Chivalry is on Life Support Ch. 17

I learned from Brooke that Luke was far from a novice when it came to being the dominant bull in a cuckold relationship. Before he met her, when he was still in his late teens, Luke had bedded the wife of his first boss, the owner of a local plumbing business in his mid-50s. The wife, an attractive woman in her early 40s (a MILF, in Luke's words), was the dominant partner in a female-led marriage who showed Luke the ropes (literally and figuratively) when it came to dominating a submissive cuckold husband. An eager student, Luke readily embraced the tried and true traditions of such a relationship: tying his boss up and forcing him to watch him have sex with his wife; forcing the man to fluff him first and clean his mess out of his wife afterwards; having the older man serve as his lackey at the couple's home (and eventually even at the man's business); making his boss massage and worship his feet; ultimately compelling him to wear feminine clothing and a chastity cage, etc. Sort of a greatest hits compilation of cuckold humiliation. That's one thing about these types of relationships: since there are limits to what can realistically be done to the cuckold, a certain degree of repetitivenesses is inevitable. For better or worse, however -- just as he utilized new, cutting edge technologies to more efficiently run his business -- Luke proved to be quite the innovator in his methods of tormenting me. But he played the greatest hits album for me (and Brooke) as well -- on repeat.

Some of the more creative varieties of humiliation he subjected me to were quite public in nature, but they evolved over time.

With Brooke advocating on my behalf, I was able to negotiate -- well, perhaps negotiate isn't exactly the right word, as I was on my knees, massaging his feet, during this discussion -- some early, minor concessions from Luke when it came to public displays of my emasculation. From the start, he was very big on establishing that there was only one man of the house. One man, one woman and one "fairy cuck," his preferred moniker for me. Nevertheless, we were able to persuade him that, as a professor in the college around which the town revolved, I had a certain standing in the community that would be endangered, or at a minimum greatly complicated, by me being seen in public dressed as a woman or performing other over-the-top acts of submission. He and Brooke both thought my encounter with Kelly and her boyfriend was "funny as hell," but she was able to make him see how too much of that sort of thing had the potential to damage my career and livelihood. Given his contempt for higher education, I'm sure he didn't give a damn about my career per se. Brooke maintaining her financial independence from him was part of the arrangement, however, so my income mattered.

One of the concessions Luke agreed to early on, when the contractors were still finishing up their work in our house, was to not require me to wear only panties, pantyhose or translucent, footed tights during the day while the men were walking in and out of the living room, where I was usually at my desk writing. Instead, I was permitted to wear nylon/spandex yoga pants and undersized T-shirts that at least covered my belly button (or mostly). Don't get me wrong, these yoga pants were still humiliating; they were very tight, my small erection and balls clearly visible beneath the clingy fabric, and the colors Brooke purchased included white, lavender, turquoise and pink. But at least they weren't sheer and footed. Rather, I was required to be barefoot, my nails painted various shades (sometimes matching the color of my yoga pants). I liked to tell myself that perhaps the workers or delivery people who saw me thought I was wearing compression tights for some health reason or perhaps believed I was a serious yoga practitioner or something. But deep down, I knew that wasn't the case. I got some real stares (and snickers) from the young tradesmen, who must've thought I was a freak. I'm sure they also took note of the fact that I was dressed quite differently after Luke came onto the scene than before.

I remember one afternoon when Ed brought in two young men who were putting up drywall in the basement. They did a double take when they saw Luke and Brooke sitting on the couch kissing, while I, dressed in white yoga pants and a pink T-shirt, knelt near their feet strenuously buffing Luke's work boots. He, of course, was wearing his boots at the time and had propped one of them on top of the cedar shoe shine kit that he had ordered me to purchase that first time he spent the night. The men chuckled openly at the sight. When I briefly caught Ed's eye, I saw him shaking his head almost imperceptibly and frowning. It was a relatively small, tight knit community of workers who refurbished houses in the area, and I have no doubt that Luke had developed a reputation among them as a guy who ruthlessly took out the competition -- whether in business or in the bedroom. Eliminate, then humiliate. Luke's motto.

While I was not forced to dress en femme in public -- running errands in town or teaching classes -- I was compelled to integrate at least one feminine element into my daily attire (besides my obligatory undergarments, of course), such as unisex pants that ended mid calf, socks with a lace trim, women's sneakers, bracelets and/or necklaces, women's T-shirts with short sleeves, subtle makeup, etc. Luke even had a chart to keep track of my attire: "Wednesday: white lace panties with bows, white lace socks;" "Thursday: lime green nylon panties, Cuban heeled ankle boots," etc. He and/or Brooke would inspect my attire before I left the house. In class, in particular, I was acutely self-conscious and always imagined students (or colleagues) zeroing in on the accessory or article of clothing in question. Actually, I shouldn't say "imagined;" I'm sure they noticed. I saw their smirks and eye rolls, their exchanges of knowing smiles; I heard their titters. The clothes became increasingly feminine the more weight I lost. Wouldn't the opposite have been the right incentive system? No matter, the canings ultimately did the trick.

Not wanting to get ahead of myself, I will save for later the account of how I became the first professor in the United States (or, to my knowledge, anywhere in the world) to lecture my class dressed as a sissy maid (this didn't happen until I reached my present weight of 165 pounds, starting just six months ago).

Long before the maid uniform came the chastity cage, a birthday present from Luke to Brooke, along with 14 karat gold ankle chain to hold one of my keys. Luke, naturally, kept the other key.

After the renovations were finished, the new room in the basement became my de facto bedroom when Luke was around. The room was quite small and spartan, with a single bed and small dresser. At least I had a half bathroom down there (I showered in the first floor bathroom). Luke and Brooke texted me whenever they needed anything, day or night. My frequent trips up and down two flights of stairs, fetching snacks or drinks or whatever else they wanted, played its part in my ultimate weight loss. Occasionally, I was permitted to sleep on the floor of my former/part-time bedroom, like a dog, at the foot of the king size bed where Luke and Brooke slept comfortably. Sleeping on the floor did not agree with my back, however, so I didn't look forward to those nights.

Next to my bedroom downstairs, we had put in a small gym, with a treadmill, a stationary bike and a weight bench. The three of us got into a routine of working out together twice a week. Luke entertained Brooke by playing the part of my sadistic personal trainer. As I ran on the treadmill, usually wearing only a pair of sheer, footed tights, Luke would spur me on with slashes of the riding crop he bought for the purpose across my buttocks or back. Mixed in with the timed sprints on the treadmill (at different elevations and speeds of Luke's choosing) were squats, deep knee bends, sit-ups, push-ups, jumping jacks and high steps, all with the relentless encouragement of Luke's crop on my backside. Like any good trainer he also peppered me with motivational words: "Look alive, fat boy!", "Move that fat ass now, if you want to keep it!" Brooke was most amused when Luke, using rare double entendre, would conjure Jane Fonda from her old aerobics videos and tell me, "Feel the burn, butterball" as he struck my buttocks with the crop (how the two of them were familiar with these ancient videos was a mystery to me -- probably some nostalgic repost on TikTok, I suppose). My tights were invariably soaked in sweat at the conclusion of these sessions.

But life at our modest home in town was only part of the story after Luke's arrival on the scene. There was also life at Luke's 6,000 square foot McMansion in the country. The fun for me never ended.