I place the plate of fresh fruit and toast before my wife. She looks so beautiful, so powerful dressed in her business attire. She’s reading the paper and doesn’t acknowledge my serving her with a thank you or a nod; she just continues reading the paper. I take my seat on the other side of the table and begin eating my tepid oatmeal.
I take my first bite when she nonchalantly says, “I am revoking your furniture privileges.”
“Why? What did I do?” I ask incredulously.
She drops the paper down slightly and burrows into my soul with her eyes just long enough to let me know she wasn’t kidding. She pulls the paper up and resumes catching up on the latest financial news.
I grab my spoon and my bowl and I sit on the tile floor next to my chair. The initial shock of the cold tile is startling on my naked butt. I sit cross legged and I take a bite of my oatmeal. I look before me and see my wife’s nylon clad legs, so intoxicating the way they are framed by her skirt. I see the key that holds my release glistening by her ankle.
“I am revoking your silverware privileges.” she states.
I place my spoon on the table without asking why.
I start to lick the tepid oatmeal from the bowl. It’s difficult to describe the internal conflicts occurring as I, the man of the house am sitting on the floor, naked, licking oatmeal from a bowl as my wife sits before me on a chair in her power suit eating fresh fruit and reading the paper. Humiliated, emasculated, aroused, and very much in love.
She snaps her finger and I see her pointing her well manicured finger to the floor just to the side of her right foot. I crawl under the table and place my bowl where her finger was pointing. I feel her pat my head a couple of times before I place my face into the bowl so I can eat. It isn’t long before she crosses her legs and places one of her shoes on the back of my head. I can hear her turning the pages of her paper. I imagine her gracefully holding the edge of her toast as I hear her take a bite of it.
“How long has it been since you’ve cum stud?” she asks.
“Twenty five days ma’am.” I reply into the bowl.
“How many days before you’ll have the opportunity for release?”
“Two days ma’am.” I say with dread in my voice.
She turns the page of the paper. She uncrosses her leg. I pull my face out of my bowl for a second. Just as I go to place my face back in the bowl she places the dirty sole of her business pump into my breakfast. I watch her shoe as it moves around for a second, mixing the dirt from the sole of her sexy pump with my sticky oatmeal. She takes her shoe out of my breakfast and places it on the floor for a second before tilting the sole up while her heel is on the ground. She doesn’t have to say anything; I know what is required of me. I have to lie down on my belly and twist my neck up so that I can lick all of the sticky oatmeal of her shoe. The coldness of the tile floor is sapping the energy from my body. My neck and tongue hurt.
“Six more days.” She nonchalantly states.
“Yes ma’am” I meekly reply as I finish licking the sticky oatmeal from her dirty sole.
When she notices that my tongue is no longer pressing into the sole of her shoe she pushes her chair back and stands up. I see the pointed toe of her pump stop right where the oatmeal was on the floor. I look up and see the key at her ankle, the key ever so close to me. I could just grab it I think. I could grab it and unlock this infernal device! I could bend my incredibly sexy wife over the damn kitchen table and take her!
I crawl over and start licking the floor. My tongue has to dart under the tip of her shoe so I can get it all. I imagine her looking down at me. What in the world could she possibly be thinking about her husband?
She crouches down and grabs me by hair, forcefully turning my head up and to the side so she can look me in the eyes. I stare up at her and I’m quickly reminded how incredibly beautiful she is. I can feel the dried up oatmeal all over my face and in my hair.
“I want you standing in the foray with your nose in the
corner at
“Yes ma’am.”
She releases my head and stands back up.
“I think you’ve been trying to reinstate your position as man of the house again.” She says with a giggle.
“Why? Why? You still think you have the right to ask why when I state my demands. Hmm, I think it’s time I remind you how much of a man you really are. Before you go to your corner I want you in your French maid’s uniform. I want you fully made up, and I want you locked in your 5” pumps. Let’s see how confused you are about your position as man of the house then.” She says as she grabs her briefcase and walks out of the house.
I place the last set of locks through the lock rings and press them close. I mince over to the full length mirror and make sure I’m adequately prepared. I stand at attention and see before me a ridiculous excuse for a man. I don’t like the makeup my wife tells me to buy; it makes me look like a slut. I place a finger through the thin collar around my neck, there’s just enough slack so I can get the tip of one finger in. I reach around and finger the lock in the back, damn it’s amazing how owned one feels when a collar is locked around ones neck. I notice how hanging my hands to my sides affects my petticoat. I place my hands in front of me so they rest on my apron and notice how demure that makes me look. I turn around to make sure the seams of my stockings are straight, a purely feminine act.
I have 10 minutes before I have to go to the corner. I would really like to sit down before I go to the corner but I’m not allowed. I know if I sit or kneel on the floor my dress would not be presentable. Why in the world do I allow my wife to tell me I can’t sit in my own chair? Why in the world did I lock these infernal shoes on so early?
All I can do is stand there and wait before I go and stand in the corner. The balls of my feet are already getting sore. My mouth starts getting dry while I think about all the possibilities before me. I make one of the very choices I can; I get myself a glass of water from the bathroom sink. After drinking down the full glass of water I notice the lipstick stain around the rim of the glass. I think about what kind of man I must be as I clean my lipstick off the rim of the glass. I check myself in the mirror and reapply my lipstick. I look at the clock and notice I still have 7 minutes to get into position but I go anyways.
I mince down to corner in the foray and I stand. I place my hands behind my back and I stare into the corner. I can’t believe I am doing this. I hate doing this. I can’t believe my feet are already sore and it’s not even 5 o’clock yet, or is it? I think about the web cam focused on this corner. My wife can watch my debasement from anywhere in the world, she could share it with others and I would never know. Because of that camera I can’t kneel, I can’t lean into the corner, I can’t move my hands. I can only do one thing – stand here.
I really hate standing in the corner. Little boys are told to go stand in the corner, not grown men - emasculating. I’m not physically forced to be there like when she locks me in the cage, it is only her will that holds me here – power. When I first go to the corner I pout; I’m sincerely angry that she made me stand there. I always think I will just walk away, reposes my manhood. At some point though I know I can’t walk away on my own, that it could only be her command that will release me. At some point I feel like crying, desperate for her permission to leave this insidious corner – total submission.
How much time has passed? My calf muscles feel like they’re
on fire. I’m really bored. I think it was a mistake to drink that glass of
water. Is she OK? I would really feel like an idiot if she was in the hospital
and I just stood in this corner. What time is it? Damn my feet hurt. I’m so
fucking turned on; I wish I could reach around and rub myself. Where is she?
Why did she tell me
I had stood in that corner like a punished child for over an hour and half before I heard my wife’s Lexus pull into the driveway. I was so damn excited when the door opened up, I could hardly contain myself. I was so incredibly overwhelmed. I wanted to yell at her for being late. I wanted to grab her and hold her, kiss her, make mad passionate love to her. I wanted more than anything just to be with her! I would even drop to my knees and prostrate myself before her, passionately kiss her shoes! She closed the door and walked upstairs without saying a word, without acknowledging my existence.
“WHAT IN THE HELL! “ I thought to myself, quietly fuming.
No kiss, no swat on the ass, nothing. If I was a coat stand she would have at least hung a coat on me, I would have been happy with that. My heart sunk. I want her more than anything in the world, and she completely ignores me. I am so desperate for her. I can hear her when she walks upstairs. I want to know what she’s doing; she knows exactly what I’m doing. I want to know where she was while I was standing in the corner.
My ears are acutely attuned to any noise she makes, I want so desperately to be with her.
I think she was upstairs for about 10 minutes, the longest 10 minutes of my life. I was so excited when I hear her descend the stairs.
“Merlot.” she states, snapping her finger, as she struts past the foray into the living room. Her business heels sounded so damn sexy, powerful and intimidating, as she casually saunters off. My heels make me sound like a tart as I struggle to mince down the hall on my 5” stilettos. My God my feet hurt!
It seems to takes forever for me to get her merlot and make it to the living room. Every tiny little step I take reminds me of my current position. I stand to the side of her holding the stem of her glass. It would be considerate of her to take the glass and say thank you. She reads her magazine. The balls of my feet are in pain, my calves are on fire, and my back hurts. I am exhausted from walking through the house in these ridiculous heels. I am standing here holding her merlot. She’s insouciant as she turns the page of her magazine. Her beautiful well toned calf, encased in shear black nylon, holds me mesmerized. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have her in my life. She nonchalantly takes the merlot from my hand and takes a sip. I place my hands demurely in front of me, resting them on my frilly apron. My wife takes quick note of the way I look and I notice a very subtle wry smile before she returns her attention to her magazine.
“How does it feel to be the man of the house stud?” she asks calmly, with her attention still on the magazine.
“I don’t know ma’am.” I meekly reply.
“You don’t know?’
“No ma’am.”
She turns the page of her magazine, taking another sip of her wine.
“If you don’t feel like man of the house, what exactly do you feel like then?” still very casual.
“Umm, a sissy I guess ma’am.”
“What?” she asks quietly.
“A sissy ma’am.” I say a bit louder.
“So you no longer have to guess. You know you’re a sissy.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Her attention was still on the magazine, “Well good. I wouldn’t want you to be confused about who and what you are. Now let’s see if you’re confused about who you belong to.”
“You ma’am.” I state without hesitation.
“Good.”
She held the magazine down and looked up at my face. Even though I was standing before her, looking down at her, she still towered above me.
“Do you know what that makes you?”
“Umm, no ma’am.” I meekly reply.
“My bitch.” she states with a contemptuous smile on her face as she stares into my soul.
I could feel my face turning red. I could feel my desire for her grow.
“My feet are tired. Massage them bitch.”
“Yes ma’am.” I reply as I go to kneel before her.
I can’t believe how much that turned me on. My burning feet find some solace as my weight is finally taken off of them. I gently remove her elegant business pump and begin kneading her beautiful foot. I take her hot sweaty foot and press my chin into the bottom of her toes, bending them back. My senses are overwhelmed as I hold her black stocking foot to my face. I am so aroused, so desperate, so in need. I try desperately to contain my lust for her as I massage her foot, but I feel more like I’m making love with her foot.
She reads her magazine.
When she’s satisfied with what I’ve done to her foot, she re-crosses her legs. The key to my imprisonment is once again before me, so easy to grab, mocking me. I remove her shoe and knead, press, and rub her tender foot. I am insanely desperate. I am not merely massaging her foot, I am making mad passionate love it. I notice my breathing is heavy as I caress her nylon clad foot, my hand occasionally running across the key. I am truly breathless. My, I mean her, swelling manhood is in desperate pain as tries in vain to expand beyond the unforgiving steel tube.
“I’m a bit tense. Get between my legs and relieve my tension bitch.” she says quietly, seductively.
She spreads her legs and pushes herself to the edge of the chair. I can’t resist running my hands ever so gently up the length of her silken legs. My hands tremble with excitement as I release the clips of her garter. I reach up her skirt and gently pull down her black satin panties. She puts her magazine down and sips her wine.
“You may smell them.” She says teasingly.
I place them to my nose and I find myself intoxicated with her musty scent as I inhale. Performing this intimate act gets me very aroused.
“Get busy pantywaist.” She states brusquely.
As I take my place with my face between my wife’s legs she begins to talk to me.
“Why, why you ask. Like I need a reason to do anything to you. I’m going to tell you why, and I don’t care if you like it. Power. I get off on the power I hold over you. It makes me wet telling my husband he’s not allowed on the furniture. Can you imagine having that kind of power over me? No, I don’t imagine you can.”
She grabs my hair and forcefully pulls my head deeper into her.
“I was at the bar drinking with my coworkers and I could almost feel the juices running down my legs whenever I thought about you standing in the corner. You’re damn lucky you went to the corner on time little missy, you were early as a matter of fact. That was precious. Everyone was waiting for me and I wasn’t going to leave my desk until I saw that you were at your appointed position. You don’t even want to know the consequences if you were 1 second late. You get nothing for being early though. What are you going to do to me for being late, for making you stand in the corner for so long in your fuck me pumps? You’re going please me, that’s what you’re going to do to me bitch.”
Her breathing was becoming labored. Her juices were flowing.
“I was out enjoying myself while you were standing in the corner dressed like a fucking maid. You didn’t have a clue where I was or who I was with. I knew without a doubt you were standing in the corner suffering for me, thinking only about me. Your feet were hurting because that’s how I wanted you. I was out flirting with men while you were standing in the corner dressed like a fucking maid. How fucking hot is that?”
“mmmm.” she moaned
“I can’t imagine how it must feel to stand for so long in those fuck me pumps, you’ll have to tell me sometime.”
“You licked your cold oatmeal off my dirty shoe. Do you know where I’ve walked in those shoes? How many bathrooms I’ve walked in? I can’t even begin to imagine what I’ve stepped in throughout the time I’ve owned those shoes. Did you think about that while you were licking them? I did. God, I would have never debased myself like that, not for anyone.”
“Oohh. Yes. Right there.”
Her diatribe was slowing down. The sentences were sporadic. Her breathing was labored.
“I gave you 6 more days in chastity just because you asked why.”
“You asked me why you’re not allowed on the furniture. Doesn’t that sound absurd? I’m denying my husband sexual release for six more days because I told him he couldn’t sit on the furniture and he asked why. Doesn’t that turn you on? Why not 1 day, or 3?
“Mmmm, because I said 6 that’s why. So fucking arbitrary. Just a number that popped in my head. Power. And you were so damn close weren’t you. Oh, you poor baby. Mmm, sucks to be you.”
“Mmmm.”
“I wish I could have seen your face when I told you, but you were under my shoe. I bet you would have gotten hard if you could. But you can’t can you? Mmm, ahh, because I won’t let you. Damn, denying you gets me so fucking hot.”
“Oooh, mmmm. Yea. That feels good. Don’t you dare stop!”
Her legs wrap around my head and I’m nearly suffocating as I desperately lap at her womanhood while she grinds her hips into my face.
She screams “SIX DAYS BITCH!” as she succumbs to her mind blowing orgasm.
I don’t think I have ever been more aroused in my life as I gently licked the remaining juices from her inner thigh. I am so desperate, so hungry, my whole body seems to be overflowing with overpowering sexual desire. She grabs my hair and pulls my face back, handing me her empty wine glass. I notice that look, that look that only comes when you are sexually satisfied. That far away dreamy look, quiet, peaceful, relaxed.
“Refill bitch.” She says softly.
“Yes ma’am.”
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