Brooke and I slept together twice before the topic of marriage was broached. I am unquestionably under endowed, slightly under four and a half inches when fully erect (on a good day). Standing 5’9” tall, with thick, black hair, I was somewhat overweight and certainly out of shape at the time (that has since improved), but I don’t believe that I was considered to be especially unattractive. Having observed my classmates in the high school locker room, however, I knew where I fell short— quite literally. To be honest, both length and girth were issues; I believe my penis is what some disparagingly refer to as a gherkin. Probably the most vexing of my many physical deficiencies, this attribute was a primary cause of my intense awkwardness and self consciousness around attractive women. Who knows, perhaps it was one of the root causes of my masochism; at a minimum, it solidified it.

It was painfully obvious that Brooke was left totally unsatisfied by my clumsy and inadequate attempts at vaginal penetration. She made no attempt to fake it, and I probably wouldn’t have believed her if she had tried. Fortunately, I had avidly studied various how to books for pleasuring a woman orally (the two best being, She Comes First by Ian Kerner and The Low Down on Going Down: How to Give Her Mind-Blowing Oral Sex by Marcy Michaels) and was able to satisfy Brooke this way on both occasions. This was evident not only from her words of praise after the fact but from the sounds she emitted during the act.

It was I, in another rare moment of courage, who first brought up the possibility of marriage. I had expected to be shut down immediately, but surprisingly was not. My second book had just been released – the one about ritualized shame and humiliation in medieval literature – and was well received. I’d been informed by my department chair that my prospects for receiving tenure were excellent. This meant long-term job security. I was living in a townhouse, but had saved up sufficient money to make a substantial a down payment on a larger, standalone home. Therefore, I was able to offer Brooke some stability and a higher standard of living than what she had been used to. We genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. The imbalance in our relationship – me worshiping the ground she walked on – worked for both of us.

When I finally mustered the courage to propose to her — on bended knee, naturally, expensive ring in hand — she initiated what I can only describe as a very pragmatic conversation. I stayed on my knees for its duration.

“Walter, I really like you. You are kind, selfless, devoted. You clearly love me. I love your mind. Your body, on the other hand, is a different story altogether. You’re pretty talented with your tongue. With practice, I’m sure you can get better. But I need much more than that. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Brooke.”

“What do you think that means?”

“I think it means that you will sometimes want to sleep with other men…bigger men…to satisfy your needs.” I found it difficult to meet her eyes as I uttered these shameful words.

“You’re no dummy, Walter. Yes, that’s correct. But I don’t know what you mean by ‘sometimes.’ I’m a very sexual being. There may be stretches when it will be a lot more than sometimes. And it won’t be something I will want to go to great pains to hide, from you or anyone else. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Yes, Brooke, I have studied many of the most famous cuckolds in history, and the humiliations they endured.”

“Everything is academic with you, isn’t it, Walter? But reality can be a lot different than what’s in a history book. My mom openly cuckolded my dad. He’s somewhat of a masochist like you. He thought he could handle it, too. Ultimately, he found the jealousy and humiliation to be soul crushing. He divorced her. And he’s never had a successful relationship since.”

“I’m not your dad, my darling. I’m me. There is a scene in Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov when one of the brothers — I believe it was Dmitri, I can’t remember for sure—tells the woman he loves that to stay in her life he’d gladly warm the feet of her lover, his rival. That’s how I feel about you, darling. To have you as my wife, to have you in my life, I would do anything. I would be your lover’s chair, his foot rest. I’d be his slave, if you asked me to.”

”That’s interesting. I’ll file that away. You do sound sincere. But, yet again, you come back to a literary reference. At least you weren’t entirely sure about the quote, for once.” She laughed.

“I was never a student of Russian literature. I just read The Brothers Karamazov in high school. Dostoevsky had a pretty serious foot fetish, you know.“

“I didn’t know. But getting back to the question at hand, let me paint a more graphic, non-academic picture for you. You put me on a pedestal. I enjoy being worshiped by my humble, obedient knight. But, sometimes, I like to be taken. Roughly. Sometimes even brutally. Sometimes I like to be the one who does the worshipping. Do you think you could handle seeing your lady treated like a common whore by another man?”

I may have winced at those words, but I replied steadily and without hesitation, “Brooke, I will endure anything – I mean absolutely anything – to have you as my wife, and to ensure that you are satisfied and happy.”

“Very well then, Walter, I accept your proposal of marriage. You may rise and kiss me on the lips.”

Brooke and I then kissed passionately, the longest and most passionate kiss I have experienced before or since. That may have been the happiest moment of my life.

When we were finally finished, Brooke said, “Now, get back on your knees, and give your lady some pleasure with that gifted tongue of yours.”

As I did as she bid, she firmly grabbed a fistfull of my hair and presssed my face into her. It took only a few minutes before she began to gently moan.

The wedding was a simple affair before the Justice of the Peace. Brooke and I were both fairly private people without a large group of friends. In attendance on Brooke’s side were her mother and stepfather, her father, and her best friend, Michelle. Both of my parents were deceased, so my only guests were my younger brother, Tom, and my friend, Neil Lawson, a fellow professor in the English department. Neil’s area of focus was 19th and 20th century British and American fiction. He was two years younger than I and was still single. Tom flew in from Connecticut. He still lived close to where I had grown up in West Port, Connecticut.

Following the brief ceremony, we all went out to dinner. There was nothing that happened that day to reveal to any of our guests or the outside world the somewhat unconventional nature of our relationship. Tom and Neil certainly seemed surprised that I had finally tied the knot, and teased me good-naturedly in private about my ability to land someone as beautiful and intelligent as Brooke. I’m sure that they thought I was luckiest guy in the world.

Well, in some respects, I was. But it was a lot more complex than that, as you will see. My luck was about to run out.