches the two of them have sex. He even writes books about it and shit."

"He really IS a loser, isn't he? Isn't he some kind of professor or something?"

"Yup. Luke calls him a professor of cuck studies. Makes me realize that my mom is right that college is a total scam."

"Hey, watch it now!"

"Sorry, honey, but you're studying accounting at community college, which is practical. He teaches at that bullshit liberal arts college. The tuition there is like 50 grand a year. And this is what you get for your money?!," Kevin said, pointing at me and chuckling.

"Can I see his cock cage? I've never seen one before."

"Pull down your pantyhose, Wally, and show Miss Kaylee."

"Yes, sir." I pulled down the yoga pants to my mid thigh, revealing my chastity cage, barely concealed by a pair of sheer, bikini style panties.

"Fuck, he's wearing panties!", said Kaylee, laughing. "Look how red his face his."

This particular chastity cage consisted of a series of metallic rings surrounding my cock, the flesh visible between the bars. Kaylee walked over to me and crouched down to get a closer look. After lowering my panties, she tapped the edge of her plastic gaming controller against the metal of the cage, creating a pinging noise.

"It's so tiny. And so are his little balls. I guess they make him shave all of his hair off. He's hung more like a mouse than a horse. I can see why Brooke missed your brother. Check it out, his little cock is twitching! It's trying to get hard, but it can't, the poor thing." She giggled.

Indeed, she was correct. This degrading inspection and conversation was causing my cock to throb painfully against its confines.

"I got no interest in seeing that," said Kevin, to my relief.

"Sir, miss, may I please be excused to clean the truck now? I have to be home by 6."

"Bring us both a glass of sweet tea from the fridge first. Then you can get to work," said Kevin.

After I served them their glasses of tea, Kevin made sure we entered each other's numbers into our iPhones. He wanted to be able to summon me if they needed anything. Afterwards, they sat back down on the couch, propped their bare feet on the coffee table and resumed their game.

One good thing about them living out in the country was that there was no one nearby to witness my humiliation as I worked. I started off wearing a hoodie over my T-shirt, but the forecast Luke had read last week was accurate. When I checked my iPhone, it was 69 degrees, which is absolutely insane in Ohio in December. I remembered with annoyance his dismissive remark about climate change. Luke is one of those guys who would deny climate change even if (or perhaps I should say, when) palm trees and sunflowers started popping up all over Greenland. In any case, the vigorous scrubbing required to remove the embedded grime on Kevin's truck caused me sweat quite a lot, so I removed the hoodie. It was so hot that part of me wished I was wearing a speedo. Not only was the outside of the truck a mess, but the inside was full of old bottles, coffee cups and fast food containers.

About an hour into my work, I heard my phone ping from where it was lying nearby (one of the things I hated about the yoga pants Brooke bought me was that they had no pockets). I picked it up to read the following text from the most recent addition to my contacts: "Bring us more tea and a snack. There's microwave popcorn in the pantry."

This was unbelievable. Here I was, cleaning every inch of his truck, and he actually expected me to stop, clean my hands, and prepare and serve drinks and snacks to him and to his equally lazy girlfriend. A power play, pure and simple, right out of Luke's playbook. What nerve! I rubbed my hands briefly against my bottom; the feel of the lycra helped adjust my attitude. I then swallowed my resentment and did precisely as commanded.

Neither of them even bothered to look up as I placed the popcorn and drinks next to their feet on the coffee table, so engrossed were they with their game. I worked on the truck for another 90 minutes or so, but was probably only about two-thirds done by the time the sun set. Not only did I need to be home to fix dinner, but I needed sunlight to finish cleaning properly. When I went back into the living room, quite remarkably Kevin and Kaylee were still absorbed in the same game, with the same type of obnoxious music blaring.

"Sir..."

"Shut up, can't you see we're in the middle of a game?!", Kevin snapped.

"My apologies, sir."

I stood next to them silently for about five minutes before watching one of the figures on the screen collapse to the sound of furious shooting noises.

"Bastard. He got me," said Kevin.

"I'm done for, too," said Kaylee, and a minute later, her figure was also apparently shot.

"What was so important that you had to interrupt our game?," Kevin said to me.

"Again, sir. I apologize, but it's almost dark and I haven't been able to finish cleaning your truck. I need light to finish, and I also need to get home to make dinner. I can come back tomorrow to finish up, sir, if that is acceptable to you. I probably will need two more hours."

"I have a job at 10:30, so need to leave by 10. I'm busy the rest of the day. So you'll need to be here by sunrise."

I was completely exhausted, and faced an even more daunting day tomorrow when I had to make my second appearance at Paul's and Anna's condo. But what choice did I have?

"Yes, sir. I will see you bright and early." I then rushed home to begin dinner. I also had 200 more punishment lines to complete.

December was off to a pretty busy start as well. My new normal, apparently.

I thought my Monday was rough. Until I experienced Tuesday. Those who believed that it was important for me to supplement my academic study of male masochism with first-hand experience -- Luke, Paul, Brooke, possibly Neil as well -- certainly were getting their wish. I less so, although there was no denying the authenticity of it.

I had to wait until Brooke and Luke were asleep to complete my punishment lines. When my alarm went off at 5 AM in Tuesday morning, after only four hours of sleep, I groaned.

As I was driving over to Kevin's mom's house, I received a text from him: Get me an Egg McMuffin from McDonald's on your way here. Text me when you get here so you don't wake up my mom.

I had dressed in a clean pair of yoga pants and plain black T-shirt (fortunately, at the time, my dresser wasn't yet full of humiliating shirts, like it is today, and my cuckold horns shirt was filthy), so I was grateful for the drive-thru at McDonald's. I resisted the temptation to order myself hash browns and instead limited myself to a banana and cup of coffee. I was determined to avoid more punishment on Saturday following my weigh-in.

Although it was to be another unseasonably hot day, the sun was just starting to rise when I pulled up to the house, so it was still fairly cool. Kevin was waiting for me on the porch. He didn't thank me (let alone offer to reimburse me) for the sandwich, but rather ate it as he walked around his truck, inspecting the work I had already done. Finding fault with the cleanliness of his wheel rims, he instructed me to stop working on the interior of the car and to reapply myself to the wheels and hubcaps. I tried to explain that I had scrubbed these areas repeatedly yesterday, but that some of the blemishes simply could not be removed from the aging vehicle. He stood above me, supervising -- as I worked on my knees -- pointing to areas that he felt were not sufficiently clean.

"Sir, I can't get this spot out. I've tried several times," I said, as I strenuously, yet futilely scrubbed a black mark at the bottom of one of the rear wheels. It looked like it had been there for years. Kevin's filthy plumber's boots were right next to my face as I crouched down and scrubbed.

"Scrub harder."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm scrubbing as hard as I can. Some of these stains just won't come off."

"You're not trying hard enough. Here, let me try." He grabbed the sponge from me and bent over to scrub it. It took some effort, but sure enough, he was able to remove the spot.

"See, you're not working hard enough. Luke will be disappointed."

"Sir, I promise you that I'm trying as hard as I can. I'm just not as strong as you are, sir. You have really bulked up at the gym since the last time I saw you." I thought a little flattery might help convince him not to complain about me to Luke.

He flexed his bicep and stared at it admiringly.

"That's really impressive, sir. Look at mine, by comparison." I flexed mine, and felt like Popeye without the spinach standing (or, in my case, kneeling) next to Brutus.

"I guess you're right," he said. "I'll tell you what, if you clean my boots and tools, I might not say anything to Luke."

Have you started to notice a pattern here? A slippery slope of submission. For example, if I hadn't been forced to clean Luke's truck that time I was caught by Kelly, I probably would never have met Paul and, therefore, wouldn't later that day be going to his condo to work as his maid. It seemed that one act of submission and exposure begat another. Where would it end? Would it end? At the time I am making them, however, my concessions always seem like good ideas, given my lack of options.

And so it probably will not surprise you to learn that I replied, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I think I can use the same soapy water and leather conditioner I'm using on your truck. If you remove them, I can get started right away."

"Remove them? Why bother? Just do them here," he pulled down the tailgate of his truck and sat on it. I filled a fresh bucket of soap and water and got back on my knees to begin my task.

"My boots are dirtier than usual. My last job was a real shit show. Literally," he chuckled.

I tried not to think about how exactly his boots got so filthy, as I used a towel to wipe off the foul smelling, caked-on debris. Kevin had a relaxed, arrogant expression on his face, as if having a guy twice his age kneeling before him to clean his boots was the most natural thing in the world. I heard the unmistakable noise of a photo being taken on a phone and looked up to see Kevin's iPhone pointed at me.

"What are you doing, sir?"

"I just wanted to text Kaylee. She'll get a kick out of this."

What could I say in response? Challenge him and likely face Luke's wrath? I bit my tongue.

After cleaning them, I applied some of the leather conditioner I had used on the truck's seats and began buffing his boots energetically with a microfiber towel. It was just at that moment, of course, that Kevin's mom, Darla, walked out of the house in sweatpants and a jacket, a cup of coffee in her hand. I will confess that my cock began to stiffen the moment I got on my knees and looked up at Kevin; the pure act of submitting stoked my arousal, as usual. But it was when Darla arrived that my cock really began to push painfully against its restraints.

"Oh, it's you again," she said looking down at me.

"Wally didn't have time to finish my truck before it got dark yesterday," said Kevin.

"Good morning, ma'am," I said.

Ignoring me, she said, "It doesn't look like he's cleaning your truck right now to me. I guess Luke's new lackey is now your lackey too. I raised some smart boys." She smiled proudly. "At least this one isn't wearing a bikini like Luke made his first boss wear when the old guy used to clean this truck back before he gave it to you." She laughed heartily at the fond memory of one of my predecessors' humiliations at the hands of her older son. So nice to be participating in the family tradition, I thought.

"Well, it is December. It's a little cold for a bikini," Kevin laughed. "Walter, stand up and show my mom the pantyhose, or whatever it is, that Luke makes you wear."

I did as directed, causing Darla to laugh. "Those are women's work-out pants, honey. But I can see the bulk beneath them. One of Luke's signature methods of dominating the husbands he cuckolds. As I've heard your brother say more than once, `If you really want to own a man, control his cock.'"

"Wally is a college professor. Luke said he studied at one of them Ivy League schools, out East."

"You can see where that's gotten him," she said. "Well, it's a little chilly out here, I'm going back inside. I have I feeling I'll be seeing more of you," she said to me with a smirk as she walked back into the house.

After I finished cleaning his boots, Kevin directed me to go into his garage, bring his tools out into the driveway and wipe them down with soapy water before loading them into the bed of his truck. He watched me work the entire time, not lifting a finger.

When I finished, he paid me a compliment. A most unwanted one, as it tuned out. "Nice job with my boots and my tools. Now that I've got my license, I could really use an assistant. I'm gonna talk to Luke about letting me borrow you sometimes."

I didn't respond, hoping this thought was just a whim of his that would soon be forgotten. I hoped in vain; it was indeed the slippery slope again, a continuation of my descent.

After I finished with his tools, I spent another hour finishing cleaning the interior of the truck before Kevin headed off to his first job of the day and I headed off to campus. This time, I did change into my jeans in a fast food restaurant on the way, too wary of facing Darla again to go back into the house.

I still wore the leather choker that day, and was highly self-conscious as I lectured to the 24 students in my Chivalry and Courtly Love In Medieval Literature class.

I had to be and Paul's and Anna's by 4 PM, so after my lecture, I walked to the drugstore to buy the Johnsons' furniture wax and a toothbrush. I was starving. Having only had a banana that day, and having eaten very little besides salads, fruit and low-fat cottage cheese since my disappointing weigh-in on Saturday, I decided to treat myself to lunch at my favorite Thai restaurant in town. Given how hard I had worked and how little I had eaten over the last couple of days (and thinking about the humiliation that lay in store for me that afternoon), I figured that I deserved this one small self indulgence. I ordered seafood Tom Yum soup and beef Massaman curry. A caloric dish to be sure, but how much could it possibly hurt after my spartan diet of the last few days?

I was still savoring my soup when the waitress brought my curry and rice to the table. Just at that moment, I saw Neil enter the restaurant with a female colleague, Annabelle Nash (she taught Shakespeare, mainly). They greeted me as they went to their seats, but I could see Neil scrutinize the dishes on my table and shake his head disapprovingly (if subtly). Self conscious as I was, I nevertheless cleaned my plate (grateful Neil's back was to me at the table where he and Annabelle sat). After I paid my check, I walked over to say goodbye to them.

Neil said, "Hey, pal, would you mind swinging by my office at around 2:30 for a few minutes?"

"Sure thing, Neil. Nice seeing you, Annabelle."

When I met him in his office later, Neil closed the door and asked me to sit down.

"Walter, I have a bit of a dilemma that I hope you can help me out with. Luke made me promise to tell him if I ever caught you cheating on your diet on campus."

"The restaurant is not on campus," I smiled, attempting a joke.

"You know what I mean," he answered, with a serious expression. "Was that beef Massaman curry? Do you know how many calories are in that dish?! And all the carbs in the rice? You should always ask for brown rice instead of white, you know. And you had soup too, I noticed."

"But I barely ate anything the past three days. And I only had a banana for breakfast."

"You're always making excuses. That's why you've basically been stuck at the same weight now for the last few weeks. You're at a threshold, and to lose more, you need to be super disciplined about what you eat, and exercise more. No more excuses, Walter."

"You're right, sir. Please don't tell Luke," I pleaded.

"Look, I know what my telling him means for you as a consequence. But I promised him I would. And his methods with you have been successful. I feel I have to honor my promise."

"Please, don't. Maybe I can make it up to you somehow. How about a foot massage?"

"Giving me a foot massage isn't going to burn many calories." He thought for a minute. "I tell you what. The four days a week that we're on campus together, how about if you bring me a coffee each day in between my classes? I don't think that will conflict with your teaching schedule, and the exercise of walking to the Corner Cafe each day will do you good. It's 3300 steps there and back; I've measured it on my iPhone. That way, I won't feel as guilty for not telling Luke about catching you cheating on your diet today."

"Yes, thanks Neil. Sir, I mean. That seems more than fair."

Neil got up and shook my hand. "Deal. And you don't have to call me `sir' here on campus, pal."

"Thanks, Neil."

"But I will take you up on that offer for your amazing foot massages on Wednesdays after my back-to-back classes. You can give me one tomorrow when you bring my coffee."

"Of course, thanks again, Neil," I said, as I left his office. And so that is how I came to be Neil's coffee boy for the balance of the semester (and future semesters, even during my sabbatical). And his foot boy, or reflexologist, or whatever you want to call it. Notice how it went from me offering to give him one foot massage in return for his silence, to me getting his coffee four days a week and massaging his feet once a week. In an instant! I guess negotiation was not one of my strong suits.

As I drove to Paul and Anna's condo -- the next stop on my gauntlet of service and humiliation that day --the Paul Simon song Slip Sliding Away ran through my head, the refrain in particular:

Slip sliding away You know the nearer your destination The more you're slip sliding away

If old Paul was correct, the further I slid down the slope, the closer I'd come to my true nature. I wondered how much further I had to slip. Would I be the slave to everyone by the time I finally reached the bottom of the slope?

As I parked my car, I did another mental inventory of what I needed for my second visit to the condo. Johnsons's furniture wax, check. Toothbrush, check. Punishment lines, check. I was wearing sheer, black nylon panties under my jeans. Then I remembered: I had completely forgotten Anna's directive that I research and practice how to curtsy. All I could do is hope that she had forgotten. If not, maybe I could wing it? Better yet, maybe she wouldn't be there this time. But did I really want to be alone with Paul?

Carrying a bag that contained my punishment lines as well as the furniture polish and toothbrush, I entered the lobby to find the same obnoxious doorman as last Tuesday, sitting behind his desk.

"I'm here to see Paul Betz."

"And you are?" He knew perfectly well who I was, but wanted to force me to say it.

"The maid." I looked down at the floor, ashamed.

He picked up the intercom. "Mr. Betz, your maid is here to clean your apartment. May I send HIM up?" The prick just had to emphasize my gender.

"Mr. Betz said you may go up. Apartment 11B. The elevator is around the corner," he said, as if I had never been there before, a smug smile plastered to his face.

"Yes, thank you. I remember."

When I got to their door, I got down on my knees, as Paul had instructed me. Should I have rung the bell first? Should I knock? Or would that annoy them? I had been announced, so they knew I would be coming up the elevator. I waited there for several minutes. The longer I waited, however, it seemed to make less and less sense to ring the bell. Maybe they were busy and not ready for me yet, even though I was very punctual? Maybe they were....having sex? I didn't want to risk disturbing them. And, so, I continued to wait.

I then heard the elevator door open, with dread. A woman, probably in her mid thirties, walked by me to her apartment across the hall, staring down at me with an amused expression. When she opened her door, I heard her yell to someone in the apartment, "It looks like Paul and Anna have a new one," before the door slammed shut.

Just then the the door in front of me finally opened. I saw Paul's feet first.

"You may enter. Remember, on your knees."

I put my hands down to crawl into the apartment, before he snapped at me: "No! I didn't say on your hands and knees. I said on your knees."

I shuffled forward into the apartment, cursing myself for having not purchased knee pads, as Paul had suggested. I told myself that I would have to start taking notes from now on , so I wouldn't forget things I'd later regret.

"Lines," he said, simply.

I pulled the several loose leaf pages out of my bag and handed them to Paul. "Here, sir."

As much as it hurt my hand to write all of those lines, the mental anguish of having to repeatedly write that I would no longer mention academic integrity -- a subject that I was passionate about (ridiculous as it might seem to you, coming from a professor about to clean the apartment of two of his students) -- was worse. Paul knew that, of course. I was to learn that, despite their many differences in style, like Luke, he was a natural sadist, with an impressive ability to zero in on areas of his victim's vulnerability or sensitivity to exploit for maximum humiliation. Lucky me.

"I'll count them and check the neatness of your writing later. Did you bring the Johnsons wax and toothbrush?"

"Yes, sir. Here." I showed him the contents of my bag.

Anna then came into the living room from the kitchen, munching on an apple. Both were dressed similarly to last time, Paul in sweatpants and Anna in tight yoga pants. Anna was barefoot this time, her pretty, pedicured toes painted a metallic silver color. She caught me staring at her toes, and smiled.

"Don't worry, Professor Rollins, you will get to know my feet very well. They will be your best friends before long."

"More like his unattainable crush," Paul snickered.

"Crushes," Anna corrected him. "Professor maid will have a crush on both of my feet and on all ten of my toes. He will worship them and he will pine for them. And they won't give him the time of day," she said. Then she abruptly said to me, "Obeisance!"

"Excuse me, Princess Anna?"

"Obeisance means assume the position of respect and humility before your superiors," Paul explained.

"Yes, sir. I know the meaning of the word, but I don't know what position she means."

"I don't like your condescending tone. It reminds me of when you corrected me in class on Monday about the cucking stool. We're going to teach you not to use that tone with us. Certainly not here, where you are nothing more than a slave. But not in class either. You will be very careful in how you interact with Anna, Kelly and me in class from now on. We are your special students."

"We are the teacher's pets, and the teacher is our pet," giggled Anna.

I certainly didn't intend to be condescending -- I was on my knees, for fuck's sake -- but I guess that quality just naturally creeps into my tone at times, unconsciously. Perhaps an occupational hazard of being a professor? Or at least, a hazard in the situations in which I increasingly found myself.

"Strip," ordered, Paul.

"Yes, sir. May I stand for a moment?"

Paul nodded his ascent. I quickly removed my shoes, socks, shirt and jeans, and stood before them in my panties and chastity cage.

"Obeisance here means you drop down onto your belly, you clasp your hands behind your back and you slither like the worm you are to your superior's feet and kiss each one reverently. Obeisance!"

I was standing several feet away from them. I did exactly what Paul described, finding that the only way to propel myself forward from that position was to grind my crotch into the floor. Not only was it incredibly uncomfortable, but I feared that my chastity cage might scratch their hardwood floor. Fortunately, there was an area rug covering most of the space separating us, so I was able to slide myself -- indeed, "slither" was the correct word -- towards their feet. Figuring ladies first, I planted kisses on Anna's lovely bare feet, followed by Paul's socked feet.

Paul asked me, "Where is Luke today?"

Still prostrate on my belly, inches from their toes, I answered, "He is traveling today, sir."

"Overnight?"

"Yes, sir."

"What about your wife?"

"She is working tonight."

"You didn't say `sir.' That's one demerit. At the restaurant?"

I had never said anything to them about Brooke's job, even during Paul's initial interrogation of me at O'Riordans. His detailed knowledge of my life was unsettling.

"Yes, sir."

"What time does she get home? Don't lie, I have my ways of checking."

"Usually around 10:30 or so, sir."

Anna interjected, "Good, you can work longer than two hours, then. The condo is a disaster, and we're having a little get together on Thursday. That little bitch, Chrissy, said her mother is sick. Supposedly. So she wasn't able to clean on Sunday. You have your work cut out for you, professor maid. Where is your page uniform?"

Oh, no! Another order, I forgot. I didn't hesitate to lie. "My wife wore the jacket today, princess. She occasionally likes to wear it." Did Paul have ways of checking on that, too, I wondered.

"Bring it with you on Thursday. Fortunately, I picked out some other things for you to wear today. You'll find your clothes on and next to the spanking bench in the dungeon. You can change in there and then present yourself to us before you start cleaning."

"Yes, princess. Thank you."

As I walked upstairs to the dungeon, I was still trying to process Anna's extremely troubling remark a moment earlier. Not the fact that I had to work longer than two hours, nor that the condo was especially messy. Rather, it was the fact that they were planning on inviting guests on Thursday, the day I was to spend four hours with them, including preparing and serving them dinner. They had promised me that I wouldn't be subjected to further exposure. Still, I had to risk asking, at some point, who they planned to invite to their "little get together."

Expecting to find a maid's uniform in the dungeon, I was not completely mistaken. Draped over the spanking bench were sheer black, thigh high stockings and a garter belt as well as a white lace maid's cap. On the floor next to the bench were a pair of what appeared to be brand new, black high heels. Presumably, these were purchased specifically for me and would not painfully pinch my feet like Chrissy's did.

The garter had a velcro clasp, so was relatively easy to put on. I initially struggled attaching the metal clasps to the thigh highs, but got those on as well. I then put the on the ridiculous cap. Finally, the most challenging part: the heels. They were my size, thankfully, but I was very unsteady in them, even partially twisting my ankle when I first tried to walk in them. Regarding myself in a large mirror hung inside the door to the dungeon, I looked utterly absurd, especially with my bare torso and rock-hard nipples.

Anna laughed loudly when I wobbled my way into the living room, where she and Paul were now reclining on the couch. My cock strained against its cage as I stood before my young monarchs, watching them scrutinize my ridiculously attired form.

"Don't worry, professor. You'll get used to the heels before you know it. Now let's see you curtsy."

The moment I was dreading. Should I confess to her that I had forgotten her instructions and beg her forbearance? Or should I wing it? I chose the latter, and chose unwisely. Not having a skirt to lift, I sort of mimicked lifting a phantom one and lamely bent my knees before standing straight again. There was no extending my right foot behind my left, no holding my position for two seconds when I bent my knees, no lowering my chin, no maintaining eye contact with my mistress. In other words, my improvisation was a dismal failure.

"That's pathetic. Did you bother to practice at all?", asked Anna, with a scowl.

"Yes, princess. Maybe I picked a bad how-to video."

"You only watched one? You didn't read anything about the different steps involved? It's not hard to find instructions on Google. I checked myself. You either are lying to me or you're a complete bimbo. Is it really true that we can't leave marks on his ass.?", she asked Paul.

"For now, yes, unfortunately. But I think I've figured out some ways to punish him that won't leave any long lasting marks."

"Good. He deserves it. Maybe a little pain will help you remember to do what we tell you to do in the future, and to do it properly," said Anna to me.

"Yes, Princess Anna. I promise to study how to curtsy very carefully before Thursday."

"You better. Including a deep curtsy."

"But that doesn't get you off the hook for fucking up today," said Paul. "Now get busy."

I gathered up their dirty laundry first (scattered throughout the apartment), and started a load. The condo was indeed a mess. I later learned that Paul and Anna simply never picked up after themselves. Why should they when they had a seemingly ever increasing stable of menials to do so for them. However, when one of the servants fell ill or for some other reason failed to clean on their allotted days, the next one paid the price, as I did that day. It was quite challenging walking in the heels, but Anna was correct that I got used to them fairly quickly. By the end of the nearly four hours I was with them that Tuesday, I was managing to walk in them reasonably steadily.

As I worked, I caught snippets of their conversation.

Anna said, "It's a bummer we don't get to control his cock."

Paul replied, "I know. But I'm working on that. It's going to take a little time."

"That's good. Without control of his cock, it doesn't feel like he's truly our slave, you know what I mean?"

"I do. Just be patient."

"How do you plan to do it?" Anna glanced at me. "Or don't you want him to hear?"

"I don't care if he hears or not. There's nothing he can do about it. The key is to make friends with Luke. He was willing to lend Rollins to us at the Ren fair when we asked. My guess is he'll be willing to share him again. And regularly. Besides, Professor Larson told me Luke built a huge pool at his house. I'd love to swim there when the weather gets nice. Indoor pools just aren't the same."

I knew that Paul had taken one of Neil's classes last year, but hearing that they had been in touch since the Ren fair -- bonding over their shared love of swimming, no doubt -- was concerning. I hoped that there wasn't anything else they were bonding over.

Anna instructed me to use the Johnsons wax I had purchased to polish the expensive looking coffee table and end tables in their large living room. They watched TV as I worked around them, ordering me as they did last time to serve them drinks. The toothbrush was for me to clean the crevices in the tiled bathroom floor of the master bathroom. Anna said that the crevices made it difficult to thoroughly clean with a mop. That may have been true, but I suspected this was more about humiliation than cleanliness. She supervised me as knelt down and scrubbed the first few tiles, urging me to pay particular attention to those closest to the toilet. She stood in the entrance way, as I bent over with my panty-clad ass sticking out. Although my cock fought against its confines almost the entire time I was there that day, there were certain moments such as this that the throbbing was particularly unpleasant.

As I was mopping the kitchen floor, I heard an alarm go off.

"Get your ass in here!", I heard Paul yell from the living room. "It's time for your punishment. Normally, I don't administer correction until a servant has completed all assigned tasks for the day, but since we can't leave any visible marks on you for the time being, I'm going to make an exception for you. Five demerits from last week plus one from today. Not to mention your compete failure to learn how to properly curtsy. Get over my knees."

"But what about the punishment lines, sir?"

"You're questioning me? They were to address a separate issue: your idiotic obsession with academic integrity."

"But, sir, didn't you say that you would address my demerits on Thursday when I would be here longer?"

"That was before I knew you could stay here longer today. I intend to take advantage of it. But I'm also happy to administer part of your punishment today and part of it on Thursday. I'm sure that our guests will enjoy it."

"Uh, sir, I was meaning to ask you about that. You, you...you and Princess Anna promised you wouldn't tell anyone or show anyone..." My tongue was tied.

"Don't get your panties in a twist, professor. Our guests are Kelly and Jake," said Anna.

"Jake, princess?"

"Jake is Kelly's boyfriend. You two go way back. He saw you cleaning Luke's truck in a speedo and you cleaned his muddy boots at the Ren fair. That was so much fun!, Anna giggled.

"What are you waiting for?," Paul snapped.

I walked over to him and lay across his knees. Across the knees of my student, dressed as some fetishized maid. It was a truly surreal moment.

"The advantage of a hand spanking is that it can hurt quite a bit, but it won't leave marks. The redness will fade in a couple of hours, and I think I know how to go right up to the edge of leaving bruises without actually leaving them. The key is lots of repetition. I'm going to give you twenty spanks for each demerit. Normally, it would only be ten, but that's when I'm using a paddle, strap or crop. Or cane. We will inspect your cleaning when you're done, and any additional demerits you earn today will be addressed on Thursday." Paul rubbed my bottom with his hand as he spoke, a sensual exertion of control that I did not expect.

"Did you ever think you'd get to spank one of your professors?", Anna asked her boyfriend with almost childlike delight.

"Great to check this one off the bucket list. Someday, I'd like to have a Senator or Governor over my knees."

"How about the President?"

"You never know. There are submissive cucks and closet masochists in all walks of life. Would almost certainly be a Democrat, though."

And with that observation, Paul's hand came down hard on my panty-clad bottom. It came down again and again. The first strike hurt, but it was the cumulative effect that really turned this hand spanking into a tear-inducing punishment. I managed to be fairly stoic until about the 30th strike. By around the 50th, I was kicking my legs. Eventually I kicked with sufficient force that both of my heels came off. Although my sheer panties offered next to no protection, about midway through my punishment, Paul pulled them down and struck me on my bare bottom. Around the same time the tears came, I started squirming around on Paul's lap.

"Stay still!"

I tried, but as the spanks kept coming, I continued to squirm on his lap. Paul then reached between my legs and firmly grabbed my balls. That certainly got my attention.

As he squeezed them, Paul said, "Do you think you can be still now?"

`Yes, sir. I do!"

Through great exertion of will, I was able to remain still as Paul delivered the final twenty or strokes. He pushed me roughly off his lap onto the floor after he finished.

"Normally, I would now make you stand in the corner with your ass on display for 30 minutes or so, but I want to make sure you have time to finish cleaning."

I wiped the tears from my eyes and replied, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Anna sat down next to Paul on the couch and, inserting her hand into his sweatpants. said, "That was hot. Did it excite you as much as it did me? Oh, I can feel that it did! Let's go fuck on our freshly made bed."

"Sounds good, babe. If we're quick, he can wash the sheets again before he leaves."

Which is exactly what happened. Their inspection of my work only resulted in two additional demerits that day.

Before I left, Anna gave me detailed instructions for the meal I was to prepare on Thursday.

It was 9:30 PM by the time I got home. Given that Luke was away, I was hoping Brooke would release me when she got home and give me a footjob or maybe even allow me to make love to her like she did on Thanksgiving. As exhausted as I was, I had been in a near constant state of frustrated sexual arousal throughout the day and its myriad humiliations, and I was dying to be released.

Unfortunately, Brooke had a difficult night at the restaurant (two men who hit on her, and one who stiffed her after she politely rebuffed him) and was in a foul mood. So instead of being released, I spent still more time on my now truly aching knees, giving her a long foot massage through her sweaty stockings as she silently watched TV.

That was still the highlight of my long, long day.

On Wednesday afternoon, as I walked back to the English department building from The Corner Cafe' with Neil's coffee, I mentally went through the various steps I had read on-line about how to curtsy. I planned to practice later in my office as well as that evening after Brooke and Luke went to sleep. Brooke had given me a new pair white lace fashion tights that morning that I wore under my khakis. The nylon and lace combination against my skin made me feel especially submissive. And I was still wearing the damned choker for the third day in row.

I decided that women's tights were not designed for long walks; I had to keep pulling them up and adjusting them as I walked (as inconspicuously as possible).

Neil's door was open when I walked up. I looked around the hall to see if anyone saw me bringing in the coffee (not that they would know it wasn't mine, although I was not known to be a big coffee drinker -- I tended to favor tea or even Diet Coke for my caffeine).

"Hey, pal."

"Hi, Neil. Here's your coffee. I also got you a blueberry muffin. I figured you're not an a diet, so I thought you might enjoy it."

"Thanks. Muffins are full of carbs and empty calories. But I did swim laps for an hour this morning, so I guess it's okay. You didn't have one, too, did you?"

"Are you kidding? I had an apple."

In fact, I ate my apple sitting across the table from Brooke as she enjoyed the toasted everything bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon I had prepared for her, my stomach growling. I wondered if Neil would offer to repay me for the coffee and muffin. He didn't, that day or in the future, which surprised me. I continue to genuinely like Neil, although many things about him have turned out to surprise me. Perhaps he thought that not paying me back was all part of enhancing my knowledge of masochism or something.

"Good man. Well, we should probably close the door so you can get started."

I closed the door. His office wasn't very large so there was only a small area next to his desk chair for me to work.

"What if someone just comes in?," I said.

"Everyone always knocks when the door is closed, especially when the light is on. But even if someone did, it's not like you're giving me a blowjob." He laughed. "It's just a foot massage, no big deal."

Objectively that was true, I suppose, but I felt that was easy for him to say, as the recipient of the massage. Foot massages were happening in nail salons, spas and massage parlors throughout the country at that very moment, without any suggestion of impropriety or anything sexual. Still, at least to a masochist like me, there was just something so fundamentally submissive about the act of kneeling in front someone and massaging the lowest part of their body. Call it the dirty mind of a masochist, I guess.

And sure enough, as I got down on my knees in front of my colleague, my cock began to throb in its cage. At times such as this, I was actually grateful to be locked up. I looked up at Neil, waiting for him to take off his brown, leather shoes (Rockports, I believe). But, as he made no move to do so -- I guess Luke had conditioned him to expect the full service treatment from me -- I untied his laces and removed his shoes. Meanwhile, he munched on his muffin. More stomach growls of envy from me.

"Would you like me to do the massage with your socks on or off?"

"Oh, definitely off. Just the way you did it at your place."

I removed his socks and began doing some warm-up twists, and then rubbing the arch of his right foot. While Neil's feet did not have the chiseled appearance of Luke's, they were not unattractive for male feet -- although they definitely could use some moisturizer. I made a mental note to bring some with me next week (as much for my own comfort as his).

"Man, that feels good." he sighed contentedly. "Four back-to-back classes are killer."

Neil and l actually had a pleasant conversation as I worked on his feet. We spent some time discussing my book. For my chapter covering 19th and 20th century fiction, I wanted his insight on Patrick Hamilton's novel, Hangover Square, which, while not overtly about cuckolding, was certainly about a serious male masochist. Hamilton's protagonist essentially becomes a simp to a manipulative failed actress who he is in love with and her fascist boyfriend. Suffering from dissociative identity disorder (and alcoholism), he eventually goes on a murderous rampage against his tormentors.

Some readers of my tale may either needlessly worry, or foolishly wish, that I will go on a murderous rampage against Luke and/or Brooke. That, of course, is beyond preposterous. First, I am not mentally ill. Second, I love Brooke and, but for erotic and obsessive love, I know that she loves me. Third, the relationship I have entered into with Luke and Brooke is one I pledged to do as a condition of marrying Brooke and keeping her in my life. I did it with full free will; I stay in it with full free will. Fourth, I have enough self awareness to know that another reason that I stay in the relationship is because it satisfies some deep masochistic need in me. Brooke saw this need in me before I saw it myself (I've always known that she is far smarter than I). Some no doubt believe I am totally devoid of self respect and despise me for my passivity, for not taking dramatic steps to end my subjugation. I would counter that someone who resorts to violence is far more pathetic and lacking in self respect than I.

Paul and Anna are a somewhat different story, as there is an element of coercion involved. But violence as a remedy is still unthinkable to me. And I have to admit that, like Brooke, I too have been caught up in "the game." My brain is my biggest sexual organ by far (it doesn't have much competition, admittedly), and I'm excited (both sexually and intellectually) to see how far they will take things. You probably have to be a masochist to understand...

To those readers who are sincerely worried about me and my mental health, I say: thank you, I genuinely appreciate your concern. One never knows for sure, but I think that I'll be okay. To those handful of judgmental readers who loathe me because I'm not doing what they believe they would do in similar circumstances, who despise me because I don't conform to their oversimplified concept of manhood -- you know who you are -- by forcefully taking matters into my own hands in some dramatic manner, I say: get over yourselves. I am not you; I'm me. And I'm probably more of a man than many of you are even when I'm dressed in a garter belt, stockings and a maid's cap, trying ineptly to curtsy to my superiors. But I digress.

Neil and I also discussed his upcoming tenure process. I assured him that he would have my full support in the consultation and subsequent letter of recommendation. I had just wrapped up his 45-minute massage with gentle squeezes to the tips of each of his toes and was about to put his socks and shoes back on his feet when there was a knock on the door. I quickly stood up and stepped to the other side of Neil's desk.

"Come in," said Neil.

The door opened and Paul Betz walked in. Neil's feet were under his desk, but his shoes and socks were lying in plain view on the floor next to him. A bit odd for a cold December day. Knowing Paul as I was beginning to, I was fairly certain that it did not escape his attention.

"Hi, Professor Lawson. Professor Rollins," he nodded at me, with a faint smile.

Hi, Paul," said Neil warmly.

"Hi, Paul. I was just leaving," I said.

"See you later, pal. Thanks a bunch," said Neil, as I left the room.

Luke was back Wednesday night, and was actually in an unusually good mood, having signed a letter of intent to acquire a company in Indiana, the next frontier of his expanding empire. I cooked them grilled salmon, asparagus and wild rice, while I had a few pieces of salmon in my salad.

As I served Luke a third Yuengling and Brooke a third glass of wine, Luke said, "That was a damn good dinner, prof. I tell you what. I'm in such a good mood tonight, I'm going to let you have a glass of wine so we can all toast my new deal. Get yourself a glass."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

After I filled my glass with Pinot Gris, Brooke raised her glass and said, "To Hanover HVAC and Plumbing!" After we clinked our glasses, she said to Luke, "Ok, babe, it's been three days, and I'm hornier than hell. Take me upstairs now, please."

"Hold your horses, baby. Let's finish our drinks first."

Brooke downed her glass and said, "Okay, I'm done."

"Think of your husband, here. He finally gets to have a drink with us and you're rushing him."

"Since you're in such a good mood, babe, maybe he could join us -- in bed. What do you think?", Brooke asked him.

"Why not? Cuck, do you have any boxer shorts left?"

"Walter only wore tighty whiteys before I made him switch to panties and tights. I only let him keep two pairs of his old underwear."

"Go, put on your tighty whiteys, prof, and we'll meet you in the bedroom. You can take your glass of wine with you."

Well, this was different. I went upstairs and undressed, removing the fashion tights I had been wearing all day under my pants, and put on a pair my old underwear.

When they came upstairs, Brooke started laughing loudly when she saw me. "I'm sorry to laugh, Walter. It's just that it's been so long since I've seen you in men's underwear. Even those. It just doesn't seem natural." I had to admit, it did feel strange wearing them after all this time. Still, the humiliation of Brooke's words (and her accompanying smile) caused my cock to throb.

"Kneel down and get the key from Brooke's anklet and I'll unlock you."

I did as he commanded, growing instantly hard the moment he unlocked me and tenting out my tight, white cotton briefs. Meanwhile, they both stripped as well. Luke was completely naked and Brooke was naked except for a pair of white ankle socks. As much as I loved her bare feet, it was incredibly sexy to see her wearing only the socks (and the anklet). Brooke then spread lubricant all over Luke's hardening cock as she kissed him passionately.

Luke next ordered me to lie down on the bed, and easily picked Brooke up, placing her on her knees over me at the edge of the bed. To be more precise, she faced the other direction from me and her vagina and lovely bottom were right above my neck. Standing next to the bed, he then penetrated her anally, his cock and scrotum inches above my face, causing her to moan.

"Lick my balls, cuck."

I began licking his balls as he went in and out of Brooke. As she rocked back and forth, she used one of her hands to pull my briefs down, so that her long hair brushed tantalizingly against my liberated cock. It was a wonderful feeling. At one point, Luke pulled completely out of her, and placed his wet, glistening cock in my mouth for me to suck. I couldn't tell if the evident moisture was the lubricant, Luke's sweat or Brooke's anal secretions; it was probably some combination of the three.

I was my usual conflicted self as I took him in my mouth. Humiliated, certainly. Disgusted, no doubt. But also incredibly aroused, and somewhat grateful to be included to this degree in their intimacy -- which was highly unusual.

My arousal only increased when Brooke said, "Keep him hard for me." Following her command, I sucked him with increased fervor.

Whereas I often suffer from premature ejaculation, Luke is the complete opposite. He has the ability to go on and on -- and then go on longer. It leaves me in awe, to be honest. Whatever I think of his personality, his character, his politics, his taste in music, etc., I can not help but be in awe of his physical prowess and dominance. I told myself, this man, this cock -- which gives my wife so much pleasure, which fulfills some primal need of hers -- is worthy of worship, so you better suck it up. Figuratively as well as literally. And that's what I did.

He next ordered me to get on my knees next to the bed. Reaching his arm under Brooke's waist, he flipped her over like a ragdoll onto her back, and entered her vaginally.

As if reading my mind, she said, "Yeah, baby, I'm your fuck doll."

"Lick my fuck doll's feet, cuck."

From my knees, I licked her feet all over, listening to her moan in ecstasy as he moved in and out of her. Because of his good mood, perhaps, Luke was less brutal with Brooke than usual. He was forceful, of course, but there was no slapping and only a little hair pulling and nipple twisting. He did tease her, however. Even though I had counted at least three orgasms, I believe she was on the precipice of her fourth, when Luke pulled out of her. He hovered above her, his cock just outside of the threshold of her pussy. She thrust her pelvis up towards it, but he lifted himself still higher, denying her.

"Please baby, I'm so close."

"You're a greedy, little slut, aren't you?"

"Yes, baby, I'm your greedy, little fuck doll. Please baby, please put your glorious cock back inside me."

"But you're getting your feet licked. What about me?"

"Walter! Lick his feet! now! Please baby, please give me more."

I started licking the bottom of Luke's left foot, hanging off the edge of the bed, with the same intensity I had applied to Brooke's a moment earlier. He continued to tease her, however, inserting the tip of his cock into her and then stopping.

"Oh, gawd, Luke, please. I'm begging you." She sounded on the verge of crying.

"I don't know, babe. Maybe if my toes were being sucked, that might motivate me."

"Walter, suck his toes!"

So, I did, of course. Luke was clearly enjoying the power trip of tying Brooke's pleasure to my debasement.

Suddenly, he ordered her to get up from the bed. He then sat down on it, and instructed her to sit down on his cock, but facing outwards towards me, so that her legs basically rested atop his.

"Lick your wife's pussy." Following his command, I licked her just above where she bounced up and down on his cock, again grateful for the intimacy. Grateful to be included, even in my subservient, supplemental role as oral servant. After she screamed out in what was obviously yet another orgasm, Luke commanded me, "Now lick my shaft."

After another five minutes or so, during which I dutifully licked him, Luke lifted her off him, stood up and -- finally ready to ejaculate -- pumped his semen prodigiously onto Brooke's face.

"Time to kiss your wife, prof." Which I did, our lips touching through Luke's mess.

After I cleaned up and the three of us showered, we all watched a thriller on cable, the two of them curled up together on the couch, eating the popcorn I had made. I lied down on the floor at their feet, eating my own bowl of popcorn, occasionally feeling Brooke's socked foot tousle my hair. All in all, one of the most pleasant evenings the three of us had ever spent together -- at least from my perspective. Little did I realize at the time that that would be the last time three of us would spend together for awhile and that it marked a turning point in our -- or, to be more precise -- in Brooke's and Luke's relationship.

That night after they went to sleep, I practiced curtsying in front of the mirror in my bedroom in the basement. Tomorrow was to be my first extended service to Paul and Anna, apparently with my other student, Kelly, and her boyfriend as their guests. The next step in my ever widening public humiliation.

Whether he simply forgot, in the glow of his good mood, or was feeling particularly generous, Luke did not lock me back up that evening. I rubbed myself through my panties as I lay down in bed that night, too timid to actually masturbate lest Luke suddenly realize what he had overlooked.

The combination of my unsatisfied arousal and my anxiety about the next day prevented me from sleeping well that night. Luke was already gone when I woke up the next morning. Brooke was still asleep when I brought her cup of coffee up to the bedroom. I noticed my chastity cage on the floor next to the bed, and quietly took it downstairs to my bedroom, hoping she would forget about it.

She, in fact, did. It is testimony to how muddled my brain had become that I thought that was a good thing at the time. Normally, it would have been, of course. But it wasn't until the snarky doorman gave me permission to go upstairs -- after again announcing myself as the maid -- that I realized how fraught with potential danger my situation really was. Because on our prior two meetings, my cock had been locked safely away. This time, I belatedly realized, my cock would be available as another toy for my students to play with, a toy they could use to control and humiliate me like they never had before.

And that, too, is exactly what they did.

On Thursday morning, after Luke left early for work and Brooke went for a run, I removed from Brooke's closet the the gossamer jacket I had worn to the Ren fair and put it into the trunk of my Prius along with the canvas shoes and white tights that had completed my humiliating "Little Foot Page" costume. I dared not disappoint Anna a second time.

Fortunately, I didn't have any punishment writing lines to complete after I cleaned her and Paul's apartment on Tuesday. Brooke didn't force me to wear any new feminine accessory that day. She was so fond of the choker that it had become an almost regular part of my daily attire.

As she kissed me goodbye that morning before I left for campus, she fingered the choker and my neck, saying, "I like this on you. Maybe I'll order another one with a subtle little ring on it."

I often couldn't tell when Brooke was joking or not.

"You mean something where someone could attach a leash? Like a slave collar? Please, Brooke. This is bad enough."

"No, it wouldn't have to stick out like that. I said `subtle,' didn't I? The ring could be flat against your neck. That style is very common. It's sexy. But I do think we can get you a proper collar to wear at home. I'm thinking leather with silver studs and a nice ring in the front. That one will definitely stick out. Luke and I will look for something on-line."

Again, was she joking or not? She gave me her full, dimpled smile as she spoke, but that didn't tell me conclusively one way or another. Nevertheless, her smile, her touch and the nature of the conversation all conspired to cause my liberated cock to grow hard in the lace panties I was wearing under my khakis. I was hoping she wouldn't notice, so she wouldn't lock me back up; several hours later, I was wishing that she had noticed.

Except for regular cleanings, and one or two supervised, humiliating releases, I had been locked up pretty consistently over the previous 2 1/2 months. Therefore, I truly enjoyed my freedom most of that Thursday. I had an almost incessant erection, fortunately mostly concealed by my khakis (which were looser than most of the pants I was permitted to wear), even while waiting in line to get Neil's coffee and while walking across campus in a light snow to bring it to his office. The phrase "microaggressions" had become trendy on college campuses such as mine, referring to insensitive comments people make that are discriminatory or insulting, often even without intending to be. As I knocked on the door to Neil's office, I thought to myself how I was being subjected not to microaggesions at my college, but rather to microhumiliations. Such as fetching Neil's coffee.

"Come in," said Neil, through the door.

Remarkably, seated in the one chair across from Neil's desk was Paul Betz. Yet again! Alarming and suspicious. Or was I simply being paranoid? Neither of them made any effort to get up from their seats.

I was holding the cup of coffee in a paper bag. Feeling like an idiot, I placed the bag on Neil's desk.

"Thanks for the coffee, pal," Neil said, as he removed the cup from the bag. "It's a bit cold."

"Sorry, it's snowing out there," I replied, absurdly, as if it was even remotely somehow my fault that his coffee wasn't hot.

"No worries. I'll warm it up in my microwave. Paul and I were just discussing some swimming techniques. Paul's team has a big meet this weekend. Is it okay if I catch up with you later?"

Paul looked up at me with an arrogant smirk. I thought to myself: how much strategy could there possibly be to discuss? You jump in the pool and you swim.

"Of course," I said. "I'll talk to you later."

And just like that, I was dismissed. The coffee boy had delivered the coffee and was no longer needed. Why should I care about suffering this microhumiliation in front of Paul, who a few hours later would be subjecting me to any number of macro humiliations? Simply because he was gaining even greater knowledge about me, the nature of my relationships with others in my social circle and the breadth of my submission. Knowledge is power. More knowledge about me, more power over me. Nothing good could possibly come of it.

Paul was his usual arrogant self in class that afternoon, and it was clear that he, Anna and Kelly were all in exaggeratedly good moods, no doubt savoring the thought of interacting with me under radically different circumstances only a few hours later.

Anna was wearing black tights, a short, plaid skirt and black ankle boots. She propped her feet up on the desk in front of her next to Paul's and said, "Oh, look how dirty my boots are from all the puddles of slush."

Paul added, "Mine too. Fortunately, our shoeshine boy will be visiting later."

Kelly sitting two seats to their left, giggled and said, "The cold weather makes me ravenous. What's for dinner tonight, Anna?"

Anna grinned and answered, "Beef stroganoff. Our shoeshine boy is also an excellent cook, supposedly. A real Renaissance boy."

"Not a Medieval boy?", said Kelly. She and Anna both laughed.

Scanning the room, I didn't believe the other students were picking up on all of the innuendo (or, if they were, I didn't think they understood what it meant). Nevertheless, one serious female student, not part of Kelly's clique, looked at me as if to say, "Why are you letting these clowns do and say whatever they want? Why don't you take control of your classroom?" How I longed to do just that, to put the three of them in their place with some witty remark, as I would have done in the past. The pain of Paul's spanking on Tuesday still fresh in my mind (if not on my bottom), however, I bit my tongue and timidly began my lecture.

After class, I went to the grocery store to purchase all of the ingredients for Anna's prescribed menu of beef stroganoff, Italian green beans, and a starter spinach salad with warm bacon dressing (she had even directed me to her preferred recipes on-line -- I had tested the salad and dressing on Brooke, with positive reviews). I also purchased the two bottles of not inexpensive red wine specified by Paul.

When I arrived at their condo, holding multiple grocery bags, my nemesis doorman was lying in wait for me, like a snarky Cerberus dressed as a bellhop. My underworld was eleven flights up, however.

"I'm going to apartment 11B. Paul Betz."

"I have to announce you. Who should I say is calling?"

"The cook. Please tell him the cook is here."

He spoke into the intercom phone, smirking at me, "Mr. Betz. Someone calling himself the cook is here to visit you. Although I'm pretty sure it's the same guy who announced himself as the maid on Tuesday. May I send him up?"

Still holding the phone, he then addressed me: "Mr. Betz said they are expecting the maid, not the cook. What should I tell him?"

I sighed. "Please tell him the maid is here."

"Mr. Betz. He is now no longer pretending to be a cook, but has announced himself as the maid. Very good, sir, I'll send him right up then." He put down the phone, his expression more smug by the second, and said, "You may now go up. The elevator..."

I interrupted him. "I know perfectly well where the elevator is, thank you."

He stopped smirking to glare at me with annoyance for a moment, before resuming his smirk as I entered the elevator with my shopping bags.

When I got to their door, I got down on my knees and waited. Behind the door, I heard talking and sporadic laughter. They only kept me waiting about five minutes that day, and fortunately I was spared any encounters with Paul's and Anna's neighbors. It was during those five minutes on my knees, staring down at my cock pushing out my khakis, that I came to the belated realization that it probably wasn't a good thing to be free of my chastity cage in the circumstances in which I then found myself. As I continued to wait, a sense of panic began to set in, which paradoxically only increased my arousal.

When the door finally opened, I was greeted by Kelly. I was eye level with her short, blue skirt. I looked down at her sheer stocking-encased legs and black, strap-on heels before looking up at her grinning face. She had been wearing jeans in class, but had obviously dressed up for the exciting occasion of being served dinner by her submissive professor. I have not really described Kelly's appearance much before now, other than to say that she is attractive. Kelly has shoulder length, thick, brown hair and sort of a button nose. She is slender, but not as tall as Anna or Brooke. I would describe her more as cute than truly beautiful like the other two. However, by "cute," I don't want to suggest that Kelly isn't sexy. She is, but more in a teasing, playful way than the regal Anna. Sometimes it's those cute, playful ones that you really have to watch out for, I was to learn.

Generally speaking, it occurred to me that, on the cusp of turning 40, I was surrounded by -- and subservient to -- a number of meaningfully younger people, most of whom were well above average in the looks department. There are a lot of overweight Americans -- more in Ohio than in the Northeast, I thought (I'm sure Neil would have said that observation was still further evidence of my elitism) -- including a lot of overweight students on my campus. For whatever reason, however, I was this bookish, unathletic guy now surrounded by athletes (Luke, Paul, Anna, Kevin, and even my one contemporary in terms of age, Neil), or fitness freaks (Brooke) or the generally attractive people who they chose to associate with (like Kelly, Laura, and Brooke's estranged friend, Michelle). Growing up, my social circle tended to consist of the less attractive -- the geeks, the nerds, the social outcasts. So, being surrounded by the cool, beautiful people was new for me, and exciting. So much toned, taut young flesh. Of course, I was not, nor am not now, their equal. Not even close. I'm their servant, their lackey, their toy. But that's part of what makes the dynamic so exciting, so arousing. For me, certainly. But, also for most of them, I believe (Brooke excepted; I am confident that there is a lot more depth to our relationship with each other, than to our relationships with all the others).

As I looked up at Kelly, these thoughts running through my head, I consoled myself that at least I wasn't being subjugated, teased and tormented by physically repulsive people. Remembering Brooke's advice to go with the flow, I tried to tell myself to be grateful for small favors.

"Hi, Professor Rollins!", said Kelly, brightly.

"Hi, Kelly," I sheepishly replied.

"Oh, come now, professor. We're not in class now. I think the proper way to address me here is Miss Kelly, don't you agree?"

"Yes, Miss Kelly, of course."

"You may enter," she said. Seeing Paul behind her, I remembered to shuffle on my knees into the apartment, bags in either hand.

Paul said, "What time do you need to be home tonight, Rollins? Where are Luke and Brooke?"

"Thursday night they almost always go out, sir. If you recall, that's why we picked Thursday evenings for me to...to come here. Luke is taking Brooke out to dinner tonight at a restaurant near his house. The earliest they'll be home, I think, is around 10:30, unless they decide to spend the night at Luke's. I'd like to be home by 10, just to be on the safe side, sir, if possible," I replied.

Kelly said to Paul, "I like the `sirs.' I see that you've been training him well."

"You may leave at 10. That means we have you for 5 hours. Put the food away and then get dressed," ordered Paul. Anna and Kelly's boyfriend, Jake, were sitting on the couch in the living room.

"Wait a minute," said Anna. "Did you bring your Ren fair costume this time?"

"Yes, Princess Anna."

"Princess?' I really like that. Call me Princess,' too," Kelly said to me, giggling.

"Yes, Princess Kelly," I replied.

Smiling with delight, Kelly asked Jake, "Do you wish him to address you as Prince Jake?"

Jake, who I later learned was Paul's teammate on the college swimming team, said, "No, he can just call me `sir'."

"You're no fun," said Kelly.

"Put on your Little Foot Page costume, professor," said Anna.

"Hold on," said Paul. "If he's serving us dinner, shouldn't he be dressed as a waitress? Or as a maid? What about the pink uniform Chrissy wears? That's sort of a waitress maid hybrid," Paul explained to Jake.

"Or what about the Hooters uniform?", asked Jake.

"But the Little Foot Page uniform is so cute!", said Kelly.

Anna said, "Well, everybody seems to have an opinion. The only way to settle this democratically is through a vote. Let's all write down our top choice on a scrap of paper and toss it into my baseball cap. There are three options and four votes, so there will be a clear winner."

"I think he should model each uniform first, so we can make an informed decision," said Jake.

"Great idea, Jake! Who doesn't love a little, impromptu fashion show? Kelly, please tear up four pieces of paper and get a pen while I show our dear professor where we keep Chrissy's uniforms," said Anna.

I listened to this rather extraordinary conversation while still kneeling in the entrance hall. I had managed to will my erection down, at least partially, so had escaped detection for the moment. Obviously, this was only a temporary victory, however.

After being permitted to stand, I first put away the food and then followed Anna upstairs into the dungeon. She opened a closet and pulled out two plastic bags that she draped over the spanking bench.

"Here are the other two uniforms you will model for us. I want you to start with the waitress uniform. Make sure you wear the black stockings and the heels with the dress. And the cap. There are hairpins in the bag you can use to make sure that it doesn't fall off your head. Once you're dressed, we'll be waiting for you in the living room. I expect you to walk the length of the living room, stand before us, curtsy, do a slow 360, face us again and curtsy a second time. Then walk back up here, put on the Hooter's uniform, and repeat the same steps. Remember to put on the flesh colored pantyhose; they're what really make the Hooters uniform, don't you think?"

I had never darkened the doors of a Hooters before, but nodded my ascent.

"Well, the pantyhose along with the white socks and sneakers. You didn't bring those, did you?"

"No, princess. Besides the shoes I'm wearing, I only brought the canvas shoes I wore to the Ren fair. As you commanded, princess."

"All the more reason the Hooters uniform just won't cut it tonight. But we have to humor Jake, don't we? So, wear your canvas shoes with it. You'll look preposterous, but that's the point, I suppose. Right?"

"Yes, princess."

"You'll finish with your Little Foot Page uniform. The same steps. That's my top choice, so make sure that you really sell that one. I'll be watching closely. If you fail to do any of the steps I just told you, or don't do any of them satisfactorily, I'll ask Paul and/or Jake to take you over their knees and spank you, hard, 10 times for each mistake. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Princess Anna."

She left me in the dungeon to change. Paul's description of the first uniform was accurate. Imagine a pink maid's uniform, with a V-neck, black collar, black buttons and a black apron. It came with a matching cap, pink with black trim. After putting on the dress, I rolled the sheer, black stockings up my legs and smoothed out the skirt, my fully erect cock still concealed for the time being beneath it. The short skirt only came down to my mid thigh. I then put on the heels and the cap, fumbling with the hairpins, and regarded myself in the mirror. I was dressed like a fetishized waitress in a retro diner. Could I look any more ridiculous? As I practiced curtsying a few times in front of the mirror, I answered my own rhetorical question.

Worried about keeping my students and Archer waiting, I descended the stairs and followed Anna's instructions, listening to the strange sound of my heels clicking on the hardwood floor of the living room.

As I curtsied before the four of them relaxing on the couch, Kelly giggled with glee and Paul said, "Now that's an appropriate uniform for dinner service."

"It is, yes, but we see Chrissy in it all the time. A little variety is nice," Anna replied.

As I went through my steps, I watched Anna hold the same little book they had used to record my shortcomings in cleaning -- my demerits as they called them -- and make notes in it with a pen. That couldn't be a good thing, I thought to myself, although I was quite certain that I was following her instructions to a T.

After I did my 360° turn, I did a brief second curtsy, as Anna had ordered, but she stopped me as I was turning around to go back upstairs.

"Wait, professor maid. Curtsy to us again, but this time make it a deep curtsy. I want to make sure that you've been practicing."

I did as she commanded, bending my legs, one behind the other, lifting my skirt with my hands and holding the dipped, bowed position for a few seconds before straightening back up.

"What do you think?", Anna asked Kelly.

"Not too bad for a relative novice, I suppose, although his technique could definitely use some work," said Kelly.

"Do you hear that, professor maid? You need to spend a lot more time practicing your curtsying. Also, you're walking in the heels better than on Tuesday, but you're still pretty unsteady. We expect our servants to be graceful," said Anna, imperiously, as she made additional notations in her little notebook. "You need to practice walking in heels somewhere besides your time here with us. We do not tolerate on-the-job training here. Got it?"

"Yes, Princess Anna. I understand."

"Good. Move along now. We need to decide on your uniform so you can start serving us cocktails and hors d'oeuvres."

I hurried back upstairs as quickly and gracefully as was within my power and changed into the Hooters uniform. I put on the nude pantyhose first, my cock distressingly hard beneath the transparent nylon. So much for further concealing my liberation from chastity! Freedom can be a dangerous thing, I was to soon learn. I next put on the U-shaped, white T-shirt with the big orange letters, the two `Os' doubling as eyes for the owl. The shirt was tight against even my flat chest; I could only imagine what it must've felt like to the well endowed women for whom the shirt was designed. Next, I pulled up the skimpy, bright orange shorts, hoping like hell that they might hide my erection. They did quite the opposite, in fact. Made of some synthetic fabric, they were incredibly snug and almost looked like a bikini the way they rode up the side of my legs next to my crotch. The shorts hugged my small balls, the outline of which was readily apparent through the fabric, my cock making a small, but unmistakable protrusion above them. As humiliating as the waitress uniform was, this was worse, I felt. I groaned as I observed myself in the mirror. I then put on my canvas shoes and descended the stairs to begin another degrading catwalk.

Jake laughed and clapped. "Thats fucking hilarious. Look at the loser!"

"Ha ha, look our professor has a little stiffie," said Kelly, pointing at my crotch and snickering.

Anna said, "Oh, my God. Paul. She's right. Look! They must've taken off his chastity cage."

Paul said, "Well, this opens up all kinds of new possibilities, doesn't it?"

"It most certainly does!", agreed Anna.

This conversation, so intensely humiliating, resulted in my already hard cock twitching beneath the tight orange shorts, growing harder still.

Kelly said, "But he doesn't have any boobs. What kind of Hooters waitress is that? At least Chrissy is growing boobs, thanks to the hormones."

As I was curtsying, Paul asked, "What happened to Chrissy's breast forms?"

Anna answered, "We let her throw them out after she started growing her own tits."

"Too bad," Jake replied.

Anna added, "And the whole outfit just doesn't work without the white tennis shoes and socks. Also, our Hooters girl forgot to do her second curtsy." As I turned back around to comply, Anna added, "No, no professor pantywaist, it's too late now. That's another demerit, I'm afraid. Now hurry along and model your last outfit for us."

I scampered up the stairs and quickly changed into my Little Foot Page costume from the Ren fair, the one inspired by the Eleanor Fortescue-Brickdale's painting, a favorite of Brooke's. How I wished at that moment that it was her I was dressing for instead! The short, nearly transparent jacket barely concealed my cock, jutting out shamefully through my white tights.

Remembering Anna's insistence that I really "sell" this outfit, I took special care to complete each step to the best of my abilities. I held my back straight and practically pranced into the room and across the living room floor. I held my curtsy longer than usual, somewhere between the duration of a regular curtsy and a deep curtsy.

Both of the girls applauded, gleefully.

"See. The foot page costume is adorable. And it's unique," said Kelly.

"But pages don't serve dinner. Pages do all kinds of other things for their masters, like clean their clothes and shoes, help them get dressed, deliver messages, and so forth," said Paul.

"Oh you're such a stickler for authenticity. I'm sure plenty of pages served their masters and mistresses meals as well. They were utility servants, and I'm sure did whatever was required of them," said Anna. "Besides, with this uniform, we have the best view of his hard, little cock. Look, it's fun size!", she added, pointing.

"With equipment like that, it's no wonder that his wife cuckolded him," chuckled Jake.

"From the look of him and his attitude, I'll bet Luke is hung like a horse. Is that true, professor baby cock?", asked Anna.

"Yes, Princess Anna," I answered meekly.

"Look how red his face is!," said Kelly. "We're not embarrassing you, are we, professor?"

"Yes...I mean no, Miss...I mean Princess Kelly."

"Okay, it's time to vote," said Anna.

"Why bother. We all know which one will win. Jake will vote for Hooters, I will vote for sissy waitress, and you and Kelly will vote for this silly page costume, inappropriate as it may be," said Paul, sulkily. "So, the foot page it is."

"Oh, goody!", said Kelly, clapping her hands together with delight.

"Time for cocktails! Take everyone's order," Paul said to me sternly, seemingly still annoyed that he didn't get his way.

Paul and Anna had a well equipped bar, so making the drinks was relatively easy. Anna insisted that I curtsy after serving each person. I, of course, would've felt ridiculous curtsying under any circumstances, but felt particularly so dressed in my page costume. Paul had a point; there was something incongruous about it. After serving them, I began prepping for dinner in what was truly a chef's kitchen. The meat needed to simmer for a while to be sufficiently tender.

Anna had shown me a little brass bell that they would use to summon me for drink refills or anything else they desired. I heard it jingling about 20 minutes into my prep work and hurried back into the living room.

Paul said, "Jake and I are ready for refills."

"Yes, sir."

"From now on, curtsy every time you enter or leave a room any of us are in, and every time any of us gives you an order," Anna interjected.

"Yes, princess," I said, curtsying as I took their glasses.

By the time I returned a few minutes later with Paul's and Jake's fresh old fashioneds, curtsying again, Anna was also ready to for new martini. Of course, by the time I returned with her martini, Kelly was finally ready for her second cosmopolitan. Would this ever end?, I wondered. How would I ever have time to prepare the rest of dinner?

Fortunately, rather than request a third old-fashioned Paul said to the others, "Let's go for a swim." I was back in the kitchen working when the four of them left the apartment to take the elevator down to the building's large indoor pool. Things got more interesting about an hour later when my young superiors returned to the apartment in their bathing suits.

"Oh, professor page," I heard Anna yell from the living room, "You better get your ass out here quick."

I quickly rinsed off my hands scurried into the living room, greeted by the two couples sprawled out on the sectional couch in their swimwear, Anna and Kelly in string bikinis and Jake and Paul in speedos. My cock was never limp that day, but there were moments -- typically, those of the most intense humiliation -- when it was harder than others. Seeing the four fit young bodies in all (or at least, most of) their glory was one of them. And while my gaze naturally was first drawn to Anna's toned, long legs and taut midriff, followed by Kelly shorter, but still attractive legs and pretty toes, I would be lying if I didn't admit to admiration of the slender, muscular swimmer bodies of the two young men as well.

My eyes also drifted over Paul's bare feet. It was the first time I had seen bare the feet I had kissed in the bar through his sneakers or in the apartment through his thick wool socks. I was curious, naturally, but didn't want to be too obvious, so quickly averted my glance before getting a good look. I need not have worried, however, as I would be spending a great deal of time up close and personal with his bare feet (and Anna's) in the months that followed, starting a few minutes later. Paul did not have the same obsession with having his feet worshipped as Luke did, but there is no question that he greatly enjoyed the power trip of having an older authority figure quite literally at his feet.

I must also confess that in addition to dwelling as long as I dared on the breasts of Anna (like Brooke's, ample but not overly large) and Kelly (slightly larger and, to my mind, less proportional to her shorter frame), my eyes also flittered over the speedo-clad crotches of Paul and Jake. Speedos leave so little to the imagination. While I was mortified when forced to wear a speedo, my inadequacy on full display, these two young athletes were completely at ease. Their muscular, chiseled bodies were one explanation for that; the size of their bulges was another.

"Perhaps the professor page can stop ogling our bodies long enough to get us all another round of drinks," said Anna.

Kelly said, "I think he's staring more at the boys' bodies than he is at ours, Anna. I'm jealous."

"Most cucks are closet fags, so that's no surprise," said Paul.

I wanted to object that I wasn't gay, closet or otherwise. I wanted to say, "What about you, someone who enjoys humiliating other males, forcing them to dress in feminine clothing, spanking their bare bottoms with your bare hands, perhaps other, more intimate things....What does all of that make you?" But I dared not say anything of the kind. Instead, I simply confirmed their drink orders and hurried off to make them, checking on my stroganoff. And being honest with myself, while I knew beyond a doubt that I was not homosexual, I did have to admit that I was not immune to the physical attractions of athletic, dominant, young alpha males (although I definitely preferred relatively hairless bodies -- true of the two swimmers, Paul and Jake, but also of Luke, who felt heavy manscaping best showed off his muscle definition). Did I have this attraction prior to the events of the last seven months when Luke came onto the scene like a cyclone? Probably on some level, yes, but it had been latent. No longer. So, was I bisexual? Bi curious? Something like that possibly, but still most unambiguously attracted to feminine beauty.

When I returned to the living room with a serving tray holding their four cocktails, trying hard not to spill any of them, Paul said, "We know our page boy knows how to clean shoes, but what about other personal duties? Who besides me would like a foot massage?"

"That sounds like an excellent idea, dude. Count me in," said Jake.

"You two boys go ahead. If he does a good job, Kelly and I may have him massage our feet as well," said Anna.

"Start with Jake. On your knees, of course, page," said Paul.

"Yes sir," I said, kneeling before Jake, and beginning to work on his feet with warmup twists and arch rubs. His feet were somewhat calloused, but well formed.

"Ah, that feels good. He's actually not too bad at this," Jake said.

Pointing at my crotch, Kelly said, "Look, his little cock is stiff again. Are you excited to massage my boyfriend's feet, professor?" As she spoke, she pressed her toes lightly against my cock through my tights. It surprised me that it was Kelly, rather than Anna (or even Paul), to first touch my liberated cock.

"No, Princess Kelly."

"No? But your little stiffie says otherwise. Are you not being honest with us, professor?" She pressed a little harder with her foot, smiling wickedly.

In truth, the entire situation was incredibly arousing and, therefore, incredibly humiliating. Which made it still more arousing. It was a viscous cycle, one which I had been getting increasingly used to with Luke and Brooke. But the dynamics with my students and Jake were different, and, if anything, more intense. Was it the greater age disparity, the bigger inversion of authority, the fact that there was an element of coercion involved? All of the above? Brooke would tell me that I think about these things too much. She would counsel me to go with flow, enjoy the game, embrace the sheer eroticism of it all. I tried valiantly to do just that. Can one be valiant in accepting servitude and abuse?, I wondered (see how I over analyze everything?!)

Lancelot would no doubt have answered my question in the affirmative. Yet, his servitude was solely to Guinevere, and the abuse and humiliations he suffered were solely to satisfy her commands, her whims. Whereas Brooke was not even aware of my servitude to my students. Still, I could tell myself -- with some degree of honesty -- that the indignities I was suffering at their hands were because of my devotion to Brooke. Because I was in their power as a direct consequence of my obedience to Luke, and I was obedient to Luke for Brooke and Brooke alone. The frail heartbeat of chivalry was still detectable (to me, at least). Perhaps the time had come to tell Brooke of my predicament with Paul and Anna? But there was something so shameful about it. Would it diminish me in Brooke's eyes in some different, profound and irrevocable way? Or would she hug me, perhaps even thank me for my sacrifice, and tell me everything will be okay?

These were the myriad thoughts that ran through my head as I also contemplated my response to Kelly's fraught question. "No, princess, I mean, it's all of your feet...," I answered,lamely.

She snickered. "Well, you are the Liitle Foot Page, so I guess it makes sense that you're turned on by feet."

"Pretty much all submissive guys are turned on by feet. Issac is insane for my feet," said Anna. You will recall that Issac was the young male slave in Paul's and Anna's stable.

"Not just submissive men. Cindy loves worshiping your feet too, babe," Paul said to Anna. If you recall, Cindy (who, like Issac, I had not yet met at that point) was another member of Paul's and Anna's stable of slaves, a fellow student at the college whose intense crush on Paul was not reciprocated. Instead, he put her squarely into " the friendzone," eventually introducing her to Anna. Cindy was now a submissive servant to both of them, grateful to be part of Paul's life under any circumstances.

Anna said to Kelly, "I don't know about you, but I love having my feet pampered and having my toes sucked, and love the sight of submissive creatures groveling at my feet. At the same time, I couldn't imagine in a million fucking years being the one doing the sucking or groveling. I have no desire to be that close to anyone's feet."

"I know exactly what you mean. I wouldn't even want to kiss Jake if he sucked my toes. Ew, gross," said Kelly, with a little shudder.

Jake interjected, "You've got nothing to worry about there, darling. You have pretty feet, but I have zero desire to kiss or lick them."

"Or course you don't, you're not a perv, like the good professor here. Professor pervert, kiss the bottom of the foot you're massaging. You don't mind having your feet kissed, do you sweetheart?" Kelly asked Jake.

"No, I have no problem being worshipped. And I'm secure enough in my masculinity that I don't care if it's a submissive cuck like this loser doing the worshiping."

"That's what I love about you, sweetheart. You're masculine, dominant AND open minded. That's like icing on a yummy cake.," Kelly said, as she started to kiss Archer passionately. "Professor, keep kissing the bottoms of my man's feet while we make out."

I kissed the balls of Jake's feet, trying to avoid the callouses. I wondered: aren't swimmers more prone to plantar warts, walking around all those bacteria-riddled pools and locker rooms in their bare feet? I knew plantar warts are highly contagious. Could I get warts on my lips or in my mouth? I made a mental note to research this on-line later. From extensive experience with Brooke and Luke, I was well aware of the aphrodisiac effect my submission could have on a couple dominating me. The exact reasons for this still remain something of a mystery to me. Just like you have to be a masochist to understand certain things, I guess you have to be a dominant or a sadist to understand others.

As if reading my thoughts, Anna said, "I think submissives' brains must be wired differently. They have to be for them to enjoy feet so much. I mean, sometimes after we work out at the gym, Paul and I will rest our feet right on Cindy's face. Can you imagine? Our sweaty, wet socks covering her nose and mouth. You'd think she'd have some self-respect and tell us to go to hell. Or, at a minimum, that she'd complain about the smell. Not that my feet smell, of course, but Paul's smell something awful after he's been working out," she smiled at him.

"Yeah, right, babe," Paul replied. He then explained to Kelly and Jake, "Don't believe anything she says about her feet not smelling. The smell of her foot sweat is overpowering."

"Bullshit," Anna said, smiling and hitting him on the shoulder. "But, like I was saying, far from protesting, Cindy actually inhales the smell of our sweat socks and our sweaty feet. She almost looks as if she's in ecstasy, like she's smelling perfume or fresh flowers or something. And she even looks happy when she's licking the toe jam and lint from between my toes. It's disgusting. But it's pretty funny watching her. And I like the sensation of her tongue on my toes."

"It's what I've been telling you for awhile now, babe. Submissives are intellectually inferior. They're sexual deviants. By humiliating and abusing them, we're giving them what they want, what they need, in fact. So there's no reason for us to feel bad when we mistreat them. We're actually doing them a favor," said Paul.

Paul was a Psychology major and fancied himself some sort of authority on this subject apparently, although it was clear to me that he was greatly oversimplifying what were, in reality, very complicated human relationship dynamics. He also had a facile understanding of human intelligence. Under different circumstances, I might have tried to engage him in a debate. But to have done so at that moment would have been the height of folly, so I kept my mouth shut and my fingers busy.

After spending 15 minutes on Jake's feet, I massaged the feet of my three students for the same amount of time (timed by Paul). Paul and Anna kissed each other while I worked on Anna's feet, much as Jake and Kelly had done. Each insisted I respectfully kiss the bottoms of their feet after finishing the massage. Paul was last. While I massaged his feet, Anna prodded my balls with her high heel shoe, laughingly as my cock twitched through my tights. Having been denied release for so long, my biggest fear was that all of the stimuli -- the scantily-clad, young bodies, the humiliating dissection of my fetishes, the pressure of Anna's foot (which she occasionally brushed against the underside of my shaft) -- would cause me to ejaculate. The thought of that was beyond mortifying, so I did everything I could possibly do to distract myself mentally.

Their ongoing conversation about feet did not make my task an easy one.

"Rollins, you're actually pretty good at this. In a sensible world, you would be spending your time in your classes massaging all of your students' feet rather than lecturing to them. It's a better use of your talents." There did seem to be a general consensus that I have a knack (was Paul's term, "talent," too strong a word) for giving foot massages. I guess there's at least one thing I can do well with my hands after all, I thought to myself.

"Now, Paul. Don't be cruel. I've had some pretty good courses with Professor Foot Page. I don't see any reason why he couldn't lecture while he massages everyone's feet." Kelly giggled.

Anna snickered. "Can you picture it? I can. He would be dressed just as he is now, crawling from student to student."

"Yes, and then he could massage the feet of all of the other faculty members of the English department," said Kelly, giggling.

"I wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't already massaging Neil Lawson's feet. Lawson already has him fetching his coffee. Or he did today, at least. There's definitely something going on there," said Paul.

I couldn't decide whether to be relieved Paul didn't know any specifics or to be distressed that he was so suspicious -- and that his instincts were correct. I remained silent.

Paul continued, "He obviously has a big foot fetish, like most submissives. Rollins, you ought to consider having a whole chapter dedicated to foot worship in that book you're working on. You'll be a real authority on the subject before we're finished with you."

Putting aside the implicit threat in his last remark, Paul actually might be on to something, I thought. I had been struggling with the organization of my book, which had really evolved quite a bit over the last six months. While I still aimed to show how medieval courtly poetry was what started the rich history of male masochism in western literature, I was increasingly focusing on contemporary BDSM cuckold fiction and what had clearly been an explosion in interest in that lifestyle in recent years, globally.

Miraculously, I was able to get through the massages and constant teasing without ejaculating. About halfway into my 5-hour stay at the condo, I served the four of them dinner, trying to remember to curtsy at all the required moments. They had changed back into the clothes they were wearing before their swim, Anna and Kelly in short skirts, stockings and heels and Paul and Jake in jeans and polo shirts. Anna kept her little notepad next to her plate on the table, and occasionally wrote in it, causing me further anxiety. When not going back and forth between the kitchen and dining room, I was expected to stand by the table at attention -- to refill glasses of the wine I had purchased, fold the napkins of anyone who got up from the table, or do anything else ordered of me. My cock tented out my tights the entire time, of course. My self consciousness about this at least had the advantage of taking my mind off my hunger somewhat, as I enviously watched the four of them eat the meal I had prepared (I sampled the stroganoff as I was cooking it, and thought it came out quite well).

Anna invited everyone to critique the meal afterwards, and it was generally agreed upon that the beef and mushroom sauce was delicious, but that the pasta was overcooked. The salad and dressing was a success, but the Italian green beans less so. I was grateful that Anna had not required me to also prepare dessert.

"Well, Professor maid, it seems that both punishments and a reward are in order for your uneven meal and service. You also earned demerits for failure to curtsy on at least four occasions -- I'm sure that I missed others -- and continued deficiencies in your technique. Also for how you walked in heels earlier. The mushy pasta and beans were also unacceptable. On the other hand, the stroganoff itself was excellent, as was the salad and dressing. The boys will administer your punishment, and Kelly and I will grant you your reward."

I replied, with a curtsy, "Yes, princess. Thank you, princess." The truth of the matter is I didn't know which of the two caused me greater dread: the punishment or the reward.

"Which should we give him first?", asked Kelly.

Paul said, "Definitely the punishment first. We need to leave enough time for the redness of his ass to fade in case Luke or his wife want to punish him as well when he gets home."

"And a submissive freak like him will probably enjoy his reward more with a sore ass. I've calculated that he's owed 120 spanks. 100 from today, and the 20 we didn't give him on Tuesday that he was due. Which one oy you strapping young men will do the honors?", said Anna.

"This is going to be so much fun to watch," said Kelly gleefully.

"It's going to be hot," said Anna. "I get all tingly watching Paul punish the slaves. Especially the beta males and sissies."

"I know you do, girlfriend. Me too," said Kelly. "I think it's only fair that each of the boys give him sixty spanks, so you and I get to enjoy this equally," said Kelly.

"Sounds good. Okay with you guys?," said Anna.

"Fine. After you," Paul said to Jake.

"Happy to dish out some discipline to the old cuck. Should we take him up to the dungeon and put him over the bench?", asked Jake.

"No need to. We have to use our hands for now because we can't leave any asting marks on his ass. So just take him over your knee," Paul replied.

"Oh, how I wish we could cane or strap him! I think the cane is a lot more persuasive than just your hands. And the welts can be lovely," said Anna.

"Someday, babe. You just have to be patient," said Paul. "Not one of your strong suits, I realize."

"Don't worry, ladies. I will make sure his spanking is plenty persuasive. Get over my knees, old man," commanded Jake.

"Yes, sir." I draped myself over his knees, incredibly ashamed as I felt my hard cock press through my tights against the jeans covering his firm thighs.

"Do you feel his little stiffie on your leg, honey?," Kelly asked, tittering.

"I do, but not for long. I'm going to beat it out of him. By the time I'm finished with him, he'll be as limp as one of the overcooked noodles he served us," said Jake. I felt his sizable hand resting on the center of my tights-clad bottom. Without warning, he lifted his hand and brought it down sharply on my right cheek.

I typically tried to be stoic in such moments, but the ferocity of his strike (and the suddenness of it) caused me to cry out, "Ouch!" I heard the amusement of our audience.

"That's right, honey. Give it to him good! Pull down his tights and give it to him on the bare," said Kelly.

Jake did as Kelly requested. What followed were repeated, loud smacking sounds of flesh striking flesh -- as Jake carefully alternated cheeks -- accompanied by a slow but steady buildup of pain. The tights had offered negligible protection. The sound was the big difference, but it seemed to provide a more satisfying sensory experience for my three students, who were witnessing the remarkable spectacle of their professor being punished like a naughty child. By the 30th spank or so, the pain was intense. And Jake was correct, my cock had deflated under his relentless assault on my bottom. Not as severe as a cane or strapping certainly, but a hand spanking that rivaled Luke's in intensity.

I heard Kelly say, "Now that's what I'm talking about. Look at that shade of red, will you?"

"Not as lovely as welts, but not bad," added Anna.

By the 50th spank, my attempt at stoicism was a distant memory.

"Please, sir. Please don't hit me so hard." He ignored me, delivering the final ten with extra zeal, if anything. When he was finished, it was difficult for my mind to process the fact that my chastisement was only halfway complete.

After Jake pushed me unceremoniously onto the hardwood floor, my tights still lowered to just below my poor, tenderized bottom, Kelly ordered me to stand up. I started to pull up my tights as I stood, but she said with surprising sternness, "Did I say you could pull up your tights, professor? Leave them down so we can all get a proper look at your little cock. Turn around and stand before us. Put your hands on top of your head."

When I complied with her order, my cock was still quite limp, somewhat shriveled even. But almost as soon as I stood up, I felt it began to stir under their scrutiny.

"Look at the tiny, hairless thing.," said Anna, smiling contemptuously.

"Pathetic," said Jake, with a sneer.

"Oh, look. It's starting to get bigger. That was quick! It must like all of the attention," laughed Kelly.

With each humiliating comment, it grew harder. My ass was burning, but no longer under a constant barrage (for the moment, at least), the sensation only fueled my involuntary, indeed most unwanted, arousal.

"It looks like it's up to me beat his hard-on back out of him," said Paul, patting his knee. "Come over here, Rollins, so I can finish your correction. Leave your tights down. You have 60 more coming."

As this was unthinkable to me, I felt compelled to try to negotiate -- or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say, grovel. When I walked over to where Paul was sitting, rather than lie over his knees, I dropped to my own, at his feet.

"My lord, Sir Jake's punishment was quite severe. I'm not sure that I can take another 60 right now. I beg you to show some mercy to your lowly page by deferring some of my punishment until next Tuesday." I then grasped his right foot with my hands and began kissing the tops of his brown, leather shoe. "Please, my lord."

That Paul was triumphant, bringing me to my knees and abasing myself at his feet -- even without being expressly commanded to do so -- was clearly evident in his supremely smug, self-satisfied expression. It was painful to behold, but not as painful as another 60 spanks on my already wounded bottom would be. Groveling was a skill that I been refining over the last several months with Luke, so I continued my efforts.

"Please, my lord. Surely you and Princess Anna have some more dry cleaning that needs to be done or some other errands that need to be run. Your humble page is at your disposal."

"This is a trip," said Kelly.

"It IS a sign of strength for a ruler to occasionally grant mercy. What do you think, babe?", said Anna.

"I'm considering it," said Paul. "Sharing information might help your cause, page. Tell me, what is the story with you bringing Neil Lawson a cup of coffee today? That coffee shop is on the other side of campus. Is that a service that you regularly provide for him? Before you answer, you should know that if I sense you're not being completely truthful, I'll add 20 spanks to your punishment now, rather than reduce or defer any of it. If I find out you're lying after the fact, the consequences for you will be dire."

To say that I felt somewhat trapped at that moment would be an understatement. I certainly didn't want to reveal any information to Paul about the nature of my relationship with my colleague, and yet I felt that not doing so was perilous. The slippery slope, again.

So, I continued my descent. "I bring Neil a cup of coffee four days a week, my lord."

"Why? Are you his lackey or something? You're senior to him on the faculty, right? Shouldn't he be the one bringing you coffee, if anything?"

"It's true that Neil doesn't have tenure yet but he's up for tenure in the spring. But it's not like junior faculty members run errands or anything like that for senior faculty members. It's just that Neil knows that I'm on a diet and feels that the exercise will do me good. He takes a personal interest in my health and physical fitness, as my friend."

"Sounds like bullshit to me. I've seen Neil lifting weights with Luke at the gym a couple of times. It looks like they're getting to be pretty chummy."

"Yes, my lord, they like to work out together. They bond over sports."

"Interesting. Is Neil aware of your weekly weigh-ins and punishments for failing to lose weight?", Paul continued his interrogation.

"Yes, my lord," I answered, deeply ashamed.

"Well, you've definitely lost quite a bit of weight, professor. Keep up the good work!", said Kelly, with seeming sincerity. What a surreal moment this was, I thought to myself.

"Thank you, Princess Kelly."

"Does Luke allow Neil to witness your weigh-ins and punishments," Paul asked.

"Yes, my lord. Twice."

"Keep kissing my shoes when you're not speaking. Does Luke allow Neil to participate in your punishments?"

"Yes, my lord. Once." I started kissing the bottom of his right shoe.

Being humiliated and punished by Luke was shameful. Neil's participation in my punishment and humiliation made it infinitely more so. Being humiliated and punished by my students was incredibly shameful. Them knowing that Neil, another professor in my department, not only was aware of, but even took an active part in my punishment and humiliation was indescribably shameful. It was more than a slippery slope. It was quicksand. And I was sinking deeper by the second.

Paul was not yet done with his interrogation, however. "What other services do you provide for Professor Lawson, besides bringing him coffee?"

I hesitated. But mindful of Paul's warning (he did seem to have some mysterious ability to intuit and/or discover things about me), I came clean, thereby deepening the pit in which I was sinking: "On Wednesdays, when he has several back-to-back classes, I have started to massage his feet in his office."

"I knew it! Last week when I walked into his office and you were there, you were acting very nervous. I saw his shoes on the floor next to his desk. There's not really many reasons to take off your shoes and socks on a freezing day. I had a sneaky suspicion that that's what was going on. You're an even bigger beta than I could've conceived of, Rollins. Is there anyone you're not subservient to?"

"Yes, my lord....I mean, prior to 10 months ago...I wasn't submissive to anyone....except in...my...my imagination. Everything's different now..."

"You're leading a male masochist's dream! Lick the bottom of my other shoe. Do you realize how extraordinarily fortunate you are, old man?"

"Yes, my lord," I said before reapplying my tongue to the sole of Paul's shoe.

"This discussion has been very useful. You've given me all kinds of ideas about how to further enhance your submissive experience to make it truly exceptional. To make it world class. All the building blocks are already in place. We just need to find a way to integrate them," Paul said.

"Look how hard his baby cock is! He loves the idea!", said Anna.

"Now lie down across my lap. The new information I learned just now has caused me to feel magnanimous, so I will grant you mercy by deferring 20 of your spanks until Tuesday and pardoning 10 altogether," Paul said.

At that exact moment, having my remaining punishment cut in half (at least for that day), I was more grateful about the present reprieve than concerned about any possible future danger that might result from Paul's increased knowledge. It was only later, during many restless, sleep-deprived nights, that I began to really worry about the possible implications of Paul knowing that I was also submissive to my fellow professor.

"You are very kind, my lord," I said as his hand came crashing down on the center of my ass. The irony of the moment produced hearty laughter from both Anna and Kelly.

My tights were still lowered, so my erect, bare cock pressed against the denim -- a coarser variety than Archer's -- of Paul's jeans. How much shame could one person endure in a single evening? But it was only 8:30 PM; I still had over an hour left with my young tormentors.

Whereas Jake's technique was to alternate cheeks, Paul preferred picking one spot and sticking to it for repeated spanks. He focused on the center of my bottom, initially 10 strikes where the crack of my ass began and then moving methodically lower until the final 20 were on the area closest to my scrotum. Unfortunately, Paul hit harder today than on my last visit, no doubt making sure he at least matched the force of Jake in front of the two young women, who were watching with rapt attention. As he delivered the final twenty or so spanks, the pain was searing and I began kicking my legs more and more and squirming around on his lap in a futile attempt to alleviate it, or to escape. On the bright side, my erection quickly subsided under the intensity of his assault.

"Stay still, or I will add the 30 back," he warned, sternly, grabbing my right arm and holding it tightly behind my back with his free hand.

When he was finally done, he roughly pulled up my tights, producing a wedgie effect, and almost playfully swatted my bottom twice, saying, "You may get up now. Go stand in the corner. Hands behind your head."

I did as commanded, but Kelly objected, "Why did you pull his tights back up? I want to see what shade of red his ass is now."

"Lower your tights, page boy," ordered Anna.

"Yes, princess," I said, following her command. My eyes were wet with tears, but I was hoping they wouldn't notice. I wanted to at least deprive them of the satisfaction that they caused me to cry.

"Do I hear sniffling, professor? Did getting spanked by his big, mean student make the poor, wimpy professor cry?"

"No, Princess Kelly."

"I'm not sure I believe you," Kelly replied.

"Look at his ass. The color reminds me of raw hamburger meat. Are you sure it will heal quickly enough, babe?", asked Anna.

"Jake and I hit him hard, but not hard enough for any permanent bruises. The color will fade in no time," said Paul. "Sort of like a sunset. An intense color that fades quickly."

"Too bad. It's such a lovely color, " said Kelly.

After 10 minutes, during which they passed around a joint and continued to tease me, Anna said, "You're right, the color is starting to fade already. Turn around, you naughty page boy, and face us. Keep your hands on your head."

"Well, the color of ass may be like setting like the sun, but his little cock is compensating for it," said Kelly, with a giggle.

"Pathetic," commented the eloquent Jake.

I looked down to see my cock standing at attention through my tights, wishing I could simply disappear. I stood there shamefully for another twenty minutes as they finished a second joint.

After they finished, Anna said, "We're running out of time before the good professor turns into a pumpkin. It's time for your reward, professor. Obeisance!"

Recalling last week, I quickly dropped to the floor down on my belly and clasped my hands behind my back.

"Very good. You remembered," Anna said. "Now slither on your belly to our feet, as we taught you."

I began my humiliating belly crawl across the floor -- only a few feet, but it felt like many more -- my hard cock grinding into the hardwood, once again fearful that the combination of the potent humiliation and the stimulus to my cock would result in me ejaculating en route. Fortunately, it did not. Once I reached them, I craned my neck up to look at the four pairs of shoes hovering above me, and planted a kiss on the top of each, as I had been instructed during my last visit.

Anna then said, "Kelly, switch places with Paul, please."

Once she did, Anna ordered me to lie on my back next to where she and Kelly were seated on the sofa. Rolling over, I winced with pain as my bottom touched the floor. From experience, I knew that sitting would be uncomfortable for the next day or two.

She then said to Kelly, "Do you want to provide the olfactory stimulation or the tactile stimulation?"

As if this was a routine occurrence in their lives, Kelly said, "Oh, definitely the tactile stimulation. It will be fun to toy with his little dicklet. Besides, based on what Paul said about your foot sweat, you're the one who can provide the best olfactory stimulation." Kelly chuckled.

"Very funny," said Anna, smiling. "Very well."

Anna removed her heels and placed her moist stocking-clad feet directly over my nose and mouth. Kelly kept her heels on and began pressing the toe of her right heel firmly into my balls, through my tights. She then began lightly kicking my balls. It was mildly painful, but not so painful that it caused my hard cock to deflate; it was painful yet still highly arousing, a well calibrated approach that suggested to me that Kelly had some experience tormenting others along similar lines.

"Take deep breaths, professor," Anna ordered.

Her feet indeed had a strong, distinct odor, at once malodorous and fragrant, sour yet sweet. As I inhaled, Kelly began grinding her heel directly into the underside of my cock, pressing it into my body. Only about three minutes into this sensuous torture, my cock erupted, my semen seeping copiously through my white tights. I groaned involuntarily as I orgasmed, a groan of simultaneous ecstasy and despair. Because I hadn't come in so long, I produced what was for me at least, a prodigious amount. What appalling, exquisite humiliation! I tried to imagine what it would be like facing my three students in class next week, or for that matter, any time again for the rest of my life. It was certainly a moment that would never be forgotten by anyone in that room.

"It looks like our professor enjoyed his reward," Kelly said, snickering. "And I could tell when he was about to shoot his wad, so I moved my foot away just in the nick of time." She picked up her heel and pointed at it, "See no icky professor goo. It's clean."

Anna said to me, "You see, being enslaved to us is not all about punishment. There are rewards as well, occasionally."

"Yes, thank you Princess Anna, Princess Kelly."

Well, at least I wouldn't have to lick up my ejaculate this time. Paul threw me a towel. I was permitted to clean myself up and was then ordered to put the towel into the washing machine (by itself, as Anna didn't want the towel I soiled to be near any of their clothes or linen). I then cleared up the kitchen. Finally, I was allowed to change back into my street clothes. Before I left the apartment, I was required one last time to bow down before each of them, kiss their feet and thank them for allowing me to be of service. I then went down the elevator, relieved to see a different doorman (one who I had never encountered before), who more or less ignored me as I exited the building.

I pulled up to my house at 10:20 P.M., surprised to see the light on in the kitchen. When Brooke and Luke went out to dinner on Thursdays, Luke usually drove, so it was not unusual to see Brooke's car in the driveway. Maybe they had just forgotten to turn off the lights?

But as I entered the kitchen, I was alarmed to see Brooke sitting alone at the table. Expecting to be asked where I had been, I started trying to think of plausible explanations.

However, Brooke simply looked up at me. She had a glum expression on her face and her eyes were bloodshot, as if she had been crying. Something was definitely up.

"Hi, honey," I said, nervously.

"Hi."

"Where's Luke?"

"He's gone."

"Will he back later, or is he staying at his house tonight?"

"He'll be staying at his house every night from now on."

"What are you talking about? What happened?"

"Go get a bottle of scotch and two glasses. I need a drink."

I poured a glass of scotch for each of us. It was a fine, aged single malt, but that didn't stop Brooke from downing her glass instantly.

"Pour me another."

"Brooke, what happened?" I asked, as I filled her glass.

"What happened is I'm done. Why do you look sad? You should be ecstatic."

"I'm worried about you. I can tell you've been crying."

"Yeah, I was crying quite a bit earlier. But now I'm just more pissed off than anything else."

"Why? What happened? What did he do?"

"Over dinner, he told me that he's met someone else."

"Oh. But I thought that was okay. I mean, I thought that was part of your...your agreement...that he could see other people sometimes."

"Yes, it was. He's slept with a couple of women since he came back onto the scene. Since he stormed back into my life, uninvited. I was okay with it, as long as he used protection. Which he promised he did. And I believe him."

"So what's different about this one?"

"Several things. For one, he's more serious about this woman. It's not just a one night hookup or a brief fling. He says that he's gone out with her multiple times. In other words, he's fucked her multiple times."

"Meaning he wants to stop seeing you, to stop staying here?"

"No, not at all. He said that his new girlfriend knows all about me, all about you and about the whole fucked up relationship between the three of us, and that she's fine with it. She must be as twisted as he is. He said he'd still be around as much as ever."

I thought it was interesting that Brooke was now describing our threesome with Luke as "fucked up," even though it's one she found so satisfying in so many ways, and as recently as that morning. Knowing her as I did, however, she would probably say that being "fucked up" and being satisfying (sexually satisfying, in particular) are not mutually exclusive. And she would have a legitimate point.

Rather than engage her in this discussion, I simply asked, "Then what's the problem?"

Brooke replied angrily, "The problem is that he said he expects me to submit to her. Like some pathetic cuck."

"Gee, thanks a lot."

"I'm sorry, but I'm not in the mood to be sensitive to your feelings at the moment."

I was silent, trying to process everything she was telling me.

"Look, Walter, it's different in so many ways. You submit to Luke because you love me. You sacrifice for me, and I appreciate it. You know that I do. But I don't love Luke. I may be in love with his cock, but I'm not in love with him. And I may be submissive to him, but I'm not generally submissive like you are. Certainly not to another woman!"

"But you told me you had lesbian relationships when you were in college."

"I did, but I was never the submissive one. I like women going down on me, but I've never liked eating pussy. The one time I tried it, with Michelle, it kind of grossed me out, to be honest. But, beyond that, Luke said he wanted this bitch to be around a lot -- at his house, at our house. He actually said he expected me to be submissive to her in OUR house, if you can fucking believe it."

"With Luke, I can believe almost anything."

"Well, I told him to go fuck himself."

"What did he say?"

"The arrogant bastard smiled at me -- that cocky, know-it-all smile, I so wanted to slap it off his face -- and said that eventually I'd come to my senses and agree to anything and everything he wants. He said that I might as well face it that I'm helplessly addicted to his cock, and that sooner or later -- probably sooner, he said -- the withdrawal pains will be so bad that I'll be begging him to come back, under any conditions. He's so insufferably conceited, it makes me want to puke. It reminded me of why I divorced him. Hey, puke rhymes with Luke. Ha ha," she laughed bitterly. "Pour me another glass."

After she downed her third glass, she continued, "When I told him to get fucked, the bastard said that he'd tell his new girlfriend to be patient, that her quote unquote `future cuckquean servant girl' just needs a little time to come around. That's how talks about me to her! Apparently, he has the whole thing worked out in his depraved brain. Well, fuck him! And fuck her!"

I contemplated asking her, "But what about `the game'? Wouldn't the emergence of this new player -- and you submitting to her -- be just another exciting, unpredictable twist in the game that you cherish so much?" However, I didn't think asking that question would be wise in her current state of mind. I really couldn't tell what was bothering Brooke the most: jealousy of this other woman, who clearly interested Luke sexually, or Luke's demand (presumably one made with the knowledge, if not outright complicity of his new lover as well) that Brooke submit to her.

"Pour me another glass and let's toast to Luke's good riddance."

As we clinked our glasses together, I wanted to allow myself to be happy. I really did. Could there actually be a possibility of going back to the time before Luke, where just the two of us could be happy together? I tended to think of our lives as B.L. and A.L., meaning before Luke and after Luke. At the same time, I had to be careful not to idealize the time B. L., because that period also included the many nights that Brooke would go out with Michelle in search of men who could sexually satisfy her. Restless, angst-filled nights -- for me, always, but also often for Brooke, who found most of these one night stands or short lived trysts deeply unsatisfying.

As painful as those nights were, however, at least I wasn't completely enslaved in my own home back then. But I vividly recall, because of the difficulties in finding guys who could satisfy her (even remotely approaching the way Luke could), how discontented and moody Brooke often was B. L., especially when she came home following unsuccessful or unsatisfying nights out on the prowl. And that was before Luke reentered her life and reminded her of his sexual prowess, of how he (and he alone, seemingly) could make her feel. The way he filled her up, took control of her body -- and, to some extent, of her mind. What would things be like now with him gone, but with the memories of how he makes her feel still fresh in her memory (and in her loins)?

I also recalled vividly how despondent Brooke became in the early A.L. months after she and Luke bickered and she asked him to stay away for a while. The last, and worst, example was when he harshly spanked her following a political argument. That really pissed her off, and he was banished for two weeks that time. Brooke was fine the first week, but by the end of the second week, she was indeed begging him to come back. And he made her grovel. There were occasional flashes of rebellion in her after that time, but that's all they were -- flashes. Overall, she became appreciably more submissive to him after that, wanting to avoid any future more protracted periods of separation. Luke's analogy of a junkie experiencing withdrawal pains was not off the mark; I had in fact used it earlier myself in describing to you the hold Luke has over her.

These were the thoughts that occupied my mind as I sat drinking scotch with Brooke that evening in December, trying to understand what this new development meant for our future.

"What about Luke's stuff?"

"As much as I'd like to pack it all up now and put it out on the curb, I told him we'd pack it up for him. He said he'd send Kevin over to pick it up on Saturday. Then he told me it's just a waste of time, and that you shouldn't bother moving your clothes back upstairs, that you'll just have to move them again when he's back. Then he said I should clear space in MY closet for his new slut's clothes. The fucking son of a bitch! Pour me another one," she added, angrily sliding her tumbler across the table at me.

"Brooke, are you sure? You're going to regret it in the morning."

"Just pour it," she said, sharply, and so I did. I also got her a glass of water and urged her to drink it.

The next morning, she did indeed have a raging hangover, but far be it from me to say `I told you so.' Instead, I got her ginger ale and Advil, massaged her temples and then her feet. I then began packing up Luke's clothes and shoes into the three suitcases he had used to bring them over to our house seven months earlier, which had been gathering dust in the garage.

Despite my anxiety about the permanence of his absence, I'd be lying if I didn't admit to be being borderline giddy while removing his things from my dresser and closet. I tried not to show how I felt to Brooke, however, as her emotions were still very raw and it was unclear to me how she would feel about her decision to refuse Luke's demands and tell him to leave as time went on. She seemed resolute last night, but how would feel later today? Tomorrow? And in the days and weeks ahead?

To her credit (and, if I'm being honest, somewhat to my surprise), her resolve was firm. Until it wasn't. At which point it collapsed spectacularly, with major consequences. For Brooke. And for me.

The collapse didn't happen for nearly three months, however, and I didn't see Luke during that period (other than catching a glimpse of him once in town, getting out of his truck to walk into a restaurant). Although I was relieved that he was no longer around, it was jarring to have someone who had been such a dominant, and dominating, force in my life suddenly disappear, almost as if he had been some malevolent phantom.

Things started off promisingly enough that first Friday after Brooke had told him to leave. She and I went out that night at a nice French bistro two towns over, and had a romantic dinner and two bottles of Bordeaux. I was surprised that she wanted to drink multiple glasses of wine after being so hungover that morning. She described it as "a bit of the hair of the dog"; in retrospect, it probably should've been a warning sign.

That night when we got home, I went down on her. When we got to our -- "our", how nice to think of it that way again! -- bedroom, she noticed that I was still free of my chastity cage. As I stood before her in nothing but a pair of sheer, powder blue panties, fully tented, she made no demand that I be locked back up.

"Enjoy your freedom, honey," she said, gripping my cock and balls with her hand through the nylon. "No reason we both can't enjoy our liberation from Luke the douche. Of course, I reserve the right to lock my submissive knight back up at any time. That was a lovely meal tonight. Now, it's time for your dessert."

I dropped to my knees. Reclining on the bed, she pressed my head down between her legs firmly, and I went to work. I knew my tongue was no substitute for Luke's cock, but I put in extra effort, determined to use whatever tools I had at my disposal to help her try to forget him -- or, at a minimum, to not miss him too much. Judging from her moans, guttural at first and becoming increasingly high pitched, she was satisfied with my efforts that evening. Brooke then gave me a hand job (the first in many months), her fragrant, stocking-clad toes pressed up against my nose.

I was determined d to do whatever else I could over the coming weeks and months to make sure that Brooke would not regret her decision to send Luke packing. If that meant reading every book out there to master the art of cunnilingus, I'd do it. If that meant buying a strap-on and letting Brooke take me anally, I'd do it. If that meant me penetrating her vaginally or anally with a strap-on -- my flesh and blood cock humiliatingly caged in its shadow -- I'd do it. If that meant playing the submissive cuckold to some other lover she found, I'd do it. I'd do whatever it took to keep her in my life and keep her satisfied and happy. My proud, beautiful, my exceptional Brooke. Over the next three months, we tried all of the above and more.

Ultimately, none of it was enough.

The balance of December was by and large wonderful, however, aside from my on-going servitude to my students. At least I was spared the additional humiliation of having to serve as Kevin's lackey (I hoped at the time that was something I would never have to endure again -- ah, the irony). When he came over to pick up Luke's suitcases on Saturday, Brooke and I were both home.

Brooke opened the door. "Well, if it isn't the little snitch."

Kevin smiled, "Nice to see you too, Brooke. I was just doing my job."

"I thought your job was plumbing, not spying on married couples having sex," Brooke replied.

"Luke's the boss. My job is whatever he asks me to do."

"Your spying days are over when it comes to Walter and me"

"Too bad, I was really looking forward to babysitting you two."

"I'll bet you were. Well, you'll just have to get your jollies some other way."

"For now, at least. When Luke's back in charge, you, Wally and me are gonna have us a blast. Or, I am, at least," he said to both of us, laughing arrogantly.

"Dream on," said Brooke. "Luke's days of being in charge here, of being anything at all here, are finished."

"Keep telling yourself that, Brooke. Wally, I really need an assistant. Now. Hurry up and talk some sense into this girl."

I wanted to assert myself by putting this presumptuous 18-year old brat in his place, but to be honest, I was afraid of going too far. I felt I had to hedge my bets a little, as I was less sure than Brooke of the permanence of Luke's exile.

So I limited my response to: "I'm a literature professor, Kevin. Not a plumber's assistant."

"My customers will know you as professor plumber. Fixing toilets is a lot more valuable to society than teaching the crap you teach to a bunch of stuck up college losers." It sounded to me like he was parroting the words of his older brother.

"Spoken like a true ignoramus. Luke's bags are in the hallway around the corner. Why don't you get them and then get out," Brooke said dismissively.

Kevin gave her a dirty look, but went to retrieve the bags. He wheeled two out to his truck and I followed with the third.

As he passed Brooke, he said with a faint smirk. "I have a long memory, Brooke."

She ignored him. When he and I reached the truck, he said, "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again soon, Wally. Meanwhile, it wouldn't hurt for you to watch some do-it-yourself plumbing videos on YouTube. Don't worry, I'll teach you most of it, but that way we won't have to start from scratch."

"Good bye, Kevin," I replied, as I went back inside the house.

"Remember. I'll be expecting you to know some of the basics."

"Good bye." I turned and went back into the house, hoping that was the last time I ever laid eyes on Kevin.

My college's long winter break began about a week later, so I only had two more lectures with Paul, Anna and Kelly and only three more days of fetching Neil's coffee. And one more foot massage in Neil's office. I guess that I could have stood up to Neil and told him that Luke was history, so he'd have to get his own coffee from now on. But I didn't; I continued to get his coffee four times that week.

Why?, you may ask. I've asked myself that same question many times, and the answer is somewhat complicated. First, Neil said nothing to me about Luke leaving Brooke's and my lives, which suggested to me he didn't yet know about it. Unsure as I was about how long the new status quo would last, I was wary of proactively trying to unwind the many tentacles of Luke's control too hastily, lest I really provoke his wrath should he re-emerge on the scene quickly. In other words, I'm a total coward. Second, I really didn't mind the walk across campus that much (unless the weather was especially inclement) and the exercise was doing me good; I was continuing to lose weight. Third, despite all of the weirdness that had crept into our relationship over the last few months (thanks to his improbable friendship with Luke), Neil remained my friend, and I liked doing things for him. Beyond all of that, I was beginning to accept a truth about myself: while there was part of me that was humiliated by being forced to be in service to others, there was another part of me that also derived genuine satisfaction from it.

Was this merely the satisfaction of being sexually aroused from the humiliation associated with subservience? That was part of it, certainly, but not all of it. I was learning that I derived some deeper satisfaction than the purely sexual from serving others. Having read about this phenomenon subsequently, I am aware that for many people the desire to humbly serve is driven by religious faith -- Christ washing the feet of beggars and so forth. Borderline atheist that I am, that is obviously not the case for me. There just seems to be something that feels natural -- that feels RIGHT -- about me waiting on others, running errands for them, making their lives easier, making them feel elevated. Even if that means making me feel the opposite. I guess I truly am a beta. But if behaving that way gives me satisfaction, does that really matter?

It was partly for these reasons, I suppose, that I found myself on my knees in Neil's office massaging his feet that last Thursday before winter break. He and I were discussing his next book. In retrospect, I wish I had asserted myself on this issue, at least; I wish I had told him that foot massages, on campus at any rate, were a thing of the past. Because, as I was kneading the ball of his left foot, poised only a few inches from my face, the door to his office suddenly opened and in burst an animated Paul Betz.

"Professor Lawson, I...oh, sorry!", he said staring down at me, on my knees.

My thoughts about service were still in a nascent state at the time, and certainly did not extend to some public display of it in my workplace. Following his last interrogation of me, I knew Paul was aware that I massaged my colleague's feet -- that was undoubtedly why he burst through the door exactly when he did. However, having him witness me doing it, and having Neil now know he knew -- well, that particular combination of circumstances took my humiliation to another level. As I'm sure Paul knew it would, with his seemingly almost unerring sense of how to exploit my weaknesses.

Neil said to him somewhat sharply, "Paul, you really need to knock first before entering someone's office."

"I'm really sorry. I was just excited to talk to you. We won our swim meet over the weekend. I wasn't sure if you knew or not." It was clear that Mr. Betz was quite a good actor as well -- a multi talented individual, without question.

Neil instantly softened. "That's great news, Paul." Still sitting at his desk, he extended his hand to shake Paul's. Not knowing what to do, I simply held Neil's bare foot in my hands like an idiot as they shook hands.

"Walter has a real gift for massage. My left foot has been hurting me pretty badly, so he's nice enough to give me some relief." A nice try by Neil, but anyone seeing both of his feet bare would deduce that I had been massaging both of his feet.

"Like I said, I'm really sorry for barging in. It won't happen again," Paul said. I saw right through his phony apology. Neil did not, however.

"Not a big deal. Sit down, Paul. I want to hear all about the competition. Walter was finishing up anyhow, right pal?"

"Um...yes."

Paul sat down and they began talking to each other about the swim meet. I gave a couple of additional, perfunctory rubs to Neil `s foot, and then faced a dilemma. Did I put Neil's socks and shoes back on and tie his shoelaces like I typically did? Or did I simply get up off the floor and leave the room? For reasons I can't really explain, I chose the former option - the option that portrayed me in a more a humble light -- before leaving the office and wishing them both a happy winter break.

"Thanks, pal. You're a lifesaver," Neil said as I left the room. I could see the edges of Paul's lips rise almost imperceptibly, pleased with his latest victory over me.

I actually only had to clean Paul's and Anna`s condo one more time in December before they both left the state to go home to their families until classes resumed in late January. Before arriving there, I had been extremely worried that Paul -- who seemed to know everything about me -- would know about the change in status with Luke. He would no doubt see Luke's absence as a golden opportunity to greatly expand his control over me. No longer would there be the time restrictions which so far had limited my service to him and Anna to only 6-8 hours per week. No longer would he be worried about leaving visible marks on my bottom (Paul and Anna made it clear that they were chomping at the bit to use a cane, strap or crop on me). I was still with Brooke, of course, but I don't think that Paul would care much about Brooke knowing about them blackmailing me and subjugating me. After all, as my wife, she also would have a lot to lose by compromising pictures of me showing up on people's social media feeds or in the campus or local newspapers. Or even on the local television news, as everyone seemed to love a good salacious story nowadays. Yes, she would have to fear for the loss of her husband's job, income and future employability. Would they try to involve Brooke as well, perhaps attempt to control her as well as me? While not certain, I was pretty sure that there were hidden cameras (even one not so hidden) in Paul's and Anna's condo, so they likely had accumulated a lot of additional blackmail material.

Fortunately, it became clear relatively quickly that afternoon that Paul had as yet no idea about what had transpired between Brooke and Luke. Mercifully, there were limits to his seeming omniscience. The humiliations I suffered on that occasion were similar to those I had experienced previously, so I won't belabor them. I thought about telling Brooke about my forced servitude to Paul and Anna the next day, but knowing they would be gone for several weeks, and still highly anxious about how Brooke might react to the news, I kept my mouth shut.

With Luke gone indefinitely, and with Paul and Anna out of the state for awhile, I reasoned that I likely had several weeks of freedom and some time to think about how I might possibly extricate myself from the situation with my students (and about the more tricky and uncomfortable question: did I even completely want to?). I also had a lot more time to work on my book.

A few days after Kevin removed Luke's things from our house, Brooke's mood began to gradually improve. She remained angry, and when reminded of Luke, would call him disparaging names and still marvel at his outrageous audacity. But we enjoyed each other's company, and had fun both inside and outside the bedroom. I, of course, maintained the house, and pampered my lady by making her delicious dinners, massaging her neck, back and feet and, of course, worshiping her feet. I composed two new poems (better efforts than my most of my past attempts) celebrating the glory of her perfect feet and toes.

Brooke continued to wait tables at the restaurant three nights and two days per week, during which time I focused on my writing and research. When she got home from her shifts, she would sit down on the recliner. I would remove my pants, usually wearing tights and a T-shirt (or on colder nights a sweater), bring Brooke a glass of red wine, kneel down before her and remove her flats or short heels. She would permit me to nuzzle her damp stocking-clad feet and breathe in the intoxicating scent of her foot sweat. I then would give her a long, sensuous foot massage, often followed by a neck and back massage. Sometimes she would read, other times we would talk about each other's days as I tended to her feet. If she had a tough day at work, she would sometimes roughly tousle my hair with them, mash them into my face or push up my sweater or shirt with one foot and pinch my nipples with the toes of her other. It was such sweet abuse, I sometimes almost hoped she had a difficult customer at the restaurant so she would take it out on me with her feet.

We had a quiet, lovely Christmas together. Neither of us were religious, but like pagans, we loved putting up a tree and we exchanged gifts. Except for a dinner out with Brooke's mom and stepdad two days before Christmas, it was just the two of us. Lots of days and nights of watching movies, snuggling by the fire drinking eggnog, talking walks, giving each other pedicures and just talking. We had always been intellectually compatible, so stimulating conversation came naturally to us. But we were equally content with long stretches of silence, often sitting next to each other reading or simply relaxing and reflecting. I believe the experience that we had endured together with Luke over the prior seven months had only brought us closer.

It was a festive season, and we -- Brooke, in particular -- consumed a lot of alcohol. Brooke and I (prior to the dietary restrictions imposed upon me by Luke) had always liked to drink. We enjoyed red wine, single malt scotch, craft cocktails, etc. So I didn't really think much about it at the time, as I opened another bottle of wine, poured her another glass of eggnog or shook her another dry martini. It just felt so good to be able to relax with her again without Luke breathing down our necks. With the benefit of hindsight, however, it is clear to me that Brooke was self medicating at the time to cope with her anger, depression, or whatever other emotions were stirred at any given time by Luke's absence. She had always handled her liquor pretty well, and could easily drink me under the table. So the full extent of her increased consumption was not obvious to me at first. Whereas, with the extra calories, I started to put back on weight -- after having painfully (in more ways than one) shed nearly 30 pounds -- Brooke maintained her obsessive dedication to working out at the gym at least three times per week. Whether because of her exercise regimen, fortunate metabolism or some combination of the two, she didn't gain an ounce. But, in fact, she was simultaneously improving her body at the gym while damaging her body (or her liver, in any case) by drinking far too much.

Is she an alcoholic? I don't know. I don't think so, but she was clearly headed in that direction during this period. Cracking the whip (literally as well as figuratively), Luke put a stop to that when he came back. And for preventing what appeared to me to be her inevitable slide into true addiction, I will be forever grateful to him. His methods, on the other hand? I certainly didn't approve of his methods, but as Neil repeatedly pointed out with respect to the reward/punishment system Luke established for my weight loss, it's hard to argue with the results. Perhaps a firm hand is required for some things after all, as much as that mentality runs counter to all of the progressive, enlightened, nonviolent beliefs I hold dear.

But I'm getting ahead of myself again. Brooke remained in relatively good spirits outwardly throughout much of January. Given how intensely sexual she is, quality time in the bedroom was critical to maintaining her relatively positive mood. She continued her anal training of me, inserting larger and larger butt plugs into my anus. The second week of January, she kept her promise to take me with a strap-on. Per her command, I put on red fishnet thigh high stockings and a garter belt and awaited her on my knees next to the bed. While nervous, my cock was rock hard in anticipation of what was to come. Brooke emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but a black leather belt/ harness, which framed her ass beautifully, with the flesh-colored, silicone cock protruding outward menacingly. Her finely toned muscles projected strength. Brooke IS strong. She lifts weights -- never enough to bulk up, but she has great muscle tone and definition.

"Worship my cock first, you horny slut. Convince me you want it."

"I'm not sure I do. That thing will destroy me."

"Are you kidding?! This was the smallest size they had in the store. Don't be such a pussy. Now suck."

I sucked her silicone member and balls lasciviously, imitating as best I could the technique I had seen her use on Luke. She slapped the cock against my cheeks and then pushed it into my mouth, gripping my hair with her right hand. She thrust her pelvis in and out, and I tried not to gag on the cock.

She pulled out after a few minutes and then took out my chastity cage from the dresser drawer.

"What are you doing?"

"I think a sissy knight ought to address his lady more respectfully, especially as she's about to pop his anal cherry. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, my lady. What are you doing, my lady?"

"I'm locking you back up. I want you to focus completely on orgasming anally and don't want your little cock to distract you."

"As you wish, my lady."

She tried to lock me back up, but my erection made that problematic.

"Get some ice. Quickly."

I scurried downstairs and, having been through this drill before, put a handful of ice cubes into a ziplock bag that I handed to Brooke.

She rubbed the bag against my cock and balls, until my cock reluctantly deflated. She then put the key back onto her ankle chain. As I stared down at her pretty bare foot, my cock immediately tried to rise again, instantly frustrated by the metal rings.

"That always does the trick," Brooke said as she locked me back in the cage. "Your baby carrot has been free for so long now, it can't be happy to go back into prison."

"It's not. Already."

"Well, it won't be for too long. Now, I'm going to make the rest of you feel like you're in prison. I'm going to make you my little prison bitch."

"If most prison inmates looked like you, guys would be lining up to get in. There'd be a massive crime wave," I said, as I lay over the bed, presenting my ass to her.

"Such an eager little slut, getting into position before being told," she said, slapping my ass. "I should think you'd be nervous."

"I AM nervous, my lady. But also excited to surrender to you."

"And surrender you will, Sir Pantywaist. But first I want to put these on you." I looked behind me to see her dangling a pair of nipple clamps from her fingers.

"But what about me focusing only on my anus, my lady?"

"I know how direct the connection is between your sensitive nips and your little cock. I want to test to see if the same is true between your nips and your butt. I know it works for me," she said as she affixed them to me tightly.

"Ouch! That's very tight, my lady!"

"Look at the bright side. At a minimum, the pain will distract you from the discomfort you're gonna feel in your secret place. After today, it's going to be OUR secret place. Now, bend over."

She smacked my ass sharply again, and the next thing I felt was the cold sensation of lubricant running down the crack of my ass. Brooke then began to spread it around with the head of the dildo. She then grabbed both of my arms and pulled them behind me as she entered me.

I gasped and immediately tensed up.

"You're going to enjoy this a lot more if you try to relax. Take some deep breaths."

She pushed further into me. That first time, she was very gentle and patient with me, and as my nervousness subsided, the pleasurable sensations of being so filled up, and of surrendering so completely to the women I loved, overtook me. It took much longer than a penile orgasm -- and, being prone to premature ejaculation, that was a good thing -- and it was quite intense, especially towards the end. I felt like I had to pee, but managed not to. The nipple stimulation definitely contributed to the overall effect. When it was over, I felt like jelly -- weak, submissive, nearly paralyzed. But pleasurably so. I considered how gentle Brooke had been with me and contrasted that with how roughly Luke typically took her from behind. This made me feel even more in awe of Brooke -- how experienced she is, how sensual, how tough. After I recovered, I went down on her, a long session that seemed to please her.

But later that week, we tried vaginal sex again, the first time in months, with the same sorry, if predictable, results. My small cock kept slipping out of her. She looked at various times faintly amused, bored and a little sad, but at no time did she appear to be the least bit aroused, excited or satiated.

When I pulled out of her, neither of us approaching anything remotely resembling a climax (my performance anxiety made me far too nervous for my own release), I rolled over on the bed next to her and simply said, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You get an A for effort."

"Let me make it up to you," I said, moving my head down to her crotch.

She stopped me. "It's okay. The mood has sort of passed. Maybe tomorrow. Let's go watch a movie."

I don't want to suggest things went straight downhill after that. Like most things in life, there were ups and downs. But I do recall that night as the beginning of the downward trajectory in Brooke's spirits, the first cracks in her resolve, after telling Luke to take a hike when he tried to fundamentally alter the nature of their agreement. The next weekend, the last of January -- in fact, the first day of classes in my light Spring semester course load -- she announced she was going out the next evening. This happened about six weeks following her break with Luke.

We were eating dinner when she made the announcement. "I'm sorry, Walter. But I need to go out tomorrow."

Truth be told, I had been waiting for this moment; I had been dreading it, but fully expecting it.

"I understand, Brooke. Are any of your friends joining you?"

"No. Laura is now nearly inseparable from Neil."

"And still no sign of Michelle?"

"No. I certainly expected her to come back once she heard that Luke was no longer around."

"Maybe she hasn't heard."

"Oh, I'm sure she's heard. It's been over a month and this is a small town. I told you how I thought she was being jealous and petty. But I thought she would have gotten over herself by now."

"Why don't you reach out to her to make sure she knows for sure. Tell her you want to go out with her again. She's your best friend. It's crazy that the two of you haven't been talking for all these months."

"No, she's the one who's being an unreasonable bitch. I'm not gonna be the one to reach out to her. Like I told you before, she always comes crawling back eventually. It's just taking her longer this time, for whatever reason. I'm perfectly fine going out on my own."

"I feel much better when you're going out with someone you know. You never know who you're going to meet out there. There are people who spike drinks, there are people who do all kinds of crazy shit and...."

"Walter, shut up."

"...and I really worry about you."

"Don't worry, I'm very cautious. I will be fine."

"Please just call Michelle!"

"Out of the question. You don't understand the way our relationship works. She acts like an irrational bitch or does something completely thoughtless and stupid. We don't talk for a while. She comes back, tail between her legs, either admitting she was wrong or behaving very deferentially towards me. At least for awhile, until she acts like a bitch again. Then the whole cycle begins over. That's the way it works."

"Don't you miss her?"

"Of course, I miss her sometimes. But I know this is just temporary. She'll come around."

"There must be someone else who you can go out with in the meantime? Some other woman from the restaurant?"

"Look. There's not. I will try to find somebody, okay? I'll be extra careful tomorrow night."

The next evening when she came downstairs to go out, she was dressed in a sexy short gray skirt, a tight turtleneck top that accentuated her lovely bosom and sheer black stockings that showed off her sexy, long legs. After summoning an Uber on her iPhone, she kissed me and said, "Good night, I love you."

That disarmed me. I know the cynics will say, "Sure she does, as she's leaving on a mission to cheat on him," but I believe she does love me. As I explained before, there are many different types of love. And while eros and obsessive love may be the most compelling, uncontrollable and unpredictable, they are not necessarily the most important, or enduring. I am playing the long game with Brooke.

I got a text from Brooke at 11 PM that she was fine but wouldn't be home that night. So, of course, I had a miserable, mostly sleepless night of worry and tormenting myself with mental images of Brooke and her lover. I listened to Elvis Costello's Blood and Chocolate album on repeat, reveling in the cuckold angst of "I Want You."

I want you, I want to hear how he pleases you more than I do. I want you, I might as well be useless for all it means to you. I want you, did you call his name out as he held you down?

She got home around 10 AM the next morning, hungover, eyes bloodshot, neither in a good mood or a bad mood. But, whoever he was, she seemed satisfied (if only marginally) for the time being.

A week later, she went out again. That time she came home three hours later, obviously unsuccessful and in a bad mood. She was sullen for the next two days.

But then the following weekend, there seemed to be a breakthrough. She met a guy on Friday night at a bar in a neighboring town and went home with him. She spent the night with him, came home briefly on Saturday and then went back out with him that night. When she got home Sunday morning, she was in a relatively good mood.

"I finally met someone who has some potential."

"Good," I replied.

You may think I was being sarcastic or disingenuous. In fact, nothing would make me happier than Brooke finding a regular, reliable fuck buddy, a guy who could periodically fill her up, take her with authority, and then go about his other business. The perfect guy would be married himself, so he would have other obligations and not be around all the time. I wouldn't even mind if he came over and spent some nights and weekends at our house -- even playing the dominant bull with me, as that dynamic clearly pushed Brooke's buttons. A new bull could allow us to begin a new game -- one Brooke might find interesting and exciting, but which did not have to be as all consuming, intense, and perilous -- as exhausting, frankly-- as the game with Luke. Surely, there were couples out there who had successful MFM relationships of this kind. I knew there were as I was writing about some of these people; I had even interviewed a few of these threesomes as part of my research.

"Tell me about him."

"His name is Owen. He's only 26. He's a junior executive at some hospitality company."

"Does he have experience? As a bull in a cuckold relationship, I mean."

"He says he does, but I'm not sure if I believe him. He says he wants to meet you."

"What's he look like?"

"He's about 6 feet tall. Sandy brown hair, medium length. In fairly good shape. He plays a lot of soccer. A pretty nice cock, I guess."

"Invite him over."

"I already did. You're making dinner for the three of us tomorrow."

Not knowing Owen's tastes, I prepared a basic menu of roasted chicken with potatoes and winter vegetables along with a salad. As it turned out, a bland, unexciting meal suited him perfectly well.

Brooke directed me to wear virtually the same waiter's uniform in which I had first served Luke dinner: tight white buttoned down shirt, black bow tie, tight black pants with an apron and barefoot. If anything, it was more humiliating than how I appeared before Luke, as this time my toenails were painted (a somewhat dark shade of) green and the bulk of my chastity cage was visible beneath my pants. Was this a test for me? For Owen?

I answered the door when Owen arrived, Brooke standing a few feet behind me in a form-fitting white sweater, short buttoned skirt, opaque gray tights and loafers, looking characteristically sexy.

"Hello, sir. My name is Walter. Welcome to our home. May I take your coat?," I said.

"Good to meet you, sir," Owen replied, shaking my hand firmly. I removed his coat and hung it up. He was wearing brown khakis, a navy blue polo shirt and brown leather shoes." He was an attractive young man, but if I passed him on the street I'm not sure I would have taken notice of him.

Brooke walked over and gave him a kiss on the lips, and then said, "I told you all about Walter. There's no need to call him `sir.'"

"I guess I was raised to call all older ladies and gentlemen ma'am' and sir'. I told you, I grew up in the South." Indeed, he spoke with a faint southern accent.

"Well, there's no need to be a southern gentleman here with Walter -- or with me, for that matter. I want you to feel relaxed here. Walter, ask the man if he wants a drink."

"Of course, my apologies, sir. May I get you a beer or a glass a wine? We have a well stocked bar, so I'd also be happy to make you a cocktail."

"A beer is fine, thanks."

"We have Yuengling, Corona or Sierra Nevada IPA, sir. What is your preference?"

"It doesn't matter, whatever's easiest." I looked over at Brooke standing behind him and saw her roll her eyes.

"They're all here in our refrigerator, sir, so whatever you prefer," I replied.

"A Corona then, thanks. And you really don't don't need to call me `sir,' Walter."

"Yes, he does," said Brooke, matter of factly, with a hint of irritation. "Get me another glass of wine when you bring Owen his beer. Serve them to us on a tray."

"Yes, dear."

"Why don't you call me `Miss Brooke' tonight, Walter."

"Of course, Miss Brooke, and sir. I'll be right back with your drinks and some hors d'oeuvres." Rather than head immediately to the kitchen, I lingered momentarily to see how Owen would react to what was clearly a somewhat novel situation for him.

There are some hotwives, as they are known in the cuckold scene, who are indifferent to the nature of the relationship between their cuckold husband and their bull. Indeed, there are probably many who would be delighted if her husband and her lover had a respectful, perhaps even equal, relationship with each other, perhaps even be best buddies. Brooke decidedly did not fit into either of these categories. The power imbalance between the bull and the cuckold was central to the erotic experience for Brooke. And, as you have seen, she was also turned on by the power imbalance between the bull and herself. She wanted someone who would seize control of the situation and assert himself, perhaps with a dash of cruelty to spice things up.

"Wow, you're tough," Owen said with an awkward smile.

"Not at all," Brooke said, leading him over to the couch. "Remember, Walter is greatly indebted to you for giving me what he can't. He's at your service." She gave him a long kiss.

"I should be indebted to him," Owen said, returning the kiss.

As I went into the kitchen to get their drinks, I thought to myself how the evening was off to a less than promising start. I knew Brooke well enough to know that she was somewhat annoyed and disappointed. She could not help but compare Owen`s politeness and relative passivity to Luke's eager willingness to belittle me the first time I served him dinner, indeed from the moment he walked through the door. By the end of that dinner, if you recall, Luke had assumed total control, forbidding me from addressing Brooke affectionately in his presence (that evening was the genesis of "Miss Brooke"), putting me on a diet and cutting me off from alcohol. And that was before the three of us went upstairs to the bedroom! There, he had me running in place in a pair of panties as he forcefully penetrated all of Brooke's orifices (with the exception of her nostrils, I suppose).

Owen wouldn't even go so far as to ask for a wedge of lime with his Corona. I gave him one anyway as I brought out his beer on a tray along with Brooke's glass of wine and a small cheese and fruit plate.

After I set the drinks and plate down on the coffee table, Owen thanked me. "A lime and everything! I appreciate it, Walter."

Brooke said to him, "You really can't help yourself, can you?"

"What did I do?," Owen asked, looking genuinely surprised, as he chewed on a piece manchego.

"Stop being so excessively polite, especially to him," she said, nodding in my direction.

"What difference does it make? I'm going to be making love to his beautiful wife under his roof. Do I have rub his nose in it, too?"

"Yes, actually," Brooke replied, although he silenced her from protesting further, for the moment at least, by kissing her again and putting his arm around her.

I said, "Miss Brooke, sir, may I get you anything else before I finish preparing dinner?"

"Walter is excellent at giving foot massages. Would you like one?"

"I've never had a guy give me a foot massage before. It sounds a little gay, to be honest. I think I'll pass this time," Owen replied.

"You don't know what you're missing. Walter, massage my feet while I kiss this talented young man who is kind enough to come here to satisfy me, since you are ill equipped to do so."

"Yes, Miss Brooke, right away," I said as I quickly dropped to my knees before them on the couch, and removed her left shoe.

As I began kneading her sole through her tights, Owen said, "Wow, you guys are pretty kinky, aren't you?"

"You think THIS Is kinky?," Brooke said as she began to rub her hand against his thigh, inching toward his crotch, and kissed him with increased fervor.

"A little, yeah," he said, as he returned her kiss. Seeing his engorged cock press up against his khakis, I understood why Brooke described him as "talented." And yet here, too, he suffered by comparison to Luke (but, to be fair, so did probably 90% of the male population).

I knew exactly what Brooke was up to, of course. She was trying to will Owen into -- seduce him into -- humiliating and dominating me, into assuming the role of the alpha male. Indeed, just having me on my knees before her and Owen, ignited her passion. She began to kiss him with greater and greater force and urgency as I pressed my fingers into her foot. Sadly, you can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink....

Visibly tense and uncomfortable with me kneeling before them, Owen said, "I'm actually starving. The cheese plate is great, but do you think we could have dinner sooner rather than later?"

With a growing sense of exasperation, Brooke said to me sharply, "You heard the man, Walter. Get busy in the kitchen. You can finish my massage later, after dinner, maybe. But before you get started, fix me a martini. This wine just isn't doing it for me."

"Yes, Miss Brooke, right away," I said as I got back on my feet. " Sir, may I prepare you a martini for as well? Or perhaps some other cocktail?"

"No, thanks. But another Corona would be great."

Dinner went no better. Just as at that first dinner with Luke, I sat and ate with them but was up and down from my seat frequently, serving and cleaning up the courses, refilling drinks, folding napkins, etc. Owen remained consistently polite towards me throughout the meal. I couldn't tell if he was oblivious to what Brooke obviously wanted from him or simply refused to do it, for whatever reason. It was apparent to me that Owen was a nice guy. A nice, rather boring young man. His conversation during the meal was mostly limited to discussing the upcoming Super Bowl and some of the office politics he had to deal with at the hotel where he worked at as an assistant manager. Football and office politics were two of the most boring subjects under the sun to both Brooke and me. Whereas Luke asked penetrating questions about my family and where I was raised - drawing hasty (if largely accurate) conclusions about what he perceived to be my coastal elitist upbringing - Owen asked nothing about me whatsoever. More surprisingly, he asked almost nothing about Brooke. Whether this was due to a basic lack of intellectual curiosity or because of social awkwardness or timidity was not clear, but it almost didn't matter. Either explanation would've been a disqualifier from Brooke's point of view - and, if I'm really honest with myself, a disqualifier from mine as well.

I'm sure some of you will think it's pathetic that I would find fault in a bull for being too nice, too polite and for treating me too well. But I knew Brooke was unsatisfied, which really defeated the whole purpose of him being there to begin with, and I had to admit that Luke's mastery, as humiliating as it was, was a hell of a lot more exciting, more interesting, and infinitely more erotic than Owen's bland passivity. The only times my cock throbbed in its cage for the duration of Owen's visit was when I massaged Brooke's foot (and, truth be told, fleetingly when I saw Owen's cock rise beneath his khakis, as if my little cock tried to salute his much larger one).

Dinner and dessert were filled with a number of long, awkward silences. Brooke had three martinis during the course of the meal, on top of three glasses she had to start the evening (one before Owen arrived). By the end of dinner, she was clearly inebriated and borderline surly.

They did have sex afterwards, though. For all of Brooke's disappointment in Owen's failure to embrace the role of alpha male, she still longed to be filled up with a real cock - not the synthetic strap-on I had, humiliatingly, used on her a couple of times over the last month. Nothing to quite make a man feel inadequate like strapping on a silicone cock above his much smaller real one in a desperate attempt to give his wife pleasure. And while she derived a modicum of pleasure from it (far more than from my tiny flesh and blood cock, although probably less than from my tongue), it was a poor substitute for vigorous sex with a well endowed man. And as "talented" as he might have been physically, Owen as a total package was a poor substitute for the sort of commanding, masterful cocksman Brooke desired. In other words, he was a poor substitute for Luke. Brooke's drug.

I was not permitted to be present when Brooke and Owen had intercourse. He simply wasn't comfortable with it. Perhaps not sufficiently secure in his own masculinity? Even if he had ordered me to polish his shoes or vacuum his car while they fucked, that would have titillated Brooke -- it would even have done something for me -- but alas, that was not Owen. So had he really played the bull to a hotwife and cuckold husband before, as he had claimed? Who knows? After they had sex, Owen told Brooke that he slept with his under endowed buddy's girlfriend a few times while they were in college together. Afterwards the three of them played video games together. I could envision that. Sort of sweet, actually. Not what Brooke was looking for, however. Not even close.

Brooke sent him packing a half an hour after they finished. I think Owen was probably relieved. He likely hoped that there would be future trysts with my lovely wife (preferably with me nowhere to be found, I suspected). But I knew the moment he walked out the door that the Owen experiment was over.

The next day Brooke was hungover, short tempered and depressed. Over the next few weeks, the situation deteriorated rapidly. More unsuccessful nights of Brooke on the prowl. More excessive drinking. More attempts between us in the bedroom that left Brooke unsatisfied -- and still more painful for me -- left her bored. We continued to enjoy each other's company outside of the bedroom, but her lack of satisfaction inside the bedroom increasingly began to obsess her. Brooke had described herself to me as highly sexual, and I have certainly used that phrase to describe her to you in the past.

Increasingly, however, she came to seem to me to be something more than that. A nymphomaniac? I believe that term has fallen out of favor (rightly seen as sexist), and sexually addicted people of both sexes are now said to be suffering from "hypersexuality." Was that Brooke? I am not a psychologist, and she was never diagnosed by a professional -- despite my suggestions to her on at least three occasions that she talk to somebody. But I think that's what Brooke suffered from, and her growing alcohol dependency only made everything worse.

I'm sure that the ungenerous, judgmental and sanctimonious would describe her as a whore. But Brooke did not sleep around for money, or for power. If anything, she wanted to relinquish power in the bedroom (something that was impossible to do with me). For Brooke, sex was as much a mental activity as physical one. She needed it to feel alive, to stave off the existential boredom of life that she seemed almost to equate with death: la petit mort, as the French call it. Ironically, in medieval times, when the phrase originated, physicians believed that it was too much sex that could lead to death. In Brooke's case, I feared it was the opposite.

Meanwhile, the new semester began at the start of February. Fortunately, I had a fairly light course load that semester and no classes with my three favorite students. Nevertheless, Paul texted me that I was expected to resume my schedule of service to him and Anna the second week of February. I took pains to avoid running into Neil the first week of the new semester. I can't really explain why. With both of us having new schedules, I'm not sure what he expected of me with respect to bringing him coffee or massaging his sore feet. Hopefully, he would have fewer back-to-back classes this semester, so my masseuse serves wouldn't be required. There was a side of me that really wanted to confide in him about what had happened with Luke, and about Brooke's now seemingly precipitous and irreversible decline. Given his friendship with Luke, I assumed that he probably knew by now of their rift. On the other hand, I know he was planning to go home to North Carolina for the winter break (bringing Laura along to meet his parents, in fact, as their relationship continued to blossom). I really didn't know what to do with Neil; his friendship with Luke complicated things.

When I got home after the first class of my late afternoon seminar, I found Brooke passed out on the recliner, with a nearly empty bottle of scotch on the table next to her. At first, I was terrified that she had taken pills with the liquor, but there were no pills around and I was able to rouse her to get her into bed, walking closely behind her as she stumbled up the stairs to make sure that she didn't fall. The next morning, I held her hair back from her face as she vomited violently in the toilet.

She was incredibly despondent that entire day, and looked like a wreck (a beautiful wreck, but a wreck nonetheless -- bloodshot eyes, a haggard, almost frightened expression). When I came upstairs to check on her in the late afternoon, it was clear that she had been recently crying.

"Walter, sit down on the bed next to me."

"Yes, darling. Can I get you anything?"

"No. I mean...yes. But nothing to drink or eat or anything like that. Walter, you know I love you, right?"

"Yes, Brooke. Of course, I know that. And I love you more than I have ever loved anyone in my life."

"I know. But I can't go on like this any longer."

"I know."

"I need him back."

"I know. I was thinking of approaching him myself, but I couldn't without you first saying so."

"Really? That's funny, sort of."

"Brooke, I'm incredibly worried about you. The drinking. The depression....everything. I'm afraid that you're going to die." I felt the tears running down my cheeks.

"I'm afraid...of that..too," she sobbed. "I'm sorry that I'm so weak, so shallow. You thought you were marrying a strong, intelligent woman, but instead you got me. You're stronger than I am, in fact. I guess he's right, I'm an addict."

"Don't say that, darling."

"No, it's true. I didn't think I was an addict when I married you. I knew I loved sex. I knew I had needs. But it wasn't until he came back into my life that I realized how addicted I am to...to him. To his body. The bastard. It's like he knew all along. But how could he?"

We were both silent for a few minutes. Then Brooke said, "I want you to call him. Tell him he's won. Tell him he was right and I was wrong. Tell him that I'm begging him to come back, just like he said I would. Tell him, and his girlfriend, to lay out the terms of my surrender. There will be no opposition from me, regardless of what they are." She looked so incredibly tired and sad as she uttered these words.

She looked defeated. That's because she was. And, as her devoted knight, that meant I was defeated too. There were still many battles to be fought, but the end result of them was now a forgone conclusion.