She Works Out Too Much (F/M)

[Boundhisattva90]

Mónica, my wife walked through the door, fresh from her evening gym session.
She wore a sleek black sports bra and matching leggings, paired with running sneakers and white ankle socks. Her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, and a towel rested over her right shoulder with a gym bag hung over her left shoulder.

The sports bra revealed her slim, slightly toned, almost skinny abdomen, each breath subtly accentuating the soft definition of her muscles. The leggings, though… they were pure sorcery, hugging her curves and making her legs and ass look downright divine.
it’s not like she had the biggest backside in the world—not even close. She just had a well-proportioned figure with curves in all the right places.

She says she goes to the gym for her health… but all I see is pure temptation in motion.

“Hey, babe,” I greeted, lounging on the couch while the TV droned on in the background — though let’s be honest, the real show was walking through the door. My eyes drank her in, admiring every curve like I did every night. “How was the gym?”

“Pretty exhausting, to be honest…” she replied, though her tone was far too bright and lively for someone claiming to be tired. “It was leg day — ugh, I always suffer through it!” As she spoke, she dropped her gym bag and towel onto the armchair nearby.

Then, without warning, she stepped in front of me, blocking the TV. Not that I cared; my attention had long since shifted. She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss against my lips.

“You seem pretty energized,” I remarked, raising a brow.

“Post-workout endorphins, baby. Best high there is,” she teased, flashing me a playful smirk.

Before I could respond, she turn off the tv and straddled me, wrapping her legs around my waist as she settled into my lap. The next kiss was bolder, deeper, her lips lingering against mine before she pulled back, biting her lower lip as her eyes scanned my face. This was definitely not a bad position.

Her hands found mine, guiding them down to her ass, making me squeeze and knead it as she rocked her hips in slow circles. I could feel the heat rising in my face — among other things — as my growing excitement pressed against her through our clothes. She giggled softly, the sound both sweet and wicked.

“Well, aren’t you in a good mood. God bless the gym, huh?”

"I feel energized!"

"Yeah, no kidding. Are you sure you’re not just going to the gym for selfies?"

“Hey! What are you talking about?! My routine is brutal! After a long day at the office, hitting the gym is no walk in the park!”

“Right… that’s why you’re bursting with energy.”

Silence.

Mónica shot me a sharp look, one brow arched, her hands pausing their playful movements over mine. If I weren’t such an idiot, I’d realize I had seriously screwed up.
The tension hung in the air for a moment — until she broke it herself.

“Big words from the guy who hasn’t set foot in a gym since we got married, huh?”

“Ugh, low blow. Okay, okay, I started the snark. Fair enough.”

Her grin returned, playful and mischievous, accompanied by a soft giggle.

“Hey, why don’t I show you my routine? That way you’ll see just how hard I work.”

Before I could protest, she hopped to her feet. Damn it, we were so comfortable just now, and honestly, I didn’t give a damn about her routine.

“For what? I believe you…” I muttered, leaning forward on the couch resting my chin on my fist, elbow propped against my thigh.

“Oh, come on. You hurt my honor. I promise I’ll make it fun for both of us.” She winked, her voice dripping with mischief. The sudden change in her tone made me hesitate — and like a fool, I took the bait.

She sauntered over to the armchair and dug through her gym bag. After a moment of rummaging, she pulled something out and hid it behind her back.

“Close your eyes.”

“What? Why? What are you up to, Mónica?”

“Just trust me, dummy.”

Against my better judgment, I closed my eyes, letting my guard down completely. The anticipation — and the way she was acting so sweet — clouded my instincts.

I felt her straddle me again, her weight settling onto my lap, and her soft giggle filled the air. I don't know how this was related to the whole thing about 'showing me her routine,' but if we were going back to kissing, even better for me.
Her hands found mine once more, slowly guiding them behind her. I let her lead, stupidly trusting —

Suddenly, her grip tightened. She pinned my wrists above my head, and before I could even process what was happening, I heard the sharp rip of duct tape. My eyes shot open just in time to see her expertly wrapping the tape around my wrists, layer after layer.

“Hey! Mónica, what the hell are you doing?!”

“Heh… Aww, hubby, things aren’t going the way you expected?”

“Cut the crap! I’m not in the mood for your tying-up games!”

“You never are. That’s why I have to tie you up the hard way.”

I squirmed and pulled, but by the time I started resisting, my wrists were already tightly bound.

“Wait… that roll of tape — you had it in your gym bag?!”

“Of course. A girl’s gotta be prepared. You never know when you’ll need to tie someone up.”

She leaned in closer, the soft scent of her sweat mixing with her perfume. As she worked the tape around my wrists, her chest was practically pressed against my face. Under any other circumstances, this wouldn’t be a bad view, but considering my hands were being bound, the situation felt a lot less enjoyable.

I thrashed a little, but the tape wasn’t budging.
“Talk all you want about my ‘photo sessions’ at the gym,” she whispered, “but you’re about to learn that I don’t just work out for the selfies.”

“Oh, come on… look, I get it! I believe you. I mean, with that body, it’s pretty obvious you’re not wasting time.”

Her eyes narrowed, flickering between annoyance and amusement.

“Really? You think that’s gonna save your ass?”

“Worth a shot…”

She laughed, a soft, dark sound that sent a shiver down my spine. Then, with a single hand still pinning my wrists, she grabbed the tape again, wrapping it around my forearms, ensuring I couldn’t even wiggle free.

“You know…” she mused, her tone almost thoughtful, “you’ve always been happy to enjoy the results of my workouts — admiring my ass, drooling over my curves… but there’s another side of me after the gym. And tonight, you’re gonna get a taste of it.”

As soon as my arms were thoroughly secured, she shifted, holding my bound wrists effortlessly with one hand. Her free hand drifted down, tugging at the laces of her right sneaker. My heart dropped.
I knew exactly where this was going.

"No! No… Mónica! Don’t you dare!" I shouted, thrashing against my restraints to no avail.

"Oh, relax… It didn’t kill you before, it won’t kill you now."

Her fingers made quick work of the laces, slowly loosening them. Once the sneaker was loose enough, she slipped it off in a single motion.
I watched helplessly as she set the running shoe aside revealing a sock-clad foot. Without hesitation, she pinched the edge of the sock between two fingers and peeled it off exposing her bare foot. The sock dangled from her fingertips for a moment before she casually dropped it onto the couch beside us.

Switching hands with practiced ease, Mónica secured my wrists overhead with her now-free hand, holding me in place effortlessly. Her other arm reached down to repeat the process, untying the second sneaker with the same infuriating slowness. The sneaker slid off her foot and hit the floor with a soft thud. Then, once again, she hooked her finger into the top of her sock and peeled it off. The second sock joined its twin.

With both socks in hand, Mónica brought them dangerously close to my face. The pungent odor hit me before they even touched my skin — stale sweat mixed with the faint rubbery scent of her sneakers. My stomach churned.

"Open up… Come on."

I clenched my jaw shut, sealing my lips as tightly as I could. I turned my head away, twisting and shifting against my bonds, trying to put as much distance as possible between my face and those wretched socks. The musky stench lingered in the air, relentless, no matter how hard I tried to escape it.

"Oh, playing hard to get, huh?" She stop grabbing my hands and her now free hand slithered down my chest, fingers dancing over my skin until — pinch! — she cruelly twisted one of my nipples.

"Aghh!" The sharp pain forced a cry from my throat, and the moment my mouth opened, she shoved the socks past my lips.

The fabric scraped against my tongue, rough and damp, filling my mouth instantly. My cheeks bulged as the second sock was crammed inside, stretching my jaw uncomfortably wide. The taste hit me like a punch to the gut — stale sweat, salt, and the sour tang of hours trapped in sneakers.

I thrashed trying to spit them out, but Mónica was already one step ahead. With her usual dexterity, she tore off a long strip of duct tape, the sharp rip of adhesive cutting through the silence like a guillotine. She carefully placed the tape over my mouth. The sticky material stretched across my cheeks, pressing the foul socks deeper into my mouth, sealing my fate. She smoothed the tape down with her fingers, pressing along the edges to make sure no amount of squirming would set the socks free.

"Gmmphhh! Mmmff mmphhh mmhh"

A repulsive bitterness spread through my mouth, a mix of dried sweat and fabric softened by hours of wear. The acrid tang clung to my tongue, carrying hints of salt and something almost metallic, like the taste of exhaustion itself.

It wasn’t the first time she had gagged me like this, but these socks easily made in the top three worst things she’d ever shoved into my mouth. The taste was unbearable, like the aftermath of a long workout trapped inside old shoes and left to marinate.

Mónica still in my lap, admired her work. "Aw, poor baby… Is it that bad?" She tilted her head. "I mean, according to you, I only go to the gym to take selfies, right? So these shouldn't taste too bad."

"Mmmph-ghhnn! Mmmff wmm-phhh!"

Mónica shifted her weight and stood up.
"I'm going to tie up your legs," she announced. Then, her eyes met mine.

"Don't do anything stupid."
There was no teasing lilt in her voice this time—just a casual certainty, like she was stating an inevitable fact. The tape crackled as she tore off a piece, and I felt her grip tighten around my ankles. I barely had time to flinch before she wrapped the first loop around them, cinching them together with practiced ease.

After securing my ankles together, she moved up to my knees, rolling out another length of tape.
Meanwhile, I twisted my wrists, trying to find some slack in the layers of duct tape binding them together in front of me. My fingers clawed uselessly at the sticky surface, but Mónica had done too good a job—there was no give, no weak point to exploit.

After finish her work on my legs, Mónica grabbed my shoulders and, with deceptive gentleness, guided me down onto the floor. Of course, "delicate" in her book still meant I landed with a thud, my bound limbs making it impossible to break my fall.

"Bmfffph!!"

On the floor, I felt Mónica tighten my restraint, wrapping more tape around my already bound wrists, securing them firmly against my torso. The pressure pinned my arms to my stomach, making it impossible to lift them even an inch.

I kept squirming against the tape binding me, but it was useless. There was no escape from this sticky prison. The sock gag continued to torment me, the damp, sour taste pressing against my tongue like a punishment I couldn’t resist.

"What do you think, huh?" Mónica taunted, now standing over me, admiring my suffering with a smug grin. "You still think that with all this strength and energy I have to dominate you, it must mean I just go to the gym to have fun, right?"

"Mphmm-nnnh! Mphmmf mmmphg!!"

"Well then, take a whiff of this."

She lowered her foot toward my face, deliberately positioning her toes right over my nose. My eyes widened at the realization of my new torment. The scent hit me instantly—thick, musky, overpowering. The salty tang of sweat mixed with the lingering aroma of worn fabric, a pungent cocktail of heat and exertion that forced its way into my nostrils.

I instinctively tried to jerk my head back, but it was futile. Mónica pressed down firmly, pinning my face to the floor beneath the full weight of her foot. My nose was completely trapped against her sweaty sole, sealing me in place as every breath I took was saturated with the raw essence of her workout.

"Listen carefully! I think you need to understand something... I work way too hard to look attractive for you!
It’s not just about going to the gym and calling it a day! It’s an exhausting routine. Meanwhile, you—ugh, you’ve lost stamina. You’re skinnier, but somehow you’ve got a little belly now. You look kinda funny, hehe."

"Bphmphmch!!"

"Oh, don’t feel bad! You know I’m just teasing. You’re still the handsome man I fell in love with!"

She said this while rubbing her foot affectionately against my face, her tone soft and sweet. If I hadn’t been tied up, forced to chew on her sweaty socks while inhaling the stench of her feet, it might have actually felt like a romantic moment.

"That’s why today, I’m killing two birds with one stone. I’ll teach you firsthand to respect your wife’s hard work and show you that this hot little body…"—she playfully slapped her own butt—"isn’t something you get just by hanging out at the gym!"

"And of course, I’ll take this chance to put you through a little workout… Maybe I won’t get you in shape, but at the very least, I’ll knock you down a peg, my lazy hubby."

"Mmmppph!?"

Mónica finally stopped tormenting my nose and sat down on the couch, turning on something that caught her interest on TV. I felt relieved that my poor nostrils were no longer being assaulted—though my tongue didn’t seem to share that relief.

Soon, I felt Mónica’s feet resting on my stomach, right near where my bound hands were.

"Rub."

"Mmmcsh mph?.."

"Don’t make me repeat myself," she said flatly, eyes still glued to the screen.

"Mmmf gmnnn bmm jmmph.!""

"I had a long leg day... I want a gentle foot massage. I tied your hands in front of you instead of behind your back for a reason, got it? Or do you need a reminder of where my feet could be instead?"

My eyes widened at the threat. Begrudgingly, I started rubbing and "massaging" her feet. Almost immediately, I heard the sounds of satisfaction and comfort escaping her lips.

"Perfect... Just like that..."

I rolled my eyes at her exaggerated reaction, which earned me a mischievous giggle from Mónica.

And so, the next half hour dragged on. Boring, to say the least. Some dull romcom played on the TV in the background—lots of bickering, then sudden kissing. I didn’t care enough to follow, Anyway my sole job was to sit there like a good footrest and rub her tired feet.

I kneaded the soles, traced my thumbs along the arches, even ran my fingers between her toes, all while she simply lay back, fully relaxed. Mónica barely said a word, save for the occasional hum of approval or a lazy "Mmm, a little softer there."

At least she wasn’t actively making my life miserable. For now.

Once I had finally finished massaging every part of her feet, Mónica shifted her attention back to my face. Without a word, she planted both feet down, pinning me against the floor as I endured their rancid stench.

"TMPHH! MPH!! MPHPFF!!"

Unlike before, she didn’t rub them against my face this time. No, she simply rested them there—one foot pressing down on my forehead and eyes, while the other settled firmly over my nose and my tape-sealed lips.

This awful position ensured that every breath I took was infused with the rotten scent of post-gym feet, while her sole rested against my lips, pushing the gag even deeper into my throat. The shift in pressure rearranged the socks in my mouth just enough to expose my tongue to a new, uncharted section of their filth—adding yet another layer of torment to my already miserable experience.

Of course, I struggled, but if you’ve been paying attention so far, you can already guess how that went.

"Oh, quit whining…" she scoffed.

"This is just the first part of your punishment workout. Oh, I know! You should do four sets of ten reps… of sniffing my feet."

I had no idea what the hell she was talking about.

"Oh, don’t worry—I’ll help you out."

Before I could even react, I felt her big toe and the one next to it clamp down on my nose, completely cutting off my airflow. At first, I stayed still, stubbornly refusing to give in. But as the seconds ticked by, my lungs started to burn, and my head instinctively twisted and jerked in protest.

I didn’t want to inhale the stench of her sweaty feet. But I also didn’t want to suffocate and die. So, you know… tough choice.

I shot her a desperate, pleading look. She ignored it.

Finally, just before the lack of air became unbearable, she released my nose. I gasped in a deep, desperate breath—only to immediately regret it. The air I had so desperately craved came laced with the putrid scent of her feet. A twisted mix of relief and agony flooded my senses.

"Good… Deep inhale," she cooed.

And then—just as I started recovering—her toes clamped down again, cutting off my air once more.

The cycle repeated. Hold. Release. Gasp. Suffer.

"Deep inhale… Yes, just like that," she hummed, clearly enjoying herself.

After five or six more rounds of this training regimen from hell, she finally seemed satisfied. With a satisfied sigh, she let her foot rest lazily against my tape-sealed mouth again, as if nothing had happened.

After a few more unbearable minutes, Mónica finally lifted her feet off me.

I twisted my head from side to side, stretching my neck after the uncomfortable position against the floor, greedily inhaling fresh air.

"Excellent work," Monica cooed, her voice dripping with amusement. "That exercise not only strengthened your fingers, providing me with an exceptional deep-tissue foot massage, I guess hehe.
But... also.... Served as a valuable humility-conditioning routine!...."

Even she knew that nothing she was saying made any sense—she was just making it up as she went. I ignored whatever she said after that.

The next thing I saw Mónica do was pull her phone out and snap a blackmail-worthy picture of me—tied up, gagged, and helpless on the floor.

I let out a muffled grunt through the gag, twisting and squirming, trying in vain to move out of the camera’s view.

Unbothered, Mónica lifted her phone and took a selfie, capturing her cheerful expression alongside the pitiful image of her husband, restrained beneath her.

Then came another picture—this time with her feet pressed against my face, the unpleasant smell hitting me all over again. She snapped four or five more shots, ignoring my writhing struggles.

“We’re training, aren’t we? And what’s a good training session without a few little pictures?”

Finally, after the impromptu photo shoot, she lifted her feet off me and stood up.
I could only groan in quiet humiliation.

Then she crouched down to my level, and our eyes met. There was something in her gaze—sexy, mischievous, and utterly intoxicating—that made me resent the fact that I was bound and unable to do something more... conventional for a couple.

Slowly, she peeled the strip of tape from my lips, the adhesive pulling painfully against my chapped skin.
The moment my mouth was free, I spat out the foul, soggy ball of socks that had been stuffed inside, now damp and reeking.

"Agh! Monica, what the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Tsk, tsk... Seems like you still need more training. Sweeten your tone for me."

"You know I despise being gagged with your filthy socks! Let me go!"

My protests were cut short as she leaned back onto the couch, casually lifting her left foot and pointing it directly at my face.

"Monica! Don’t you dare...—"

My threat was silenced as her foot pressed against my lips, warm, damp, and carrying the unmistakable musk of a long day at the gym. My body tensed with disgust, my eyes widening as the pungent scent assaulted my senses.

"Open."

Not in a million years. I clenched my jaw shut, resisting with every fiber of my being, my stomach twisting in revulsion.

"Open," she repeated, this time with an edge of authority.

When I still refused, she sighed, tilting her head in mock disappointment. "Silly hubby… Don’t forget our little photo shoot and selfie session.
If you keep playing the part of a spoiled brat, I won’t hesitate to post our special gym training session on my Insta—Capiche?"

The implication sent a shiver down my spine. My pride battled against the horrifying alternative, but in the end, I surrendered, reluctantly parting my lips. Monica’s foot slid inside, her chuckle sending a fresh wave of humiliation through me.

The sensation was overwhelming. The initial contact was slick with sweat, the salty tang hitting my tongue immediately.

The awful foot pressed against my palate, toes wiggling slightly as if testing the fit. The taste was a wretched mix of stale perspiration and fabric-softener-turned-sour. The grime from a full day of workouts clung to my taste buds, a cocktail of salt, leather, and something disturbingly human.

I gagged instinctively, my throat spasming as my tongue recoiled, but Monica held firm, pushing deeper.
My breath hitched as I fought the impulse to retch.

"See?" Monica purred. "You’re learning already."

"BMPHTCH... "

"Alright, next part of your regimen… Worship and savor every inch of your beloved wife’s feet with thoroughness and reverence. Think of it as a sensory evaluation—experiencing the full results of my training."

My wife went on with this whole act, trying way too hard to make it seem like there was some deeper meaning behind this ordeal—like it wasn’t just her own personal payback.
The more she played it up, the more I cringed and felt completely fed up.

As she spoke, her foot shifted inside my mouth, her toes teasing my tongue, rubbing against my inner cheeks. My stomach twisted at the thought of what she expected me to do next.

"Go on, lick… Don’t tell me you can’t handle it. I only go to the gym to take selfies, how bad could they possibly taste?"

Mónica had forgotten that tasting feet is never a pleasant experience—no matter what kind of day the foot had been through.

I hesitated, but Monica wasn’t a woman who tolerated delays. She flexed her foot slightly, pressing the musky toes down against my tongue. With no way out, I gave in, dragging my tongue across the toes in a reluctant, slow motion. The taste was even worse in motion—the accumulated sweat and grime spreading over my tongue.

Monica hummed in satisfaction. "Good boy. Keep going."

She guided me through the process, making sure I covered every part. From each toe, and even the spaces in between, to her arch to the ball of her foot.
The pace was relentless—just as I thought I might get a moment to breathe, she switched feet, smirking as I had to start all over again.

Just to make things even worse for me, she pulled out her phone again to continue that nightmare of a photo shoot.
Among the pictures, one stood out where her pedicured feet rested delicately against my lips; another showed her entire arch pressing down, forcing my jaw open as wide as it could go. And then there was one taken from above, with Monica grinning mockingly at the camera.

I didn’t even bother complaining—it was pointless. I just refused to look at the camera, out of sheer pride (whatever was left of it).

In the final selfie, Monica told me to “pose” for the camera. When I refused, she pressed her foot even harder against my already tormented mouth. So I "posed"—begrudgingly—looking straight into the lens.

Monica laughed.
When she got bored of that, she just went back to watching TV.

Time lost all meaning. The only sound in the room was the low hum of the television in the background, broken only by Monica’s occasional instructions. "Slower. More thorough. No skipping the toes." My jaw ached from the effort, and my tongue felt raw.

"That mouth of yours is always so eager to spew out know-it-all remarks, isn’t it? Let’s put it to better use—worshipping my feet with the same enthusiasm."

My torment continued for what felt like an eternity—roughly another half hour—while the movie reached what could barely be called its climax.
Eventually, Monica slid her foot out of my mouth, leaving behind a mixture of relief and exhaustion.

I gasped for air, genuinely drained. My fingers still throbbed from endlessly massaging her feet, my body ached from being tied up, and my jaw burned from both chewing on the gag earlier and now working tirelessly to serve her whims.

"Mon… babe… please…"

"Oh, come on, you’re not even halfway through your routine."

"Time out!" I begged, forcing my eyes into their most pitiful, pleading expression.

Monica shifted comfortably in her seat, her lips curling into a soft, affectionate smile. Had my plea actually worked?

"Oh… are you exhausted? Mmm, well, an essential part of training is rest between sets. Do you want a break from worshipping my feet?"

"Please…" I croaked, every fiber of my being hoping she’d grant me mercy. A sarcastic remark burned at the back of my throat, but I swallowed it down, knowing all too well where that would lead.

"Alright," she said sweetly. "A well-earned break, right?"

Relief barely had time to settle in before I saw her lean down, picking up the same damp socks she had previously stuffed into my mouth.

"What are you doing?"

"Just because you get a break from licking my feet doesn’t mean I want to hear you talking."

"Babe! No—!"

Faster than I could react, Monica pinched my nose shut. I clenched my lips together, trying to resist, but we both knew this was a battle I was destined to lose. She watched with a smirk, enjoying the struggle, until my lungs finally betrayed me. The second my mouth opened to gasp for air, she seized the opportunity, shoving the damp, reeking socks past my lips.

"I beg—mmph!"

The taste hit immediately, stale and sour, the fabric heavy with the sweat of her workout. Before I could even process the humiliation, Monica pressed three strips of duct tape over my lips, sealing the foul gag in place with practiced efficiency.

I twisted against the duct tape once more—not out of any real hope of escape, but as a reflex born of pure frustration. The endless humiliation was starting to wear me down.

"Mpgh!! Mmphm!?!"

Meanwhile, Monica twirled the half-used roll of duct tape in her hands, examining it with an amused smirk. Judging by how much was left, it was clear this wasn’t its first use. And knowing Monica, I could guess exactly where the rest of it had gone—more of her one-sided bondage games.

"You know, I've been kind of careless," she mused. "I forgot to restock my tape supply. Hehe… and this is my last roll. It was a relief to find a spare in my bag, though."

I rolled my eyes. Oh, sure, what a relief.

"That means I have to save what's left for another day. There's not much, but it's still enough to tie your hands and feet properly… you know, in case I forget to restock again."

At this point, my thoughts drifted elsewhere.

"So, I'll go to bathroom and after that, to grab the ropes from the garage. Stay put…"

With that, Monica stood up and left me alone in the living room. The remnants of the movie still flickered on the screen, though she clearly hadn’t been paying much attention to it. Not that I cared about it either.

Why is she going for the ropes now? Am I not tied up enough already? I thought, exasperated.
I didn’t even bother struggling against my bonds or the gag. I was too drained for that crap. There was some wiggle room in the tape, but I could feel a bit of give. Given enough time, I might be able to wriggle free.
But I also knew Monica wasn’t going to give me that time.

After a few minutes of mind-numbing captivity, Monica returned, clumsily dragging a long bench press bar across the floor loaded with a pair of plates on each side

"Look what I found! It was covered in dust in the garage. Have you ever even used this? I don’t even remember seeing you touch it."

I narrowed my eyes at her, silently expressing my irritation.

"Haha, I’m just messing with you… but honestly, it’s been, what, three years since you worked out? Think you can still lift your old weight?"

She dragged the bar up to my feet, turns off the TV and grabbed my bound ankles, and lifted them onto the cold metal, pressing them against it with a mischievous grin.

With a pair of scissors—probably taken from the garage as well—Mónica cut through the tape binding my ankles together. Without missing a beat, she grabbed a length of rope, undoubtedly from the same source, and began securing each of my ankles separately to the barbell's rod. I didn’t even try to resist; my hands were still tied, and any struggle would be useless.

A few minutes later, both my ankles were firmly pressed against the cold metal bar, bound securely in place.

Mónica then reached down and began untying my shoes.

"MMPHHMNCH!!!"
I protested against my gag, my muffled cries falling on amused ears.

"We keep so many useful things in the garage! Look!" Mónica grinned, holding up a feather that had been a trusty companion in our "previous games."
I groaned in horror the moment I saw it, already anticipating the torment that awaited me.

"Wait! Something's missing!"

She stood up suddenly, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Her discarded sneaker lay nearby, abandoned.
With practiced hands, she grabbed it and pressed it firmly against my face, securing it in place with three strips of tape around my head.

Immediately, the stale, pungent aroma of sweat-drenched fabric invaded my nostrils. The shoe, well-worn from countless workouts, reeked of old perspiration and rubber, a nauseating blend that made my stomach churn. The more I breathed, the deeper the stench settled, coating my senses with its putrid hold.

"I promise this is the last thing I’m using the tape for this time!" she chirped playfully, as if that made my predicament any less torturous.

She gracefully settled back into her position at my bound feet, her fingers toying with the feather as I continued my futile struggle against the rancid sneaker plastered to my face. The stale air and the ever-present musk of worn-in soles clung to my throat, making me gag involuntarily. But then, the true torment began.

...

Mónica brought the feather down, its delicate tip grazing the sensitive skin along my arch. My body jerked in response, a muffled whimper escaping me as the sensation sent a jolt through my nervous system. My feet twitched, but the bindings held me firm; there was no escape.

"MHMPHMMM MPHMMMP!! MPCMHNMM!"

She continued her slow, deliberate strokes, tracing the curves of my soles, teasing the space between my toes, drawing out every possible reaction from me.
I tried to squirm desperately against my sticky restraints while stifling a laugh behind my gag.

“Come on! Figure out a way to lift it! This used to be the weight you used to lift, remember? If you’d stayed in shape, you could handle this no problem. All I see now is you squirming around like an idiot, haha!”

Laughter bubbled up uncontrollably from my throat, strained and desperate behind the gag. My muscles burned with the effort of trying to pull away, but the barbell kept my feet locked in place. There was no leverage, no strength left to fight it.

Time blurred as the relentless feather explored every inch of my helpless soles. The exhaustion set in, making my body sluggish, my lungs aching from the forced laughter. The warmth of exertion crept through me, and with it, a cruel side effect—the heat made the shoe’s stench even more unbearable. The stale odor intensified, fresh waves of acrid sweat and filling my nose with each labored breath.

Mónica giggled. "Oh, poor baby, you’re really feeling it now, huh?"
I groaned, unable to answer, lost in a whirlwind of ticklish torment and suffocating stench.

After a few more minutes of tickle torture, Monica finally stopped. I was utterly exhausted from involuntarily squirming around, the stench of the shoe pressed against my face making me gag, my breathing still rapid and uneven.
The duct tape wrapped around my wrists had loosened even more after my struggle—if I had any energy left, I might have been able to free myself. But the relentless tickling had drained me completely.

My feet were numb from the pressure of being tied to the weight bar and all the failed attempts to break free...
I just lay there, motionless, trying to catch my breath—dizzy, drained, and utterly spent.

Monica stood up and slowly walked around me, clearly admiring the aftermath of her work.

She moved down to my feet, quickly and efficiently untying them from the weight bar. With a light kick, she sent the weight rolling away in the opposite direction.
A wave of relief washed over me as my numb feet finally touched the floor, free for the first time in what felt like ages.
The constant struggling against the ropes and the cold steel of the bar had left my ankles sore and aching.

"Having fun?" Monica asked mockingly as she picked up again the pair of scissors from before.
Then, she straddled me, settling her hips and backside directly over my "area".
She gave a subtle sway of her hips, casting me a knowing, playful glance-expecting some kind of reaction. But I was far too exhausted, too fed up, to care anymore.

Still straddling me, she leaned down slightly and used the scissors to cut the tape that had held the sneaker to my face.
The moment the shoe was freed, I gasped, finally breathing in fresh air after what felt like an eternity of inhaling the rancid stench of a post-workout sneaker.

"Pfft… drama queen," Monica scoffed as she casually tossed the shoe behind her.
"I mean, come on. I just go to the gym to take selfies and hang out—how bad could that shoe possibly smell?"

By now, it had to be the third or fourth time she made that same remark—I didn’t even bother to dignify it with a response.

Suddenly, I felt her hand grab my cheeks with playful force, squeezing them together and forcing me to look at her, which also made me bite down harder on the gag.

“Mphnk tphm mphmk?”

“Listen closely,” she said, her tone serious. “I’m going to untie your hands now… but don’t get too excited. You’re far from done with your little ‘routine.’ I’m just going to re-tie your hands behind your back—with rope this time.”

“Mmphymt…” I let out a faint groan, expressing my frustration at the fact she was planning to prolong my torment even further.

“That means, for a few seconds, you’ll be completely untied. I trust you understand who’s in control here, yeah? No funny business, no escape attempts—got it?”

"Mphhmmm.."

I nodded—or at least as much as her grip on my face would allow.
"Good… You better behave," she warned with a smirk. "You wouldn’t want me to overpower you again, would you? The last thing your ego needs is another reminder of just how easily I can take control."

Truth be told, I was almost certain that under different circumstances, I could take Monica down without much effort. Our difference in height and weight still tilted the odds heavily in my favor. If it came to it, I could probably tackle her—or at the very least, break free from her grip.
But right now, she was on top of me, and I was worn out from being tied up and tickle-tortured. She had every advantage.
Sure, I could try something… but if I failed, she’d make sure I paid for it.
At this point, surrendering and playing along seemed like the only logical choice.

Monica picked up the scissors and moved toward me.

Just when I expected her to start cutting, she paused, eyeing me thoughtfully. Then came that familiar, mischievous smile.

“Hold on… this position’s kind of awkward. I can’t untie you like this.”

She stood up from atop me—but not before delivering one last teasing bounce on my sausage.

She walked slowly toward my head, every step calculated.
Then, with a graceful motion, she began to lower herself over me, inch by inch...

"Wmph mm hmphm...?!!!"

With horror, I watched as Monica’s legging-clad ass descended toward my face.
I tried to arch my head away, but it was already too late—darkness fell abruptly over my vision as the pressure of my wife's thighs closed tightly around my head.

Her grip was merciless. The sheer force of her body pinned me down with no hope of escape. Even the slack in my least restrictive bonds did nothing to help me squirm free.

The scent of her sex, unmistakable and overwhelming, invaded my senses. My nose, trapped and buried, had no choice but to breathe her in. And yet, she applied just the right amount of pressure—not enough to suffocate or crush me, but enough to hold me there, helpless and immobilized.

"This—this is the position I was aiming for! You didn’t expect me to untie you in an uncomfortable posture, did you?" my wife teased, her tone mocking as she lightly ground her ass against my face. The subtle motion pressed her scent even deeper into my nostrils, flooding me with the musky aroma of her arousal. My now-freed legs kicked aimlessly, desperate for leverage or relief.

When Mónica finally seemed satisfied with her little game, she reached for the scissors and sliced through the tape pinning my arms to my chest. However, she deliberately left my wrists bound together. With slow, exaggerated mockery, she took the end of the tape and began to pull—inch by inch—relishing every second.

Though my face remained imprisoned in the humid, suffocating darkness, my arms felt a wave of relief with every millimeter of tension released. It was the only mercy in that cruel moment.

Finally, she was done. For the first time in what felt like forever, no restraints bound my body—except for the putrid gag in my mouth and Mónica’s ass still pinning my head beneath her.

Then, with a slight upward shift of her hips, she pressed firmly down on my nose, forcing out a groan of pain before finally lifting herself and standing tall above me. My aching head was free at last, though my pride remained crushed beneath her.

"All done! You do remember you promised to cooperate, right?" she asked sweetly, towering over me with playful menace.

"Mmmmph..." I moaned, nodding weakly, my body still trembling from the day’s relentless torments. My vision struggled to readjust to the light as I twisted my neck, trying to relieve the throbbing pain.

"Aww, poor thing… exhausted already?" she cooed with false sympathy. "You know what they say—no pain, no gain!"

"Mphm.... Mphmm..." I let out a muffled, sarcastic laugh through the gag — and even in my silenced state, the tone was unmistakably mocking.

Mónica grinned at my defiance.
"Oh really? Come on now, roll over. Not all of us have all day," she taunted in a singsong voice, punctuating her command with a light, playful kick to my hip, clearly growing impatient.

With more resignation than willingness, I forced my aching, stiff body to twist over.
I collapsed onto my stomach, breathing heavily as I managed to place my bound hands behind my back in a gesture of surrender.

The pathetic display earned a soft giggle from Mónica, who wasted no time straddling me and grabbing the coils of rope.
"That’s my obedient boy…" she cooed with mock affection.

Her endless energy was on full display as she quickly tied my wrists together again—this time in a simple X-shape. To my surprise and minor relief, it wasn’t overly tight, but let’s not confuse not too tight with not secure.

My legs weren’t so lucky. In a flash, I felt her bending and folding them, lifting each one effortlessly as I anticipated the dreaded hogtie. My muscles tensed in preemptive despair.

Instead, Mónica improvised. She opted for a frogtie, securing each ankle to its corresponding thigh in a snug, uncomfortable bend.

It wasn't a total nightmare—I’d dodged the hogtie, at least. But even in this position, there was little comfort to be found. My legs, now folded unnaturally beneath me, were already starting to throb from the strain.

I let a low groan. Somehow, the lingering scent of Monica’s pussy still clung to my face.
I watched as she stood up and walked over to the couch, where her gym bag rested. A few seconds later, she returned—holding a bundle of resistance bands, each a different color.

She knelt down beside me, wrapped one of the bands tightly around my frogtied leg, doubled it over itself to increase the tension, and secured it snugly over my already existing restraints. Then she did the same to my other leg. The added bands pressed tightly against my bindings, squeezing me even more and completely cutting off any access I might have had to the knots.

Then she leaned closer with a pink band. With a wicked grin, she stretched it and wrapped it over my eyes, blindfolding me. Not satisfied with a single loop, she folded it over itself, pulled tighter, and gave it another full twist, cinching it down until the pressure made it impossible to peek through.

I heard her rise, let out a short laugh, and the unmistakable click of a phone camera.

“Hehe… Look at you. Total gymrat now, huh? This routine’s perfect for hamstring mobility!”

I heard Monica sink into the couch, and almost immediately, her feet found their way to my face, rubbing slowly and mockingly against my skin. I tried to turn my head away, to pull back from her soles, but she insisted on keeping them close pressing them in with playful persistence.

In the background, I could hear the sounds of TikTok videos playing from her phone, as if this were just another lazy evening for her. Her foot play grew lazier, until finally the soles simply rested firmly on my face.

The stench had faded slightly with time, but not nearly enough to stop it from being torturous. The only thing that marked time’s passage were the looping videos she watched. After what must have been ten minutes, Monica finally spoke:

"How do they smell, sweetheart?"

"MMPMFY MPHMMD..."

"Aww, poor thing. Tired of having my sweaty gym socks shoved in your mouth all day? Want me to take them out?"

"Mphmphy..." I groaned and nodded desperately.

Monica stood up and came closer. I felt her fingers peel away the strip of tape from my lips with a quick yank and without hesitation, I spat out the wretched, soggy bundle that had been haunted me since the afternoon.

"So... they don’t taste like socks from someone who just goes to the gym to take selfies, huh?"

*"Ugh... no..." I gave her the answer she wanted.

Monica let out a triumphant little laugh.
"That’s what I thought, dumbass."

She dropped back onto the couch and once again brought her feet up to my face. This time, she aimed directly at my lips. I clenched my mouth shut, trying to resist, but with the blindfold on, I couldn’t see her next move, and had no way to dodge her properly.

"Oh come on... I said I’d give you a break. Don’t be stubborn—I still want you to worship them a little more"

"Please, Mo—" I began to plead, but that was all the opening she needed.

Monica took the chance to push her toes past my lips, silencing me instantly.

"MGKMPHMKK!!"

“Come on. Start sucking.”

Reluctantly, I obeyed. Just like with the smell, the taste had dulled a bit over time—especially after my earlier session—but make no mistake, it still tasted like ripe, sweaty feet.

Following her orders, I ran my tongue across every inch of both soles, licking obediently while she sighed with satisfaction. After a brief but humiliating repeat of the ritual, Monica finally pulled her feet away, leaving my mouth empty at last.

I was left panting, my jaw sore and my body trembling from the exhaustion. My mind drifted toward a desperate plea for release—until I heard the couch creak and Monica’s steps drawing closer.

“Up.”

With a firm grip on my side and a not-so-gentle pull, she helped me into a kneeling position in front of the couch, still completely bound.

“Monica, I really think I’ve had enough—”

“Shh… I’m not done with you.”

She sat back down and wrapped her legs around my torso, pulling me close with her thighs, locking me into place.

“I thought this made it perfectly clear I can kick your ass any time I want. And that I don’t go to the gym just to slack off.”

"I was just joking when I said that, babe! You didn’t have to go this far—!”

“Crybaby.” she chuckled, running her fingers through my hair. “You know I love having you bound for me. You look thirsty. Want some water?”

“Please…” I whispered, defeated.

I heard the crinkle of a plastic water bottle in her hands.

“Open wide.”

I parted my lips, expecting the mouth of the bottle. Instead, I felt her lips against mine—soft, insistent, and warm. She’d taken a sip of water first, and now she was pouring it into my mouth mid-kiss.

It was a strange, intoxicating mix: the cool rush of water and the heat of her kiss colliding. I tried not to choke, struggling to swallow as she transferred it between us, her tongue guiding the stream while keeping me firmly in place. The kiss was overwhelming, erotic, even tender in a cruel sort of way.

When she finally pulled back, she held my chin gently between her fingers.

“Mmm… you taste like feet. Hehehe.”

"Thanks to who?!” I coughed, chin dripping with leftover water.

“Oh hush! It's just harmless fun.” Her voice was mockingly sweet. “You deserved it for breaking my heart with that little jab about the gym.”

“Okay, okay! I get it! Please, can you untie me now?”

“Alright, alright, Mr. Impatient. But you still seem thirsty. Want more water?”

“Yes, but untie me afterward!”

“Deal. Here we go again. Open up.”

This time, I opened my mouth expecting her lips again—eager, even, but instead-

I felt something thick press against my teeth. Cold and metalic. Before I could react, it pushed in between my jaws and spread them wide. Straps followed, wrapping around my cheeks.

I jerked in surprise, but my bondage held firm, and with Monica’s legs coiled tightly around my torso, I could barely flinch, let alone pull away.
This ring gag kept my mouth open and left me helplessly exposed,
Monica tightened the strap behind my head, locking my jaw in an uncomfortable, humiliating position. Saliva began to gather at the corners of my lips.

“There we go!” Monica purred, sadistic satisfaction in her voice.
“Much better. Now I can really hydrate you properly.”

Before I could even attempt a frustrated protest, Monica took hold of my chin and gently tilted my face upward with her hand.

“Here it comes,” she sang sweetly.

And before I realized what was happening, a slow stream of water began to pour into my mouth. I’d been half-expecting another Kiss, foolish, maybe but instead I drank reluctantly, careful not to choke. The lingering taste of feet still clung to my tongue, at that moment, anything was better than nothing.

I could hear her soft, condescending giggles as she poured—probably savoring the image of me, helpless and thirsty, drinking from her like some obedient little pet.

After a few seconds, the stream stopped. I heard the bottle being set aside. Then, the familiar scent of her perfume enveloped me again.

Her lips found my neck, trailing a series of tender, affectionate kisses across my skin. She had that strange habit of becoming sweet and sensual right after tormenting me—maybe as some twisted way of making it easier for me to forgive her.

Her legs were still wrapped tightly around my kneeling body, and I could feel the way she began to tighten her grip again, her hips subtly grinding against me, her breath warm against my skin. Soft moans escaped her lips as she pressed in closer, losing herself in the moment.

“You know what’s the best part?” she whispered into my ear.
“Today… I really wanted to tie your ass up.”

"GMLKM.. HNNG...."

“Your fate was sealed the second I walked through that door… But the good thing is... I can always count on my dumb hubby to say something stupid that gives me the excuse I need.”

"NKPH... GHHHM!?!" I groaned—a confused mix of frustration and helpless affection.

“You really were my little footslut today, weren’t you?”

I felt her legs loosen their grip around me, and her hand slid down toward my crotch. Her fingers wrapped around me without hesitation.

“And what about this dumbbell?” she purred.
“Someone’s very excited… Should I train with it a little?”

"Hnnnnm…" I whimpered and nodded, fully defeated.

"Ha! You wish you were that lucky. I already finished my workout—you’re the one getting a routine now,” she taunted, releasing me from her grip entirely.

A pang of disappointment hit me instantly—shameful, almost pathetic. My body reacted on instinct, writhing weakly and useless in protest.

Monica leaned in close once more, returning to my face. She didn’t say a word now. Just soft, warm breath and endless kisses rained down across my cheeks, my jaw, my lips.

...

After a few long minutes of relentless kissing and silent teasing, I felt Monica finally release the pressure of her legs around me and rise to her feet. With deceptive tenderness, she eased me back down onto the floor—still bound, blindfolded, and gagged, like an object no longer needed.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” she said casually. “Maybe I’ll untie you afterwards…”

"Nghh! PHLZGH!!" I growled through the gag, writhing furiously in protest.

“Ugh, don’t be such a pain in the ass. I’m all sweaty and exhausted.”

"Uhnntmm nghh!!"

“Oh no... don’t tell me—” her voice turned mockingly sharp, “you’re not assuming I don’t need a shower because I didn’t get sweaty… because I didn’t actually work out… and maybe I just went to the gym to take selfies, right? You’re not insinuating that, are you?”

I knew exactly where this was going. I stopped struggling, let out a small defeated groan, and shook my head slowly.
"Mphnnnnnm..."

"That’s what I thought,” she cooed, smug as ever. As if sealing the moment, she pressed her foot gently against my nose—a humiliating little goodbye kiss.
“Don’t miss me too much.”

I heard her footsteps fade toward the bathroom. I lay there, powerless, humiliated, and still restrained. My chin was soaked with drool—the gag forced my mouth open, and after all the kissing and teasing, I was drenched.

I squirmed a little more, mostly out of instinct, before quickly giving up again. There was no point in wasting energy.

I’d reached that stage of captivity where the fight drains out of you, and you simply wait—obedient, exhausted, silently praying for release.

I spent the entire duration of Monica’s shower like that with saliva steadily dripping down my chin.

Roughly twenty minutes later, I heard the door open. Her soft sandals padded back into the room, and I could even feel the warmth of bathroom steam lingering in the air.

“Still right where I left you,” Monica chimed playfully.

She pressed her foot against my face again. The foul smell from earlier was gone—replaced by a soft, clean scent maybe something like eucalyptus and mint, but despite the pleasant aroma, the gesture was no less humiliating.

The foot retreated, and then I heard her voice again, closer.

"Here, a little snack.”

Suddenly, something soft and damp was pushed into my open mouth. I gagged instinctively, groaning at the unmistakable flavor. I didn’t need to see it to know what it was.

Still humid and sticky from recent use, her panties filled my mouth easily. I instinctively tried to spit them out, pushing with my tongue—but before I could manage anything, Monica lowered the resistance band blindfold, pulling it tightly over my cheeks and securing it firmly over the ring gag already holding my mouth open.

Sight returned to me at last… but at what cost.
I groaned, furious and humiliated, twisting feebly in protest as Monica just laughed.

“So warm… and soaked in my love juice just for you.”

Now that I could see again, I finally took in the sight of my wife: Monica, fresh from the bath, her hair loose and damp, skin glowing from the heat, wrapped in a soft white robe that clung loosely to her body. She looked completely different from how she’d arrived earlier that day.

Back then, she’d been bold, seductive, feral. Now she looked domestic. Casual. Almost… maternal. A loving wife.

But the illusion shattered the moment she flashed that sadistic little smile… and I remembered exactly what she’d just stuffed into my mouth without hesitation.

“I think you’re almost done with your workout! You did great.”

She knelt beside me and began unfastening the resistance bands from around my legs.

“Buuuut… I think you’ve still got one last challenge to complete, before we call it a day.”

She stood again, walked calmly across the room, placing the bands back in her gym bag. Then she turned, returning to me with a pair of scissors.

“I thought, as punishment for slacking off and letting me get stronger than you… you should work a little to get back some stamina. And your manhood.”

Monica stepped away and placed the scissors on the floor—just a few feet out of reach.
I let out a muffled, desperate groan, eyes pleading. She only winked in return.

“Yknow,” she purred, “I’m really turned on right now... If you manage to free yourself, I’ll reward you. I’ll please you... the way I know you love. No restraints, no tricks, no torture... How does that sound?”

She threw me a wicked look full of complicity. And honestly I was desperate for some kind of reward after all this.

“But... if you fail don’t expect a rescue.
I’m probably not that cruel. If you haven’t finished by the time I’m done with everything, I’ll come for you—untie your legs so you can walk, take you to bed… but you’re spending the night just like that. Tied up. Don’t expect a reward in that case… I might even tease you a little before falling asleep."

"NMHPMNNNNN WMHNN!” I cried out in panic, wide-eyed at the idea of being left like this all night.

“Need a little push? Here's your inspiration…”

With that, Monica slowly opened her bathrobe, revealing her naked, glistening body beneath. I started speechless painfully aware of everything I couldn’t touch.
After a few seconds, she modestly wrapped the robe around herself again.

“I’ve got to brush my hair, do my skincare, maybe read a chapter or two.
So… you’ve got some time.”

She approached once more, gave me a “kiss” on the nose with her foot, and whispered:

“Don’t make me wait too long…”

With a sadistic smile, she licked her lips and blew me a kiss, then turned and walked into the bedroom. I heard the door click shut behind her.

Driven by lust, I began wriggling like a worm toward the scissors.
I was determined.

Eventually, I reached them. My fingers, numb and awkward, fumbled for the handles. I managed to lift them and bring the blades toward my bonds.

*Clink-*

They slipped from my hand. The sound of metal hitting the floor made my heart drop.

I cursed through the gag and squirmed, forcing my hands to work in that awful, contorted position. After severaI seconds found them again. Reached. Grabbed. Angled.

*Clink-*

The scissors fell again.

...

Ten minutes passed like this. I’d managed to cut a few strands. The bondage felt looser, but not enough. I kept going, cutting blindly, scraping skin, teeth clenched around that disgusting wad of panties. Drool was leaking down my chin, pooling on the floor beneath me. I grunted. Struggled. Sweat ran down my neck.

*Clink-*

"FFFUMMMMMPK HMMNNNNH!!!"
I shouted in pure frustration, thrashing weakly in my restraints. Exhausted, I let my head fall against the cold floor. Drool—still thick with the taste of her panties—spilled from my mouth.

I felt defeated. I nearly gave up...

But then I saw her again in my mind: Monica, naked, offering herself as a reward. That image alone was enough to light a fire in me again.

One more try… I told myself.

...

*Clink-?*

[TapeBondage123]

Great story!!

[LunaDog]

Now THAT is what one calls a workout!

[milagros317]

Fabulous story!
What a wife ...