Hot to make a graffiti

New to this sub. Not new to grunge but I go deep revisiting grunge every few years, so thought I’d share some memories. Not all in order, just as they occur to me. Long post incoming.
The first grunge song I remember hearing was Man In the Box by AIC. I was only 9 years old and really taken by it. I couldn’t buy my own music yet, and my parents would have raised an eyebrow, so I bootlegged a neighbor’s copy of Facelift and it blew my mind. I bought Dirt a couple years later with allowance money, lol, wore it the hell out, and when Jar of Flies came out I was standing in line at Sam Goody’s before they opened to get one of the first copies because you could tell it was different and special from the sound of I Stay Away.
For those of you who weren’t around, Nevermind really did change everything. I was 10 years old and this album pushed me over the cliff, even if the seed had already been planted. I wanted to drop everything else and learn guitar because now it sounded different. Nirvana guitar was more expressive compared to 80s rock and even Facelift, which were pretty technical. So I did. I got my first guitar and learned every song on Nevermind, and then Ten by PJ, and then mixed in AIC songs with their rifs and solos pushing the limits my newbie chops. But for me the full transformation did come with Nevermind. Suddenly it was easier to be all-out grunge and let your freak flag fly, and being part of it felt relatable and attainable. Obviously other bands like Mudhoney preceded this with similar vibes, but I was too young and too far away to know about it. I worked my way back to Mudhoney, Green River and others from here.
Soundgarden were gods. I did not understand how a band could do what they did. They wound up being the first grunge band I saw live and I was pretty sure musicians couldn’t be better. Truly inspiring. I saw most of the notable grunge bands over the years, except I never got to see Nirvana, which will always make me sad, but Soundgarden was first and I’m grateful.
I friggin loved STP when they came onto the scene, and they were a favorite for me when Purple came out. I remember first hearing Big Empty in the promos/soundtrack for the movie The Crow and figured it was one of the best songs ever written. When the full album was released, I remember I was still playing baseball and had Meatplow stuck in my head for an entire game and thought, “I need to drop baseball and focus on music,” so I did.
I started my first band in middle school. We had our own original grunge/punk songs, but filled the setlist with songs like Tremor Christ, Pennyroyal Tea, Silvergun Superman, Simple Lessons, Beyond This Horizon, Sludge Factory, we did our best with Soundgarden, and mixed in some emerging alternative bands of those days like Presidents of the USA and Weezer, but we really wanted to spread the grunge “deep cuts” (lol) for the love of it.
In Utero was a masterpiece.
It really sucked when Kurt died. I was broken over it for a good while, but it was amazing to see how the grunge community pulled together at that time, even if only for a little while. It sucked every time one of these voices has died over the years. They gave us a lot.
I’ve gone on to love many genres, but grunge will always be special. I started doing music for a living in high school and learned many styles, but to this day still have that moment with old bandmates where we get the wild eyed smile and start jamming on grunge. In the late 90s we were all captivated by Radiohead’s progression, but when STP No. 4 came out it was like, “fuck yeah, grunge lives!” Same whenever Silverchair would work some legit grunge into their records. Same when Mark Lanegan would drop something new. And so on.
Idk why I posted all this. Feels good, I guess, but as a noob on this sub I also see way too much talk about one grunge band ruling them all and other hot takes that don’t love the genre as a whole. In my experience, it just wasn’t like that in real time. Grunge was freedom of expression, angst, things most of us feel if we’re being honest, and a lot of fun letting it all out. Still is, and I still come back to grunge time and time again for that feeling.

My next chapter. I made this one a little "spicy", but the following chapters will probably get back to your regularly scheduled simping. Aw, poor Davey, lol
I made my way up their steps and into Ashley’s bedroom. It was far from my 1st time here at this point. I’d often be called over to “hang out”. At the best of times, this involved me down on my knees, rubbing Ashley’s tired feet or painting her toenails as she controlled the conversation. Mostly just her venting about her day, sometimes about some recent party she went to that I was never invited to. Or just tidying up as she relaxed on her large bed and played with her phone or watched tv. I loved any opportunity to be around Ashley. Plus her room had an electric energy to me. I could take a deep breath and smell her very essence through the air. Not to mention the perks of being her little “simp”. Last time I was over I found a loose stay hair on her pillow as I was fluffing it up after making her bed. I was able to sneak that little strand of hair in my pocket and take it home. OMG, I lasted for weeks with that being my main source of masterbation material!!
Tonight I was actually hoping for a quick cleanup. Between this, helping Mrs. Smith and Ashley’s homework, time always seems to get away from me and I spend the next day dragging myself like a zombie. As soon as I walked in her room, I knew I would be a while. Ashley has many great qualities; tidiness isn’t one of them! She had old plates of food sitting on her desk. Chocolate wrappers just tossed on hr floor. Her clothes! She had a mix of worn and dirty clothes thrown about and hanging off of every chair, banister, and littering the ground. I’d have to inspect each item to confirm if they were clean or dirty before finding the appropriate place for them. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her hamper with bra dangling out. It must have been worn. And I could touch it. I felt myself get hot and got those same butterflies in my tummy.
"There you are. What took so long?" Ashley had removed her makeup and decided to make herself more comfortable. She changed out of her trendy day clothes which still followed all school guidelines, which included , and plunging neckline of form rubbing jeans and a slight midriff-baring top, that had a swooping neckline to show off her chest proudly, Though they needed no help showing off. Her body often even had some teachers drooling. Those sexy clothes were gone now that it was just us. Now she wore her grey sweatpants, her socks and an old cami top. I know the look wasn't "sexy" but knowing she had removed her bra and only a thin piece of fabric separated us was almost too much to think about. Butterflies in my tummy again.
"Oh, i'm so sorry, Ashley! Your Mom just a-asked me to help with some, um, washing up, in the laundry room after."
"See! Her and my Dad complain about me not doing my own chores, but then she goes and has you scrubbing dirty underwear like some 1950's bimbo housewife! It's because she doesn't wanna do that gross boring shit either! And can you believe my Dad!? Building character!? Like, really? And another thing- Oh, Davey, didn't you hear? My mom gave the okay. You can start on my room.” She gave me an expectant look and I took the hint and grabbed y cleaning spray and rubber gloves.
"Here, start here-“ She remained standing but pointed at a stain with her socked foot. "I spilled some soda I guess and it's like, sticky or something."
And I got started cleaning the disaster of a room as Ashley finished venting and then relaxed at her desk. "I'll help in a sec. Just want to check insta 1st..."
Off I went scrubbing and dusting and tidying and primping and promping the teenage girl's room while I was for the most part ignored. I’ll save the boring details of scrubbing and tidying up a teenage girl’s bedroom. About and hour or so later, my fingers ached and my back was starting to hurt from being bent over so much.
"Okay, I think I pretty much got everything in a place your parents would approve, um, Ashley?"
She was now relaxing on her bed, reclined against the pillows. She was still over the sheets with her laptop on her stomach. I remember thinking how it must be hard to see the screen over her rising chest.
"What's that?" She looked up from her laptop for the 1st time in maybe an hour. "Oh sorry, I was messaging with Ryan. I must have got distracted".
Ugh, Ryan. Classic jock jerk! And of course her on again off again boyfriend. Honestly these days he mostly just treated her as friends with benefits. I have no idea why she puts up with him! He's crude, rude and just flat out doesn't treat her like the princess she is!! I have had her cry on my shoulder more times than I can count from this brute, but then the next weekend she is behind the bleachers sucking his cock!! Yuck, hard to imagine my sweet, confident princess getting on her knees for some brute! It's only a matter of time before she realizes she actually prefers sweet and caring types, and then maybe she even finds them sexy, and would even get down on her knees for someone like, like m-"
"Davey! This room looks great. What would you say to a little reward?"
Remember when I said the lines were blurred in the relationship. This is one of those blurred lines.
"A, r-r-rreward? You mean like-"
"OMG, look at your face. I really am too good to you, aren't I. God it's been what, a couple weeks since I let you eat me out, huh?"
"Uh, yeah, um, uh, yes, it-it's been um, yea, uh 3 m-m-months now, um, uh, A-Ash-l-ley..."
"Wowwwww, aw, that's a long time for you. Yea, I was gonna hop in a quick shower before bed, it was a long day. But then I started talking to Ryan and well, now I'm in the mood. Plus you really deserve it. You have been SO sweet lately. It’s nothing crazy. Just kinda want to grind one out to help me sleep you know?"
"Oh, uh, um, y-y-yes, th-thank you-u, I- I, uh, um yes, I unders-s-stand Ashley".
"Good boyyyy. K, in you go". She got under the covers and held the blanket up for me to crawl in. She pulled her sweatpants down, and then threw her underwear off the side of the bed. Under the dark heat of the covers, all I could see are the most beautiful golden tan and toned legs rising out of her ankle socks, and climbing until they met the most perfect, tight and perfectly trimmed pussy. When I got close I could smell her excitement and I could see a slight slickness by her folds. She must have been getting wet while talking to Ryan, ugh, yuck!
"Here!" she said as she ripped the covers off me temporarily blinded by the light. "Open!"
Instinctively my body naturaly obeys any command from her lips, and I opened my mouth wide. A second later I saw her reach for a tube and she squirted it in my open mouth.
"It's lube. Swish it around to warm it up for me. Plus it’ll get your tongue all extra slippery.” I obediently opened my mouth wider and stuck out my tongue as she took one hand and grabbed my face, squeezing my cheeks slightly to push open and out my lips into a dramatic ‘O’ shape with my tongue hanging out. With her other hand she squeezed the bottle with an undignified glorrp. I gently swished the off-tasting, gloopy mess around my mouth as Ashley instructed. "Mmmmmmmm, that's hot. That's gonna feel so good. K, ready?"
I tried to mumble something back, but warmed lube only crept out the side of my mouth. Luckily I think it was rhetorical as she threw the blanket down on top of me as I began gently licking. Just like that I was in heaven. She tasted of natural feminine juices with a slight hint of the day’s perspiration. My poor Ashley must have really had a long day! Her moans and grinding of her hips urging me on, as well as her little comments of direction here and there.
"Mmmmmmmm, slower. Flick it. Higher. Oh yes, Ryan. Mmmmmmm, fuck. Oh Ryan, Oh Ryannn, mmmmmm”
Ugh, really, him?
It was only a few minutes before her 1st orgasm. I could feel her thighs gently tighten with a delicate moan. I guess she changed her mind about a quick cum, as when I went to get up for air after her 1st release, her hand roughly grabbed my hair by the scalp and re-positioned my face so it was firmly mashed against her pelvis.
My aching erection was painfully pushing against my bikini bottoms and pants. I could feel my poor little penis throb and starting to leak. It was so hot seeing her as she took out her vibrator and pleasured herself as I licked wherever there was space around her movements. Desperate to please her and be useful. This was my chance to impress her, I thought as I licked so hard it ached. It was so cute seeing her comments getting more intense as she got more lost in her own pleasure.
"Fuck yes. Lick me, slut! Uuungh, deeper, I SAID LICK DEEPER! Oh fuck, yes, bitch, just like that. Fucking lick right there. Now lower, LOWER, SLUT”
Sure, I've heard the names the other kids call me at school. Simp, loser, cuck, her bitch. But who else but me gets to see her in these most intimate of moments when she really loses herself.
After another 10 min her thighs clamped down on my head. I could no longer hear anything, I could barely breathe and was trapped in a conjuncture of her sweaty flesh, lube and natural juices. Just as I was preparing to tap out, or succumb to her body, she relaxed. I heard the sound of her vibrator switch off.
Next thing I knew, the sheets were ripped off and I felt the flat of her somewhat sweaty foot on my forehead, pushing me away as I desperately tried to get 1 more glimpse of her most intimate area.
“Mmmm, that was nice.” Ashley rolled off the bed. Still in a daze, I had the most amazing view of her golden, toned ass cheeks. “Well I’m off to shower and then I need some sleep. I’m beat. Did you enjoy your little treat, Davey? You owe me one now!” she said with a wink. "No problem having my history homework done by tomorrow, ya?"
I went to confirm I’d stay up late but my sore and achey tongue just flopped out of my mouth with a “Yeth Asthley. Thatth no pwobrum".
Ashley giggled as she walked out of the room. I watched her butt cheeks bounce as she called over her shoulder “rinse your mouth after you finish whatever my mom needed. That lube stuff might be toxic or something. Can’t have anything happen to my little puppy. But it feels great! I’d get used to that lube taste."
My heart swooned as I drifted downstairs before I continued my night of drudgery. But nothing else mattered. Ashley was happy with me. And she must be satisfied with my oral servitude! She wants to keep it a regular thing!!! She must have really loved it. You know what they say, 1st comes love, then comes marriage!!

The second half of a long chapter.
“Oh, professor page,” I heard Anna yell from the living room, “You better get your ass out here quick.”
I quickly rinsed off my hands scurried into the living room, greeted by the two couples sprawled out on the sectional couch in their swimwear, Anna and Kelly in string bikinis and Archer and Paul in speedos. My cock was never limp that day, but there were moments – typically, those of the most intense humiliation – when it was harder than others. Seeing the four fit young bodies in all (or at least, most of) their glory was one of them. And while my gaze naturally was first drawn to Anna’s toned, long legs and taut midriff, followed by Kelly shorter, but still attractive legs and pretty toes, I would be lying if I didn’t admit to admiration of the slender, muscular swimmer bodies of the two young men as well.
My eyes also drifted over Paul’s bare feet. It was the first time I had seen bare the feet I had kissed in the bar through his sneakers or in the apartment through his thick wool socks. I was curious, naturally, but didn’t want to be too obvious, so quickly averted my glance before getting a good look. I need not have worried, however, as I would be spending a great deal of time up close and personal with his bare feet (and Anna’s) in the months that followed, starting a few minutes later. Paul did not have the same obsession with having his feet worshipped as Luke did, but there is no question that he greatly enjoyed the power trip of having an older authority figure quite literally at his feet.
I must also confess that in addition to dwelling as long as I dared on the breasts of Anna (like Brooke’s, ample but not overly large) and Kelly (slightly larger and, to my mind, less proportional to her shorter frame), my eyes also flittered over the speedo-clad crotches of Paul and Archer. Speedos leave so little to the imagination. While I was mortified when forced to wear a speedo, my inadequacy on full display, these two young athletes were completely at ease. Their muscular, chiseled bodies were one explanation for that; the size of their bulges was another.
“Perhaps the professor page can stop ogling our bodies long enough to get us all another round of drinks,” said Anna.
Kelly said, “I think he’s staring more at the boys’ bodies than he is at ours, Anna. I’m jealous.”
“Most cucks are closet fags, so that’s no surprise,” said Paul.
I wanted to object that I wasn’t gay, closet or otherwise. I wanted to say, “What about you, someone who enjoys humiliating other males, forcing them to dress in feminine clothing, spanking their bare bottoms with your bare hands, perhaps other, more intimate things….What does all of that make you?” But I dared not I was say anything of the kind. Instead I simply confirmed their drink orders and hurried off to make them, checking on my stroganoff. And being honest with myself, while I knew beyond a doubt that I was not homosexual, I did have to admit that I was not immune to the physical attractions of dominant, young alpha males. Did I have this attraction prior to the events of the last seven months when Luke came onto the scene like a cyclone? Probably on some level, yes, but it had been latent. No longer.
When I returned to the living room with a serving tray holding their four cocktails, trying hard not to spill any of them, Paul said, “We know our page boy knows how to clean shoes, but what about other personal duties? Who besides me would like a foot massage?”
“That sounds like an excellent idea, dude. Count me in,” said Archer.
“You two boys go ahead. If he does a good job, Kelly and I may have him massage our feet as well,” said Anna.
“Start with Archer. On your knees, of course, page,” said Paul.
“Yes sir,” I said, kneeling before Archer, and beginning to work on his feet with warmup twists and arch rubs. His feet were somewhat calloused, but well formed.
“Ah, that feels good. He’s actually not too bad at this,” Archer said.
Pointing at my crotch, Kelly said, “Look, his little cock is stiff again. Are you excited to massage my boyfriend’s feet, professor?” As she spoke, she pressed her toes lightly against my cock through my tights. It surprised me that it was Kelly, rather than Anna (or even Paul), to first touch my liberated cock.
“No, Princess Kelly.”
“No? But your little stiffie says otherwise. Are you not being honest with us, professor?” She pressed a little harder with her foot, smiling wickedly.
In truth, the entire situation was incredibly arousing and, therefore, incredibly humiliating. Which made it still more arousing. It was a viscous cycle, one which I had been getting increasingly used to with Luke and Brooke. But the dynamics with my students and Archer were different, and, if anything, more intense. Was it the greater age disparity, the bigger inversion of authority, the fact that there was an element of coercion involved? All of the above? Brooke would tell me that I think about these things too much. She would counsel me to go with flow, enjoy the game, embrace the sheer eroticism of it all. I tried valiantly to do just that. Can one be valiant in accepting servitude and abuse?, I wondered (see how I over analyze everything?!)
Lancelot would no doubt have answered my question in the affirmative. Yet, his servitude was solely to Guinevere, and the abuse and humiliations he suffered were solely to satisfy her commands, her whims. Whereas Brooke was not even aware of my servitude to my students. Still, I could tell myself – with some degree of honesty – that the indignities I was suffering at their hands were because of my devotion to Brooke. Because I was in their power as a direct consequence of my obedience to Luke, and I was obedient to Luke for Brooke and Brooke alone. The frail heartbeat of chivalry was still detectable (to me, at least). Perhaps the time had come to tell Brooke of my predicament with Paul and Anna? But there was something so shameful about it. Would it diminish me in Brooke’s eyes in some different, profound and irrevocable way? Or would she hug me, perhaps even thank me for my sacrifice, and tell me everything will be okay?
These were the myriad thoughts that ran through my head as I also contemplated my response to Kelly’s fraught question. “No, princess, I mean, it’s all of your feet…,” I answered,lamely.
She snickered. “Well, you are the Liitle Foot Page, so I guess it makes sense that you’re turned on by feet.”
“Pretty much all submissive guys are turned on by feet. Issac is insane for my feet,” said Anna. You will recall that Issac was the young male slave in Paul’s and Anna’s stable.
“Not just submissive men. Cindy loves worshiping your feet too, babe,” Paul said to Anna. If you recall, Cindy (who, like Issac, I had not yet met at that point) was another member of Paul’s and Anna’s stable of slaves, a fellow student at the college whose intense crush on Paul was not reciprocated. Instead, he put her squarely into “ the friendzone,” eventually introducing her to Anna. Cindy was now a submissive servant to both of them, grateful to be part of Paul’s life under any circumstances.
Anna said to Kelly, “I don’t know about you, but I love having my feet pampered and having my toes sucked, and love the sight of submissive creatures groveling at my feet. At the same time, I couldn’t imagine in a million fucking years being the one doing the sucking or groveling. I have no desire to be that close to anyone’s feet.”
“I know exactly what you mean. I wouldn’t even want to kiss Archer if he sucked my toes. Ew, gross,” said Kelly, with a little shudder.
Archer interjected, “Yo’ve got nothing to worry about there, darling. You have pretty feet, but I have zero desire to kiss or lick them.”
“Or course you don’t, you’re not a perv, like the good professor here. Professor pervert, kiss the bottom of the foot you’re massaging. You don’t mind having your feet kissed, do you sweetheart?” Kelly asked Archer.
“No, I have no problem being worshipped. And I’m secure enough in my masculinity that I don’t care if it’s a submissive cuck like this loser doing the worshiping.”
“That’s what I love about you, sweetheart. You’re masculine, dominant AND open minded. That’s like icing on a yummy cake.,” Kelly said, as she started to kiss Archer passionately. “Professor, keep kissing the bottoms of my man’s feet while we make out.”
I kissed the balls of Archer’s feet, trying to avoid the callouses. I wondered: aren’t swimmers more prone to plantar warts, walking around all those bacteria-riddled pools and locker rooms in their bare feet? I knew plantar warts are highly contagious. Could I get warts on my lips or in my mouth? I made a mental note to research this on-line later. From extensive experience with Brooke and Luke, I was well aware of the aphrodisiac effect my submission could have on a couple dominating me. The exact reasons for this still remain something of a mystery to me. Just like you have to be a masochist to understand certain things, I guess you have to be a dominant or a sadist to understand others.
As if reading my thoughts, Anna said, “I think submissives’ brains must be wired differently. They have to be for them to enjoy feet so much. I mean, sometimes after we work out at the gym, Paul and I will rest our feet right on Cindy’s face. Can you imagine? Our sweaty, wet socks covering her nose and mouth. You’d think she’d have some self-respect and tell us to go to hell. Or, at a minimum, that she’d complain about the smell. Not that my feet smell, of course, but Paul’s smell something awful after he’s been working out,” she smiled at him.
“Yeah, right, babe,” Paul replied. He then explained to Kelly and Archer, “Don’t believe anything she says about her feet not smelling. The smell of her foot sweat is overpowering.”
“Bullshit,” Anna said, smiling and hitting him on the shoulder. “But, like I was saying, far from protesting, Cindy actually inhales the smell of our sweat socks and our sweaty feet. She almost looks as if she’s in ecstasy, like she’s smelling perfume or fresh flowers or something. And she even looks happy when she’s licking the toe jam and lint from between my toes. It’s disgusting. But it’s pretty funny watching her. And I like the sensation of her tongue on my toes.”
“It’s what I’ve been telling you for awhile now, babe. Submissives are intellectually inferior. They’re sexual deviants. By humiliating and abusing them, we’re giving them what they want, what they need, in fact. So there’s no reason for us to feel bad when we mistreat them. We’re actually doing them a favor,” said Paul.
Paul was a Psychology major and fancied himself some sort of authority on this subject apparently, although it was clear to me that he was greatly oversimplifying what were, in reality, very complicated human relationship dynamics. He also had a facile understanding of human intelligence. Under different circumstances, I might have tried to engage him in a debate. But to have done so at that moment would have been the height of folly, so I kept my mouth shut and my fingers busy.
After spending 15 minutes on Archer’s feet, I massaged the feet of my three students for the same amount of time (timed by Paul). Paul and Anna kissed each other while I worked on Anna’s feet, much as Archer and Kelly had done. Each insisted I respectfully kiss the bottoms of their feet after finishing the massage. Paul was last. While I massaged his feet, Anna prodded my balls with her high heel shoe, laughing as my cock twitched through my tights. Having been denied release for so long, my biggest fear was that all of the stimuli – the scantily-clad, young bodies, the humiliating dissection of my fetishes, the pressure of Anna’s foot (which she occasionally brushed against my the underside of my shaft) – would cause me to ejaculate. The thought of that was beyond mortifying, so I did everything I could possibly do to distract myself mentally.
Their ongoing conversation about feet did not make my task an easy one.
“Rollins, you’re actually pretty good at this. In a sensible world, you would be spending your time in your classes massaging all of your students’ feet rather than lecturing to them. It’s a better use of your talents.” There did seem to be a general consensus that I have a knack (was Paul’s term, “talent,” too strong a word) for giving foot massages. I guess there’s at least one thing I can do well with my hands after all, I thought to myself.
“Now, Paul. Don’t be cruel. I’ve had some pretty good courses with Professor Foot Page. I don’t see any reason why he couldn’t lecture while he massages everyone’s feet.” Kelly giggled.
Anna snickered. “Can you picture it? I can. He would be dressed just as he is now, crawling from student to student.”
“Yes, and then he could massage the feet of all of the other faculty members of the English department,” said Kelly, giggling.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t already massaging Neil Lawson’s feet. Lawson already has him fetching his coffee. Or he did today, at least. There’s definitely something going on there,” said Paul.
I couldn’t decide whether to be relieved Paul didn’t know any specifics or to be distressed that he was so suspicious – and that his instincts were correct. I remained silent.
Paul continued, “He obviously has a big foot fetish, like most submissives. Rollins, you ought to consider having a whole chapter dedicated to foot worship in that book you’re working on. You’ll be a real authority on the subject before we’re finished with you.”
Putting aside the implicit threat in his last remark, Paul actually might be on to something, I thought. I had been struggling with the organization of my book, which had really evolved quite a bit over the last six months. While I still aimed to show how medieval courtly poetry was what started the rich history of male masochism in western literature, I was increasingly focusing on contemporary BDSM cuckold fiction and what had clearly been an explosion in interest in that lifestyle in recent years, globally.
Miraculously, I was able to get through the massages and constant teasing without ejaculating. About halfway into my 5-hour stay at the condo, I served the four of them dinner, trying to remember to curtsy at all the required moments. They had changed back into the clothes they were wearing before their swim, Anna and Kelly in short skirts, stockings and heels and Paul and Archer in jeans and polo shirts. Anna kept her little notepad next to her plate on the table, and occasionally wrote in it, causing me further anxiety. When not going back and forth between the kitchen and dining room, I was expected to stand by the table at attention – to refill glasses of the wine I had purchased, fold the napkins of anyone who got up from the table, or do anything else ordered of me. My cock tented out my tights the entire time, of course. My self consciousness about this at least had the advantage of taking my mind off my hunger somewhat, as I enviously watched the four of them eat the meal I had prepared (I sampled the stroganoff as I was cooking it, and thought it came out quite well).
Anna invited everyone to critique the meal afterwards, and it was generally agreed upon that the beef and mushroom sauce was delicious, but that the pasta was overcooked. The salad and dressing was a success, but the Italian green beans less so. I was grateful that Anna had not required me to also prepare dessert.
“Well, Professor maid, it seems that both punishments and a reward are in order for your uneven meal and service. You also earned demerits for failure to curtsy on at least four occasions – I’m sure that I missed others – and continued deficiencies in your technique. Also for how you walked in heels earlier. The mushy pasta and beans were also unacceptable. On the other hand, the stroganoff itself was excellent, as was the salad and dressing. The boys will administer your punishment, and Kelly and I will grant you your reward.”
I replied, with a curtsy, “Yes, princess. Thank you, princess.” The truth of the matter is I didn’t know which of the two caused me greater dread: the punishment or the reward.
“Which should we give him first?”, asked Kelly.
Paul said, “Definitely the punishment first. We need to leave enough time for the redness of his ass to fade in case Luke or his wife want to punish him as well when he gets home.”
“And a submissive freak like him will probably enjoy his reward more with a sore ass. I’ve calculated that he’s owed 120 spanks. 100 from today, and the 20 we didn’t give him on Tuesday that he was due. Which one oy you strapping young men will do the honors?”, said Anna.
“This is going to be so much fun to watch,” said Kelly gleefully.
“It’s going to be hot,” said Anna. “I get all tingly watching Paul punish the slaves. Especially the beta males and sissies.”
“I know you do, girlfriend. Me too,” said Kelly. “I think it’s only fair that each of the boys give him sixty spanks, so you and I get to enjoy this equally,” said Kelly.
“Sounds good. Okay with you guys?,” said Anna.
“Fine. After you,” Paul said to Archer.
“Happy to dish out some discipline to the old cuck. Should we take him up to the dungeon and put him over the bench?”, asked Archer.
“No need to. We have to use our hands for now because we can’t leave any asting marks on his ass. So just take him over your knee,” Paul replied.
“Oh, how I wish we could cane or strap him! I think the cane is a lot more persuasive than just your hands. And the welts can be lovely,” said Anna.
“Someday, babe. You just have to be patient,” said Paul. “Not one of your strong suits, I realize.”
“Don’t worry, ladies. I will make sure his spanking is plenty persuasive. Get over my knees, old man,” commanded Archer.
“Yes, sir.” I draped myself over his knees, incredibly ashamed as I felt my hard cock press through my tights against the jeans covering his firm thighs.
“Do you feel his little stiffie on your leg, honey?,” Kelly asked, tittering.
“I do, but not for long. I’m going to beat it out of him. By the time I’m finished with him, he’ll be as limp as one of the overcooked noodles he served us,” said Archer. I felt his sizable hand resting on the center of my tights-clad bottom. Without warning, he lifted his hand and brought it down sharply on my right cheek.
I typically tried to be stoic in such moments, but the ferocity of his strike (and the suddenness of it) caused me to cry out, “Ouch!” I heard the amusement of our audience.
“That’s right, honey. Give it to him good! Pull down his tights and give it to him on the bare,” said Kelly.
Archer did as Kelly requested. What followed were repeated, loud smacking sounds of flesh striking flesh – as Archer carefully alternated cheeks – accompanied by a slow but steady buildup of pain. The tights had offered negligible protection. The sound was the big difference, but it seemed to provide a more satisfying sensory experience for my three students, who were witnessing the remarkable spectacle of their professor being punished like a naughty child. By the 30th spank or so, the pain was intense. And Archer was correct, my cock had deflated under his relentless assault on my bottom. Not as severe as a cane or strapping certainly, but a hand spanking that rivaled Luke’s in intensity.
I heard Kelly say, “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Look at that shade of red, will you?”
“Not as lovely as welts, but not bad,” added Anna.
By the 50th spank, my attempt at stoicism was a distant memory.
“Please, sir. Please don’t hit me so hard.” He ignored me, delivering the final ten with extra zeal, if anything. When he was finished, it was difficult for my mind to process the fact that my chastisement was only halfway complete.
After Archer pushed me unceremoniously onto the hardwood floor, my tights still lowered to just below my poor, tenderized bottom, Kelly ordered me to stand up. I started to pull up my tights as I stood, but she said with surprising sternness, “Did I say you could pull up your tights, professor? Leave them down so we can all get a proper look at your little cock. Turn around and stand before us. Put your hands on top of your head.”
When I complied with her order, my cock was still quite limp, somewhat shriveled even. But almost as soon as I stood up, I felt it began to stir under their scrutiny.
“Look at the tiny, hairless thing.,” said Anna, smiling contemptuously.
“Pathetic,” said Archer, with a sneer.
“Oh, look. It’s starting to get bigger. That was quick! It must like all of the attention,” laughed Kelly.
With each humiliating comment, it grew harder. My ass was burning, but no longer under a constant barrage (for the moment, at least), the sensation only fueled my involuntary, indeed most unwanted, arousal.
“It looks like it’s up to me beat his hard-on back out of him,” said Paul, patting his knee. “Come over here, Rollins, so I can finish your correction. Leave your tights down. You have 60 more coming.”
As this was unthinkable to me, I felt compelled to try to negotiate – or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say, grovel. When I walked over to where Paul was sitting, rather than lie over his knees, I dropped to my own, at his feet.
“My lord, Sir Archer’s punishment was quite severe. I’m not sure that I can take another 60 right now. I beg you to show some mercy to your lowly page by deferring some of my punishment until next Tuesday.” I then grasped his right foot with my hands and began kissing the tops of his brown, leather shoe. “Please, my lord.”
That Paul was triumphant, bringing me to my knees and abasing myself at his feet – even without being expressly commanded to do so – was clearly evident in his supremely smug, self-satisfied expression. It was painful to behold, but not as painful as another 60 spanks on my already wounded bottom would be. Groveling was a skill that I been refining over the last several months with Luke, so I continued my efforts.
“Please, my lord. Surely you and Princess Anna have some more dry cleaning that needs to be done or some other errands that need to be run. Your humble page is at your disposal.”
“This is a trip,” said Kelly.
“It IS a sign of strength for a ruler to occasionally grant mercy. What do you think, babe?”, said Anna.
“I’m considering it,” said Paul. “Sharing information might help your cause, page. Tell me, what is the story with you bringing Neil Lawson a cup of coffee today? That coffee shop is on the other side of campus. Is that a service that you regularly provide for him? Before you answer, you should know that if I sense you’re not being completely truthful, I’ll add 20 spanks to your punishment now, rather than reduce or defer any of it. If I find out you’re lying after the fact, the consequences for you will be dire.”
To say that I felt somewhat trapped at that moment would be an understatement. I certainly didn’t want to reveal any information to Paul about the nature of my relationship with my colleague, and yet I felt that not doing so was perilous. The slippery slope, again.
So, I continued my descent. “I bring Neil a cup of coffee four days a week, my lord.”
“Why? Are you his lackey or something? You’re senior to him on the faculty, right? Shouldn’t he be the one bringing you coffee, if anything?”
“It’s true that Neil doesn’t have tenure yet but he’s up for tenure in the spring. But it’s not like junior faculty members run errands or anything like that for senior faculty members. It’s just that Neil knows that I’m on a diet and feels that the exercise will do me good. He takes a personal interest in my health and physical fitness, as my friend.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me. I’ve seen Neil lifting weights with Luke at the gym a couple of times. It looks like they’re getting to be pretty chummy.”
“Yes, my lord, they like to work out together. They bond over sports.”
“Interesting. Is Neil aware of your weekly weigh-ins and punishments for failing to lose weight?”, Paul continued his interrogation.
“Yes, my lord,” I answered, deeply ashamed.
“Well, you’ve definitely lost quite a bit of weight, professor. Keep up the good work!”, said Kelly, with seeming sincerity. What a surreal moment this was, I thought to myself.
“Thank you, Princess Kelly.”
“Does Luke allow Neil to witness your weigh-ins and punishments,” Paul asked.
“Yes, my lord. Twice.”
“Keep kissing my shoes when you’re not speaking. Does Luke allow Neil to participate in your punishments?”
“Yes, my lord. Once.” I started kissing the bottom of his right shoe.
Being humiliated and punished by Luke was shameful. Neil’s participation in my punishment and humiliation made it infinitely more so. Being humiliated and punished by my students was incredibly shameful. Them knowing that Neil, another professor in my department, not only was aware of, but even took an active part in my punishment and humiliation was indescribably shameful. It was more than a slippery slope. It was quicksand. And I was sinking deeper by the second.
Paul was not yet done with his interrogation, however. “What other services do you provide for Professor Lawson, besides bringing him coffee?”
I hesitated. But mindful of Paul’s warning (he did seem to have some mysterious ability to intuit and/or discover things about me), I came clean, thereby deepening the pit in which I was sinking: “On Wednesdays, when he has several back-to-back classes, I have started to massage his feet in his office.”
“I knew it! Last week when I walked into his office and you were there, you were acting very nervous. I saw his shoes on the floor next to his desk. There’s not really many reasons to take off your shoes and socks on a freezing day. I had a sneaky suspicion that that’s what was going on. You’re an even bigger beta than I could’ve conceived of, Rollins. Is there anyone you’re not subservient to?”
“Yes, my lord….I mean, prior to 10 months ago…I wasn’t submissive to anyone….except in…my…my, imagination. Everything’s different now…”
“You’re leading a male masochist’s dream! Lick the bottom of my shoe. Do you realize how extraordinarily fortunate you are, old man?”
“Yes, my lord,” I said before reapplying my tongue to the sole of Paul’s shoe.
“This discussion has been very useful. You’ve given me all kinds of ideas about how to further enhance your submissive experience to make it truly exceptional. To make it world class. All the building blocks are already in place. We just need to find a way to integrate them,” Paul said.
“Look how hard his baby cock is! He loves the idea!”, said Anna.
“Now lie down across my lap. The new information I learned just now has caused me to feel magnanimous, so I will grant you mercy by deferring 20 of your spanks until Tuesday and pardoning 10 altogether,” Paul said.
At that exact moment, having my remaining punishment cut in half (at least for that day), I was more grateful about the present reprieve than concerned about any possible future danger that might result from Paul’s increased knowledge. It was only later, during many restless, sleep-deprived nights, that I began to really worry about the possible implications of Paul knowing that I was also submissive to my fellow professor.
“You are very kind, my lord,” I said as his hand came crashing down on the center of my ass. The irony of the moment produced hearty laughter from both Anna and Kelly.
My tights were still lowered, so my erect, bare cock pressed against the denim – a coarser variety than Archer’s – of Paul’s jeans. How much shame could one person endure in a single evening? But it was only 8:30 PM; I still had over an hour left with my young tormentors.
Whereas Archer’s technique was to alternate cheeks, Paul preferred picking one spot and sticking to it for repeated spanks. He focused on the center of my bottom, initially 10 strikes where the crack of my ass began and then moving methodically lower until the final 20 were on the area closest to my scrotum. Unfortunately, Paul hit harder today than on my last visit, no doubt making sure he at least matched the force of Archer in front of the two young women, who were watching with rapt attention. As he delivered the final twenty or so spanks, the pain was searing and I began kicking my legs more and more and squirming around on his lap in a futile attempt to alleviate it, or to escape. On the bright side, my erection quickly subsided under the intensity of his assault.
“Stay still, or I will add the 30 back,” he warned, sternly, grabbing my right arm and holding it tightly behind my back with his free hand.
When he was finally done, he roughly pulled up my tights, producing a wedgie effect, and almost playfully swatted my bottom twice, saying, “You may get up now. Go stand in the corner. Hands behind your head.”
I did as commanded, but Kelly objected, “Why did you pull his tights back up? I want to see what shade of red his ass is now.”
“Lower your tights, page boy,” ordered Anna.
“Yes, princess,” I said, following her command. My eyes were wet with tears, but I was hoping they wouldn’t notice. I wanted to at least deprive them of the satisfaction that they caused me to cry.
“Do I hear sniffling, professor? Did getting spanked by his big, mean student make the poor, wimpy professor cry?”
“No, Princess Kelly.”
“I’m not sure I believe you,” Kelly replied.
“Look at his ass. The color reminds me of raw hamburger meat. Are you sure it will heel quickly enough, babe?”, asked Anna.
“Archer and I hit him hard, but not hard enough for any permanent bruises. The color will fade quickly,” said Paul. “Sort of like a sunset. An intense color that fades quickly.”
“Too bad. It’s such a lovely color, “ said Kelly.
After 10 minutes, during which they passed around a joint and continued to tease me, Anna said, “You’re right, the color is starting to fade already. Turn around, you naughty page boy, and face us. Keep your hands on your head.”
“Well, the color of ass may be like setting like the sun, but his little cock is compensating for it,” said Kelly, with a giggle.
“Pathetic,” commented the eloquent Archer.
I looked down to see my cock standing at attention through my tights, wishing I could simply disappear. I stood there shamefully for another twenty minutes as they finished a second joint.
After they finished, Anna said, “We’re running out of time before the good professor turns into a pumpkin. It’s time for your reward, professor. Obeisance!”
Recalling last week, I quickly dropped to the floor down on my belly and clasped my hands behind my back.
“Very good. You remembered,” Anna said. “Now slither on your belly to our feet, as we taught you.”
I began my humiliating belly crawl across the floor – only a few feet, but it felt like many more – my hard cock grinding into the hardwood, once again fearful that the combination of the potent humiliation and the stimulus to my cock would result in me ejaculating en route. Fortunately, it did not. Once I reached them, I craned my neck up to look at the four pairs of shoes hovering above me, and planted a kiss on the top of each, as I had been instructed during my last visit.
Anna then said, “Kelly, switch places with Paul, please.”
Once she did, Anna ordered me to lie on my back next to where she and Kelly were seated on the sofa. Rolling over, I winced with pain as my bottom touched the floor. From experience, I knew that sitting would be uncomfortable for the next day or two.
She then said to Kelly, “Do you want to provide the olfactory stimulation or the tactile stimulation?”
As if this was a routine occurrence in their lives, Kelly said, “Oh, definitely the tactile stimulation. It will be fun to toy with his little dicklet. Besides, based on what Paul said about your foot sweat, you’re the one who can provide the best olfactory stimulation.” Kelly chuckled.
“Very funny,” said Anna, smiling. “Very well.”
Anna removed her heels and placed her moist stocking-clad feet directly over my nose and mouth. Kelly kept her heels on and began pressing the toe of her right heel firmly into my balls, through my tights. She then began lightly kicking my balls. It was mildly painful, but not so painful that it caused my hard cock to deflate; it was painful yet still highly arousing, a well calibrated approach that suggested to me that Kelly had some experience tormenting others along similar lines.
“Take deep breaths, professor,” Anna ordered.
Her feet indeed had a strong, distinct odor, at once malodorous and fragrant, sour yet sweet. As I inhaled, Kelly began grinding her heel directly into the underside of my cock, pressing it into my body. Only about three minutes into this sensuous torture, my cock erupted, my semen seeping copiously through my white tights. I groaned involuntarily as I orgasmed, a groan of simultaneous ecstasy and despair. Because I hadn’t come in so long, I produced what was for me at least, a prodigious amount. What appalling, exquisite humiliation! I tried to imagine what it would be like facing my three students in class next week, or for that matter, any time again for the rest of my life. It was certainly a moment that would never be forgotten by anyone in that room.
“It looks like our professor enjoyed his reward,” Kelly said, snickering. “And I could tell when he was about to shoot his wad, so I moved my foot away just in the nick of time.” She picked up her heel and pointed at it, “See no icky professor goo. It’s clean.”
Anna said to me, “You see, being enslaved to us is not all about punishment. There are rewards as well, occasionally.”
“Yes, thank you Princess Anna, Princess Kelly.”
Well, at least I wouldn’t have to lick up my ejaculate this time. Paul threw me a towel. I was permitted to clean myself up and was then ordered to put the towel into the washing machine (by itself, as Anna didn’t want the towel I soiled to be near any of their clothes or linen). I then cleared up the kitchen. Finally, I was allowed to change back into my street clothes. Before I left the apartment, I was required one last time to bow down before each of them, kiss their feet and thank them for allowing me to be of service. I then went down the elevator, relieved to see a different doorman (one who I had never encountered before), who more or less ignored me as I exited the building.
I pulled up to my house at 10:20 P.M., surprised to see the light on in the kitchen. When Brooke and Luke went out to dinner on Thursdays, Luke usually drove, so it was not unusual to see Brooke’s car in the driveway. Maybe they had just forgotten to turn off the lights?
But as I entered the kitchen, I was alarmed to see Brooke sitting alone at the table. Expecting to be asked where I had been, I started trying to think of plausible explanations.
However, Brooke simply looked up at me. She had a glum expression on her face and her eyes were bloodshot, as if she had been crying. Something was definitely up.
“Hi, honey,” I said, nervously.
“Hi.”
“Where’s Luke?”
“He’s gone.”
“Will he back later, or is he staying at his house tonight?”
“He’ll be staying at his house every night from now on.”
“What are you talking about? What happened?”
“Go get a bottle of scotch and two glasses. I need a drink.”

I (27F) have made a lot of improvements in the last four years to improve my appearance. I basically do all the soft maxxing recommendations:

• I wear flattering clothing. Everything fits well and I'd describe my style as being minimal but feminine and I always wear jewelry.
• I have good personal hygiene (ie: brush/floss daily, whiten my teeth every week, smell good, always have a manicure and pedicure, etc.).
• I have makeup sensitivities, but I found a minimal makeup routine where I wear mascara, blush, tinted sunscreen, eyebrow powder, and tinted lip balm. It is a minimal routine but it does make me look better than wearing nothing. I don't have acne or fine lines. I have a little hyperpigmentation.
• I am 5 feet and weigh 100 pounds so my BMI is on the low end of normal. I'm not curvy, but I have a small bust and waist in proportion to my hips.
• Beyond physical care, I also make sure I am well-rounded and have hobbies. I travel several times a year, have three graduate degrees, sew/craft, cook, hike, and speak multiple languages.
• I am American but of Indian descent. I have light brown skin and green eyes.

Despite these changes, I am still having trouble being noticed or receiving pretty privileges. Some issues I am noticing are that my face is really round and I have a double-chin and that I have an ugly smile (small lips and slightly uneven teeth). I have also been told that I am pretty, but I don't exude "hot" or "sexy" vibes.

1. At this point, should I look into getting surgical procedures done?
2. What else can I do to be "hotter"?

This chapter was too long to post as one, so I’m dividing into two parts. Apologies for it being a bit disjointed.
On Thursday morning, after Luke left early for work and Brooke went for a run, I removed from Brooke’s closet the the gossamer jacket I had worn to the Ren fair and put it into the trunk of my Prius along with the canvas shoes and white tights that had completed my humiliating “Little Foot Page” costume. I dared not disappoint Anna a second time.
Fortunately, I didn’t have any punishment writing lines to complete after I cleaned her and Paul’s apartment on Tuesday. Brooke didn’t force me to wear any new feminine accessory that day. She was so fond of the choker that it had become an almost regular part of my daily attire.
As she kissed me goodbye that morning before I left for campus, she fingered the choker and my neck, saying, “I like this on you. Maybe I’ll order another one with a subtle little ring on it.”
I often couldn’t tell when Brooke was joking or not.
“You mean something where someone could attach a leash? Like a slave collar? Please, Brooke. This is bad enough.”
“No, it wouldn’t have to stick out like that. I said ‘subtle,’ didn’t I? The ring could be flat against your neck. That style is very common. It’s sexy. But I do think we can get you a proper collar to wear at home. I’m thinking leather with silver studs and a nice ring in the front. That one will definitely stick out. Luke and I will look for something on-line.”
Again, was she joking or not? She gave me her full, dimpled smile as she spoke, but that didn’t tell me conclusively one way or another. Nevertheless, her smile, her touch and the nature of the conversation all conspired to cause my liberated cock to grow hard in the lace panties I was wearing under my khakis. I was hoping she wouldn’t notice, so she wouldn’t lock me back up; several hours later, I was wishing that she had noticed.
Except for regular cleanings, and one or two supervised, humiliating releases, I had been locked up pretty consistently over the previous 2 1/2 months. Therefore, I truly enjoyed my freedom most of that Thursday. I had an almost incessant erection, fortunately mostly concealed by my khakis (which were looser than most of the pants I was permitted to wear), even while waiting in line to get Neil’s coffee and while walking across campus in a light snow to bring it to his office. The phrase “microaggressions” had become trendy on college campuses such as mine, referring to insensitive comments people make that are discriminatory or insulting, often even without intending to be. As I knocked on the door to Neil’s office, I thought to myself how I was being subjected not to microaggesions at my college, but rather to microhumiliations. Such as fetching Neil’s coffee.
“Come in,” said Neil, through the door.
Remarkably, seated in the one chair across from Neil’s desk was Paul Betz. Yet again! Alarming and suspicious. Or was I simply being paranoid? Neither of them made any effort to get up from their seats.
I was holding the cup of coffee in a paper bag. Feeling like an idiot, I placed the bag on Neil’s desk.
“Thanks for the coffee, pal,” Neil said, as he removed the cup from the bag. “It’s a bit cold.”
“Sorry, it’s snowing out there,” I replied, absurdly, as if it was even remotely somehow my fault that his coffee wasn’t hot.
“No worries. I’ll warm it up in my microwave. Paul and I were just discussing some swimming techniques. Paul’s team has a big meet this weekend. Is it okay if I catch up with you later?”
Paul looked up at me with an arrogant smirk. I thought to myself: how much strategy could there possibly be to discuss? You jump in the pool and you swim.
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
And just like that, I was dismissed. The coffee boy had delivered the coffee and was no longer needed. Why should I care about suffering this microhumiliation in front of Paul, who a few hours later would be subjecting me to any number of macro humiliations? Simply because he was gaining even greater knowledge about me, the nature of my relationships with others in my social circle and the breadth of my submission. Knowledge is power. More knowledge about me, more power over me. Nothing good could possibly come of it.
Paul was his usual arrogant self in class that afternoon, and it was clear that he, Anna and Kelly were all in exaggeratedly good moods, no doubt savoring the thought of interacting with me under radically different circumstances only a few hours later.
Anna was wearing black tights, a short, plaid skirt and black ankle boots. She propped her feet up on the desk in front of her next to Paul’s and said, “Oh, look how dirty my boots are from all the puddles of slush.”
Paul added, “Mine too. Fortunately, our shoeshine boy will be visiting later.”
Kelly sitting two seats to their left, giggled and said, “The cold weather makes me ravenous. What’s for dinner tonight, Anna?”
Anna grinned and answered, “Beef stroganoff. Our shoeshine boy is also an excellent cook, supposedly. A real Renaissance boy.”
“Not a Medieval boy?”, said Kelly. She and Anna both laughed.
Scanning the room, I didn’t believe the other students were picking up on all of the innuendo (or, if they were, I didn’t think they understood what it meant). Nevertheless, one serious female student, not part of Kelly’s clique, looked at me as if to say, “Why are you letting these clowns do and say whatever they want? Why don’t you take control of your classroom?” How I longed to do just that, to put the three of them in their place with some witty remark, as I would have done in the past. The pain of Paul’s spanking on Tuesday still fresh in my mind (if not on my bottom), however, I bit my tongue and timidly began my lecture.
After class, I went to the grocery store to purchase all of the ingredients for Anna’s prescribed menu of beef stroganoff, Italian green beans, and a starter spinach salad with warm bacon dressing (she had even directed me to her preferred recipes on-line — I had tested the salad and dressing on Brooke, with positive reviews). I also purchased the two bottles of not inexpensive red wine specified by Paul.
When I arrived at their condo, holding multiple grocery bags, my nemesis doorman was lying in wait for me, like a snarky Cerberus dressed as a bellhop. My underworld was eleven flights up, however.
“I’m going to apartment 11B. Paul Betz.”
“I have to announce you. Who should I say is calling?”
“The cook. Please tell him the cook is here.”
He spoke into the intercom phone, smirking at me, “Mr. Betz. Someone calling himself the cook is here to visit you. Although I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy who announced himself as the maid on Tuesday. May I send him up?”
Still holding the phone, he then addressed me: “Mr. Betz said they are expecting the maid, not the cook. What should I tell him?”
I sighed. “Please tell him the maid is here.”
“Mr. Betz. He is now no longer pretending to be a cook, but has announced himself as the maid. Very good, sir, I’ll send him right up then.” He put down the phone, his expression more smug by the second, and said, “You may now go up. The elevator…”
I interrupted him. “I know perfectly well where the elevator is, thank you.”
He stopped smirking to glare at me with annoyance for a moment, before resuming his smirk as I entered the elevator with my shopping bags.
When I got to their door, I got down on my knees and waited. Behind the door, I heard talking and sporadic laughter. They only kept me waiting about five minutes that day, and fortunately I was spared any encounters with Paul’s and Anna’s neighbors. It was during those five minutes on my knees, staring down at my cock pushing out my khakis, that I came to the belated realization that it probably wasn’t a good thing to be free of my chastity cage in the circumstances in which I then found myself. As I continued to wait, a sense of panic began to set in, which paradoxically only increased my arousal.
When the door finally opened, I was greeted by Kelly. I was eye level with her short, blue skirt. I looked down at her sheer stocking-encased legs and black, strap-on heels before looking up at her grinning face. She had been wearing jeans in class, but had obviously dressed up for the exciting occasion of being served dinner by her submissive professor. I have not really described Kelly’s appearance much before now, other than to say that she is attractive. Kelly has shoulder length, thick, brown hair and sort of a button nose. She is slender, but not as tall as Anna or Brooke. I would describe her more as cute than truly beautiful like the other two. However, by “cute,“ I don’t want to suggest that Kelly isn’t sexy. She is, but more in a teasing, playful way than the regal Anna. Sometimes it’s those cute, playful ones that you really have to watch out for, I was to learn.
Generally speaking, it occurred to me that, on the cusp of turning 40, I was surrounded by – and subservient to – a number of meaningfully younger people, most of whom were well above average in the looks department. There are a lot of overweight Americans – more in Ohio than in the Northeast, I thought (I’m sure Neil would have said that observation was still further evidence of my elitism) – including a lot of overweight students on my campus. For whatever reason, however, I was this bookish, unathletic guy now surrounded by athletes (Luke, Paul, Anna, Kevin, and even my one contemporary in terms of age, Neil), or fitness freaks (Brooke) or the generally attractive people who they chose to associate with (like Kelly, Laura, and Brooke’s estranged friend, Michelle). Growing up, my social circle tended to consist of the less attractive – the geeks, the nerds, the social outcasts. So, being surrounded by the cool, beautiful people was new for me, and exciting. So much toned, taut young flesh. Of course, I was not, nor am not now, their equal. Not even close. I’m their servant, their lackey, their toy. But that’s part of what makes the dynamic so exciting, so arousing. For me, certainly. But also for most of them, I believe (Brooke excepted; I am confident that there is a lot more depth to our relationship with each other, than to our relationships with all the others).
As I looked up at Kelly, these thoughts running through my head, I consoled myself that at least I wasn’t being subjugated, teased and tormented by physically repulsive people. Remembering Brooke’s advice to go with the flow, I tried to tell myself to be grateful for small favors.
“Hi, Professor Rollins!“, said Kelly, brightly.
“Hi, Kelly,” I sheepishly replied.
“Oh, come now, professor. We’re not in class now. I think the proper way to address me here is Miss Kelly, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, Miss Kelly, of course.”
“You may enter,” she said. Seeing Paul behind her, I remembered to shuffle on my knees into the apartment, bags in either hand.
Paul said, ”What time do you need to be home tonight, Rollins? Where are Luke and Brooke?”
“Thursday night they almost always go out, sir. If you recall, that’s why we picked Thursday evenings for me to…to come here. Luke is taking Brooke out to dinner tonight at a restaurant near his house. The earliest they’ll be home, I think, is around 10:30, unless they decide to spend the night at Luke’s. I’d like to be home by 10, just to be on the safe side, sir, if possible,” I replied.
Kelly said to Paul, “I like the ‘sirs.’ I see that you’ve been training him well.“
“You may leave at 10. That means we have you for 5 hours. Put the food away and then get dressed,” ordered Paul. Anna and Kelly’s boyfriend, Archer, were sitting on the couch in the living room.
“Wait a minute,” said Anna. “Did you bring your Ren fair costume this time?”
“Yes, Princess Anna.”
“‘Princess?’ I really like that. Call me ‘Princess,’ too,” Kelly said to me, giggling.
“Yes, Princess Kelly,” I replied.
Smiling with delight, Kelly asked Archer, “Do you wish him to address you as Prince Archer?”
Archer, who I later learned was Paul’s teammate on the college swimming team, said, “No, he can just call me ‘sir’.”
“You’re no fun,” said Kelly.
“Put on your Little Foot Page costume, professor,” said Anna.
“Hold on,” said Paul. “If he’s serving us dinner, shouldn’t he be dressed as a waitress? Or as a maid? What about the pink uniform Chrissy wears? That’s sort of a waitress maid hybrid,” Paul explained to Archer.
“Or what about the Hooters uniform?”, asked Archer.
“But the Little Foot Page uniform is so cute!”, said Kelly.
Anna said, “Well, everybody seems to have an opinion. The only way to settle this democratically is through a vote. Let’s all write down our top choice on a scrap of paper and toss it into my baseball cap. There are three options and four votes, so there will be a clear winner.”
“I think he should model each uniform first, so we can make an informed decision,” said Archer.
“Great idea, Archer! Who doesn’t love a little, impromptu fashion show? Kelly, please tear up four pieces of paper and get a pen while I show our dear professor where we keep Chrissy’s uniforms,” said Anna.
I listened to this rather extraordinary conversation while still kneeling in the entrance hall. I had managed to will my erection down, at least partially, so had escaped detection for the moment. Obviously, this was only a temporary victory, however.
After being permitted to stand, I first put away the food and then followed Anna upstairs into the dungeon. She opened a closet and pulled out two plastic bags that she draped over the spanking bench.
“Here are the other two uniforms you will model for us. I want you to start with the waitress uniform. Make sure you wear the black stockings and the heels with the dress. And the cap. There are hairpins in the bag you can use to make sure that it doesn’t fall off your head. Once you’re dressed, we’ll be waiting for you in the living room. I expect you to walk the length of the living room, stand before us, curtsy, do a slow 360, face us again and curtsy a second time. Then walk back up here, put on the Hooter’s uniform, and repeat the same steps. Remember to put on the flesh colored pantyhose; they’re what really make the Hooters uniform, don’t you think?”
I had never darkened the doors of a Hooters before, but nodded my ascent.
“Well, the pantyhose along with the white socks and sneakers. You didn’t bring those, did you?”
“No, princess. Besides the shoes I’m wearing, I only brought the canvas shoes I wore to the Ren fair. As you commanded, princess.”
“All the more reason the Hooters uniform just won’t cut it tonight. But we have to humor Archer, don’t we? So, wear your canvas shoes with it. You’ll look preposterous, but that’s the point, I suppose. Right?”
“Yes, princess.”
“You’ll finish with your Little Foot Page uniform. The same steps. That’s my top choice, so make sure that you really sell that one. I’ll be watching closely. If you fail to do any of the steps I just told you, or don’t do any of them satisfactorily, I’ll ask Paul and/or Archer to take you over their knees and spank you, hard, 10 times for each mistake. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Princess Anna.”
She left me in the dungeon to change. Paul’s description of the first uniform was accurate. Imagine a pink maid’s uniform, with a V-neck, black collar, black buttons and a black apron. It came with a matching cap, pink with black trim. After putting on the dress, I rolled the sheer, black stockings up my legs and smoothed out the skirt, my fully erect cock still concealed for the time being beneath it. The short skirt only came down to my mid thigh. I then put on the heels and the cap, fumbling with the hairpins, and regarded myself in the mirror. I was dressed like a fetishized waitress in a retro diner. Could I look any more ridiculous? As I practiced curtsying a few times in front of the mirror, I answered my own rhetorical question.
Worried about keeping my students and Archer waiting, I descended the stairs and followed Anna’s instructions, listening to the strange sound of my heels clicking on the hardwood floor of the living room.
As I curtsied before the four of them relaxing on the couch, Kelly giggled with glee and Paul said, “Now that’s an appropriate uniform for dinner service.”
“It is, yes, but we see Chrissy in it all the time. A little variety is nice,” Anna replied.
As I went through my steps, I watched Anna hold the same little book they had used to record my shortcomings in cleaning – my demerits as they called them – and make notes in it with a pen. That couldn’t be a good thing, I thought to myself, although I was quite certain that I was following her instructions to a T.
After I did my 360° turn, I did a brief second curtsy, as Anna had ordered, but she stopped me as I was turning around to go back upstairs.
“Wait, professor maid. Curtsy to us again, but this time make it a deep curtsy. I want to make sure that you’ve been practicing.“
I did as she commanded, bending my legs, one behind the other, lifting my skirt with my hands and holding the dipped, bowed position for a few seconds before straightening back up.
“What do you think?”, Anna asked Kelly.
“Not too bad for a relative novice, I suppose, although his technique could definitely use some work,” said Kelly.
“Do you hear that, professor maid? You need to spend a lot more time practicing your curtsying. Also, you’re walking in the heels better than on Tuesday, but you’re still pretty unsteady. We expect our servants to be graceful,” said Anna, imperiously, as she made additional notations in her little notebook. “You need to practice walking in heels somewhere besides your time here with us. We do not tolerate on-the-job training here. Got it?”
“Yes, Princess Anna. I understand.”
“Good. Move along now. We need to decide on your uniform so you can start serving us cocktails and hors d’oeuvres.”
I hurried back upstairs as quickly and gracefully as was within my power and changed into the Hooters uniform. I put on the nude pantyhose first, my cock distressingly hard beneath the transparent nylon. So much for further concealing my liberation from chastity! Freedom can be a dangerous thing, I was to soon learn. I next put on the U-shaped, white T-shirt with the big orange letters, the two ‘Os’ doubling as eyes for the owl. The shirt was tight against even my flat chest; I could only imagine what it must’ve felt like to the well endowed women for whom the shirt was designed. Next, I pulled up the skimpy, bright orange shorts, hoping like hell that they might hide my erection. They did quite the opposite, in fact. Made of some synthetic fabric, they were incredibly snug and almost looked like a bikini the way they rode up the side of my legs next to my crotch. The shorts hugged my small balls, the outline of which was readily apparent through the fabric, my cock making a small, but unmistakable protrusion above them. As humiliating as the waitress uniform was, this was worse, I felt. I groaned as I observed myself in the mirror. I then put on my canvas shoes and descended the stairs to begin another degrading catwalk.
Archer laughed and clapped. “Thats fucking hilarious. Look at the loser!”
“Ha ha, look our professor has a little stiffie,” said Kelly, pointing at my crotch and snickering.
Anna said, “Oh, my God. Paul. She’s right. Look! They must’ve taken off his chastity cage.”
Paul said, “Well, this opens up all kinds of new possibilities, doesn’t it?”
“It most certainly does!”, agreed Anna.
This conversation, so intensely humiliating, resulted in my already hard cock twitching beneath the tight orange shorts, growing harder still.
Kelly said, “But he doesn’t have any boobs. What kind of Hooters waitress is that? At least Chrissy is growing boobs, thanks to the hormones.”
As I was curtsying, Paul asked, “What happened to Chrissy’s breast forms?”
Anna answered, “We let her throw them out after she started growing her own tits.“
“Too bad,” Archer replied.
Anna added, “And the whole outfit just doesn’t work without the white tennis shoes and socks. Also, our Hooters girl forgot to do her second curtsy.” As I turned back around to comply, Anna added, “No, no professor pantywaist, it’s too late now. That’s another demerit, I’m afraid. Now hurry along and model your last outfit for us.”
I scampered up the stairs and quickly changed into my Little Foot Page costume from the Ren fair, the one inspired by the Eleanor Fortescue-Brickdale’s painting, a favorite of Brooke’s. How I wished at that moment that it was her I was dressing for instead! The short, nearly transparent jacket barely concealed my cock, jutting out shamefully through my white tights.
Remembering Anna’s insistence that I really “sell” this outfit, I took special care to complete each step to the best of my abilities. I held my back straight and practically pranced into the room and across the living room floor. I held my curtsy longer than usual, somewhere between the duration of a regular curtsy and a deep curtsy.
Both of the girls applauded, gleefully.
“See. The foot page costume is adorable. And it’s unique,” said Kelly.
“But pages don’t serve dinner. Pages do all kinds of other things for their masters, like clean their clothes and shoes, help them get dressed, deliver messages, and so forth,” said Paul.
“Oh you’re such a stickler for authenticity. I’m sure plenty of pages served their masters and mistresses meals as well. They were utility servants, and I’m sure did whatever was required of them,“ said Anna. “Besides, with this uniform, we have the best view of his hard, little cock. Look, it’s fun size!“, she added, pointing.
“With equipment like that, it’s no wonder that his wife cuckolded him,” chuckled Archer.
“From the look of him and his attitude, I’ll bet Luke is hung like a horse. Is that true, professor baby cock?”, asked Anna.
“Yes, Princess Anna,” I answered meekly.
“Look how red his face is!,” said Kelly. “We’re not embarrassing you, are we, professor?”
“Yes…I mean no, Miss…I mean Princess Kelly.”
“Okay, it’s time to vote,” said Anna.
“Why bother. We all know which one will win. Archer will vote for Hooters, I will vote for sissy waitress, and you and Kelly will vote for this silly page costume, inappropriate as it may be,” said Paul, sulkily. “So, the foot page it is.”
“Oh, goody!”, said Kelly, clapping her hands together with delight.
“Time for cocktails! Take everyone’s order,” Paul said to me sternly, seemingly still annoyed that he didn’t get his way.
Paul and Anna had a well equipped bar, so making the drinks was relatively easy. Anna insisted that I curtsy after serving each person. I, of course, would’ve felt ridiculous curtsying under any circumstances, but felt particularly so dressed in my page costume. Paul had a point; there was something incongruous about it. After serving them, I began prepping for dinner in what was truly a chef’s kitchen. The meat needed to simmer for a while to be sufficiently tender.
Anna had shown me a little brass bell that they would use to summon me for drink refills or anything else they desired. I heard it jingling about 20 minutes into my prep work and hurried back into the living room.
Paul said, “Archer and I are ready for refills.”
“Yes, sir.”
“From now on, curtsy every time you enter or leave a room any of us are in, and every time any of us gives you an order,” Anna interjected.
“Yes, princess,” I said, curtsying as I took their glasses.
By the time I returned a few minutes later with Paul’s and Archer’s fresh old fashioneds, curtsying again, Anna was also ready to for new martini. Of course, by the time I returned with her martini, Kelly was finally ready for her second cosmopolitan. Would this ever end?, I wondered. How would I ever have time to prepare the rest of dinner?
Fortunately, rather than request a third old-fashioned Paul said to the others, “Let’s go for a swim.” I was back in the kitchen working when the four of them left the apartment to take the elevator down to the building’s large indoor pool. Things got more interesting about an hour later when my young superiors returned to the apartment in their bathing suits.

Hi, I come from Verona, Italy and I am looking for a girl to travel with in many italian cities, and some hot wonderful spots in Europe (Spain, Greece, Portugal...); my ideal partner is pretty sweet, romantic, prone to make new activities or just chilling watching an anime or play some games, and someone to have deep conversations with about our life and important topics.
About myself: • student of Archaeological sciences, I am interested in archaeology and geology too, reading mainly science books and even mangas and poems; • vegetarian for ethics, in transition to become vegan 🌱 for me fight for animals rights is very important! • amateur tennis player 🎾 • board games lover (champ in UNO and Taboo) • interested in dinosaurs life 🦕 • prone to start new activities: bowling matches, painting, poems writing, learning about new cultures and open to new ideas to improve the world.

I recently got out of a very serious relationship where we lived together. He broke up with me, but we had been arguing a lot before. I really loved this person, but he did lots of things that were huge red flags. One of these was when a girl who was his 'friend' texted me, saying he had been texting her "I miss you" and shit. I broke up with him the first time, but I loved him so much that I got back with him. Even though I know he isn't right for me, I can't help but feel empty, like a part of me is missing without him. I haven't been able to concentrate on university and even when I try to distract myself by hanging out with friends and family, I still feel numb.
I recently stopped stalking his social media, and we have been out of contact for 3 weeks now (the time he moved out), but I feel like he has moved on so easily that it hurts. What makes it worse is that I feel like he was hot and cold. We technically broke up while living together, but he wanted us to not be strangers at home so we were still acting like we were together (I know it's confusing af). Then when he moved out he came over twice to get some of his stuff where he was intimate with me the first time and the second time he wanted to "kiss me one last time." I feel used, confused and hurt because I made it clear i wanted to be with him still, but it wasn't mutual. I have been overthinking so much since we went no contact where I would ask to see his insta through my friends to see what he was doing. I don't know if he's with someone else, but it kills me inside to think he is.
I know I do not own him or I cannot control his actions. I really want to move on, but my heart won't let me. He blocked me on social media when my friend reposted a photo of us together, but we went from living together to strangers. This guy was with me through my lowest of lows and highest of highs. Even though he did so many bad things in the relationship I can't help but romanticise the good things and reminisce it. Any advice?

I live on the outskirts of town. Avenues in a grid with most people having about 1/8 acre. There is a guy two houses down from me who practices with his bad outside every weekend. Everyone surrounding him has to hear it. Another guy has a hot tub and will listen to bass boosted music well into the night. Another guy makes wood carvings with a chainsaw.
I truly do not understand how you can be so inconsiderate to the people who have to live around you. These people act like they own 50 acres in the country.

I 23/F started dating my boyfriend 22/M in 2021. For context, the relationship started when he was about the start college and I was about to graduate but we are from the same church so that's where I got to know him. Initial one year everything was great but my boyfriend was going through heavy financial issues at home and from time to time whatever help I could do, I would do. We had started working in the same company and it was a WFH job so we also got lots of time to spend with each other especially due to lockdowns. Fast forward to 2022, I got a promotion at work and the role required me to work from office and things got very rocky as my boyfriend had also gotten a promotion but the role needed him to work from office which he couldn't as he was attending a regular college. He ultimately had to resign and that took a toll on his mental health. The day he lost his job he told me he wanted to breakup, he believes in being the provider in the relationship although I never really asked for anything from him. I believe in making the relationship absolutely 50-50 from planning dates to paying bills and all the sorts. The entire year went very rocky with my boyfriend asking for a breakup multiple times but I tried reasoning things out. Meanwhile even I wasn't doing great in my finances, I made small budget cuts for myself which idk how but made my boyfriend feel incapable (we did not live together, we lived with our own families). Starts 2023, I was in a lot of pressure at work and at home but I tried making ends meet for myself without asking for help from my boyfriend but just keeping him updated on everything. May 2023 we finally broke up when he told me that he's under huge mental pressure and he cannot continue a relationship. I am a hot headed person by nature so in the heat of the moment I broke up. But after the breakup we were in touch, few weeks later he wanted to patchup but I said no and this continued for 3months, even on the day we were supposed to celebrate our anniversary (8th June) we were a broken couple. But at the end of July, I finally accepted his apology as I thought maybe he genuinely wants to come back and will not breakup again but then I saw how casual he was with me as if nothing ever happened and he expected me to also go back to normal as if the breakup just never happened, I didn't spend countless sleepless night, as if I wasn't hurt. Additionally he made me feel like a burden on him. Suppose I told him I wish I could do so and so for my birthday but since I have budget cuts I can't but that's okay... He took it like I was a burden on him, started calling himself useless and he feels pathetic that he is not able to take care of my finances. These things pissed me off and I broke up. I'm not going into details but this time both our situations were bad really... And he tried to mend things so that happened after 3months.while we were broken up, his dad had a heart attack and at the time I helped him with the financial part, his EMIs were due for which I again stepped in, paid that and cleared it off. Fast forward 2024, I am insecure being so I kinda started a teasing fight with my boyfriend and he again got back to breakup, so this time we finally did breakup. Two days later I went back to mend things and have been trying to mend things for the last 3months, but his answer is a no, sometimes he says he has financial issues, sometimes he says that he just doesn't want a relationship anymore. In between all of this, his college fees was due so I took a bank loan and helped him pay that. Even after all of this he says that I have never loved him, I'm delusional. So finally I took the step of blocking him everywhere, he made it clear that he wants to remain good friends, he wants to talk to me but he doesn't want a relationship but I can't handle things that way. I loved the guy for love's sake. It was unconditional so now it's not possible for me that I talk to him casually and know it clearly in my mind that he probably hates me and doesn't want me as a girlfriend or a partner. He's a very sweet and supportive guy. I really do miss him. When things were good they were really good but idk what happened, what clicked and what changed that since 2023 we just couldn't get back on track. I'm sorry for making this read long, there are many details I may have missed as I am still not in a good mental situation. I've got only 3friends in my life and I live all by myself now. I've lost 8kgs weight since my breakup and it's taken a huge toll on my mental health. So guys, am I wrong to block him because I honestly do feel guilty at times, he wanted to be a friend, probably he needed the support but I denied him that and have closed all sorts of possible communication mediums.
In case you want any details, please let me know, I will be updating this. This is not at all well placed, but I hope I could explain the entire issue but yes for updates in order to comes to a decision, do comment and I will post the details.
Update:
I noticed my ex is now checking up my Instagram stories from a fake account( I realised it's his account when I saw the followers list was filled with his school time friends and none on the following list). It was 2days before I realised this and the following was happening for over a month now. I kept quiet about it but today I saw him at church, he came mid mass and when he saw me in the choir he turned away and sat along with the congregation (we're both a part of choir). So I sent him a text on his fake account confronting him that I know it's him and to not make things weird like this. Did I do the right thing? I don't know anything anymore. I am just way too confused, I know he's not gonna come back but then why all these actions from his end. Reddit please help me out here. I wanted to unsend the text but I didn't get an option to do that.

I have two dogs and three cats and all hardwood floors. We regularly get "tumbleweeds" of pet hair so I'm constantly running my little stick vac and dumping cup after cup of pet hair into the garbage.
I saw a post here about composting nail and hair clippings and was wondering if you could also compost pet hair? Are there any cons to emptying your vacuum canister into your compost pile? Is the dust we vacuum up in our homes also compostable?
I live in the suburbs and have a two bay hot composting system in my back yard that is open to the ground beneath it if that makes any difference.

The house has been at the end of Thompson Road as long as anyone could remember yet there’s no one still alive who remembers anyone ever living in it. It was a remnant of an era, when the Victorian style architecture was still prevalent, yet it had been left in disrepair. Windows boarded over, paint fallen off, shingles missing here and there. Most people in the town declared there was something not quite right with the old building. Some rumors stated that of the few people who tried to move in left promptly afterwards seeking other residence.
I remember when I was a young boy there was an older gentleman who would care to the grounds, cutting the grass and making small mending’s to the surrounding fence. He was a kindly old man who wore a corduroy jacket and a flat cap. He almost had the appearance of a man from a different time and place. Most children avoided walking by Thompson road on their way home from school, yet the old house had a curious draw to me back then and I often liked to stare at it in the dying light of the autumn days. It was in these days I became acquainted with the old caretaker who told me his name happened to be, Mr. Thompson, just like the road.
Most of the town children had seen Mr. Thompson tending to the old house and naturally as is the past time of children, created stories and rumors about him. Many said he lived in the house waiting to trap any poor soul foolish to wander on the property by locking them in the cellar. Others said he was an escaped prisoner using the old place as a hideaway from the police. I didn’t believe the rumors going around about him for a second but the house drew my curiosity nonetheless.
My acquaintance with Mr. Thompson began with my troublesome self, committing the act of trespassing. My act of mischief had been inspired by one of the playground stories I had heard earlier that day from one of my classmates. He said that he had skulked about the property peering into cracks along the boarded-up windows. He told me and several other kids how it looked as if someone was still living there, and the peculiar fact that no pictures hung in the place save for one wall in the living room. Given I had taken an interest to the old place, I naturally decided that day to see for myself.
I climbed the fence that afternoon in October and had skulked ever so closely to the first window I saw. As I peered inside, I was shocked to notice that the interior looked very much like someone had been in fact living there. Furniture and décor, the Victorian style still so present, was set like the previous residents had just left and would return any minute. I decided that the room I was peering in to be the living room due to the fact when I looked across to the far edge, I found the wall mentioned on the playground. It was filled top to bottom with what appeared to be every picture in the house, the wall behind barely visible due to the number of picture frames. From where I was standing, I could not make out what was in any of the pictures.
It was at this time I was discovered upon by Mr. Thompson. No doubt he took me for some trouble making youth looking for a place to plant graffiti. Yet when I answered his initial question to what I was doing there, he began to soften realizing I was merely a curious wanderer exploring what appeared to be the forbidden. This begun my friendship with the old gentleman who I could tell was not a criminal or madman seeking to lock people in his cellar. He let me go and promised not to tell anyone I was trespassing on private property, if I promised him to continue to visit and talk to him as he worked. We struck a deal and I made it a purpose to continue my visiting’s to the old house after school to talk with Mr. Thompson.
I never saw anyone else spend much time around the place other than him and asked him if he lived in or in fact owned the old Victorian house, which I never saw him enter or come out of. He told me no and laughed dryly. His family he said had always taken care of the old place as long as he could remember. He told me stories of people trying to enter seeking something they could not find and of seeing strange things within the house though, things he would not or could not describe to me. He told me on one night of the year weird things would happen within the old building, things not natural was how he put it. I tried to pry out of him what exactly he meant. “I have to show you,” he said, “It cannot be described.” He told me in exactly one week he would find me and show me exactly what possessed the old house.
Exactly one week to the day was November 1^st. I was shocked that a day where the unexplained could happen would be a day after Halloween. Nevertheless, Mr. Thompson found my house, how I am still unsure and awoke me with a soft knock on my window.
“Hurry! We’ll be late!” he said in a hushed tone.
“For what?” was my reply.
“The answer to your question,” was all he answered as I dressed quickly.
We walked along the dark streets of the town from one light post to the next, which dimly illuminated the street. We came to Thompson Road and turned down it. It was dark, no street lamps traveled down the lonely lane. As we approached the old house it cast a dark shadow upon us in the low moonlight. Mr. Thompson easily glided past the rusted iron gate and up the rickety steps like a wraith. I followed him as fast as my short legs could follow him in the darkness.
From his coat pocket he removed a small ring with two rusted keys. One of these he inserted into the door lock, I could hear the old tumblers moving and click as he twisted the lock open. As I followed him into the entryway, I was met by a strong musty smell due to many years of no ventilation. We walked further into the house, I was surprised that Mr. Thompson hadn’t brought a flashlight with us though he moved through the hallways and rooms as if he knew his way from pure memory. I took keen notice as we walked that there remained no pictures or even fade marks of pictures once hanging on any of the walls.
We walked down a long hallway, the floorboards creaking beneath us. As we came closer to the door at the end, I perceived that a soft glow was emanating from around the doorframe. Mr. Thompson stopped at this point and spoke his first words to me since we entered the house. “What we are about to see might cause you to startle, the important thing is that you just observe and disturb nothing.”
I took his warning to heart and made a promise that no matter what I saw I would be as quiet as a church mouse. He reached out his hand and quietly opened the door. What lay behind I would never have imagined. It was the living room, or a parlor as it would have been referred to over a century ago. The one I no doubt had seen from my peering through the windowpanes. Within to my surprise however were people. I saw what appeared to be a party of twenty people or more dressed as if in a masquerade party straight out of Victorian England. I almost opened my mouth to speak had it not been for Mr. Thompson’s calloused hand stifling my mouth from uttering a peep. I stared at the scene in front of me and noticed that the people here didn’t seem right for some reason they all had a blank look in their eyes like they were sleep walking or drugged. They walked about not making a noise, several couples were dancing a silent waltz with no expression on their faces. In everything they did they took no notice of us. My attention was immediately caught by the wall of pictures on the opposite side of the room. I made my way quietly over to it being careful to not disturb anything in my path.
As I approached the wall, I anticipated seeing pictures of everyone who had either lived in the house and possibly relations to the past residents. What I did not expect to see in fact was empty pictures. Most of the pictures were of either empty rooms or nature. I scanned the wall more closely and to my horror found pictures with people in them, what I was not expecting to see was the people in these pictures to turn and look at me.
It took all my control to not cry out or faint at what I saw. I rubbed my eyes thinking they still had sleep in them, when I reopened them the people in the pictures were still moving and looking at me. They were not dressed in Victorian garb. Many wore the dress of more recent decades. The looks in their faces were as they were haunted with fear; it was as if they were trapped in the picture frames, the frames their prison cells.
I didn’t notice Mr. Thompson walk up behind me. I saw him begin to stare at a particular picture. There was a young lady in it, when she saw him, she began to peer at him intently pressing her hands against the glass as if trying to get out, looking at him longingly. It was in this brief moment that he forgot his own rule and touched the picture frame pressing his hand against her tiny one. The moment he did so everyone in the parlor stopped in his or her tracks looking at him, looking at us it felt. I had never felt my blood go cold as it did that night or ever since. How long they stared at us I do not know, only that eventually they began to slowly walk their way toward us.
“Run,” was all he could whisper to me as we tried to escape. We ran to the other end of the room yet the people in the room managed to pass through the furniture like ghosts to get to us. They left me alone, as I had made no disturbance yet they grabbed Mr. Thompson and dragged him to the wall. With his loose hand he dug in his pocket and threw me his rusty keys. “Look in the shed.” Was all he could get out as the now ghost like beings dragged him toward his end. The first ones to reach the wall turned almost into a vapor and dissipated before reforming into a frame unmoving, looking as if they belonged. I turned and ran down the hallway as I began to see Mr. Thompson to dissipate at the hands of his captors. What remained of his scream I heard as I fled the house running for what I believed to be my life.
The following day I awoke in my bed, the memory of the night before feeling like a nightmare. But was it true? I had to know. I ate a quick breakfast and walked down Thompson Road towards the house. When I reached it, it was quiet. The wind stirred blowing leaves all over the lawn, but Mr. Thompson was nowhere in sight. I stuck my hands in my pockets discovering the rusty key from my memory. Realizing I had not dreamed it entirely I made my way to the shed As I vaguely remembered his final words telling me to look before I fled. Inside the shed were tools and garden supplies typical of a gardener’s shed. On top of one of the barrels was a small leather book. Engraved on the cover was J.T., No doubt his initials. This was no doubt what he asked me to find.
I dared not enter the house again and instead grabbed a prybar and small flashlight from the shed. Ripping off the boards from the parlor window I managed to open the window a bit and stuck my flashlight in and look around. Everything looked the same, as if nothing had happened the night before with the exception of when my flashlight hit the wall of pictures, I saw Mr. Thompson looking back at me hauntingly. I ran back home and threw the book and keys in my dresser. To this day I still haven’t looked at them. I’m not sure I do.

Hello everyone, I'm having some rather insane temp issues with my ideapad I've had for roughly 1 and a half year ago. Any kind of load on the CPU involving more than roughly 3 threads makes it instantly spike to 100 degrees, and instantly throttle itself.
I'm beginning to think there's an issue with the thermal transfer between the CPU & the heatsink, but I'm not feeling too adventurous when it comes to taking this thing apart.
Another notable thing with this laptop is that it gets really hot, the whole chassis might even be able too cook an egg after extended use.
I'm getting mixed feelings from seeing other threads, would y'all think it's worth the hassle to repaste this thing ? I've tried other things, such as getting a cooling pad, which helped with the former issue (even though the chassis still remai really hot close to the CPU).

I'm going through a really bad time mentally and I've gained a bunch of weight. Medication, therapy, I'm trying all sorts to get back to normal. I've told my husband I don't feel comfortable in myself right now, much less feel sexy. He keeps saying I should feel fine because he thinks I'm hot and he still wants to bang me. He'll make references (half jokes) to fisting/fingering, will make passing comments on going down on me and wanting sex, will constantly try and touch me and playfully seduce me. When I say no, ask him not to, or tell him I'm uncomfortable, he goes in a quiet mood.
I know he's my husband and sex is important in a relationship, but my medication has wiped out my sex drive, and I really need to get back into the right headspace, I feel incredibly self conscious and distressed at the thought of being thought of sexually. Should I just suck it up (so to speak!) to make him happier and accept 'the compliment', or am I the asshole to make him wait until I'm ready?
(We've been married for 6 years, it's only this year that I've gone downhill)

bangalore weather sucks a**. absolutely the worst and the most overhyped city. its fucking 50 C all day and theres no water. this is the worst possible weather of all the indian cities. other cities are way better. birds are literally falling from the sky due to heat. people are running around chasing after tanks for water and making a fool of themsleves. why do people even come here? people are very racist too. i will go back to my town. i hate this place more than anything. i hope all the IT companies moves out as theres no water and its very very hot.

Good morning/afternoon/evening wherever you are. I figured I'd put a post up in the hopes of striking some conversation and meeting someone with an ✨️immaculate personality✨️.
Could it be YOU?
YOU who actually knows how to hold a conversation?
YOU who is a bit of a dick but in a humorous, likeable way?
YOU who can quote The Office endlessly?
YOU who likes pineapple on pizza?
Well, if you're reading the above and thing, "gosh golly that does sound like me" then step right up and leave no time to spare! I have a job for you that involves an Italian uprising. What am I even typing? I'm overtired from staying up last night to watch a very underwhelming UFC card, but I digress- the uprising...
Anyway, if you're cool as a cucumber straight from the fridge on a hot summers day, and you fancy just vibing out with no pressure or expectation, flowing like water, then send me a chat request and let's get to it.
To make things a bit easier and see if we have any shared interests to start a conversation, here's a bunch of my interests/hobbies,
Gaming, Boxing, Movies, Skiing, MMA, Camping, Hiking, Tattoos, Travel, Cooking, Driving, Reading, Horror, Wallowing in self pity, Animals, Nature, Star Wars, Musicals, Drinking water at 3am because it just hits different.
If you made it through my word vomit above, I appreciate you, pat yourself on the back...you deserve it, 🌟superstar🌟.
Hope to hear from you.

I just have to gush about her for a hot minute because she is just so unbelievably fantastic. She is the kindest, most understanding and patient person I have ever met. She meets sadness with comfort, frustration with understanding and concerns with support. She has consistently supported me through everything I have struggled with, and is such an empathetic and understanding person it's incredible. She maintains her own boundaries and prioritises respecting others boundaries too, and she has passion for helping others. She is so creative, she's made me some absolutely beautiful handmade gifts and written me letters I've cried with happiness reading. She instantly took an interest in researching butch history / identity when we got together (completely unprompted) and I feel so cared for and understood. We so easily split even mundane and boring tasks and planning between us because we're both so excited about spending time with one anothemaking eachother happy. She is an incredible woman and I have been so lucky to call her mine. We've been together 1.5 years, known eachother for almost 3, and I just can't even put into words how amazing this girl is and how much I love supporting and loving and caring for her. People share many different kinds of experiences on this sub, so I thought I'd add some positivity into the mix because love is cool af and gives alot of hope :)

I've been on/off a PPI for 30 years. Started with Aciphex around 14 yrs old and most recently on Pantoprazole. For years I've had this feeling like my head/face was in a vice, and in fact when I was in my late teens I went to many doctors to figure it out. Nothing. For about 20 of the last 30 years, I've had that pressure feeling, but sometimes it just went away. Never ever had any palpitations, heart problems, etc. I even played semi-professional sports for several years, followed up with rec teams into my late 30's.
About 6 years ago (during one of the feeling-good periods), I was laying on the ground playing with my kids and I felt like I got hit with a lightning bolt. This was immediately followed by months of very intense anxiety symptoms (never had that feeling either), stomach pain, hot flushes, lightheadedness, chest pain, and the f'ing constant palpitations. In and out of the ER multiple times, always to be told I was fine. Basically lived in my bed for months.
Like many of you, I also had all the follow up tests to include full heart and abdomen/organ workups. Thankfully, all of that checked out just fine. The pressure feeling and the palpitations are the two symptoms that have remained since this started, but the palpitations did change their pattern to more of a random thing, instead of the kind you get just from just moving, so it's been tolerable. [I'll also throw in there that I finally agreed to admit this was all anxiety based, and went on Lexapro for about 1.5 years. It definitely helped me respond better to the palpitations, but in no way did it improve the actual palps. I've been off of Lexapro for probably 6 months now and don't miss it. I still feel like the anxiety is a result of the palpitations, and not the other way around.] I've tried diets, vitamins, exercises, fasting, sleep changes, borrowed a cpap machine, stopped using my phone, yoga, etc etc
So like 2 weeks ago, I finally noticed a pattern with how I felt vs if I was taking my PPI's every day. Keep in mind that every single DR, no matter what specialty, told me that PPI's were totally safe and unrelated, so I never thought twice about them. I decided to stop the PPI's. No freaking kidding, 48 hours later, I felt like I did during the "good times" with regards to the head pressure (none at all) which was totally unexpected. However, the palpitations returned to the debilitating original pattern where they hit constantly anytime I'm not laying still. I also had raging heartburn, which was really the only thing I knew for sure would happen during this experiment. I put up with this for several days, and then last night I decided to take a Pepcid tablet (not PPI). Low and behold, I wake up this morning and feel like I have a rock sitting on my face, but the palpitations have calmed down to a more random sequence.
For the first time in 6 years, I have something that I can directly tie to the way I've been feeling, instead of guessing at all the random things it might be. I'm not saying this is the answer, but I certainly have purpose now with regards to healthcare and where we head with this. My plan is to use Pepcid for a few weeks and see if I can get the PPI rebound to calm down to the point that I don't need either, and then I'll try this experiment again. In the meanwhile, I've got DR appointments scheduled for the next few weeks.
I'll update this as I make progress, which I am certain I will.
Thanks to everyone that has shared their stories. It's been very helpful to me over the last 6 years.

I am not by any means M-B's target customer base. I drive a old toyota from the 90s for a daily and a W211 as my fun weekend car. I work at a dealer. So while my Benz was getting its control units programmed I took a W206 C300 4Matic so i could grab some lunch. And it was hot outside, like 85 degrees. And whats the first thing you do when its hot as balls? You turn on the A/C, when i went to turn it on I burned my finger touching that iPad center display looking thing trying to turn the A/C on. What the hell is even that?! and on my drive i noticed that most of the mechanical controls in the W211 like the sunroof, radio, volume, A/C seat adjustments aren't mechanical but electronic?! I understand that in an economy car because it makes sense to cut costs. But physical buttons should be a thing in luxury cars so they last longer, and who wants cheapness in a luxury car?!
I just don't understand..