Feet Humiliation Stories

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Feet Humiliation Stories

by Davhumighty » 11:04 PM - 5 days ago

by ronswanson346 » 11:34 PM - Apr 19

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Foot-fetish erotic literature; try your hand at writing foot-smelling fact or fiction.
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The greatest mistake you could make, when you got a fetish like mine, is trying to hide it.

I've been married to Cynthia for 5 years, and I've never found the courage to tell her about my thing. At first I was thinking something like 'come on buddy, it's weird, this girl could be the right one, don't make her run away'. Now, on the other hand, I worry about her reaction: after all this time, you think you know any little secret about the person you're married to. And when you find out there's something else? How do you take it? In short, we're really happy together, but if I was a little bolder, we may be even better.

Cynthia is 34, like me. She's pretty, cheerful and damn sexy. She's about 5'5'', brunette, long curly hair and dark-eyed, dark complexion, she has nice boobs (size 3 full) and even better butt, first thing I noted when I met her, at a volley friendly mixed match organized by our mutual friends. She had obviosuly athletic shoes on, but I've decided anyway, without seeing her feet, she would be the woman of my life. Feeling immediately kicked in, shortly after we started to hang out, and today we're here. I can still remember the first time I've seen (and touched) her feet: after a date, she invited me up to her house. We were a little tipsy: she let me sit on the sofa and after she kicked her ankle boots out she placed her legs with stockings on over my thighs. "Ohhh, my feet hurt so bad!", she exclaimed removing her stockings and touching the ball of her foot. "Would you give me a little massage? If you're good at this I swear I'll marry you", she added laughing. I grabbed her 5,5 size feet. Not gonna lie: my wife's feet are simply divine. Soft, meaty, right length toes and two irresistible big toes. I don't know why I tried to conceal my thing, the fact is that I just made a good (very good) massage to her feet. Later, I didn't look for other opportunities to go deeper. Of course, after cohabitation and marriage, I had much more chances, like some foot scene watching a movie together or Cynthia putting her feet on my face to make me smell 'em, but always as a joke. Sometimes I caress and kiss 'em, but just as lovely gesture for a wife.

Last month I heard Cynthia talking on her phone locked in the bathroom, laughing: she seemed amused. When she got out, still smiling, I asked who was.
"Steve, tomorrow we got guests for dinner". What? We usually talk about things we're gonna do. I was a little surprised but I just asked who would come. "Do you remember Johnny? Well, he's in town, he told me he'd like to see me after all this time, so I invited him to dinner. Oh, he's happy to see you too, of course...". Obviously I remembered Johnny: he was a Cynthia's youth friend. She has always sworn they've been nothing more than friends, but I had my doubts. Howewer, he's long since living in UK for job (he's a claimed engineer) and much time has gone by. "Ok honey, no problem, tomorrow I'll go to buy groceries".

The next day Cynthia spent several hours cooking her speciality and fixing up the house. Johnny came at 7:30 PM: it's summer, so he was wearing a sand-colored linen shirt and white linen trousers. He's a little shorter than me (about 5'8'') but I have to say he's a good-looking man, with his tanned skin and his medium-length black hair. That night, Cynthia was radiant and irresistibile: she was wearing a clear floral dress and easy flip-flops. I noticed she had just white-painted her toenails. We spent a good time together, just like good old friends, eating, chatting and drinking a very good white wine, brought by Johnny. My wife and her friend were tipsy, for sure more than me. Maybe this is the cause of what would happen shortly after.

We sat on the sofa, always drinking wine. I had to go to the bathroom, so I left 'em alone for a few minutes. When I came back in the living room, at first from a distance I heard Cynthia laughing, then I saw this scene: my wife laying on the sofa with her legs on Johnny's and her feet in his hands. He was giving her a foot massage. When they saw me, while Cynthia suddenly changed her facial expression, Johnny remained calm. "Oh, Steve, you don't mind if I asked Johnny a little foot massage, right? I've spent the whole day standing and now I'm exhausted". "Besides", added Johnny, laughing, "when we were kids I used to do it so many times!". Cynthia started again to laugh. I was feeling confused as never before. Maybe I had to get angry: yes, they have been drinking a lot, but who cares? Another man was touching an intimate (very, very intimate, to me) part of my wife's body. But, I don't know how to say it, I was finding that scene so intriguing. I chose to stay calm, sitting on a nearby little sofa, looking at 'em. Meanwhile, Johnny was keeping his job on: he alternated Cynthia's left and right foot in his hands. My wife seemed totally chilled out: actually, Johnny' hands knew very well her feet. After about ten minutes of massaging, Johnny moved to next level: he put Cynthia's feet to his face and started to kiss her soles and toes. "Mmmhhh they're soft as ever but smell has changed", he said, "now they smell of...a mature married woman! Eheheh!". "You stupid!", replied Cynthia kicking his face, for fun, laughing even louder. She looked at me, perhaps trying to catch my thoughts. She could think I was finding it a pretty normal, maybe a little malicious game she was doing with her youth friend. After all, to her husband feet could be a normal (indeed a little disgusting) body's part. The truth is I was having a war inside me: my pride was saying to stop 'em and beat the crap out of that guy; my cock, already erected, was saying it was all so fuckin' hot, for some damn reason. So I let 'em keep on, to see where they would get.

Johnny was already without brakes. I could hear him moaning while he was starting to lick Cynthia's soles and suck her horny toes. She was looking a little embarassed yet she let him do that. Indeed, she began to breath heavier, just like when we dry hump. "Oh, Johnny, take it easy", she tried to say, with little breath, "My husband's just here...". He stopped. He looked at me. "I now he's here. What's the problem? We're just messing around!. Do you mind Steve?". A mental healthy person would reply getting up and punching his face like a beast. But I just didn't know what to say. I didn't want to look like an asshole, but I wanted they would go on. So I just shrugged and said: "Well, if it's ok for Cynthia...no problem."

But as you can imagine, the scene has a development: while Johnny was starting again to kiss, lick and worship my wife's feet, Cynthia's right foot dropped and touched unintentionally (?) Johnny's family jewells. "Oh my God, what was that?", she asked her, opening her eyes wide. "You know what it is", he answered, taking down his trousers, "you know him!". My wife's friend pulled out of his pants a huge (I mean, huge) cock. "Have you missed him? Do you remember him like this?". Enough is enough. What pissed me off so bad was, not so much he pulled out his dick in front of my wife, shaking it ahead of her face, but above all the fact Cynthia lied me shamelessly. Before, not only he used to give her foot massages, but they used to fuck as hell. I was getting so angry with her. I got up and tapped Johnny's shoulder: "Now I think you're out of line". "Keep calm honey", tried to say a very embarrassed Cynthia. But in her eyes I was seeing not only awkwardness, but a genuine excitement, "we're just playing...maybe it was the wine". "Oh, come on man", replied Johnny, now more aggressive, "you know your wife goes crazy for this big boy, and you're no match". I was being humiliated in front of my wife. But even at that moment, my cock was up. Maybe this is the definition of cuckold , I thought. Completely dazed for my wife's eyes and Johnny's words, I came back to sofa. "Where were we?", said Johnny to Cynthia. And took her feet, putting on his cock. "Oh baby, he missed your feet, too".

Cynthia looked at me. This time there was grudge in her eyes. She expected her husband would react in a different way. So it turned out in an act of revenge. Always staring at me, she started to scramble Johnny's big dick with her to-die-for feet. Johnny began to moan and breath heavily. I was watching another man doing what I've never had the courage to do to my wife and her feet. After several strokes, Johnny took her foot off of his cock and put 'em on his face. Then, he took Cynthia's right hand putting it around his dick. He started again to lick and kiss greedly my wife's soles, while she was switching to a handjob. A savage yell anticipated the end: an oceanic cumshot came out from his cock, hitting all over my wife: her legs, her floreal dress, her face too. Finally, after he came, he grabbed her feet and used 'em to dry his big glans. He got up, went to the bathroom, thanked us for the nice time and left. Cynthia was still on the sofa, overwhelmed by Johnny's jizz. I was on the little sofa, and I had just came too, even if nobody noticed.

It's been a few weeks: Johnny has come back to UK and something has already changed between me and Cynthia. Anytime she calls me, I do best to answer immediately. Whatever she asks me, I do best to do what she says. Otherwise, my wife's threat is to take home every night a different man, to let him fuck her feet in front of me. I've become my wife's slave.
You should have hit him square in the nose with all your weight behind it. Grabbed him by his neck, dragged him through your house and threw him to the curb.

Then, rip into your wife for lying. She has a lot of making up to do.

You just lost ALL respect from your wife.
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I was out with some guys, and wevtypically started discussing the women present at the club. A dark beauty sitting at the bar was by far the most attractive one. 

"Yes, she looks hot, but she's dead cold." Paul said. "I vaguely tried to chat her up some time ago, but it was pointless. Totally arrogant. Rude, even."

Paul was out every weekend and had his way with women. He was good looking and usually got what he wanted. 

"Oh, is that… her." John said, moving to the side to have a better look at her. "Jimmy told me about her. He called her a psychopath. He knew someone who had dated her for a short period. Apparently, she had treated him like shit." 

Women are strange. Most of them are nice, at least when you get to know them and they start to trust you. But a few know all to well if they are good looking and just act like spoiled bitches. Or maybe that is some kind of trust issue too? Anyway, what's really behind their painted faces is hard to find out. 

While the other guys seemed to have lost interest in the black haired psychopath, I kept watching her. From time to time some guy approached her, but everyone obviously was turned down immediately or quite quickly. Still, she stayed at the bar, drinking. Was that all she wanted to do? Sit alone and drink?
When I returned from the bathroom, I passed by her. Without any kind of plan, I talked to her. 

"Hi. Can I buy you a drink?" I said, getting straight to the point. 

She looked at me, then turned her head back, staring into the air. "Yes."

Pleasantly surprised, I waved for the bartender, then I realised I didn't know what she liked. Should I be bold and just buy something? I could go for something common like a gin tonic, but that would be boring. If I bought something unusual, maybe she wouldn't like it. No, I had to ask.

"What do you want?" I said.

"Champagne". 

She continued with some french sounding name I couldn't grasp. She was very picky, obviously. I didn't know how to pass that on to the bartender, so I just ordered one glass of the finest champagne they had. The price was about the same as my budget for the entire night. The glass was placed in front of her, but she didn't thank me. 

"So…" I started.

"Get lost." she said. 

She probably expected me to become upset, but I just replied "Okay.", and left her. If that surprised her, she did not signal anything except she slightly lifted her eyebrow. 

I gave her no further attention that evening. 

After that, I regularly went out to the same bar. If she was there, I bought her a glass of champagne (I had found out what she preferred, luckily it was a bit cheaper than what I bought her the first time) but otherwise held my distance. I didn't even try to talk to her. She had men coming on to her all the time and rejected everyone. Maybe she got off on it, maybe she was sick with the predictability of it, I don't know. 

Anyway, my work seemed to pay off. One night as I bought her the usual glass, she asked for my cell phone. She dialled her own number and said "Call me sometime." I was in heaven. 

The next days I thought about nothing but when to call her and what to say. I was terrified, but tried to calm down by reminding myself that she had told me to call. I had not asked for her number. I thought about various spectacular activities we could do together, but settled for the usual strategy; to be myself and act casual. 

Three days later I was a nervous wreck to the point of desperation, and when I finally called it felt like I just did it to get it over with, not because I expected it to lead to anything at all. 

"Yes." She answered by just saying yes. 

"Oh hi, this is James! Oh, you don't know my name. I mean, this is the guy who keeps buying you champagne!" I sounded desperate. 

"Everyone buys me champagne." she stated, disinterested. 

"Oh, of course! Well… at The Eagle. You know, you were there last friday, and the saturday before that. And last friday you game me your number and told me to call you." I explained. 

"Really? I can't remember. What do you look like?" she said.

"Umm… I look quite ordinary, I guess." I instantly regretted saying that. "I'm tall… I've got brown, short hair. Friday I wore a red shirt." I said. 

"A red shirt. Is that so. To be honest, I can't remember you, but if I gave you my number, I guess there must be a reason. So, what can you offer me?" she said.

"What can I offer… well, would you like to go out to a restaurant? Or to the cinema, perhaps?" I suggested.

She chuckled. "No. Try again, James, was it?"

"Yes! Um, what's your name, by the way?" I said. 

"Rita." she said.

"Oh, what a nice name!" I said. There was no reply. "Right, so what can I offer...
let's see… I'm good at cooking! I could make you a great dinner. And… I'm a quite good singer, actually, if that's of any interest. And I can massage you! I've been told I'm good, anyway. Maybe that's a little to intimate, though. I don't mean to rush things here. Sorry. But, well, anyway, I could give you just a foot massage, you know, or something. If you'd like that." I felt like I had blown it. 

"I would be lying if I said I was impressed. But I'm in a good mood today. So, yes. You can come over and make me dinner tomorrow. Bring whatever food you need. But no fish." she said.

I couldn't believe it. "That's great! Thanks!" I said.

"At six. Look up my address from my phone number." She hung up.

I almost had a heart attack. We were going to have dinner at her house. The next day. And that dinner had better be impressive, that was for sure. 

I settled for a meal I had made several times before. A steak is not a creative choice, but done right, what tastes better? I also brought a bottle of her favourite champagne, of course. 

John's words kept sounding in my head, about the woman being a psychopath. It could be right. She was very cold. But there had to be something else beneath that surface. And what a surface it was. She was so good looking it was too much. 

She lived in a fancy neighbourhood. The house was a bit dark, like herself. Also there was little light in the windows. Could she not be home? The thought was both disappointing and relieving, but those feelings were quickly replaced by eager nervousness as I rang the doorbell and heard footsteps approaching. 

"Oh, it's you. Now I remember. Come in." she said. She was dressed smart casual, as they say, in some kind of business attire, I guess. A skirt above the knees and a white shirt. Her long, black her pulled up. 

"Thanks! Here you go!" I said, showing her the bottle. It struck me I should have bought flowers. How could I forget. 

"Oh, that's great. Listen, I just got home from work. Long day. Why don't you take all that stuff out to the kitchen and bring a glass to the living room. I want to relax for a few minutes and I could surely use a foot massage right now. You know, heels." she said, nodding to the floor.

"Oh yes, sure!" I said. I noticed a pair of heels by the door. Almost as high as the ones I had seen her wear at the bar.

I carried everything to the kitchen, opened the bottle and poured to glasses, and walked to the living room. She was seated in a big chair with the television on in front of her. 

"Here you go." I said. I handed her the glass. 

"I told you to bring one glass, didn't I?" she said, looking at me and the glass in my other hand. 

"Sorry! I thought…" I started. 

"Don't assume." She cut me off. "I asked for a foot massage. Could you get on with it, please."

Puzzled by the sudden hostility, I put my glass on the floor and kneeled in front of her, not in the way of the television. Like she said, she was probably exhausted from a long day at work. 

She stretched her leg out. She still wore the nylons from work, obviously. I noticed right away her foot was smelly. Yet it was slender, tiny and beautiful, as expected.
I made every effort to massage it well. She seemed to enjoy it, but she did not talk to me. She watched the news and sipped the champagne. 


"Let me know when I should do the other one." I said quietly, after a long while. 

She did not comment. The minutes went by, but then she switched her feet.

I did the job once again. It was awkward to be so close to her and not talk. We were strangers, although I had observed her for all that time and almost felt like I was in love with her. During the massage I was constantly erected or semi erected from touching and caressing her feet and watching her perfect legs. 

"That wil do." she finally said. I carefully put her foot down on the floor. "What do you think of this living room?" she asked.

"It's very nice!" I said, happy to make conversation. "Comfortable chairs. Interesting paintings on the walls… a fire place. No sofa, but why should everybody have one?" I said. 

"That's right. It's comfortable here, but something is missing, and it bothers me on days like today. Ther
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