No Country for Lazy Men (F/M)

[Boundhisattva90]

There’s something therapeutic about coming home after a grueling shift at the office — loosening your tie, cracking open a cold one, and wasting time on Warzone. It must’ve been around five when I slumped into the couch, Xbox controller in hand, and let the hours slip through my fingers.
The only breaks I took were to grab a beer from the fridge. It was Friday. I figured I’d earned it.

Before I knew it, the hours slipped away, and the evening sun crept through the blinds, the warm hues of dusk creeping lazily through the window.
It was the first time all week I’d had a chance to play, and I was too focused to care about the world outside my screen.

At some point, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen out of the corner of my eye — dishes piling up in the sink, the stove smeared with oil stains, a couple of plates and utensils still on the dining table. The thought of cleaning it crossed my mind, sure, briefly.
It wasn’t my chore day anyway. Even if it was, it’s not like the mess was going anywhere. It could wait until tomorrow.

Idiot. I should’ve done the damn chores.

A couple of beers later, I was sprawled out on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table — shoes and all, empty cans scattered nearby like trophies. King of the castle.
Night had crept in unnoticed, and I was deep in rankeds when I heard the familiar hum of my wife Mónica’s car pulling into the garage.

I’d completely lost track of time. I vaguely recalled her mentioning she’d be home late, but I hadn’t paid much attention. Now that I glanced at the clock, it was like 8 pm. Must’ve been one of those days where she got roped into staying extra. She was probably exhausted. Frustrated. And here I was, beer in hand, ass glued to the couch, house still a mess.

I heard the front door unlock, and I quickly slid my feet off the table, trying to look less… slothful. Didn’t want my body language ratting me out, even if the empty cans painted a pretty damning picture. I considered getting rid of them, but the match was at its peak — no way I could risk stepping away now.

Thinking fast, I fished a mint from my pocket and popped it into my mouth, hoping to mask the lingering taste of beer. I couldn’t hide the cans, but at least my breath wouldn’t scream Miller Lite.

Just as I heard the door open, it hit me: the chores. She’d probably had a nightmare of a day, and imagine if she’d come home to a spotless house, everything cleaned and ready for her to relax. That would've scored me some serious points — maybe even earned me a little… reward later. If you catch my drift.

Then again, after the kind of shift she’d had, she probably wouldn’t have the energy for anything like that. Whatever. Not like it mattered.

I kept savoring the candy in my mouth while I continued my streak in Warzone, and I could hear Monica’s heels clicking on the floor as she made her way toward the living room.

Mónica appeared — my wife. A stunning woman standing at 5'7 (damn, she’s somewhat tall), with a pretty face framed by a sleek, straight black bob.
A impeccable figure, Long, sexy legs, a nice ass, and breasts that, while nothing to write home about, were still decent.
Now, in her sharp sales executive look — a button-up shirt, tailored blazer, pencil skirt with sheer tan pantyhose and a pair of black 3 inches block heel pumps (as if she needed the extra height) — she looked hot.

But her face… her face told another story. It showed just how rough work had been today — and how little patience she had left.
Don’t get me wrong, she looked good with her makeup… She looked stunning — it was her gaze and "aura" that screamed trouble.

“Hey… how’d it go, babe?” I asked, trying to play dumb

She sighed.

“Could’ve been better… could’ve been worse…” she muttered, slowly making her way toward the couch after turning on the lights in the living room. I could feel her eyes scanning the scene.
Trying to keep the mood light, my eyes stayed glued to the game. “Hey, at least you’re home now, right? Weekend’s finally here…”
“Yeah… I guess.” She plopped down on the other end of the couch with a heavy sigh. Her eyes flicked toward the TV — Warzone blaring on the screen — then to the empty beer cans scattered around. She let out a small, disapproving grunt.

I could feel her eyes on me — sharp and probing, silently dissecting the scene. If she weren’t so worn out from work, I was sure she’d already be raising her voice.

“How about you?” she asked, slipping off her heels and massaging her ankles.

“Oh… you know. Just another day at the office, counting the minutes till clock-out. Same old.”

“And after that…?"

For a few seconds, silence settled between us. The only sound was the rapid clicking of buttons on my controller. Looking back, I have no idea why I thought this "pretending nothing was wrong and focusing on my game" act was a smart move. Idiot.

“After that… uh… I came straight home to… wait for you! I missed you so much.”

I heard her stifle a laugh, but after a moment, a soft chuckle escaped her lips. Did I win? Had I diffused the tension?

“Uh-huh. Doesn’t look like you were missing me much… Seems like you’ve been having a blast.” She teased, her tone light but laced with sarcasm.

“Heh… you know how it is.”

Suddenly, I felt her fingers grip my thigh — playful, but with a hint of something else. I wasn’t expecting that. Was she in the mood? After a long day like today?

“Hey…” she said, her voice dipping just enough to catch my attention.
I stopped mashing buttons. There were more important things now. We’d been dominating the match anyway — not like it mattered.

“Yeah?” I asked, hopeful.
She leaned in slightly. “Wasn’t today… your turn to do the chores?”

…

Fuck.

I fell right into her trap.
“What? No! That can’t be right…” I scrambled to maintain my innocent act.
“Are you sure?”

"I'm sure it was... Looks like you forgot again."

"No!… I swear I didn’t!… This time I wouldn’t forget!"

In my defense, I remember setting an alarm a few days ago to remind me about the chores, and that darn alarm never went off all day. I could almost be sure it wasn’t my turn for the chores…

"And I distinctly remember making myself very clear about the importance of keeping this place clean.” Her grip on my leg tightened, just enough to make it uncomfortable

“Hey! Cut it out!” I yelped, twisting my leg free and scooting away from her. “Look, I don’t remember today being my turn, okay? And besides… it’s Friday. We’ve got all day tomorrow to clean. What’s the rush?”

She raised a brow, giving me that look — the one that said she wasn’t buying a damn word.

“I think you’re just cranky from work. Why don’t you relax, huh?” I added, hoping to shift the mood.

She stared at me for a moment, eyes narrowing. Then, with a long sigh, she stood up, straightened her skirt, and announced, “Maybe you’re right. I need a bath and some sleep.”
She turned and walked toward the bathroom, her steps slow and heavy, like the weight of the day still clung to her. As I watched her disappear down the hall, I exhaled.

Well, shit.

Didn’t seem like tonight was gonna be one of those nights after all. Maybe after some sleep, the mood would be better tomorrow. Yeah… the chores could wait.

The light from the TV flickered across the room, snapping me out of my daze as the game searched for another match. Guess we won the last one. Whatever.
I sighed, grabbed the controller, and muttered to myself, “What the hell… One more round."

As I focused on the game, the rest of the world faded into the background. My eyes locked onto the screen — the match was about to start. Fingers poised over the buttons, I barely noticed the faint shuffle behind me.

“Agh! What the—?!”

Suddenly, I was yanked backward into the couch, a playful but persistent force knocking me off balance. Before I could react, hands grabbed at my wrists, pinning me down. The controller slipped from my grip, landing with a dull thud on the carpet.

“Mónica?!” I twisted, trying to see what the hell was going on.

There she was — my wife, straddling me with a grin that stretched ear to ear. Gone was the tired, irritable woman from earlier; in her place was someone with a dangerous glint in her eyes. More concerning, though, was what rested hanging over her shoulders.
Various lengths of rope, neatly coiled and dangled ominously

“What the hell are you doing?!” I squirmed beneath her, trying to pull my arms free.

“Quit squirming, idiot.” She huffed, her tone light, almost teasing, but the grip on my wrists was anything but.

In the chaos, I slipped off the couch and hit the floor with a dull thud, landing flat on my stomach.

“Oof! Dammit!"

Before I could push myself up, she was on me. In one swift motion, she swung her legs over my back, planting herself firmly on my hips, her weight keeping me pinned down. I struggled, trying to roll over, but her thighs squeezed tighter, holding me in place.

“Quit squirming, i said.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper, but there was a hint of amusement beneath it.

“What the hell is this?!” I growled, still writhing under her.

She ignored me. Grabbing my wrists, she pulled them behind my back, crossing them at the base of my spine. I felt the rough texture of the rope brush against my skin as she looped it around my wrists, pulling tight with practiced ease. The fibers bit into my skin as the coils wrapped over and under, knotting securely in place.

I could feel her laughing softly under her breath, enjoying every second of my futile attempts to break free.

“Seriously?!” I hissed. “I told you I’d clean tomorrow!”

“Sure you will.”
But she wasn’t done. I felt her shift behind me, and soon the rope slithered across my chest, just below my shoulders, pressing against my upper arms. She wrapped the rope around my torso, pinning my biceps tight against my sides with each pass. Every loop brought my arms closer to my body, the tension making my chest feel constricted.

“Where did you learn this?” I grunted, testing the bonds again. My wrists were locked behind me, crossed and immobile, while my upper arms were squeezed against my ribs by the chest harness.

“Internet. You’d be surprised what you can pick up when you’re bored at work.” Her tone was almost playful, but again, the ropework was anything but.

She knelt beside me and pulled out another length of rope, threading it through the knots at my chest and down towards my wrists. I winced as she pulled it taut, linking the chest harness to the bindings around my hands. The connection made every slight movement echo through the rest of the ties — if I tried to lift my arms, the rope tugged at my wrists, and any attempt to shift my hands pulled the chest bindings tighter.

I sagged against the floor, testing the bonds once more. My arms barely moved, the ropes holding everything snug and secure. My crossed wrists rested low against my back, and every breath pushed against the ropes circling my chest.

“Mónica, stop this already! Weren’t you going to take a bath?” I protested, struggling against the ropes.

She scoffed. “You’re not the only one who can put on a show, silly.”

Once she was satisfied with the knots binding my wrists and upper arms — far too satisfied, if you ask me — she shifted her weight again, sliding down and planting herself backwards on top of me. Her hips pressed against my lower back as she turned her focus to my legs.

I kicked out instinctively, trying to squirm away, but her hands moved quickly, grabbing hold of my ankles. I felt the rope coil around them, the fibers tightening with each pass.

“You sure don’t seem that tired!” I grunted, twisting uselessly.

“Tee-hee, tying your ass up gives me energy!” she chirped.

“Mónica, stop! It’s not even my chore day—!”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Do you ever shut up? Where did I put the tape?”

I felt her weight lift off me as she got up, her barefeet tapping against the floor. My heart raced. Now or never.

With her back turned, I squirmed against the knots. My arms? Hopeless. Those knots weren’t going anywhere. But my ankles… the rope wasn’t secured yet. I twisted and kicked, prying my feet apart just enough to loosen the coils around my ankles. If I could just—

“Hey, hold it right there, Houdini.”

I froze. She was back. And worse — she had the duct tape.

She crouched in front of me, grabbing my chin and tilting my head upward, forcing me to look at her. Her grin was wide and smug as she tore a strip of tape off the roll with her teeth.

“No! Mónica, don’t—!”

The tape smothered my protest, sealing my lips shut with a firm press of her palm.

“Mmmnca! Mmmnff!” I thrashed, but she gave the tape a couple of light pats, ensuring it stuck.

“There. That’ll do for now,” she said sweetly, giving my cheek a playful tap before sliding back behind me.
I squirmed again, but she was relentless.

“Look at this mess… You don’t appreciate your wife’s hard work, huh?” she teased, tugging the ropes even tighter. I groaned into the gag

The ropes tightened around my ankles, cinching the loosened coils. Then came another set around my thighs, squeezing them together. The tension bit into my skin, even through the fabric of my trousers.
Almost prefer the duct tape at this point.

Then… I felt it. She grabbed my ankles and hoisted them into the air. My stomach dropped. I knew exactly what was coming.

"Mmmphh-nghh!"

In moments, she had tied my ankles to the rope binding my upper arms. The pull forced my legs to bend, leaving me stuck in a tight hogtie. As if that weren’t enough, she secured a second rope from my wrists to my thighs, keeping my hands locked close to my body.

Last time she tied me up, I somehow managed to get to my feet — arms tied behind my back, ankles bound — and hop my way across the room in search of something sharp. I made it halfway before I lost my balance and faceplanted into the couch. She caught me… and clearly, she wasn’t taking any chances this time.

"Hey! What do you think? Isn’t it much better this way? You should appreciate having a self-taught wife!" Mónica teased, her voice dripping with mischief.

My body strained against the ropes, but the more I fought, the tighter they dug into me. There was no way I was getting out of this one.

"Aww, poor baby," she cooed from above me, arms crossed, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "You look so cute when you’re struggling."

"Mmmphh!!" I tried to glare at her, but the heat rising to my face probably made it less intimidating and more adorable, which was not the effect I wanted.

She leaned down, brushing my hair back in a mockingly affectionate gesture.
"You had all day to clean the house, babe. But nooo, you just had to waste time. And now look at you. Helpless. Defenseless. Mine."

I jerked against the ropes again, but all it did was make me look like a fish flopping out of water.

Monica giggled. "Do that again. It’s hilarious."

I growled into the gag, which only made her laugh harder.

As I struggled, I heard Monica get to her feet and move behind me, out of my line of sight. She was doing something, but at the time I didn’t care — I was too focused on trying to free myself. Later, I’d understand what she had planned.

After a while, she came back around to face me and crouched down like before.

After a few more moments of watching me struggle, she finally sighed and pulled the gag from my mouth.

My lips ached from being released from the tape, and I gasped for air, ready to protest.

"Monica, seriously, this is—mmpph?!"

Before I could finish, something soft and silky was shoved into my mouth. My brain took a second to process… until I recognized the texture. My eyes went wide.

It was her used pantyhose.

The warmth from being freshly worn still clung to the fabric, and the taste was a mix of sweat and old cloth coated my tongue, invading my senses.
The material bunched up against my cheeks, filling my mouth to the point that I could barely move my tongue. I tried to spit it out, but Monica didn’t give me the chance.

"What? You think I’d let you talk just like that?" She leaned in with a wicked grin, pushing the fabric even deeper with her finger. I felt the pressure against my tongue as the bitter flavor intensified.

"Now be good and keep it in. I don’t want to hear any whining."

I shook my head, desperate, but she simply grabbed the silver duct tape and tore off a long strip with a loud RIP before pressing it firmly over my lips. She smoothed it out with the palm of her hand, making sure it stuck properly, then added another strip across the first one. The adhesive pulled at my skin slightly, and the rough texture of the tape felt harsh against my face. To top it off, she applied a third piece, giving my cheek a few playful pats as if rewarding a well-behaved puppy.

"There we go. Much better."

The heat of the gag and the rancid taste of the fabric made me shiver. Saliva pooled in my mouth, soaking the improvised stuffing while I struggled uselessly against the pressure of the ropes and the suffocating flavor now covering my mouth.

Mónica dusted her hands off and stood back to admire her handiwork.

I lifted my head, glaring at Monica, trying to convey my outrage at this level of punishment. But all I found was her gaze — fiery, playful, and filled with a dangerous kind of excitement. Her smirk practically screamed that she owned my ass tonight.

It was a stark contrast from the tired, frustrated expression she’d worn when she first came home. I supposed I was "glad" to see she wasn’t "angry" anymore… though, of course, at what price?

“Well,” she cooed, stretching her arms above her head, “if you insist on being a lazy, good-for-nothing slacker, the least I can do is get some use out of you!”

I twisted and squirmed a little more, but it was no use. The ropes refused to give even an inch. I hated this part — the moment of surrender when you realize there’s no escape. Still, burning all my energy fighting the knots wouldn’t do me any favors so I just let out a long breath, defeated and humiliated.

I glanced at the TV just in time to see the results of the last game. We’d lost.
My teammates were probably spamming the chat, blaming me for going AFK the entire match — thanks to someone. But honestly, that was the least of my worries right now.

Monica plopped herself back on the couch, sighing in satisfaction as she stretched out once more. "Let’s see… I think you’ll stay like that for a while. Maybe I’ll take a nice, long shower… eat something… watch a movie…" She flashed me a wicked grin. "And you? You’ll be busy serving me as a footstool."

I glared, but all that did was earn me an affectionate boop with her foot on the nose.

"Love you, honey~" she teased, blowing me a kiss before grabbing the remote.

The next thing I felt was my wife’s warm feet with bright red polish on her nails settling firmly on my back.
I let out a final, useless struggle against my bonds, twisting and pulling, but the ropes held tight.

The stale, sweat-scented fabric of her worn pantyhose still filled my mouth. I groaned in frustration, my body instinctively recoiling, but there was no escape from the taste.

You’d think the lingering taste of beer or caramel in my mouth would help lessen the torture, but hell no. The only flavor that dominated my senses was, without a doubt, that of freshly worn pantyhose. It was a hot summer day, and trust me — those pantyhose screamed that they’d been through a hot summer day. Just thinking about it made me gag.

Mónica let out a satisfied sigh, stretching her legs with a smug grin.

The next thing I heard was the console powering down while Monica put on some show about a woman becoming the owner of a basketball team — a snoozefest about "female empowerment" and all that jazz. Knowing that this was going to be the white noise to my suffering didn’t exactly lift my spirits.

About ten minutes later, "I need booze!" Monica announced, hopping to her feet and strolling toward the kitchen. She giggled as she passed me, like the wicked witch she was.

I didn’t even try to struggle anymore. I just rested my head against the floor, wondering how long I’d have to endure this.

Monica returned a few minutes later, now holding a glass of red wine and a sandwich from Subway, and plopped back onto the couch. Her feet found their way onto my back once again as she resumed her series.

I spent the next half hour lying there, shifting my body slightly whenever my joints screamed in protest from the awkward hogtie. The taste of her pantyhose lingered, stale and sour against my tongue, refusing to fade.

"You know," Monica suddenly piped up, swirling her wine. "This girl really inspires me! A woman making it in a man’s world, proving her worth surrounded by sexist pigs and…"
I tuned her out. The last thing I needed right now was her TED Talk on girl power.

"And sometimes," she continued, voice rising dramatically, "stupid men need to be put in their place to show that women can RULE THE WORLD!!"
Before I could process what she said, I felt her feet shift from my back to my face. Her warm and soft soles pressed against my cheek, pushing my head sideways until I was lying on my side, facing the couch.

"Case in point, huh?" she teased.

The stench hit me like a brick wall. The sour, musky scent of feet that had been trapped in pantyhose all day flooded my nostrils. Each twitch of her toes wafted the pungent odor directly into my face, making my stomach churn. The sweat clung to her skin, and when she rubbed her foot across my nose, the moisture smeared against me, leaving a clammy trail in its wake.

"You deserved to be put in your place today," she continued, wiggling her toes playfully. "Strutting around like you own the world, and you can’t even do a bit of housework. Jeez…"

Eventually, she got bored of grinding her feet into my face — but that didn’t mean she moved them. They just rested there, warm and oppressive, for the remainder of the episode.

When the episode credits rolled, I heard Monica pause it without starting the next one. She was going to release me? Or maybe this is the start of a new punishment? Even though the soles of Monica’s feet blocked my vision, I could hear the sound of her phone as she mindlessly scrolled through TikTok.

Trendy videos about dancing, cooking, fashion, or relationships played one after another. I couldn’t see them in my current state, but the voices and music leaking from her phone were unavoidable. I knew firsthand how Monica could lose track of time watching TikToks, so I let out a muffled whimper behind my gag, hoping not to be ignored.

"Mmmphh.... nngh-mmhh.... nnnfff!"

“Shut up,” she muttered, pressing her foot against my tape-covered lips. The sudden pressure shoved the pantyhose deeper into my mouth, intensifying the already putrid taste and reminding me that my suffering was far from over.

About twenty minutes later — twenty long, humiliating minutes of being used as her personal footrest — I heard a new sound. A clip from some "funny girls' podcast" started playing.

“Hey,” Monica said, her tone playful. “They just dropped a new episode… You’re up for another hour, right?”

“Mphmphmm!” I protested, thrashing weakly against the ropes.

“I’ll take that as a yes!” she giggled, settling in comfortably.

As the podcast blared from the TV, I groaned behind my gag, forced to endure the irritating voices of those so-called "funny girls" handing out awful relationship advice between forced punchlines.

Monica stood up — giving me a brief moment of fresh air — and sauntered off to the kitchen, no doubt for another glass of wine.

“Don’t move,” she teased, blowing me a kiss. As if I had a choice.

When she returned, I braced myself for the inevitable moment when her filthy soles would once again claim my face. But instead, she knelt down in front of me with a playful smirk.

She set her glass on the coffee table and reached for my tie, fingers expertly undoing the knot. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a flicker of excitement. Her blazer was long gone, and three buttons of her blouse had come undone, giving me a perfect view of her black bra. Her flushed cheeks and that glimmer in her eye only added to the tension.

She chuckled softly, catching me staring.
Once the tie came loose, she brought it to my face, and before I could react, she blindfolded me with it.

“Mmmnn RMMPHH!?” I protested, wriggling in my bonds.

“Shut up. It’ll be fun…”

I felt her fingers slowly peeling away the strips of tape sealing my lips. The adhesive tugged at my skin, each pull stinging a little more than the last.

When the final piece came off, my lips tingled from the sudden freedom, raw and sensitive. I immediately tried to force the pantyhose out of my mouth, pushing with my tongue and straining my jaw.

No luck. The disgusting wad was too large and wedged too deep. My tongue shoved uselessly against the damp fabric, the stale, sweaty taste only making me gag harder.

Monica giggled. “You really can’t do anything yourself, huh?”.

She pinched the edge of the pantyhose and slowly pulled them free, the sodden fabric sliding past my lips with a wet squelch. I let out a choked whimper, gasping for air, but before I could get a word out—

“Monica… please… I’ve had eno—”

My plea was cut off by the sudden, unmistakable sensation of her foot pressing against my lips. My stomach churned. Her skin was warm and slightly damp, the faint saltiness of dried sweat lingering in the air.
The ball of her foot settled against my mouth, silencing me once more as her toes rested just below my nose, close enough that each breath forced me to take in her musky scent.

“Time to pay tribute to the queen of this house, you little freeloader,” she purred.

I squirmed, trying to turn my head away, but she pressed harder, sealing my lips beneath the curve of her sole. The soft flesh molded against my face, each breath saturating my senses with the overpowering aroma of hours spent in heels.

“You’ve been such a lazy little brat… I think the woman who actually makes this house run deserves a little foot worship.”

I whimpered, shaking my head.

“Open your mouth.”

I clenched my jaw shut. No way. Not happening.

“Open.” Her voice dropped, dangerously sweet. “Or I’ll tie you up tighter, shove the pantyhose back in, and leave you like that all night.”

I froze. My body tensed, trembling against the ropes. Slowly, reluctantly, I parted my lips.

“There’s a good boy,” Monica cooed, guiding her toes past my lips.

The taste hit me instantly — salty, slightly bitter, and warm. My tongue recoiled, but there was nowhere to go. Her toes wiggled against my tongue, exploring every corner of my mouth.

“Now, suck.”

I squeezed my eyes shut behind the blindfold, cheeks burning with humiliation. Then, as her foot pressed deeper, I gave in.

With the blindfold over my eyes, every second felt endless. The salty taste of Monica’s skin filled my mouth as her big toe rested on my tongue, making any escape from this twisted game impossible.

“That’s it… deeper,” she commanded without even looking at me, her attention glued to the podcast. The obnoxious laughter and absurd advice from the girls filled the room, but all I could focus on was the warm weight of her foot against my face and the stifling smell invading every breath.

Swallowing my pride — and what little saliva I had left — I closed my lips around her toe and continue to suck. The wet sound echoed above the TV, and every now and then, I’d hear Monica giggle in satisfaction.

“Between the toes,” she ordered suddenly, like she was reminding me of a chore.

I grimaced, pushing my tongue between her toes, feeling the slick build-up of sweat trapped in those tight spaces. Each movement made the bitter taste intensify, and I had to fight back the gag rising in my throat.

Every so often, Monica would switch feet or shift positions, pressing the arch of her foot against my mouth, forcing my tongue to lap and clean every inch. Looks like she never even glanced at me (I guess); her commands were cold and distracted, as if I were nothing more than a tool for her amusement.

“Mmm… the heel,” she murmured, raising her wine glass to her lips. “And make sure you suck properly.”

With a trembling sigh, I opened my mouth and let her heel slide over my tongue. My jaws ached, my pride was shattered, and all I could do was keep obeying, hoping the podcast would end — and with it, maybe my humiliation.

After a few more minutes of "worshipping" feet, I heard Mónica finally pull her foot away. I tried to catch my breath, only to feel her wiping the saliva off her foot onto my shirt — as if she had been the one exposed to something disgusting for the past hour.

"Mónica! Please, I beg—"

I felt her other foot rest against my lips once again.

"Silence. I’ll trust you to stay quiet, or the foot goes back in. Got it?"

I froze. The mere thought of that made my stomach twist. If my eyes weren’t blindfolded, the terror in them would’ve been plain to see. I nodded frantically, desperate to avoid another round.

Her foot finally retreated, and for the first time in what felt like ages, I savored a moment of silence — no toes pressing against my lips, no suffocating scent invading my nose. Just air. It was almost blissful. Almost.

Then I heard her move again. My body tensed.

"Please, love!... I’ve had enough!..."

"Ugh! You can lose track of time playing your video games all afternoon, but you can only handle two hours of serving your wife?"

"I think this punishment is excessive! Besides, it’s not even my chore da— Mphmm!"

Suddenly, something rubbery forced its way into my mouth, silencing me instantly. The straps tightened behind my head, securing the gag in place. My jaw ached under the pressure, stretched open with no hope of relief. As I squirmed, I heard her laugh softly — a sound far more terrifying than any scolding.

The size and tightness of the gag made my mouth throb, but for the first time since my captivity began, at least there was nothing assaulting my taste buds. Small mercies.

"Quiet. The ball gag is a classic! Don’t forget I still have my dirty panties. You wouldn’t want those in its place, would you?"

I shook my head violently, eyes wide behind the blindfold.

After a moment, I heard Mónica settle back onto the couch. The podcast paused, leaving us in complete silence.
I tried to “speak” through the gag, but all I accomplished was drooling even more. The feeling of saliva trailing down my chin made me squirm. I hated it.

Suddenly, I felt something press against my face. Soft, worn leather molded around my nose, and a stale, musky odor invaded my senses. I froze.

My heart sank as I realized what it was — one of her discarded high heels. The interior was damp and faintly sticky, the fabric clinging to my skin as she pushed it closer, forcing my nose right up against the insole.
The smell was overwhelming: a sour blend of sweat, aged leather, and that unmistakable tang that lingered after hours of wear. Each breath felt heavier, the stale air seeping into my lungs, making my head swim.
Before I could even think to resist, I heard the sharp rip of duct tape.

“Mmmph!” I protested, writhing uselessly as she wrapped the tape around my head, sealing the shoe in place. My nose was now buried deep inside, each inhale drawing in the pungent scent. The insole pressed against my face, its texture rough and slightly grimy, as if the years of wear had become part of the shoe itself. The odor was relentless, clinging to my nostrils, coating my throat with every breath.

Just as I was starting to process the new torment, I felt a sudden kick to my shoulder. Not hard — playful, almost — but enough to throw me off balance. I toppled backward, landing awkwardly on my bound limbs with a muffled grunt. The impact sent a little jolt of pain through my body, my muscles straining against the hogtie.

I thrashed for a moment, trying in vain to find a position where the shoe wouldn’t smother me. My body twisted and writhed, the leather creaking softly against my skin. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t escape it. The smell filled my head, heavy and inescapable.

Eventually, my struggling slowed. I panted through my nose — big, shaky breaths that only brought more of that acrid stench into my lungs. My head fell back against the floor, eyes squeezing shut beneath the blindfold. There was no escape. No point in fighting.

I let out a soft, defeated whimper, feeling my anger slip away, leaving only exhaustion and the sharp sting of humiliation. My body sagged against the ropes, and I gave in.

"Not so tough now, huh?" she whispered, "It’s much easier for both of us if you just know your place."

Then I felt it — soft at first, almost delicate. Mónica’s foot slid slowly over my crotch, the pressure light, teasing.
A jolt shot through my body, making my muscles tense against the ropes. My breath hitched behind the gag. After everything she’d put me through, this… this was the first sensation that wasn’t pure torment.

Each slow stroke made my body twitch, my breathing growing heavier. But with every ragged inhale, the rancid smell of her shoe flooded my senses once more, mingling with the heat and the haze clouding my mind. The leather pressed against my face, suffocating me with its pungent stench, as if punishing me for daring to feel anything remotely pleasurable.

Above me, I heard her laugh. Soft, mocking.

"Looks like you’re enjoying yourself, huh…?"

I squirmed, my bound limbs tensing uselessly against the ropes. I wanted to shake my head, to deny it, but the reaction was impossible to hide. My body betrayed me with every twitch, every ragged breath.

Her foot slowed again, almost caressing, the warmth of her skin seeping through the fabric of my pants. For a brief moment, it was almost too much — too intense. My hips jerked slightly, a muffled whimper escaping past the gag.

Mónica leaned in closer, her voice a soft, wicked purr.

"I’m not a bitch, you know… I can be pretty good to you."

The pressure changed. Her foot pressed harder, grinding into me with just enough force to turn that unbearable pleasure into something else. The sharpness of it made my body jerk in response, but there was nowhere to go — no escape from her touch, no relief from the shoe strapped to my face, and no mercy in her voice.

"…As long as you behave. If not…" Her foot pressed down harder, making me gasp. "Well… you’d better watch yourself."

I let out a muffled moan, equal parts frustration and surrender. My body tensed, my breathing ragged, each frantic inhale dragging more of that wretched scent into my lungs. I squeezed my eyes shut behind the blindfold, every nerve in my body on fire, trapped between pain, pleasure, and humiliation.

And Mónica just laughed.

Then, her foot finally eased off my crotch, and for a few fleeting seconds, I experienced something close to "peace." Or at least, what passes for peace when you’re hogtied, ball-gagged, and forced to breathe through a worn-out shoe taped to your face.

I felt her hands on my shoulders, gripping me firmly and rolling me back onto my stomach, but at least this position was better. Lying on my back had been agony — every ounce of my weight crushing my arms, making them ache with each passing second. This was marginally less awful.

Then I felt it. The tug at my right shoe.

She worked in silence, slowly loosening the laces, dragging out the moment. First the right Oxford slipped off, then the left.
The cool air hit my socked feet, sending a small shiver up my spine.
I thrashed as much as I could — which wasn’t much. The ropes kept my legs bent, my feet hovering uselessly in the air.

"Mmmmnca!" I protested into the gag, panic bubbling up inside me. I kicked my legs, or tried to, but the bindings held firm. All I managed was a weak, pathetic wiggle.

Next came the socks. One by one, she peeled them off, the fabric sliding over my heels, down my arches, and off my toes.

My bare soles tingled in the open air, vulnerable and exposed.

...

Her fingers, soft and deliberate, grazed the arch of my right foot. My body convulsed instantly, a violent jolt of electricity shooting through me. The sensation was unbearable — featherlight touches dancing across my sensitive skin, every nerve set ablaze.

She kept at it, slow and methodical, her fingers gliding up and down my sole, teasing the curve of my arch, swirling around the ball of my foot. My toes curled, my foot spasmed, but there was no escape. The ropes held me firmly in place, forcing me to endure every agonizing second.

She knew exactly what she was doing. Her touch was infuriatingly gentle, barely more than a whisper against my skin.
Each stroke left a trail of tingling fire, the sensation building and building until it was too much to bear. My body twisted, my muscles straining against the ropes, but there was no relief.

The gag turned my desperate laughter into pitiful, muffled moans. My lungs burned from the effort, every frantic gasp dragging more of that rancid shoe smell into my nose.

She moved to my left foot, fingers spidering across my sole, trailing along the delicate skin beneath my toes. I thrashed harder, my muffled protests becoming more frantic, more desperate.

But she just laughed — soft and sweet — as if my torment was the most amusing thing in the world.

My body was on fire, muscles quivering, lungs burning, mind spiraling into pure, helpless hysteria. Drool seeped past the edges of the ball gag, sliding down my skin in a slow, humiliating trickle.

And through it all, her fingers danced mercilessly across my bare soles

Mónica’s fingers finally stilled against my feet, I barely had a moment to catch my breath before I felt her shifting — the soft rustling of fabric, the weight of her body moving. With a firm push, she rolled me onto my side.

Suddenly, she was in front of me. I couldn’t see her, the blindfold kept me in darkness, but I felt her presence.
She lowered herself to the floor. Her fingers trailed along my chest, slow and deliberate, until they found the top buttons of my shirt. One by one, she undid the first four, the fabric parting to expose my skin. Even when the rope was still wrapped around my forearms and chest.

I tensed, heart pounding, each breath dragging more of that rancid shoe scent into my lungs, but it barely registered anymore.

Then came her lips.

Soft, warm, they pressed against my chest, leaving a trail of delicate kisses along my skin. Each touch sent a shiver down my spine, my bound body trembling beneath her.

Just as I started to surrender to the sensation, she broke the rhythm — her fingers darting to my ribs, delivering a quick, playful tickle. My body jerked against the ropes, a muffled yelp escaping past the gag, and she giggled softly, her breath warm against me.

I couldn’t see her eyes, but I could feel them. Even through the blindfold, her gaze was piercing — a silent predator watching her prey squirm.

She took her time, alternating between sweet kisses and sudden jolts of ticklish torment, keeping me on edge, never letting me know what was coming next.

After what felt like an eternity, she shifted again. Her breath brushed against my neck, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps across my skin.

Then, without warning, she latched onto me, her lips sucking softly, leaving behind a deep, possessive mark. I gasped into the gag, squirming uselessly against my bonds.

She slid up to my ear, her lips brushing against it as she whispered, her voice low and sultry:

"You have no idea how much it turns me on to give you what you deserve…"

A shiver ran through me, my body tense powerless.

...

"Ah... What a night!" she said, her tone now relaxed and casual, as if everything that had just happened was perfectly normal.

She gave me a light kick on the shoulder, forcing me back onto my stomach, the cold floor seeping into my chest where my shirt hung open.

"I think I can proudly say that this time, you’ve really learned your lesson," she added, circling me slowly like a predator savoring its victory.

"I’ll untie you… eventually. But first, I want to enjoy a long, hot bath. And when I’m done, I expect you to be ready with a proper apology for being such a lazy ass."

Sure, maybe I’d slacked off a little this afternoon, but her attitude was infuriating. I did go to the office this morning! I was still wearing my damn work clothes! It’s not like I did nothing all day. If I wasn’t gagged, I’d tell her exactly that.

"I’ll give you plenty of time to think about your apology. But since I doubt you’ll come up with anything decent on your own… let me help."

She cleared her throat and mocked my "voice" I guess

‘Oh, Mistress Mónica…’ she began, her impression exaggerated and obnoxious.

‘I’m so sorry for lounging around while you dealt with all those annoying coworkers and clients. I should have done the chores like you asked. I was inconsiderate…’"

"Bmphmmh!"

"And because I know better than to push my luck and risk being tied up all night, I’ll humbly accept your mercy and wake up bright and early tomorrow — Saturday, no less — to do all the chores I neglected today."

She paused, like tapping a finger against her chin before gasping dramatically. "Oh! And a lovely breakfast in bed for my dear wife, of course!"

Her mocking tone melted into genuine excitement, clearly getting a little too into the idea.

She stopped pacing and crouched down beside me, her breath warm against my ear.

"Word for word isn’t necessary… but you get the idea, right?"

Before I could even grunt in protest, I felt her fingers tangle in my hair. She yanked my head back, pain shooting through my scalp as I whimpered into the gag.

"I trust you’ll make the right decision… won’t you?" Her voice was soft, sweet — terrifying.

I nodded as much as her grip allowed, my breaths ragged. Satisfied, she let out a soft giggle, placing a delicate kiss on my cheek. Then, with a playful tug on the shoe strapped to my face, she tilted my head slightly to the side.

"Love you," she whispered into my ear, before releasing my hair.

"Well… see ya." Her footsteps faded down the hall, as she disappeared into the bathroom.

I lay there in silenced, every second dragged on. I hated the idea of giving her the satisfaction of an apology, but I hated more the idea of spending the entire night tied up even more. I was going to give her what she wanted to hear, even if it cost me what little dignity I had left.

I squirmed against the ropes — more out of reflex than defiance — trying to shift my weight just enough to relieve the screaming pain in my limbs. Every movement pulled at the knots, the fibers biting into my skin. My body ached, anxious for this punishment to finally end. I let out a long sigh… only for the foul stench of the shoe strapped to my face to grow stronger. Brilliant.

Then, out of nowhere, the sharp blare of a phone alarm shattered the silence. The sound came from the side table next to the couch. I knew that ringtone. It was mine.

My phone had been there since I started gaming earlier. But… why was the alarm going off now? I didn’t remember setting one for this hour — whatever hour it was.
Suddenly, the phone's assistant spoke up in its monotone voice:
“CHORES DAY. DON’T FORGET.
CHORES DAY. DON’T FORGET.”

What the hell? I never set that alarm for the night. I was sure I’d scheduled it for 11 AM

…Wait.

No way.

It couldn’t be… Could it?

A sinking feeling settled in my gut. Unless… I messed up when setting it, like the distracted idiot I am, and scheduled it for 11 PM instead. Wouldn’t be the first time I screwed up a simple task because I was rushing or not paying attention.

I thrashed against the ropes, furious. I didn’t know what pissed me off more — the fact that today really was my chore day, practically handing Mónica the perfect excuse for this whole punishment… or the fact that I could’ve avoided this entire mess if I’d just set the alarm correctly.

She was right. I was a lazy piece of shit. Not because I didn’t do the chores, but because I couldn’t even set a damn reminder properly.

I fought harder against the bonds, frustration bubbling over into sheer desperation. My struggling knocked into the coffee table, sending a couple of empty beer cans crashing onto my back — yet another reminder of my own laziness.

The effort left me breathless, my lungs burning as I sucked in air… only for that god-awful shoe to shove its pungent stench deeper into my nostrils. The constant blaring of the alarm pounded in my ears, with the shoe making me gag.

After a few more moments of futile struggling — realizing this was starting to feel more like a child’s tantrum than any adult attempt to escape — I finally stopped. My body slumped against the cold floor, every muscle trembling with exhaustion. Drool leaked from the gag, slowly trailing down my chin and soaking into the shoe.

I rested my head against the ground, chin pressed against the floor. Every sensation of the night washed over me again: the fiery ache in my jaw from the gag, the lingering taste of nylon and sweat still in my mouth, the rancid stench of the shoe strapped to my face, my useless, blindfolded vision, and the tight, unyielding ropes cocooning me like some pathetic package.

In the background, almost drowned out by the noise, was the soft, rhythmic patter of water cascading over Mónica’s body in the shower.

“CHORES DAY. DON’T FORGET.
CHORES DAY. DON’T FORGET.”

I let out a low, defeated whimper, with nothing to do but wait.

[milagros317]

I love this story!
It's great to have a new member here who posts F/M stories.

[Boundhisattva90]

I'm glad you liked it!
I have even more stories planned for this couple

[jasonammzb4]

loving this..he is lucky she didn't get the friends involved

[jone123]

nice, lovely story thank you

[guardian741]

Just read this again - SO good! Love how feisty Monica is and how she has no problem using the man as a foot rest. I also loved her threatening him with her panties: “i still have my panties. You dont want those to replace [your gag] do you?”. So hot!

Looking forward to more of these adventures!

[Boundhisattva90]

Thank you all for your comments.
They encourage me to keep writing!

[Syko Sith]

This is a solid story. While it goes a little further than what I prefer, it's fun. Adding that the alarm was set for the wrong time made me smile. Nothing better than F/M
In my opinion.

[Boundhisattva90]

Really means a lot to me that even if it wasn’t totally your thing, you still enjoyed the story.
Thank U!
I just wanted to give our protagonist one final taste of defeat after everything he went through that night!

[houdinincfm]

Excellent well-written tale!