I dreaded entering the classroom for my Male Masochism in Medieval Literature class on Monday morning, as it would be my first time teaching the course since my shameful visit to Paul and Anna's condo. They had, of course, promised to keep my subservience to them a secret. However, could I trust them? Could I trust the people who were essentially blackmailing me? In addition, as a close friend of Paul's and Anna's, Kelly was also well aware of the situation. If you recall, the enrollment in my class was largely due to her personal intervention with her friends after she and her boyfriend had encountered me washing Luke's truck in my driveway wearing a pink speedo. Kelly was friends with at least two thirds of the class, and she struck me as a very social, gossipy girl in general, which was not reassuring. However, she had promised me at the Ren fair not to tell anyone about the humiliation I endured there. Paul assured me that she would honor their pledge of confidentiality in return for my servitude. He also suggested to me that she would be an active participant in it.
From my podium, I scrutinized the faces of my students to see if I could discern anything about what they did or did not know. Several of them were exchanging grins and whispers, but that was really no different than usual. Part of that was probably simply a reaction to the article of feminine attire that I was required to wear to each class. That morning, Brooke had fastened a choker collar around my neck. It was a simple, unadorned piece of leather with no metal or anything that overtly suggested a slave collar. Brooke assured me that male chokers had become fashionable. That may have been true for young, edgy GQ models in New York City, but I sincerely doubted that was the case on my college campus, especially for a professor approaching 40. In any case, the choker got a number of stares and double takes from both students and my fellow faculty members that day. It was to become a regular part of my wardrobe, nonetheless, as Brooke was quite fond of the look. My hope was that people simply viewed me as an eccentric, bookish guy with a surprisingly daring sense of style. Being truthful with myself, however, I thought that was pretty unlikely.
It seemed to me that Paul exhibited even more swagger than usual, again arrogantly resting his feet on the desk in front of him. Anna had a subtle, self-satisfied grin on her face as I lectured. Kelly was her usual bubbly self. However, I interpreted everything differently since the Ren fair and since my first visit to Paul and Anna's home, and was now always on edge. I found it exceedingly difficult to concentrate on my lecture, the subject of which was the liberal use of public humiliation as a form of penance for sinners and criminals in 13th century Europe.
My loss of command of my class only seemed to be accelerating following my own public humiliation. The following exchange during my lecture that morning was particularly distressing:
"Public shaming was sometimes so intense that it was seen as a sufficient form of punishment, so that flagellation was not always considered necessary. Yes, Paul, you have a question?"
"Were pillories commonly used in public punishments in the 13th century?", he asked with a smirk.
"Yes, they were quite common in the public square. Public shaming events were announced widely so that as many people as possible would come to see the penitent, thus maximizing his humiliation."
"But wouldn't the criminal or sinner who was locked in the pillory also be beaten?" asked Paul. I heard Kelly snigger.
"Frequently, yes, of course. But my point was that the public shaming itself was often so severe that flagellation on top of it was considered overkill. Yes, Kelly, you have a question as well?" The two of them rarely asked questions in class, so their inquisitiveness that afternoon was highly suspect.
"Yes, professor. Did public shaming sometimes include the penitent being forced to wear humiliating clothes?"
"Yes, Kelly, sometimes."
"Were the male sinners sometimes forced to dress as women as part of their public shaming?", asked Anna. I believe this was the first time she had ever asked a question in class. I heard a few scattered snickers in the room.
"Not to my knowledge. In Germany, shame masks, or schandmaskes as they were known, were frequently used, but more often for women than for men. Such as the scold's bridle, used to punish, shame and silence mostly lower class women. So really not pertinent to our class on male masochism."
"What about the cucking stool? Was that when cuckolds were humiliated by being dunked in the water? As if being cucks wasn't humiliating enough," asked Paul with a snide chuckle.
Paul was a very bright young man and almost certainly knew that that was not what a cucking stool was. It was clear to me that the purpose of all of these questions was to humiliate me. However, I took some comfort from the fact that all of them came from Paul, Anna and Kelly. I hoped that it was sort of an inside joke between the three of them, although I'm sure other students were picking up on subtexts. As they typically do.
"Of course, not. You know better than that Mr. Betz, I'm sure. Cucking stools, also known as ducking stools, were generally used for scolds or gossips, typically women, in which the penitent was strapped into a chair that was dunked into the water. It was sort of a precursor to waterboarding. Sometimes dishonest tradesmen were also subject to this punishment, but it certainly had nothing to do with cuckolds, despite the name."
Paul glared at me. I realized too late that I would probably pay dearly for correcting him the way that I did. But what was I supposed to do? I did have a class to teach, after all.
Paul replied icily, "Well, it's too bad that they weren't used to dunk cuckolds. They certainly are a lot more deserving of humiliating punishment than gossips or scolds, if you ask me."
I took notice of his use of the present tense. "An interesting perspective. Well, class is over. I'll see you all on Wednesday," I said, eager to bring the class to a close.
Like I said, it was highly distressing. Paul dropped a folded piece of paper on my desk as he and Anna exited the room. I opened it with trepidation: "Had to be cute. Bring 200 additional lines + toothbrush + Johnsons' furniture polish." Just cryptic enough to be useless to me as any kind of evidence of coercion. But the message was clear enough to me: I was being punished for having corrected Paul in class and was expected to complete an additional 200 punishment lines that night as well as to buy furniture polish tomorrow. The toothbrush part was a mystery to me. I had managed to complete 450 of my 500 lines so far. It helped that we had just had a long, holiday weekend and that Luke was not around for part of it; even so, I had to do some of the lines in my office at school and some after Brooke and Luke went to bed on Sunday night. Now, I had to complete another 250 lines in just over 24 hours. My fingers ached at the mere thought.
After class, I had a light lunch in my office and knocked out 50 punishment lines before hurrying off to my next trial of the day: washing and detailing Kevin's truck.
Because it was early December, I would mercifully not be required to wear a speedo. That said, Luke had instructed me to bring along a pair of light grey yoga pants and my cuckold horns T-shirt to wear while undertaking my chore. I had no doubt that Kevin, snitch that he was, would tell Luke if I wasn't attired as directed. I really hated the light colored yoga pants in particular, because the bulk of my chastity cage and the small protrusion of my undersized balls (pushed upwards and outwards by the ring of my chastity device) were so obvious through the light, clingy fabric. I considered changing in the restroom of one of the fast food restaurants on the way to the house, but decided against it. I just couldn't bring myself to face the humiliation of walking through the restaurant back to my car. So, instead, I chose the humiliation of changing in the bathroom at Luke's mother's house, where Kevin still lived. Such was my life now: choosing the lesser of two humiliations. When I had any choice at all, that is.
Luke's mom lived about 10 miles from campus in a rural area. I pulled up to the curb around 1:15pm and saw Kevin's truck in the driveway. Apparently, Monday was one of his days off. The truck was indeed filthy; it looked like it hadn't been washed in weeks, if not months. A hand-me-down from Luke, it was not the behemoth that Luke's truck was, but was still an oversized pickup with four doors. Washing and detailing it would no doubt keep me busy for several hours. I thought it was unlikely that I could finish before sunset. Unsure what Kevin would have on hand, in the trunk of my Prius I had brought with me a vacuum, a bucket, sponges, brushes, wax, leather conditioner, wheel guard and rim sealant, a detail spay, VRP rubber and vinyl shine/protectant and microfiber towels. Not being a car person, I had never done more than a cursory washing of my own car a few times in the pre Luke days. But having washed and waxed his truck at least a dozen times -- followed by inspections and immediate sessions with the belt, strap or cane to address any shortcomings --I was now quite the expert in how to do so properly and thoroughly. Still, I had never faced anything remotely as filthy as Kevin's pickup.
