"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."
