Chivalry Is on Life Support

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

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

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

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

"I did, actually."

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

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

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

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

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

"Walter, you're 37. Isn't that a little young for dementia to set in?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're losing your memory already."

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

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

I stared down silently into my plate of uneaten salmon.

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Brooke. I understand."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How dare..."

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

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

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

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

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