Brooke moved in with me the week before the wedding, and a few months later we closed on the purchase of an 1800 square-foot, three bedroom, two bathroom home about 10 blocks from campus. It was an older home that had been partially renovated, but which would still require a fair amount of additional work. Given how incapable I was of doing renovation or repair work myself, there was a side of me that wanted to buy a new house. At the same time, Brooke and I thought that most of the newer homes lacked character. Over time, I figured that we would be able to afford to hire contractors to complete the renovations that still needed to be done. Brooke was definitely much more handy than I, but was not up to renovating a bathroom and bedroom and finishing a basement on her own.

She continued waitressing at the restaurant for the first year or so after we got married, despite my many entreaties that she quit the job and look for something more intellectually satisfying. Or that she simply not work at all, but rather spend her time reading, exercising and gardening (all things she enjoyed doing). After all, that’s what her humble knight was for; if I couldn’t defeat opponents on the field of battle in her honor, the least I could do was provide for her and make her life easier. Chivalry may have been neutered by the modern world, but was not completely dead, I told her.

She resisted at first. But she didn’t resist me doing most of the cooking, all the cleaning in the house, and waiting on her hand and foot. And for that, I was truly grateful. A highlight of the day for me was when she would get home from the restaurant, often at 9:30 or 10pm, and I would serve her a glass of wine or a cocktail, remove her shoes and massage her stocking-clad feet from my position on my knees as she sat on a recliner and we discussed each other’s day. I especially enjoyed the warmer days — or during the winter when she had been walking around in winter boots — when her stockings were moist with sweat. She would permit me to place my nose up against the bottom of her feet and inhale deeply. Sometimes, when she didn’t feel like talking, Brooke would order me to lie prostrate on the hardwood floor at her feet, and she would use my face as her footrest as she watched television or read a novel. Often, I would remain in this position for hours at a time, except when one of us would have to get up to go to the bathroom or when she wanted me to bring her a drink or a snack. Despite the opportunity cost — time I could otherwise have spent working on my next academic book or doing my own reading — these quiet moments of intimate submission were intensely blissful and fulfilling for me.

Over time, my interaction with Brooke’s feet evolved. One Sunday afternoon about four months after we moved into our new house, in the late Spring, Brooke addressed me as I was massaging her bare feet (from my knees as usual).

“Walter, take a close look at my feet and tell me what you see? Do you think Swinburne would describe them as faultless?“

“I see perfection, my lady.” I didn’t always address her as “my lady,“ but certainly that was how I addressed her when on my knees before her or during other moments of overt submission.

“Really? What is that you’re rubbing now on the bottom of my right foot?”

“A callus?”

“That’s right. Is that perfection?”

“I guess not. But it doesn’t matter at all to me.”

“Whether or not it matters to you is of no importance. It matters to me.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Take a close look at my nails. What do you see? Do you see perfection there as well?”

“Oh. I see a few, little chips in your polish, but your toes are exquisite.”

“I’m not happy with the calluses or the chips. I want you to learn how to give me pedicures. You need to rub off my calluses with a pumice stone and regularly paint my nails so that there are no chips.”

“But how would I learn to do that, my lady?”

“Please Walter. That’s not my problem. Watch some YouTube videos. Get your nails done at the nail salon in town, and ask one of the girls there for some tips. I’m sure you could buy supplies on Amazon. I don’t really care how you learn. You’re a big boy. You should be able to figure it out on your own. Just make sure you learn how to do it, and do it well.“

So that’s exactly what I did. I watched YouTube videos. I purchased a pedicure kit on Amazon. For the first (but not the last) time in my life, I got a pedicure. My intention was to observe the pedicurist’s technique, and to ask questions if necessary. An unexpected complication prevented me from asking the questions I had hoped.

In the middle of my pedicure, one of the students from my Medieval English Texts seminar sat down in the booth next to mine.

“Hi Professor Rollins! I certainly didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Oh, hi Jessica. Yes, my new wife was unhappy with the condition of my feet and suggested that I come here. I’ve never done this before.” I laughed sheepishly.

“Oh, it’s okay, Professor. I think it’s great that you’re secure enough in your masculinity to get a pedicure. Not many men I know would be.”

I laughed again. “Well, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share this with everyone in the class. Some of them might think it a little odd… You know, for the reasons you mentioned.”

“Don’t you worry, Professor. It’ll be our little secret.”

I never knew for sure whether or not Jessica was true to her word. But I can tell you that at the next class, I saw her whispering to a male student in the chair next to her as both of them were looking at me, smiling and giggling.

In any event, monthly pedicures became part of Brooke’s and my routine. I learned how to give her the full treatment, including massaging her feet and legs, washing her feet in a foot bath, placing cotton swabs between her toes and blowing her freshly painted toes dry. The second time I gave her a pedicure, she stopped me before I was about to place her feet in the foot bath.

“Walter, I’d like you to bathe my toes with your mouth first.”

“Of course, my lady.”

I began licking the toes of her left foot. She stopped me again and said, “Don’t just lick. Suck. And make sure you get any lint out from between my toes before you place my feet in the bath.”

Toe licking and sucking became a much more frequent activity than the pedicures. Brooke liked me to suck on her toes as a form of foreplay, but also while we were lounging about in the living room. So when I would lie prostate with her feet on my face as she watched a movie or read her book, Brooke would routinely place her toes in my mouth to be sucked.

I was aware of how fortunate I was. I have no doubt that most of the medieval knights who participated in courtly love relationships would’ve loved nothing more than to have literally worshiped the feet of their unattainable ladies. How many actually ever got the chance, I wondered. Very few indeed, I suspected.

Brooke was capable of being moody and fickle at times. There were occasions, especially when she had a tough evening at the restaurant – dealing with obnoxious customers, or her sexist manager – that she would take her frustrations out on me with her feet.

Finding fault with me, she would slap my face with them, saying, “You see, Walter, sometimes my feet really are cruel.“ I felt no less fortunate on these occasions, and had no doubt that most of the medieval knights would’ve reveled in similar abuse from their ladies, as some physical contact was better than none at all.

Yes, this was truly the golden period of our relationship. Of my life.