Chivalry Is On Life Support Ch 33

I thought my Monday was rough. Until I experienced Tuesday. Those who believed that it was important for me to supplement my academic study of male masochism with first-hand experience -- Luke, Paul, Brooke, possibly Neil as well -- certainly were getting their wish. I less so, although there was no denying the authenticity of it.

I had to wait until Brooke and Luke were asleep to complete my punishment lines. When my alarm went off at 5 AM in Tuesday morning, after only four hours of sleep, I groaned.

As I was driving over to Kevin's mom's house, I received a text from him: Get me an Egg McMuffin from McDonald's on your way here. Text me when you get here so you don't wake up my mom.

I had dressed in a clean pair of yoga pants and plain black T-shirt (fortunately, at the time, my dresser wasn't yet full of humiliating shirts, like it is today, and my cuckold horns shirt was filthy), so I was grateful for the drive-thru at McDonald's. I resisted the temptation to order myself hash browns and instead limited myself to a banana and cup of coffee. I was determined to avoid more punishment on Saturday following my weigh-in.

Although it was to be another unseasonably hot day, the sun was just starting to rise when I pulled up to the house, so it was still fairly cool. Kevin was waiting for me on the porch. He didn't thank me (let alone offer to reimburse me) for the sandwich, but rather ate it as he walked around his truck, inspecting the work I had already done. Finding fault with the cleanliness of his wheel rims, he instructed me to stop working on the interior of the car and to reapply myself to the wheels and hubcaps. I tried to explain that I had scrubbed these areas repeatedly yesterday, but that some of the blemishes simply could not be removed from the aging vehicle. He stood above me, supervising -- as I worked on my knees -- pointing to areas that he felt were not sufficiently clean.

"Sir, I can't get this spot out. I've tried several times," I said, as I strenuously, yet futilely scrubbed a black mark at the bottom of one of the rear wheels. It looked like it had been there for years. Kevin's filthy plumber's boots were right next to my face as I crouched down and scrubbed.

"Scrub harder."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm scrubbing as hard as I can. Some of these stains just won't come off."

"You're not trying hard enough. Here, let me try." He grabbed the sponge from me and bent over to scrub it. It took some effort, but sure enough, he was able to remove the spot.

"See, you're not working hard enough. Luke will be disappointed."

"Sir, I promise you that I'm trying as hard as I can. I'm just not as strong as you are, sir. You have really bulked up at the gym since the last time I saw you." I thought a little flattery might help convince him not to complain about me to Luke.

He flexed his bicep and stared at it admiringly.

"That's really impressive, sir. Look at mine, by comparison." I flexed mine, and felt like Popeye without the spinach standing (or, in my case, kneeling) next to Brutus.

"I guess you're right," he said. "I'll tell you what, if you clean my boots and tools, I might not say anything to Luke."

Have you started to notice a pattern here? A slippery slope of submission. For example, if I hadn't been forced to clean Luke's truck that time I was caught by Kelly, I probably would never have met Paul and, therefore, wouldn't later that day be going to his condo to work as his maid. It seemed that one act of submission and exposure begat another. Where would it end? Would it end? At the time I am making them, however, my concessions always seem like good ideas, given my lack of options.

And so it probably will not surprise you to learn that I replied, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I think I can use the same soapy water and leather conditioner I'm using on your truck. If you remove them, I can get started right away."

"Remove them? Why bother? Just do them here," he pulled down the tailgate of his truck and sat on it. I filled a fresh bucket of soap and water and got back on my knees to begin my task.

"My boots are dirtier than usual. My last job was a real shit show. Literally," he chuckled.

I tried not to think about how exactly his boots got so filthy, as I used a towel to wipe off the foul smelling, caked-on debris. Kevin had a relaxed, arrogant expression on his face, as if having a guy twice his age kneeling before him to clean his boots was the most natural thing in the world. I heard the unmistakable noise of a photo being taken on a phone and looked up to see Kevin's iPhone pointed at me.

"What are you doing, sir?"

"I just wanted to text Kaylee. She'll get a kick out of this."

What could I say in response? Challenge him and likely face Luke's wrath? I bit my tongue.

After cleaning them, I applied some of the leather conditioner I had used on the truck's seats and began buffing his boots energetically with a microfiber towel. It was just at that moment, of course, that Kevin's mom, Darla, walked out of the house in sweatpants and a jacket, a cup of coffee in her hand. I will confess that my cock began to stiffen the moment I got on my knees and looked up at Kevin; the pure act of submitting stoked my arousal, as usual. But it was when Darla arrived that my cock really began to push painfully against its restraints.

"Oh, it's you again," she said looking down at me.

"Wally didn't have time to finish my truck before it got dark yesterday," said Kevin.

"Good morning, ma'am," I said.

Ignoring me, she said, "It doesn't look like he's cleaning your truck right now to me. I guess Luke's new lackey is now your lackey too. I raised some smart boys." She smiled proudly. "At least this one isn't wearing a bikini like Luke made his first boss wear when the old guy used to clean this truck back before he gave it to you." She laughed heartily at the fond memory of one of my predecessors' humiliations at the hands of her older son. So nice to be participating in the family tradition, I thought.

"Well, it is December. It's a little cold for a bikini," Kevin laughed. "Walter, stand up and show my mom the pantyhose, or whatever it is, that Luke makes you wear."

I did as directed, causing Darla to laugh. "Those are women's work-out pants, honey. But I can see the bulk beneath them. One of Luke's signature methods of dominating the husbands he cuckolds. As I've heard your brother say more than once, 'If you really want to own a man, control his cock.'"

"Wally is a college professor. Luke said he studied at one of them Ivy League schools, out East."

"You can see where that's gotten him," she said. "Well, it's a little chilly out here, I'm going back inside. I have I feeling I'll be seeing more of you," she said to me with a smirk as she walked back into the house.

After I finished cleaning his boots, Kevin directed me to go into his garage, bring his tools out into the driveway and wipe them down with soapy water before loading them into the bed of his truck. He watched me work the entire time, not lifting a finger.

When I finished, he paid me a compliment. A most unwanted one, as it tuned out. "Nice job with my boots and my tools. Now that I've got my license, I could really use an assistant. I'm gonna talk to Luke about letting me borrow you sometimes."

I didn't respond, hoping this thought was just a whim of his that would soon be forgotten. I hoped in vain; it was indeed the slippery slope again, a continuation of my descent.

After I finished with his tools, I spent another hour finishing cleaning the interior of the truck before Kevin headed off to his first job of the day and I headed off to campus. This time, I did change into my jeans in a fast food restaurant on the way, too wary of facing Darla again to go back into the house.

I still wore the leather choker that day, and was highly self-conscious as I lectured to the 24 students in my Chivalry and Courtly Love In Medieval Literature class.

I had to be and Paul's and Anna's by 4 PM, so after my lecture, I walked to the drugstore to buy the Johnsons' furniture wax and a toothbrush. I was starving. Having only had a banana that day, and having eaten very little besides salads, fruit and low-fat cottage cheese since my disappointing weigh-in on Saturday, I decided to treat myself to lunch at my favorite Thai restaurant in town. Given how hard I had worked and how little I had eaten over the last couple of days (and thinking about the humiliation that lay in store for me that afternoon), I figured that I deserved this one small self indulgence. I ordered seafood Tom Yum soup and beef Massaman curry. A caloric dish to be sure, but how much could it possibly hurt after my spartan diet of the last few days?

I was still savoring my soup when the waitress brought my curry and rice to the table. Just at that moment, I saw Neil enter the restaurant with a female colleague, Annabelle Nash (she taught Shakespeare, mainly). They greeted me as they went to their seats, but I could see Neil scrutinize the dishes on my table and shake his head disapprovingly (if subtly). Self conscious as I was, I nevertheless cleaned my plate (grateful Neil's back was to me at the table where he and Annabelle sat). After I paid my check, I walked over to say goodbye to them.

Neil said, "Hey, pal, would you mind swinging by my office at around 2:30 for a few minutes?"

"Sure thing, Neil. Nice seeing you, Annabelle."

When I met him in his office later, Neil closed the door and asked me to sit down.

"Walter, I have a bit of a dilemma that I hope you can help me out with. Luke made me promise to tell him if I caught you cheating on your diet on campus."

"The restaurant is not on campus," I smiled, attempting a joke.

"You know what I mean," he answered, with a serious expression. "Was that beef Massaman curry? Do you know how many calories are in that dish?! And all the carbs in the rice? You should always ask for brown rice instead of white, you know. And you had soup too, I noticed."

"But I barely ate anything the past three days. And I only had a banana for breakfast."

"You're always making excuses. That's why you've basically been stuck at the same weight now for the last few weeks. You're at a threshold, and to lose more, you need to be super disciplined about what you eat, and exercise more. No more excuses, Walter."

"You're right, sir. Please don't tell Luke," I pleaded.

"Look, I know what my telling him means for you as a consequence. But I promised him I would. And his methods with you have been successful. I feel I have to honor my promise."

"Please, don't. Maybe I can make it up to you somehow. How about a foot massage?"

"Giving me a foot massage isn't going to burn many calories." He thought for a minute. "I tell you what. The four days a week that we're on campus together, how about if you bring me a coffee each day in between my classes? I don't think that will conflict with your teaching schedule, and the exercise of walking to the Corner Cafe each day will do you good. It's 3300 steps there and back; I've measured it on my iPhone. That way, I won't feel as guilty for not telling Luke about catching you cheating on your diet today."

"Yes, thanks Neil. Sir, I mean. That seems more than fair."

Neil got up and shook my hand. "Deal. And you don't have to call me 'sir' here on campus, pal."

"Thanks, Neil."

"But I will take you up on that offer for your amazing foot massages on Wednesdays after my back-to-back classes. You can give me one tomorrow when you bring my coffee."

"Of course, thanks again, Neil," I said, as I left his office. And so that is how I came to be Neil's coffee boy for the balance of the semester (and future semesters, even during my sabbatical). And his foot boy, or reflexologist, or whatever you want to call it. Notice how it went from me offering to give him one foot massage in return for his silence, to me getting his coffee four days a week and massaging his feet once a week. In an instant! I guess negotiation was not one of my strong suits.

As I drove to Paul and Anna's condo -- the next stop on my gauntlet of service and humiliation that day --the Paul Simon song Slip Sliding Away ran through my head, the refrain in particular:

Slip sliding away

You know the nearer your destination

The more you're slip sliding away

If old Paul was correct, the further I slid down the slope, the closer I'd come to my true nature. I wondered how much further I had to slip. Would I be the slave to everyone by the time I finally reached the bottom of the slope?

As I parked my car, I did another mental inventory of what I needed for my second visit to the condo. Johnsons's furniture wax, check. Toothbrush, check. Punishment lines, check. I was wearing sheer, black nylon panties under my jeans. Then I remembered: I had completely forgotten Anna's directive that I research and practice how to curtsy. All I could do is hope that she had forgotten. If not, maybe I could wing it? Better yet, maybe she wouldn't be there this time. But did I really want to be alone with Paul?

Carrying a bag that contained my punishment lines as well as the furniture polish and toothbrush, I entered the lobby to find the same obnoxious doorman as last Tuesday, sitting behind his desk.

"I'm here to see Paul Betz."

"And you are?" He knew perfectly well who I was, but wanted to force me to say it.

"The maid." I looked down at the floor, ashamed.

He picked up the intercom. "Mr. Betz, your maid is here to clean your apartment. May I send HIM up?" The prick just had to emphasize my gender.

"Mr. Betz said you may go up. Apartment 11B. The elevator is around the corner," he said, as if I had never been there before, a smug smile plastered to his face.

"Yes, thank you. I remember."

When I got to their door, I got down on my knees, as Paul had instructed me. Should I have rung the bell first? Should I knock? Or would that annoy them? I had been announced, so they knew I would be coming up the elevator. I waited there for several minutes. The longer I waited, however, it seemed to make less and less sense to ring the bell. Maybe they were busy and not ready for me yet, even though I was very punctual? Maybe they were....having sex? I didn't want to risk disturbing them. And, so, I continued to wait.

I then heard the elevator door open, with dread. A woman, probably in her mid thirties, walked by me to her apartment across the hall, staring down at me with an amused expression. When she opened her door, I heard her yell to someone in the apartment, "It looks like Paul and Anna have a new one," before the door slammed shut.

Just then the the door in front of me finally opened. I saw Paul's feet first.

"You may enter. Remember, on your knees."

I put my hands down to crawl into the apartment, before he snapped at me: "No! I didn't say on your hands and knees. I said on your knees."

I shuffled forward into the apartment, cursing myself for having not purchased knee pads, as Paul had suggested. I told myself that I would have to start taking notes from now on, so I wouldn't forget things I'd later regret.

"Lines," he said, simply.

I pulled the several loose leaf pages out of my bag and handed them to Paul. "Here, sir."

As much as it hurt my hand to write all of those lines, the mental anguish of having to repeatedly write that I would no longer mention academic integrity -- a subject that I was passionate about (ridiculous as it might seem to you, coming from a professor about to clean the apartment of two of his students) -- was worse. Paul knew that, of course. I was to learn that, despite their many differences in style, like Luke, he was a natural sadist, with an impressive ability to zero in on areas of his victim's vulnerability or sensitivity to exploit for maximum humiliation. Lucky me.

"I'll count them and check the neatness of your writing later. Did you bring the Johnsons wax and toothbrush?"

"Yes, sir. Here." I showed him the contents of my bag.

Anna then came into the living room from the kitchen, munching on an apple. Both were dressed similarly to last time, Paul in sweatpants and Anna in tight yoga pants. Anna was barefoot this time, her pretty, pedicured toes painted a metallic silver color. She caught me staring at her toes, and smiled.

"Don't worry, Professor Rollins, you will get to know my feet very well. They will be your best friends before long."

"More like his unattainable crush," Paul snickered.

"Crushes," Anna corrected him. "Professor maid will have a crush on both of my feet and on all ten of my toes. He will worship them and he will pine for them. And they won't give him the time of day," she said. Then she abruptly said to me, "Obeisance!"

"Excuse me, Princess Anna?"

"Obeisance means assume the position of respect and humility before your superiors," Paul explained.

"Yes, sir. I know the meaning of the word, but I don't know what position she means."

"I don't like your condescending tone. It reminds me of when you corrected me in class on Monday about the cucking stool. We're going to teach you not to use that tone with us. Certainly not here, where you are nothing more than a slave. But not in class either. You will be very careful in how you interact with Anna, Kelly and me in class from now on. We are your special students."

"We are the teacher's pets, and the teacher is our pet," giggled Anna.

I certainly didn't intend to be condescending -- I was on my knees, for fuck's sake -- but I guess that quality just naturally creeps into my tone at times, unconsciously. Perhaps an occupational hazard of being a professor? Or at least, a hazard in the situations in which I increasingly found myself.

"Strip," ordered, Paul.

"Yes, sir. May I stand for a moment?"

Paul nodded his ascent. I quickly removed my shoes, socks, shirt and jeans, and stood before them in my panties and chastity cage.

"Obeisance here means you drop down onto your belly, you clasp your hands behind your back and you slither like the worm you are to your superior's feet and kiss each one reverently. Obeisance!"

I was standing several feet away from them. I did exactly what Paul described, finding that the only way to propel myself forward from that position was to grind my crotch into the floor. Not only was it incredibly uncomfortable, but I feared that my chastity cage might scratch their hardwood floor. Fortunately, there was an area rug covering most of the space separating us, so I was able to slide myself -- indeed, "slither" was the correct word -- towards their feet. Figuring ladies first, I planted kisses on Anna's lovely bare feet, followed by Paul's socked feet.

Paul asked me, "Where is Luke today?"

Still prostrate on my belly, inches from their toes, I answered, "He is traveling today, sir."

"Overnight?"

"Yes, sir."

"What about your wife?"

"She is working tonight."

"You didn't say 'sir.' That's one demerit. At the restaurant?"

I had never said anything to them about Brooke's job, even during Paul's initial interrogation of me at O'Riordans. His detailed knowledge of my life was unsettling.

"Yes, sir."

"What time does she get home? Don't lie, I have my ways of checking."

"Usually around 10:30 or so, sir."

Anna interjected, "Good, you can work longer than two hours, then. The condo is a disaster, and we're having a little get together on Thursday. That little bitch, Chrissy, said her mother is sick. Supposedly. So she wasn't able to clean on Sunday. You have your work cut out for you, professor maid. Where is your page uniform?"

Oh, no! Another order, I forgot. I didn't hesitate to lie. "My wife wore the jacket today, princess. She occasionally likes to wear it." Did Paul have ways of checking on that, too, I wondered.