View Full Version : Femdom Stories

05-12-2011, 11:48 AM
The following were originally posted by alien_ov.



When my previous roommate decided to move in with his girlfriend, I
decided I was tired of living in the tiny, expensive downtown condo we
had been renting and look for someplace else to live. After a few
unpromising leads, I found a listing online from a woman who wanted to
rent out the spare bedroom in her townhouse, which was located in a
pleasant neighborhood right where the city meets the suburbs.

Her name was Linda; she was a woman somewhat older than myself, I'd
estimate in her late 40s or early 50s. Her skin had just a hint of
olive-tan coloration, and her facial features made me suspect there
might be at least a trace of Italian or Latina heritage. It was
obvious that Linda paid great attentions to her appearance; she
immediately struck me as elegant and fashionable in a somewhat bold
but tasteful way. Her moderately short spiky blond-streaked hair
looked flattering, she applied her lip gloss and eyeliner with subtle
artistry, and wore clothes that were stylish and eye-catching without
ever being garish. Although she was practically old enough to be my
mother, and had maybe picked up a few extra pounds over the years
(I'll be blunt; she had sort of a big ass, but not in a bad way),
there was definitely something eye-catching about her -- it occurred
to me right off that this was a woman who could easily have serious
"cougar" appeal if it ever struck her fancy to send out signals in
that direction.

I met Linda for coffee, and at first she was pretty dubious about the
idea of having a 30 year old guy as a housemate. It was just that she
liked the peaceful atmosphere of her home and shuddered at the thought
of all the loud music and beer-drinking sports fans which she assumed
were part and parcel of my demographic. I assured her that all that
wasn't my scene, that I was a pretty quiet and introverted guy whose
idea of a great Saturday night was sipping a couple of gin & tonics
and watching some DVDs. I explained that I worked as a freelance
technical writer and editor, and that while I worked from home most of
the time, I usually happily kept to myself. Linda told me a bit about
herself, how she had worked in real estate for the past 15 years and
made a pretty comfortable living from it, and that while she still
dabbled in real estate a bit, she also kept herself busy with other
projects. Most recently she had starting selling cosmetics and beauty
products for a new company which advertised all-natural eco-friendly
products, and was built on a direct-sales model where sales
representatives would sell to their friends and colleagues in their
spare time. From there, our conversation drifted to local area small
talk, current events, and even a little political gossip. It was clear
that we were two different people in many ways, but our chat seemed
pleasant and relaxed enough, and so I was only a little surprised when
Linda called me the next morning to offer me the room.

I settled into the townhouse quickly enough. I enjoyed having Linda as
a housemate/landlady. At times she could be a little finnicky about
having things around the house just so, and while some of her whimsies
might have come across as bossy or bitchy from somebody else, Linda
had an easygoing charisma that make it so I never seemed to mind going
along with her rules, even when they didn't seem particularly
reasonable. We didn't always see a lot of one another, but it was
pretty common for us to spend an hour a day or so chatting in the
kitchen or living room, either in the mornings or evenings.

After a couple of months living there, one evening I was complaining
about one of my regular editing clients who had been recently jerking
me around a bit, not sending as much work my way as they'd promised. I
reassured Linda that there wasn't any question about being able to pay
the rent on time, just that I was annoyed at the prospect of not
having as much spending money as I'd been counting on for the next
couple of months.

"You can come help me sell beauty products," she said offhandedly,
fiddling with something work-related on her laptop at the time.

"Nah, it sounds cushy enough, but I don't think I'm cut out for that
line of work."

"Well I'm serious about the offer," she said. "You have a flexible
schedule, and I'm not going to send you out out into the field solo to
sell anything. You could help me with some heavy lifting, keep
paperwork in order, that sort of thing." I told her I'd think about,
and although I wasn't seriously considering at the time, a few weeks
later I found myself still a bit light on work and agreed to give it a
try. Linda was pleased with my decision, and the next day she said she
wanted to take me out on a sales call with her, to visit her friend
Ann. I made sure I had some nice clothes ready to wear, and spent half
an hour browsing through the product catalog but didn't really have
any idea what to expect.

Ann invited Linda and I into her house, and the two women immediately
began making gossipy small talk. Ann was a thin middle-aged redhead
who looked to be in her late 40s, who was moderately pretty except she
wore a bit too much makeup to be flattering, and her hair looked a bit
too obviously dyed. She wore a gypsy-type blouse, faded jeans, and
orange open-heeled foam slippers on her bare feet. As she spoke she
took occasional drags from the Virginia Slims cigarette she held
between her ringed, manicured fingers.

As the two women animatedly chatted, Ann drifted into her kitchen a
poured a glass of white wine for Linda and herself, without offering
me one. I silently shifted from foot to foot, a bit uncomfortably,
until the women settled into the living room couch, and Ann indicated
with a polite gesture that I should take a seat in one of the
comfortable chairs across the room.

"I think I'm okay on perfume and makeup," Ann decided after flipping
idly through the catalog for a couple of minutes. "But I see you have
a bunch of new foot care stuff in here. Is it pretty good?"

"Well I'm glad you asked," Linda smiled, digging around in her sample
case for a moment and producing a small tube of lotion. "This foot
cream is very soothing and invigorating, it's all natural, and it has
a nice mild peach scent. She passed the tube to Ann, who dabbed a bit
of the lotion on the back of her hand.

"It does smell nice," she agreed, "and my feet could definitely use
some lotioning."

"Honey, why don't you help her out with that?" It took me a moment to
realize that Linda was speaking to me, and I wasn't sure what she
meant. "Go on," she explained, "help her with the lotion. You're going
to need to get to know the products and she said her feet could use
some lotioning. Why don't you go ahead and rub her feet?"

"Oh that's okay," Ann laughed. "Besides I haven't had a shower today
and I'm sure my feet stink in these slippers."

"Don't be silly," Linda reassured, "we're all friends here, and you
know my attitude; whether you buy something today or not, I still want
you to feel pampered and relaxed. I sell this stuff because I like the
products and I want you to enjoy them too."

"Well okay, I'm not one to turn down a foot massage." Although I'm
sure I must have been blushing with embarrassment and couldn't bring
myself to meet the women's eyes, I followed Linda's prompting and sat
cross-legged on the floor in front of Ann's slippered feet. Ann handed
me the tube of lotion and slipped her feet out of the well-worn foam
slippers and rested them in my lap. Her feet were narrow, long-toed
and bony; her toenails had been painted the same deep red as her
fingernails although the paint on her toes was chipped and in need of
a touch-up. I could also see that the insoles of her slippers were
dirty and worn, and that some of the dirt and grime had stuck to the
sides of her feet and in between her toes. Ann hadn't been kidding
about stinky feet either; once her feet were bare for a few seconds I
couldn't help but notice their pungent sweaty smell. Her feet smelled
really gross.

I squirted some of the cool milky lotion onto my fingers, swallowed my
pride, and began to rub one of Ann's bare feet. Her toes were warm
from being nestled in her slippers all day, and the bottoms of her
feet were damp with pungent sweat. I also noticed that her heels and
the balls of her feet were somewhat rough and callused, and so made an
effort to massage some of the lotion into these areas. The foot lotion
did have a nice scent, but it was completely overpowered by the sour
musky stench of Ann's foot odor. It was all I could do not to wrinkle
my nose in disgust, but I managed to persevere and stay focused on
massaging Ann's slender middle-aged feet for some time. The women
hardly paid attention to me; they chatted and relaxed for over an
hour, sipping another glass of wine. Finally, Linda said she needed to
get going, apologizing that she had some other things that needed
looking after. Ann pulled her feet from my lap (now well lotioned and
massaged but still very stinky) and slipped them back in her dirty
house slippers.

"You know I do like that lotion," she told Linda. "Go ahead and order
a couple of those for me if you would. And thanks for the sample." And
with that, I meekly followed Linda out the door as the women said
their goodbyes. Not a word had been said about me or the foot massage
beyond that initial command from Linda.

We got in Linda's car and drove for a couple of miles in silence.

"Well that wasn't quite what I expected," I finally said, trying to
make a joke of it but still feeling a little uncomfortable.

"You did fine," Linda answered casually and matter-of-factly. "You did
as you were told." I waited for some further comment or explanation
but she didn't seem to feel any was necessary. When we arrived back at
the townhouse, I helped her carry the sample cases inside and started
to head upstairs to my room to relax.

"Do me a favor," Linda said before I disappeared. "Run down the street
and pick up some carryout from the Thai restaurant for me. Yellow
curry with shrimp."

"Okay," I answered automatically, taken a little off-guard by the
directness of the command but wanting to make a good impression, and a
bit dazzled by her easy confidence. When I returned from the
restaurant, Linda was relaxing in the living room watching a movie on

"Get me a plate and silverware and come in here." Her tone was soft
and casual, but her words had clearly been an order, not a request or
an invitation. But yet I did as she said and brought her her
meal. "After having you rub Ann's feet this afternoon I decided I'm
about due for some of the same". She flexed and pointed her feet,
still in their smart black pumps and nylons, and by now I knew what
was expected of me. I took a seat on the floor, helped her off with
her size 9 dress shoes, and began tentatively massaging her somewhat
wide, fleshy feet through her tan reinforced-toe nylons. Her feet were
pretty and feminine and her toenails were carefully groomed and
pedicured, but like Ann's feet there were some rough callused spots
around the heels and the sides of the big toes. Linda's feet were also
extremely sweaty and stinky from being trapped in leather pumps and
nylons all day; within a few moments, from where I sat, the delicious
smell of the curry she was eating was overpowered by the dank musk of
her foot odor. I dutifully massaged as best as I was able, and while
part of me found the task to be distasteful and uncomfortable, there
was another part that found it strangely exciting -- I had to admit I
was a little turned on by the unexpected intimacy of the act, and the
way Linda easily ordered me around. Even if I wasn't thrilled with the
damp, sour stench of her feet, which she absent-mindedly flexed and
wriggled just inches from my nose.

I kneaded and massaged Linda's sweaty nylonned feet for over half an
hour as she nibbled at her dinner and watched a talk show on one of
the cable networks. She didn't speak a word to me the whole
time. Finally, she pulled her feet away, took her empty plate into the
kitchen and walked upstairs. When she returned a minute later, I saw
she had taken off her nylons, and now wore a pair of casual flip-flops
over her bare feet, and carried a pink vinyl cosmetic case. She took a
set once again, unzipped the case, and handed me a bottle of foot
lotion (a different kind than before) and a flat pink plastic wand
that was covered with a rough texture like an emory board.

"First, you rub my feet with lotion. Then, you file the calluses on my
feet." Her voice was pleasant and matter-of-fact, and for just a
moment I swallowed nervously as I thought about how readily I followed
her orders, how natural and logical she made the whole thing feel. She
was a busy woman and surely deserved some pampering and
relaxation. And if I was going to be working with her, I should make a
good impression, and I should become familiar with the beauty products
I would help her sell. She interrupted my lotion massage just long
enough to prop her heels up on a low footstool with a folded towel on
it, so that now the wrinkled soles of her feet were barely inches from
my face. Her fleshy feet filled my vision and I studied them carefully
as I kneaded and caressed her arches, insteps, and massaged each of
her pedicured toes with great attention. I could still definitely
smell her foot odor -- it seemed to be strongest and most pungent in
between her toes -- but soon enough I started thinking of the scent as
just part of the duty I had been assigned. And, I decided, it was part
of HER scent. After thoroughly massaging each foot with lotion until
my hands began to cramp up, I finished the procedure by using the
plastic foot file to gently slough some of the thick, dry skin from
Linda's heels, the balls of her feet, and the outside of each big toe.

"That's fine," she said at last, casually brushing the sole of her
left foot against my face before slipping her feet back into her
flip-flops and standing. "Do be sure to wash the dishes and clean up
the kitchen." Without another word, she walked upstairs and retired to
her bedroom and office for the evening.

These foot massages soon became an almost daily ritual. Most evenings
I would wander downstairs to get a snack from the kitchen, and more
often than not Linda would request I come into the living room.

"Do be a dear and rub my feet," she would say, with only a brief
absent-minded glance down at her toes, before returning her full
attention to her laptop or the book or TV program she was focused
on. Sometimes I would massage her feet through her sweat-dampened
nylons or thin black dress socks (these socks get REALLY stinky by the
end of the day); on other occasions her feet would be bare, and I
would be expected to perform the more extensive lotioning and
callus-filing procedure. One evening she mentioned offhandedly that
"one of these days I think I'll have you start polishing my toenails,
but I should probably send you to a class for that first." I couldn't
tell if she was kidding, and the comment caught me enough off-guard
that I just sort of smiled and shrugged and kept kneading her instep.

About a week after that comment, I was sitting in my bedroom one
Saturday morning, having coffee and playing around on the internet,
when Linda knocked on my doorframe and leaned her head into my room.

"If you're not doing anything important, I have something for you to
do. If you're going to help me with my business, I need to make sure I
look my best when I go out on calls. Your job for today is to organize
my shoe closet; there are many pairs which need cleaning and
polishing." I was a little taken aback that she would tell me to do
something so trivial and menial (and her tone of voice was definitely
that she was telling, not asking), but still I wanted to make sure she
was happy -- I didn't mind giving her the foot massages, and overall I
liked where I was living.

She led me down the hall to her bedroom -- the first time I'd been
inside it -- and gestured to the smaller of two closets on one
wall. Inside, the closet was lined ceiling to floor with shelves full
of shoes -- dress shoes, loafers, sandals, boots, sneakers, and
more. I'd no idea she had such a shoe collection, there were hundreds
of pairs. On the floor was a lidded plastic tub full of different
colors of shoe polish, rags, and round brushes for scrubbing and

"As you can see, I kind of have an organizational system, with the
heels up top, flats and sandals in the middle, and sneakers and older
shoes near the bottom. You can make sure everything is where it should
be, and then you can go from top to bottom, shining and polishing all
of the leather shoes and cleaning everything as best as possible. That
means clean up any scuffs and make sure there's no dirt caked on the
bottom of any of the shoes." Before I had a chance to respond, she had
already glided out of the room and left me to my work. I was stunned,
but hadn't I already as much as consented to the task? It would be
awkward if I followed Linda to question her or complain. It would be
rude. Besides, I WAS definitely a bit attracted to Linda, and there
was something strangely hot about spending a couple of hours in her
bedroom, a hint of her perfume lingering in the air, taking care of
the shoes which made her feel confident and look attractive. I tried
to shrug off my uncertainty and set to work on her shoe collection.

It ended up taking almost five hours to work my way through the entire
shoe rack -- there were lots of boots and expensive-looking leather
heels which needed polishing, and I made sure to do a thorough job
scrubbing off any dried mud on Linda's sneakers and rubber-soled
shoes. When I finished, I headed downstairs, a little nervously, to
inform Linda that I'd finished the task.

"I'll check your work when I'm done watching my movie," she replied,
dismissing me with a smile. I headed back up to my room and relaxed
with a book until Linda stopped in about an hour later, announcing her
presence by clopping one of her sneakers against the doorframe. "It
looks much better in there," she explained patiently, "but maybe next
time you should use a toothbrush to really get in those treads and
scrub the dirt out." She stared at me pointedly for a long moment,
turned on her heel and left.

From then on, tending to Linda's shoe closet became a regular weekend
chore. It went much more quickly of course, but Linda seemed
displeased if I didn't spend at least an hour or two taking care of
her shoe collection, and was quick to gently but firmly chastise me if
her shoes weren't lined up, or if they were dusty.

One night I was giving Linda her nightly foot massage, and as was
common practice, I had first massaged her stocking-covered feet, then
she had slipped off her thigh-high nylons and had me work on her bare
feet for a while. It was getting late and she was getting ready to go
upstairs to bed.

"I'd like you to take these stockings upstairs and hand wash them in
the sink. You can just hang them over the shower curtain rod to dry
and I'll get them in the morning." I did as she asked, and this too
quickly became a regular service I provided for Linda. Whenever she
had any stockings which needed washing, she would deposit them in a
wicker basket next to the bathroom sink, and I was to see they were
hand-washed and air dried for her use the next morning. I was really
the only one who used the upstairs bathroom (Linda had a private bath
connected to her bedroom), and now I had a nearly-constant visual
reminder that not only was I massaging and caring for the tired,
sweaty feet of my landlady and part-time boss, not only was I taking
care of her shoe collection on a regular basis, but now I was
hand-laundering her dirty hosiery every night before I went to bed.

Linda still had me going out on sales calls with her two or three
times a week, and often these outings just seemed like an excuse for
Linda to order me to give a lengthy foot massage to one of her friends
or customers. Mostly her customers were well-dressed middle aged
women, although there were a smattering of pretty young women,
college-aged or in their twenties, and there were a few older, frumpy
housewives (including a couple of large grey-haired ladies whose feet
were NOT attractive). Whether I provided foot massages or not, one
thing was a constant: I was never introduced by name, I was never
expected to speak, I was never addressed at all unless Linda wanted me
to get something from the car or refill the women's drinks.

This all went on for about two months, and providing these services
for Linda started to take up more and more of my time each week. And
mostly, I somehow craved it; at least I craved the attention from and
closeness to Linda. But I also couldn't help but wonder if I was
somehow getting in over my head.

One evening, there was a concert in town I wanted to see, as much as
anything because I hadn't had a night out by myself in a couple of
weeks. When I heard Linda come home that afternoon, I went downstairs
to talk to her while she was relaxing with a cup of tea. I asked if
she'd mind if I went out for the evening.

"Don't be ridiculous," she smiled. "I've had a long day on my feet
today, I'm full of stress, and I expect to spend the evening unwinding
with a very thorough foot massage. Here, help me with my shoes in
fact." I sighed with exasperation as I found myself doing exactly as
she ordered, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor and helping
slip her stockinged feet out of her expensive navy heels.

"I don't want to disappoint you," I tried to explain, sounding a bit
more vulnerable and pleading than I realized, "but sometimes it feels
a little overwhelming, all the things you have me do all the time."

"You are my foot boy and my servant," Linda said, smiling
good-naturedly as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I
have taught you to obey women, that women are your superiors. I know
you are grateful for these lessons, but you must show your gratitude
by always doing as I say. Surely you realize that serving me should be
your priority, just as I'm sure you realize that when a woman gives
you an instruction, you are to obey her. It's really that simple."
Linda smiled down at me with a gaze that was gentle and reassuring yet
completely dominant.

"Yes Linda," I answered, lowering my eyes, my head swimming with a
mixture of emotions I couldn't begin to sort out.

"That's MS. Linda from now on," she corrected. "And unless you're told
otherwise, you address all women as 'Ma'am', always. Do you
understand? And as far as my friends and I are concerned, from now on
your name is foot slave. Kiss my foot to show you understand." And I
did; I bent my head down and pressed my lips to the pedicured foot
which had become the center of my world over the past weeks.

"That's it. That's how things should be right there, that's how things
will be from now on. You kiss my foot because I am superior to you and
deep down you understand that. I am smarter than you, more successful,
more attractive, more socially able and better educated. And I am a
Woman, and that alone makes me better than you. And you, little foot
slave, you should consider yourself more or less the luckiest man
alive, because you KNOW your place, you KNOW that women are your
superiors, and from now on I'm going to make sure you spend your every
waking moment learning to understand that basic little fact in ways
you can't yet begin to imagine.

"That's right, KISS MY FOOT to show you understand." And I
did. Although what she said was scary and humiliating, it was also
wildly intoxicating, and I knew that the thing I wanted most in all of
the world was to kiss and worship that lovely feminine foot, to pour
out all of the love and devotion in my heart to this strict and
mysterious Goddess who had seduced me into a state of obedient

The pattern of foot massage rituals every evening stayed mostly the
same, only now there were a few differences. Ms. Linda told me to
strip naked whenever I was sitting at her feet, and first thing
whenever she took her shoes off, I had to lick the bottoms of her feet
to show respect (no matter how dirty and sweaty her feet might
be). Sometimes, after the usual extended massage, she would have me
suck her toes while she relaxed. While I still frequently rubbed her
smelly feet with lotion, now instead of filing her calluses with a
pedicure tool, she would have me lie on the floor and suck her heels
and balls of feet and gently scrape away the rough, thick skin with my

Ms. Linda also quickly became much more explicit and humiliating in
her orders to me, clearly taking great satisfaction in verbally
teasing and degrading me.

"I know my feet get stinky and sweaty," she would reflect as I licked
at them. "They smell so bad that most women with foot odor like mine
would be afraid to take off their shoes with people around. But you're
a foot slave now, that's what you do; you take off my shoes for me and
lie on the ground and let me wipe those disgusting-smelling feet on
your face, and I just say the word and you open your mouth and stick
out your tongue so I can use that tongue as a wash rag for my foot
sweat. Right?" Of course she didn't expect an answer, not with all
five toes of her wide foot pressing and twisting ever-deeper into my

"You serve women's feet," she explained. "That's your purpose now. And
not just by giving foot massages and shining shoes, no, that's the
kind of thing an actual person might do. You're beneath that. You
crawl around naked on the floor and you lick my smelly feet and eat my
toe jam and suck my sock lint. From now on you do that for all women,
that's the highest privilege you can hope for, to let some woman --
ANY woman -- use you as her foot rest and foot licker and foot wipe.

"And yet," she mused at times, narrowing her eyes as she looked down
at me with a mixture of amusement and disgust, wiping the toes of one
smelly foot all over my face as she jammed her wide, callused heel
into my mouth, "you have so MUCH to learn".

05-12-2011, 11:50 AM
By alien_ov@yahoo.com

Ever since my marraige I spend lots of time at my mother-in-law's
feet. She just started treating me as her personal slave and my wife
is most displeased if I don't obey her. One night Julie, that's my
wife Megan's mother, came over for dinner and after we ate we were
relaxing in the family room talking.

"My feet are so tired," Julie complained, rotating her sneakered feet
at the ankles. "Darling, be a dear and have your husband give me a
foot massage," she joked, touching my wife's hand conspiratorially.

"He'd be happy to," my wife stated, putting a hand on her hip. "And
when he's done rubbing your feet, mother, I believe that I'm overdue a
foot massage as well." I smiled weakly but the way both women eyed me
smugly let me know I was outnumbered. I shrugged my shoulders, but
even as I mumbled a half-hearted protest I was already taking a seat
on the carpet, cross-legged in front of the end of the couch where
Julie sat. She smiled triumphantly and daintily moved both of her
feet, covered in socks and well-worn canvas sneakers, into my lap
where they rested against my thigh.

I just stared down at her sneakered feet for several seconds in
fascination, taken off-guard by this turn of events. My mother-in-law
broke the silence by clearing her throat, wiggling her feet
expectantly. I took her left foot in hand and unlaced the dirty
canvas sneaker. There was a powerfully pungent, moist stinky smell
that filled my nose as I peeled the sweaty shoe from her socked foot;
the socks looked well-worn with visible moisture stains covering the
sole. Wrinkles appeared and then vanished as Julie flexed her
newly-unshod foot with a pleasurable sigh.

Julie had me massage her sweaty bare feet for about half an hour
before lifting her feet from my hands. "Time to go tend to your
wife's feet," she announced with a smile. My wife had a great big
smug grin on her face as I slid over to the other end of the couch,
accepting her nylonned feet as she slid them out of the terrycloth
slippers she usually wore around the house. She moaned
absent-mindedly with appreciation as I kneaded her stockinged soles,
which were noticably moist and sweetly pungent from being worn all

"I could get used to this," my wife remarked to her mother with a
laugh. "A nice foot rub hits the spot after a long day of running

"We should make this a regular ritual," Julie suggested,
half-kidding. "I'll bring a bottle of wine, we can all take turns
cooking dinner, and then after dinner, good conversation and foot

"And next time," she lectured, directly addressing me for the first
time, "make sure you have some foot lotion on hand. My feet get very
dry, and if you're going to massage them, you might as well
moisturize." Julie's tone of voice was such that she could have been
joking, but all the same I found myself in the drugstore the next
afternoon, purchasing a bottle of foot lotion just to keep on hand.

It turned out my preparations were not in vain. When I returned home
that evening my wife greeted me with the news that her mother was
dropping by for dinner so I shouldn't make any plans. Megan set me to
work tidying up while she cooked dinner until Julie arrived twenty
minutes later. The three of us had a pleasant meal, then afterwards
retired to the family room to continue a conversation about current
events. My wife interrupted to ask if anyone would like coffee.

"That would be lovely," Julie agreed. "And what *else* I'd like is a
nice relaxing foot massage while I drink it." Julie pointed the toes
of her low-heeled black leather pumps and looked at them expectantly.
As strange and unprecedented as all of this seemed, I nonetheless
found myself sitting cross-legged on the floor and helping my
mother-in-law off with her fashionable pumps. She wore beige
reinforced-toe nylons over her bare feet, which were visibly sweaty
and had a sweetly rank aroma.

"Mmm, I'll bet my feet are all stinky," Julie laughed, holding up her
nylonned footsole to my face for closer inspection. The nylon soles
were visibly dusty and grimy, and they DID stink, no question about it
-- but I found the sweet smell strangely hypnotic, found myself
focusing my attention fully on her bony, mature nylonned feet as I
gently stroked her long bony toes and kneaded her wrinkled soles and
arches with my thumbs.

"You can take off my stockings, dear," she instructed sometime later
-- Megan had returned with coffee for the two of them, and my
attention to the foot massage was such that I had lost track of their
conversation. I blushed slightly as I pulled myself from my reverie.
"They're knee-highs," Julie explained, rolling up her pants leg and
instructing me to roll the stocking off of each pale, bare, smooth
calf. She had beautiful soft skin for a woman well in her 50s, and
her hint of a smile suggested that she was enjoying my half-concealed
excitement at performing this chore. Julie had me deposit the
rolled-up nylons inside her pumps.

"Would you like me to rub some lotion on your feet?" I volunteered,
surprising myself a bit with my eagerness.

"Well of course," Julie answered, as if the question even needed a
response. My wife watched in bemused disbelief from the other end of
the couch as I went to fetch a bottle of aloe foot lotion and
dutifully, contentedly massaged my mother-in-law's bare feet.

I really enjoyed the feel of the lotion as I stroked it into Julie's
soft, shapely feet, and found myself leaning down to breathe in the
warm sweet mixed smell of the mildly-perfumed lotion mixed with my
mother-in-law's strong musty foot odor. I rubbed both feet thoroughly
top and bottom for a long time until my wife announced it was time for
her feet to be massaged -- I dutifully slipped off her stinky slippers
and nylons, and gave her feet a long, careful pampering and massage
with the lotion. I wasn't even phased when Megan ended the massage by
leaning back, lifting her feet so her sweet wrinkled soles were cupped
together in front of my face, and telling me to kiss her feet. I did
so happily, loving the scent of her soft feet and the feel of her
wrinkled soles and heels against my lips. It probably goes without
saying that I was only too happy to kiss my mother-in-law's feet as

Ever since then that's been the after-dinner ritual pretty much every
night. Only difference is I'm the one who cooks and serves dinner and
I have to bow down and kiss and smell both womens' feet whenever they
want -- which is a LOT -- that's the very first thing I do when I wake
up in the morning, and how I greet my wife and mother-in-law whenever
they enter or leave the house. Whenever I displease or disobey my
wife, I have to apologize to both her and her mother down on my knees,
licking the dirty bottoms of both womens' shoes until they are
satisfied I've learned my lesson.

I am a footslave to my wife and my mother-in-law and couldn't be
happier. I worship both women and love to smell and kiss and pamper
their beautiful sweaty feet. I give them lots of foot massages and
pedicures and shine all their shoes and hand-wash their stinky socks
and stockings, but mostly I kiss and serve their feet to demonstrate
my submission to their power, my place as a slave to their feet.

08-12-2011, 01:10 AM
Great stories enjoyed it a lot...thanks !..TJB.