Chivalry is on Life Support Ch. 03
During our next encounter, I treated Brooke to an exquisite 10-course gourmet meal at a highly acclaimed restaurant. We ordered a costly wine, which didn't leave much room in my budget as an instructor. As opposed to reciting medieval poetry, this time I ventured back to the 19th century, and read a few verses from Anactoria by the renowned English poet Swinburne:
Blood mingles with my blood: my painPains you, and lips bruise lips, and vein stings vein.Let fruit be crushed on fruit, let flower on flower,Breast flame to breast, and either burn one hour.Why follow lesser loves? are you too weakTo bear these hands and lips of mine?I charge you, for my life's sake, O sweetTo crush love with your cruel faultless feet,I charge you: keep your lips from hers or his,Sweetest, till theirs are sweeter than my kiss.
"Fascinating pick. Do you think my feet are faultless, Walter?"
"Indeed, Brooke, but honestly, I haven't really examined them that in-depth. However, I do find yourself faultless in my eyes."
"What about my feet? Are they cruel, as well?"
"They are to the extent that I've not been able to touch them."
"Would you like to touch them, Walter?"
"Absolutely," I muttered, averting my gaze to my plate.
"How about smelling them?"
"Definitely," I responded.
"Does that include tasting them, as well?"
"Most certainly," I whispered.
"More than kissing my lips?"
"No, I didn't mean it that way. I want to kiss every part of you."
"You're not worthy of my kisses, Walter?"
"No, Brooke. I'm self-aware enough to realize you're in a different class than me."
"Your intellect intrigues me, Walter. Tell me more about Swinburne."
"Algernon Charles Swinburne was a Victorian English poet, primarily remembered for his sadomasochistic tendencies. I think he was simply a masochist. He admired female power and authority. He exhibited a strong fascination with medieval French culture and history, especially the idea of courtly love. Allegedly, he deeply loved his cousin, Mary Gordon, and devoted his life to her. He dedicated over 20 years to a poem called The Flogging-Block: An Heroic Poem. It wasn't published until over a century after his demise in 2011. The poem revolves around teachers punishing young boys at Eaton, a famous school in the United Kingdom. It's remarkably vivid. I recall these lines:
He'll cut right to the bone. He'll draw blood at each cut.
He'll discipline your big brother Walter first.
I'm not sure which one will endure the lash more.
You'll have to witness - won't you quiver? -
While your brother's bottom turns bright red from the rod.
You'll view the red mark left by each branch and blossom
Till your brother's body is covered in blood.
"How can you recall all that?"
"It's part of my job."
"I thought your expertise was in medieval history and poetry. Why do you have this 19th-century poem on males whipping boys memorized?"
"Swinburne's interest in courtly love is intriguing to me."
"Wonder if there isn't more to it than that?"
It took quite some time for Brooke to permit me to prepare dinner for her at my residence. At the end of each date, she would offer me her hand to kiss. The night she arrived at my house for dinner, she adorned herself far more formally than I assumed. She donned a little black dress, accented with black stockings and heels. After our candlelit excursion, we enjoyed a film. Brooke removed her heels and curled her legs up, revealing her feet. I was seated three feet away on the couch, yet felt her observing me stealthily as I surreptitiously glanced at her feet.
"Walter, my faultless, cruel feet could use a bit of relief. Could you possibly assist them?" she teased, presenting her foot-clad feet towards me on the couch.
Beguiled, my hand shook as I caressed her right foot.
"Perhaps a knight should be before his lady's feet," I stammered as I bowed.
"That's right, Walter," I agreed, laying down my head as I applied pressure to the ball of her right foot. Over the next half an hour, I continued massaging both her feet while she mainly ignored me, focusing on the film.
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When she reached the point of contentment, she put her two feet on my face and ordered, "Inhale deeply, Walter." The mixed scent of her sweat, the trace of leather from her shoe, and whatever fragrance she wore intoxicated me.
Observing my reaction, she continued, "You may now kiss your lady's feet. Barely touching them with a chaste kiss on the top of each one."
That evening, she lay in my freshly made bed while I slept on the couch.
Several months later, we tied the knot.
Read also:
- Teresa Gets Busted Pt. 02
- Accidental voyeur Pt. 02 - Friday
- The Femme Fatale's Curse Ch. 02
- Peppermint Ch. 01: Deborah in Pain
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