Chivalry is on Life Support Ch. 36

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 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.