Chivalry is on Life Support Ch. 35

Literotic asexstories – Chivalry is on Life Support Ch. 35 by ChivalrousCuck,ChivalrousCuck
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, Archer, 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 Archer, “Do you wish him to address you as Prince Archer?”

Archer, 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 Archer.

“Or what about the Hooters uniform?”, asked Archer.

“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 Archer.

“Great idea, Archer! 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 Archer, 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 Archer 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.

Archer 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,” Archer 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 Archer.

“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. Archer 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, “Archer 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 Archer’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 Archer 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 Archer. 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 I was 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 dominant, young alpha males. 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.

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 Archer.

“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 Archer. On your knees, of course, page,” said Paul.

“Yes sir,” I said, kneeling before Archer, 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,” Archer 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 Archer 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 Archer if he sucked my toes. Ew, gross,” said Kelly, with a little shudder.

Archer interjected, “Yo’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 Archer.

“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 Archer’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 Archer, “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 Archer’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 Archer 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, laughing 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 my 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 Archer 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 Archer.

“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 Archer.

“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 Archer.

“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 Archer. 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.

Archer did as Kelly requested. What followed were repeated, loud smacking sounds of flesh striking flesh — as Archer 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 Archer 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 Archer 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 Archer, 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 Archer’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 Archer’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 Archer 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.

“Archer and I hit him hard, but not hard enough for any permanent bruises. The color will fade quickly,” 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 Archer.

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.”