The next day Luke was busy visiting one of his recently acquired businesses in another county.

I tentatively approached Brooke in the living room, “Miss Brooke, may I ask you a question?”

“You just did, Walter. Do you mean a second question?” She flashed me her full dimpled smile.

“Yes, miss. Sorry.”

“Yes, you may. And you don’t have to call me miss when Luke isn’t around. Unless I tell you to, of course.”

“Thanks. I’m not being a sulky little bitch, I swear. But when I see him treating you the way he does sometimes…like when he slaps your face…or…never mind.”

“No, go ahead. Finish your question.”

“How can you be a feminist and allow him to do that kind of stuff to you?”

“Okay, Walter. I’m not going to insult you by calling that a stupid question. I know you’ve been through a lot the last couple of days. So I’ll simply say that that isn’t one of your brighter questions. It’s not inconsistent for me to be feminist and to be treated that way, because I WANT to be treated that way. It’s my decision. I told you already, more than once I’m pretty sure, that I find it sexy when Luke dominates me. I may find it even sexier when he dominates you. You should’ve seen your face when he told you to change into your tights and do jumping jacks!” She laughed. I loved her laugh (even when it was at my expense).

She continued, “As I explained before, Luke is a prick, but I’m in love with his prick. It’s not just his size — don’t get me wrong, that’s a big part of it; pun intended— but it’s also his technique, it’s his attitude, it’s even his smell. He makes me feel like no other man, or woman, ever has. The humiliation is all part of it. It makes it hotter. It’s part of the game. When he smacks me around, it’s like a stress reliever. It’s like I’m escaping from myself or something. It’s hard to explain. But the point is, if I don’t want him to do it at some point, all I need to do is to tell him to stop. If he doesn’t stop, I’ll tell him to get the fuck out of my house. Our house. It was a lot harder when he and I were married. That’s the beauty of this arrangement. Do you get it now?”

“So it’s all a game?”

“Yeah, it is, sort of. Isn’t life sort of a game when you really think about it?”

“I guess. But what if he doesn’t stop when you tell him to. What if he actually seriously hurts you someday?”

“He won’t. He’s got the potential to have a really good thing going here. He’s no dummy; he doesn’t want to blow it. Remember, it was his idea to begin with. And you know what?”

“What?”

“I think the power trip of controlling you — a liberal, elitist college professor from the Northeast, no less —icing on the fucking cake — I think Luke might enjoy that part of it even more than having sex with me. He loves it.”

“You really think so?”

“I really do. And you know what else?”

“What?”

“I think that deep down you like it too. I’m not saying you like every part of it. You may even hate it at any given moment, when he’s belittling you or thrashing you. But, big picture, you like the game too. It fits in with your whole masochistic persona. You’re writing a book about it, for Christ’s sake. And, most of all, you like it because you know I like it. And you love your lady, don’t you my little knight errant?”

“Yes, my lady.” I knelt down and kissed her hand.

“And you know what else?”

“What?”

“The game is just getting started.”

Once again, Brooke utterly disarmed me. I was simply no match for her.

When Luke returned the next day, I weighed in at 203 pounds. He also calculated my body mass index at 30.0, which was borderline obese. Luke and Brooke planned out a strict diet for me, one that virtually eliminated many of my favorite foods (bread, pasta, beef, cheese, ice cream, chocolate, and, yes, bacon — and many other things I enjoy, including alcoholic beverages) in favor of foods I could barely tolerate (yogurt, low fat cottage cheese, oatmeal) or like, but only in moderation (vegetables, fruits, steamed chicken, beans, fish, etc.). The rich sauces and condiments I’m so fond of were also eliminated, or sharply curtailed. Since I cooked almost all of Brooke’s and Luke’s meals and had the ability to dine out unsupervised in and around campus, there certainly were opportunities for me to cheat. And I did. I considered myself a foodie and truly loved good food. There was also a part of me that rebelled; I found having a diet imposed upon me as if I were a child (by a man twelve years my junior, no less) to be deeply humiliating. But there were repercussions for cheating. Painful repercussions. And more humiliating than the diet itself.

Luke set a goal for me to lose 2 pounds each week. I had a standing weekly weigh-in every Saturday morning. Somehow Luke had managed to procure one of the scales that are used in a doctor’s office; he claimed these were more accurate (that may have been true, but I also found them more institutional, and therefore more humiliating). After I would strip down to my panties and stand on the scale, Brooke would play the part of the Dr.’s nurse in adjusting the balance of the scale to get the proper reading. She would then announce my weight for Luke to record on the chart that was posted on the back of the bathroom door next to my weekly cleaning chart.

Luke’s method of accountability with respect to my diet was straightforward: if I lost the requisite 2 pounds, I was rewarded with a glass of wine. If I lost more than 2 pounds, in theory, I could have two glasses of wine or a glass of single malt scotch (that only happened once, early on). If I lost only a pound, I received half a dozen strokes of the strap, paddle, or cane, depending upon Luke’s mood (when he was traveling or busy, Brooke would administer the punishment, often with Luke watching on FaceTime). If I actually put on weight, it was another half a dozen strokes for each pound. All three implements were hung conspicuously by Luke in the entrance foyer, almost like some avant-grade work of art (or so I liked to tell myself). I quickly learned that it was distinctly more painful to be caned than to be strapped or paddled (or to be on the receiving end of Luke’s belt). Unfortunately for me, Luke favored the cane. I once heard Brooke tell him that the mere sound of him swooshing it in the air as a prelude to correcting me caused her to tingle with excitement. I guess it wasn’t coincidental that my punishments were generally followed by the two of them having intercourse. It ultimately took me nearly a year to attain the weight loss goal set for me, and it was roller coaster. On my worst day, I put on three pounds after having previously lost ten. That setback earned me 24 welts on my ass; I couldn’t sit for a week.

In the meantime, Luke set about finding ways to maximize my self-consciousness about my body/weight. For example, around the house, I was required to wear tights or panties along with tight T-shirts, often a size or two too small, so that part of my midriff would be exposed – the part of my body with the highest concentration of body fat. This was, in fact, a highly effective method to incentivize me to do what was necessary to shed the pounds. He started to routinely refer to me as fat boy, tubby or lard ass in addition to prof, cuck or tightsboy. This verbal humiliation was also effective (though did not end when I finally lost the weight — but neither did the canings, for that matter).

I was absolutely mortified one afternoon, about three weeks after he came onto the scene, when Luke ordered me to wash and detail his behemoth of a pickup truck in our driveway, wearing nothing but a pink speedo and a white T-shirt with an image two horns with a padlocked heart in the middle (both birthday gifts from Brooke) — clearly the horns of a cuckold to anyone in the know. But what was more humiliating than the image on the shirt was its length; it ended approximately 4 inches above the speedo. It would be one thing if I had washboard abs, but mine more closely resembled jelly at that point (they never got to be washboard, but I did make significant progress eventually). Luke had not yet purchased my chastity cage at this time, so I was erect throughout the three hours it took me to complete my task. And that was before Luke’s inspection. I had to work another hour afterwards, addressing what he identified as the shortcomings in my efforts.

It was then, naturally, that one of my students walked by with her boyfriend. Kelly was a smart, pretty junior who had completed her second class with me in the spring semester that had recently concluded. I was kneeling on the ground scrubbing the crevices of a hubcap with a toothbrush when I heard her voice.

“Hi, Professor Rollins!”

“Oh, hi Kelly.” I stood up and grabbed the bucket I was using to try to shield my erection from their view. I had never worn a speedo before and found the the snug fit and synthetic material against my cock to be quite arousing. But, to be honest, my entire humiliating ensemble, and the humiliating situation in which I found myself — cleaning my wife’s lover’s truck — were all contributing to my unwanted arousal.

“I never would have pegged you for an oversized pickup kind of guy.”

“Ha ha. You’re quite right. I lost a bet with an old family friend. The truck belongs to him.”

“What was the bet about? It must have a been a doozy.”

“Oh, we just bet on an Ohio State football game.”

Kelly’s boyfriend said, “But it’s July. It’s not football season yet.”

“Did I say football? I meant basketball.”

“The basketball season is over,” Kelly said, grinning.

“Well to be honest, I didn’t really pay attention to what I was betting on. I don’t follow sports very closely. That’s probably why I should never bet on them, I guess. Ha ha.”

“Come to think of it, I may have seen Mrs. Rollins having lunch at the diner with your family friend last week. I think I remember seeing the truck parked out front. Is he a young, tall guy with dark brown hair?”, asked Kelly.

“That’s him,” I said.

“Well, if I don’t see you again, professor, have a great rest of your summer.”

“You too, Kelly.”

“And be careful of those bets,” she said over her shoulder, as they walked away. I heard the two of them crack up as they got halfway down the block.

I resumed my scrubbing, my face roasting in the July sun and in my shame.