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When I caught that asshole, Tyler, kissing Ashley behind the bleachers, I didn’t think. I just grabbed him by the collar and roughly shoved him. Ashley and I had only been dating for three weeks, but I had fallen hard for her. We had officially become a couple within of our circle of friends. Tyler was only on the periphery of that circle, a cousin of Ashley’s close friend, Mia. But he knew Ashley and I were an item; it was no secret.
Had I been thinking and not acted so impulsively, I would no doubt have taken note of Tyler’s physique. I’m in decent shape (even a bit of a gym rat), but he has easily 20 pounds on me, and all of that difference is muscle. When I shoved him, he instantly bitch slapped me – so hard that I fell to the ground – in the face. That was two weeks ago and the bruise on my cheek has only just faded. I wish I could say the same for the bruises on my shoulder, thigh and leg (and my ego, of course). Because after he slapped me, Tyler bent over and started repeatedly punching me on my shoulder and on my bicep with his closed right fist. I punched his arms, trying to get him off me, but it had no effect on him. So I then tried to kick him off me, and he responded by grabbing my leg and harshly twisting it, and crouching down further, punching my thigh. Meanwhile, he kicked my shin and kicked my buttocks. His rage, intensity and swiftness of movement stunned (and, if I’m honest, frightened) me.
I continued to struggle, but it got to the point that I worried that any additional resistance on my part would result in Tyler beating me more savagely. I wondered to myself whether Ashley would intervene on my behalf. I looked up at her and caught her eye. Far from trying to discourage Tyler, she was watching us intently. There almost seemed to be a gleam in her eye, the faintest hint of a smirk. She seemed to be excited rather than worried; she seemed to be enjoying it.
I had heard that there are quite a few women who enjoy watching men fight for them – by which I mean literally, physically fight. That it turns them on. For some, the more brutal the better. I guess it’s primal when you think about it – the law of the jungle. Maybe Ashley was one of those women? Who knows, if they’re really honest with themselves, maybe most women would be – assuming that they’re one of those fortunate enough to be fought over, of course. All those thoughts were crossing through my head as I was being pummeled.
In my desperation to get him to stop, I started apologizing to Tyler. It was humiliating, but my arms and legs were burning in pain. I looked up again at Ashley, and this time she truly was smirking, still fascinated, but also seemingly amused. Amused at my capitulation and the increasing urgency of my apologies to the man who was kissing my girlfriend – trying to take her away from me. And at that moment, I recalled that their kiss had been long and deep, that Ashley appeared to be an enthusiastic participant in it. I mean, I must’ve registered that at the time, but my reflexive assault on Tyler was so consuming, that it was only then as I was being beaten that I actually allowed myself to think about it – their kiss.
And as he continued to punch and kick me, my apologizing started to border on begging – not yet groveling, but moving in that direction. When I looked back up at Ashley, catching her eye again, I could almost swear that I saw her lick her lips. Probably not. I probably just imagined it. But Ashely is just so goddamned sexy. Seeing her turned on turns me on. And I hate to admit this, but knowing her reason for being turned on at that moment – watching this alpha guy totally dominate me through brute force, and witnessing my pitiful response – only tuned me on more. I felt myself getting hard at this most improbable moment. I honestly didn’t think that kind of pain was even compatible with arousal. I thought to myself that someone surely has to be one sick, pathetic fuck to get a boner while literally getting his ass kicked. I’m not proud of that, but I’m trying to give an honest account here.
And I’m even less proud of this: I soon crossed the border to full fledged groveling. Tyler was clearly enjoying emasculating me in front of Ashley, so was prolonging my torment.
He eventually said, “I’ll accept your fucking apology, bitch, if you kiss my shoe and promise me that you’ll remember your place from now on.”
I didn’t hesitate. I dropped fully down to my knees. He was standing upright now. He’s tall, probably 2 inches or so taller than me. I leaned down to the ground and kissed his sneaker – somewhat dusty from the dirt in which we were walking – and glancing fleetingly up at Ashley, I said to him, “Please, sir. I’m sorry. Very, very sorry. I won’t…forget my pl…my place again, sir. I promise.”
Three different parts of my body were throbbing – well, four actually, but only three in pain. I took note of Tyler’s words (“from now on”) and my own (“again”), thinking it was almost as if we both knew that this wasn’t the end of our relationship but really the beginning. Of course, any man with even an ounce of self-respect would have left and never spoken to either of them again, but as you have probably figured out by now, I’m not just any man. No, I’m a special breed of loser.
Fast forward to today, only two weeks later, when I’ve reached this conclusion: if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Or, to be more precise if I can’t beat HIM, join them! Because it suits their purposes to keep me around. I’m now their lackey and maid. It will be official when we all move in together next month. Inspired by my abject kiss of Tyler’s sneaker that day behind the bleachers, Ashley has decided that feet are my province. Yes, I am the designated footboy within our perverse little ménage à trois. So, I massage and worship both of their feet, I clean and maintain their footwear, I give them pedicures and trim their cuticles. I even bathe their feet (at times in a basin and at other times with my tongue). I sit and lay at their feet, and serve as their human doormat and footstool. I was never aware of having a foot fetish before two weeks ago, but I’m quite certain that I do now. Funny how easy it was for Ashley to condition me.
I cook and serve them meals. Half the time I eat on the floor at their feet as they sit comfortably at the table I set and clean. Tyler’s abuse of me, physical and verbal, is their aphrodisiac. I’m like a fucking walking plate of oysters on the half shell. Ashley now makes no effort to conceal it (not that she ever did, really – not even that first day).
So why wouldn’t they keep me around? The bigger question is why do I stick around? Why do I put up with it? Because I love Ashley. I love seeing her turned on. Seeing Ashley turned on is pure eroticism for me. Knowing that I’m part of what’s turning her on – even though it is through my abasement – is eroticism squared.
And, as far as that asshole Tyler goes, I’m sort of starting to develop a Stockholm Syndrome kind of thing with him. Goddamn him. HIs cock is huge, as his endurance. He satisfies Ashley in ways I know I never could. He’s cocky as hell, a natural athlete. He makes more money than I do. He deserves her more than I do. That’s just a simple fact.
And his feet aren’t bad looking for a guy (although after a game, the stench of his sweaty socks shoved in my face can be quite dreadful). While I remain resentful of how he – how they – treat me, I’m growing more accepting of it by the day. Tyler could kick my ass any day or kick me out any day. I need to make sure I remain relevant, so he doesn’t. I need to make sure to keep my promise to remember my place. I may feel different when my chastity cage arrives next week – he will hold my keys – but we’ll see….
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