I like having my husband at my feet. Yes, I do.
When we first started dating, I quickly found out he was a foot man. It’s not as if he made an effort to hide the fact he worshipped women’s feet. At first, I was taken aback at his desire, but I quickly adapted when I saw how ardent he was in his fetish. When we were together, I couldn’t take my shoes off without him wanting to touch my feet, to stare at them. I soon learned that by teasing him with my bare feet, I could get him to do anything I wanted.
Do you think he’s some kind of wimp?
Hardly. In the corporate world, he’s a captain of
industry; a mover and shaker at the top level of his profession. He’s
well-known for his wheeling and dealing, for his hard-driving handling of
people and situations. In his business life, he’s as forceful a person as you’d
ever want to meet.
With me? He runs the finances in our household and is my equal partner on all decisions…..but I rule the roost once I start controlling him with my feet. I can turn him to jelly with footplay…..I’m his goddess, his queen.
How do I know that? He tells me so…..over and over ……as I’m having my way with him. At first, I had never seen anything like it, but I quickly got used to it, believe me. I love having my feet serviced…..with his hands, his tongue, his privates. I tell him what I want done, and he is helpless to refuse me any wish. After I get him “ready,” he’s as pliable as butter and the sex that follows is better than ever. But whether it’s a simple foot rub or maneuvering during coitus, I came to love it as much as he.
For me, it’s double pleasure because not only do I love having my feet touched, but I seriously get off on my control trip. I love being in charge, especially with a man of power such as Al. Also, how can I ever complain about my husband finding his wife the main source of his desire? He looks at other women’s feet with my blessing because I know that when we’re together, he’s all mine. My lover, my partner, my slave.
One day, we decided to take the 150 mile ride to a seaside resort and go our favorite restaurant, which is the fanciest, most exclusive one in that upscale little town. You dress to the hilt when you go to the Bistro Zinc; the casual attire people wear to most establishments these days isn’t permitted there. Since we were staying overnight in the town’s lone motel, I got an idea.
We left the house early in the morning, Al being his usual efficient self in getting us underway. He may have noticed I was barefoot in the car, but said nothing, since I often did this. But when we arrived at the town and were walking our luggage to the hotel, he nearly stopped dead on the sidewalk, asking:
“Jenny, where are your shoes?”
Looking him directly in the eyes, I said: “I didn’t bring any.”
His face turned pale as he looked at me, looked at my feet, looked back at me. His jaw hung open, not believing I hadn’t even brought a pair of shoes with me for an overnight trip.
“You wouldn’t dare go to the restaurant tonight with no shoes.”
Smiling coyly, I answered: “Wouldn’t I?”
Al said nothing else, but he kept gawking at my feet, his
lips moving soundlessly, nervously. I had his attention; that's for sure.
As we checked into the motel, no one but Al gave me a second look; after all, it’s a seaside resort and I’m probably not the only one who goes around barefoot. However, I wasn’t interested in anyone but my husband, whose eyes were on nothing but his wife’s feet as we waited at the registration desk. I stood there, posing my feet at different angles, crushing, scrunching and raising up on my toes, because I know it drives him crazy.
After a brief rest in our room, we took a walk around town….and this was where my fun truly started. Al couldn’t believe my audacity in walking shamelessly barefoot through the town square, striding confidently without a care in the world. We passed dozens of people and Al didn’t seem to notice any of them, fixated as he was on his wife’s feet.
“Can’t you stop looking at my feet for two seconds?” I chided, knowing he couldn’t.
“I-I-I” he stammered, and I knew he was completely under
the spell I was casting. Al was always in awe of women who were daring enough
to go barefoot in public, but he never expected such nerve from his own wife. I
was overwhelming him with what he loved the most, amused at his efforts to
control his passion. He wasn’t having much success at it. Minute by minute, he was falling deeper under my control.
As we walked, I cast my eyes left and right, enjoying the feeling of mastery I exercised over my husband…..and further enjoying the looks some of the people gave me as they passed by. More women than men seemed to notice the 30-year-old woman in a casual skirt and blouse, walking happily through their town, innocent of footwear.
For Al, however, there might as well have been no one else in town but me; he was transfixed only on my bare feet. As we walked, I saw he had dropped a couple of yards behind me, his eyes following my feet as they trod before him. I giggled as I saw his head bobbing up and down with the rhythm of my stride. He was at my mercy and I enjoyed the fact he was behaving as a servant would, careful to maintain a respectful distance behind me. If someone had walked in his path, he surely would have bumped into them, as he was helpless to see anything but the objects of his desire.
I loved it; I loved every minute of my superiority. The irony was clear; he didn’t dare walk alongside his goddess…..he had to follow in her footsteps……literally!
When it came time to go to the restaurant, I dressed in my newly purchased $800 Louis Vuitton dress, which is a slinky, red, to-die-for-number..... a string of pearls…..and no shoes. Al watched me with his mouth hanging open; he truly didn’t think I’d go through with this…..and it was devastating him to understand that I meant to make this happen.
“You can’t go into Bistro Zinc in your bare feet, Jenny. They’ll throw us out.” he pleaded, wanting me to do it, yet fearful I actually would. I loved the conflict in his mind.
"Well, if they do, you can take me to the Hot Dog Shack in town.” I laughed, confidently.
As we drove over, his head was shaking back and forth in negation, and I knew I was torturing him as never before. Yes, he had always been left weak by the sight of barefoot women, but he didn’t have a clue how to react to what was being thrown at him this time.
In the parking lot of Bistro Zinc, I decided to give Al a prelude of what was in store for him in the restaurant. As he came to my side of the car to open the door, I swung my feet out and sat on the seat with my legs out the passenger door. Taking a wet cloth I had placed in the car earlier, I ordered him to clean my feet with it. Standing before me with his jaw hanging open, I was reminded of a boxer whose knees were wobbling after catching a shot to the head; that’s what Al’s were doing. Rejoicing again in my power over him, I watched with amusement as he kneeled before me and slowly, lovingly washed my feet with the cloth. It felt so good, so sensuous.
Once done with that, I took his arm and walked him into Bistro Zinc. He cast his eyes fearfully from side to side, but I had no fear as I walked proudly and confidently, my eyes looking straight ahead, a smile on my lips.
The maître’d didn’t notice I was barefoot, nor did the waiter who led us to our table. There were so many people milling about that it probably never occurred to them that someone was so blatantly breaking their dress code. I was almost a little disappointed as we made our way to the table; it’s not as if I wanted to be denied admittance, but I did want people to notice me being so bold. Oh well, the important thing was that my husband was noticing.
Once we were seated at the table with candlelight and a white table cloth, Al seemed less transfixed and I guessed that having my feet out of his sight had broken the spell. As he confidently ordered an expensive bottle of wine, I decided this wouldn’t do; I wasn’t ready to let him slip from my control. I expertly slipped my toes under the cuff of his pants, playing footsie against his shin and lavishly stroking his calf. My feet are soft and smooth from years of lotions and creams….and my touch on his leg was causing his eyes to cross with pleasure; made even more difficult by the fact he had to try and hide it. Beads of light perspiration appeared on his face. When the waiter asked us to order appetizers, I had to do the talking since Al couldn’t seem to get words out of his mouth….. which again caused me to laugh out loud. Girl power!
I stopped the game of footsie and watched Al as his eyes told me a conflicted tale: he wanted me to continue…. even as he was afraid I would. Giving him a break, I cast my eyes around the restaurant, wondering if anyone else had noticed the barefoot woman in this ultra-exclusive place of dining. No one seemed to be paying attention….until I noticed a 12-year-old girl two tables over. She had a direct line of sight and she was watching nothing but my feet, goggle-eyed. I smiled at her and she tapped her mother on the arm, calling her attention in my direction. The woman looked at my feet for a moment, quite surprised….then shot me an offended look. I smiled at her, too…..then turned my attention back to my husband.
He looked as if he had run a marathon! His eyes were fixed on nothing but me and he looked shell-shocked. His head still shook slowly from side to side as if in disbelief at my audacity and my desire to torture him. I smiled alluringly at him; letting him know he was right in his assessment and fears….and silently assuring him I wasn’t done yet.
When the food arrived, Al could barely eat. It was an amazing meal and I partook of it with great appetite and enjoyment; I was at the height of my feminine power and was enjoying it immensely. He picked at his food, his eyes pleading with me to show him mercy. Yes, he wanted what I was giving him …..but not here, not in this setting.
But no, I wouldn’t give him a rest. Extending my foot, I brought it to his crotch and gave him the most sensual footjob imaginable. Back and forth….side to side….my toes clenching and unclenching. I felt his hand on my foot as if to push it away, but he couldn’t manage the strength to do it. Ha!
With his other hand, he dropped his fork. It clanged against his plate and I couldn’t help laughing out loud again, even as improper a thing to do as it was in a fancy bistro. His eyes fixed on mine, I whispered to him, gently but forcefully, to drop beneath the table and worship my feet.
He wanted to refuse…..he couldn’t. He was physically and mentally incapable of defying my wishes.
“Jenny….no.” he pleaded, his eyes clouded in fear at the idea of being discovered under the table.
“Jenny….yes.” I answered, smilingly insolently into his eyes.
His lips quivering, his face a mask of misery, Al began sliding downward in his chair. First, his stomach disappeared downward from my view, then his chest, then his head. A moment later, I felt his mouth on my feet.
It was incredible. It was the best feeling I could ever imagine. I felt his fingers massaging my insteps, I felt his lips kissing my soles, I felt his tongue licking sensually between my toes…..which never fails to drive me wild. I could hear him helplessly making passionate noises under the table, sounds that might have been funny had I not been so turned on by the unbridled fervor with which he was worshipping my feet. I had intended to see if the little girl and her mother were watching what was happening now, but I was so devastated by Al’s passion that I could only sigh with pleasure as it went on. I had also wanted to peek under the table to embellish the empowered feeling that seeing him on his knees before me would bring, but I was unable to do that, either. Instead, it was all I could do to keep from squirming on the seat, from pounding my thighs up and down on the chair cushion in ecstasy. I thought it would never end…..and I didn’t want it to. This was so much more than having my feet serviced in the privacy of our home; the imminent risk of being caught in public had added elements to the act I had never even dreamed of…..and obviously, the danger had spurred Al’s ardor and panic to the highest degree, as well. I knew he wanted to stop, but couldn’t…..until I permitted it.
The ending eventually came….but surely not as I would have intended. When Al climaxed under the table, the resultant seminal explosion caused his whole body to jerk upward. His back and head crashed against the table and overturned it in a fine cascade of dishware and glass.
He stood ramrod straight, his face a mask of fear and humiliation, helplessly looking to me for instructions. The sudden turn of events might have embarrassed me too, but the fact I had orchestrated the whole thing caused the opposite effect; I sat straight and proud in my chair, calmly gazing at the other patrons of the restaurant, who were all looking at us. I imagined seeing what they were seeing; a totally disheveled man standing in the wreckage of an overturned table….and a woman in a super-expensive designer dress, sitting calmly barefoot in her chair with her legs delicately crossed.
Al looked at me with helpless eyes. I made a motion with my hands for him to leave the restaurant. Abashed, he turned tail and ran out of the place. I stood up, demure and self-assured, paid the bill and walked slowly out of Bistro Zinc, proudly barefoot ….noticing that everyone I passed had their eyes cast downward, watching nothing but my feet as I walked by.
I followed my husband out to the parking lot, not even thinking of the scene in the restaurant. Now that Al was properly helpless and under my power, my thoughts were fixed on ways I could use my feet to make him do my bidding for the rest of the evening.
It turned out there were quite a few.