Everyday Obedience - Working from home [F20s/m20s] [Femdom] [Petplay] [Chastity] [Humiliation] [Foot Play] [Masturbation]
Another part of my kinky slice of life story series. If you enjoy, feel free to checkout the other parts. Have fun!
...
You're watching TV, but I know you're not really watching it. Your head keeps turning in my direction. I'm sitting at my desk, facing away from you, working. It's the soft, steady tap of my keys that keeps pulling your attention.
I can feel your eyes on my back. You're bored, aren’t you?
You keep shifting, like I might turn around if you try hard enough.
I won’t.
A few seconds pass.
You're still fidgeting behind me.
I sigh, barely glancing away from my screen.
“If you’re that bored, come here.”
I hear you get up immediately. Of course you do.
“On your knees.” I don’t turn around, just shift slightly in my chair. “Closer.”
I nudge you lightly with my foot. “Under the desk.” My foot comes to rest against you as you settle into place. “Stay.”
A brief pause. Then I tap you again, a little more pointed this time.
“Don’t just sit there.”
My foot slides into your hands, bare and warm, like I expect you to know exactly what to do.
“Use your hands.”
I don’t look down. I just keep typing, like this barely deserves my attention.
“Gently.”
I shift in my chair, leaning back slightly—then lift one leg, resting it loosely against the edge of the seat, knee bent. The other remains in your hands.
“There you go.” A small pause.
“See? Not that hard.”
“Oh, by the way—Mark texted me earlier.” I don’t look down, just keep typing, like it’s nothing important.
A brief pause. I feel your hands slow, just slightly.
“He and Bunny are looking forward to Saturday. Said he has something planned.”
I tilt my head a little, as if considering it.
“For you. And Bunny… You remember last time, right?”
I feel it immediately—the shift. The way you go just a little more still. Or maybe the opposite. Either way… you’re not as steady anymore.
A small smile tugs at my lips.
“Yeah… I thought so.”
I shift slightly, then lower the leg I had resting on the chair, sliding my foot down between your legs until it brushes lightly against the small pink cage. You flinch, even though I barely touch you.
My toes press lightly against the hard plastic, then slide down—once, twice. A small shudder runs through you, your hands still wrapped around my other foot.
“He really let you have it,” I murmur, my voice low, almost purring. My toes wiggle, pressing a little more firmly this time. “Remember? You were on the floor, like you are now. Only… you were making a lot more noise then.”
I feel your breath hitch.
“Bunny just sat there on the couch, all wide-eyed. Couldn’t look away.” I let my foot press down again, slower now, more deliberate, feeling the cage strain faintly beneath the pressure.
My toes curl—and I feel it. Something warm, wet, against my skin.
I stop typing.
Slowly, I pull my foot back. I glance down at the small, glistening smear on my instep, a tiny bead slipping free, dripping onto the floor.
“Look at that.” My voice drips with mock disappointment, though the corners of my mouth twitch with amusement. “Getting my floor all messy already?”
I don’t wait for an answer. I lift my foot higher, bringing it closer to your face.
“Clean it.”
Your hands freeze around my other ankle.
“Don’t look at me like that.” My tone sharpens slightly. “You made the mess. Lick it off.”
I feel the hesitation in the air—a brief, tense second where I think you might actually argue.
But you don’t.
You lean forward, your breath warm against my skin before your tongue finally makes contact—tentative at first, just a quick, shy flick.
“Thoroughly,” I command, my voice sharp.
That’s all it takes. You flatten your tongue and drag it slowly across my foot, cleaning away the slick evidence of your arousal. The sensation sends a pleasant shiver up my spine.
“Good boy.”
I lower my foot back into your hands, a silent command to resume. You do, your movements a little less steady now, shame and excitement warring in your touch.
I start typing again, but my focus is gone. That small act of submission, the warmth of your tongue, the faint tremble in your hands as they work—it all pools low in my belly, a familiar heat beginning to build.
The clicking of my keys slows… then stops.
I swivel my chair just an inch—just enough to look down at you. Your eyes are wide, fixed on my face. You look so… hopeful.
A smirk tugs at my lips.
“You bored me enough to get my attention, pet. What are you going to do with it?”
Before you can even form a response, I shift in my chair again. I lift the leg you were tending to, putting it over your shoulder, my calf settling against the back of your neck. My other leg lowers, my bare foot pressing flat against your chest, holding you in place.
My top shifts with the movement, the thin cotton doing little to hide the way my nipples harden beneath it as my shorts ride higher up my thighs.
I watch your throat move as you swallow.
My foot keeps steady pressure against your chest as I shift again, lifting my hips just enough to hook my thumbs into the waistband of my shorts. I drag them down my legs—slow, controlled—before kicking them aside under the desk.
Then I settle back into place, my foot finding your chest again.
“Watch,” I whisper.
My hand drifts down, fingers brushing over the soft cotton of my panties, already damp. I press my palm against myself, slow, steady circles, a soft sigh slipping out.
Your hands, now free, curl into fists on your thighs. I can see the strain in your jaw, the way your eyes stay locked on my hand.
“Look at me.”
Your eyes snap up to mine.
A slow smile spreads across my lips as my fingers hook into the side of my panties, pulling the fabric aside just enough to show you.
“Still bored?”
I let go, the fabric snapping back into place, my other hand trailing up my inner thigh, my nails scraping lightly against my skin.
“Touch yourself.”
Your eyes widen. I see your hands twitch, starting to move toward the cage—then stop.
A small laugh slips from my lips. “Oh, that’s right. You can’t, can you?”
My fingers press against my clit through the fabric, a shudder running through me as my breath catches.
“Poor thing.”
My other foot lifts to join the first, both pressing against your shoulders, holding you steady.
“Hands on my thighs.”
You obey instantly, your warm palms settling against my skin.
“Keep them there.”
My fingers resume their slow rhythm—circles, light pressure—as my head falls back against the chair, my hips tilting forward, a quiet moan slipping from my lips.
Your grip tightens on my thighs.
“Did I say you could do that?”
Your hands relax immediately, as I watch you.
My movements grow more deliberate, more assured, my body arching with each pass of my fingers as I put on a show just for you.
“Tell me what you want.”
Your lips part, but no sound comes out.
“Come on, pet. Use your words.”
“I… I want…”
“You want what?” My fingers dip lower, teasing my entrance through the soaked fabric.
“To… please you.”
A small, cruel smile plays at my lips. “You are pleasing me. Just by watching.” I can see the conflict in your eyes—the desperate need to do more, to be useful, clashing with the overwhelming weight of being allowed to witness this.
My fingers slip beneath the fabric, another sharp gasp escaping me.
“Please…” The word comes out as a choked whisper.
“Please what?”
“Please… let me…”
“Let you what?” My thumb finds my clit, rubbing in slow, firm circles, my breath catching. “Taste it? Lick it? Make me cum with that pretty mouth of yours?”
Your whole body trembles, a single nod all you can manage.
“No.”
My other hand drifts up to my breast, squeezing it through the thin fabric of my shirt, my nipple hardening against my palm.
My head falls back again, a low moan slipping from my lips as my fingers move faster, my legs spreading wider—one foot still pressing firmly against your shoulder, keeping you pinned in place.
The other… I lift it slowly, sliding it down between your thighs. You flinch, a choked sound slipping from your lips as my bare toes brush against the tight, sensitive skin.
“I said keep your hands on my thighs,” I remind you, my voice tight with pleasure. “Don’t you dare move them.”
My toes wiggle, then press down—not hard, just enough to make you feel it, to make you aware.
My fingers work in earnest now, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I press against myself, rubbing harder, more insistent.
“Your little clit is straining against that pink prison, isn’t it? God, you look so pathetic like this,” I pant, my eyes half-lidded as I watch you. “So desperate.”
My foot presses down a little harder. A whimper slips from you.
“Does it hurt?”
I increase the pressure, feeling the way your body tenses beneath me.
“Good.”
My fingers slip inside me, a gasp tearing from my throat as my hips buck against my own hand.
My foot begins to move in a slow, maddening rhythm—pressing, releasing, pressing again—a steady, dull ache that mirrors the pleasure building inside me.
“Please…” The word comes out as a broken moan.
“Please what?” I’m close now—so close. “Please stop? Please don’t stop?”
“I… I don’t know…”
A breathless, almost wild laugh slips from me. “That’s my boy.”
My fingers move faster now, my thumb working in firm, desperate circles.
My toes press down one last time—hard enough to make you gasp—just as my own orgasm crashes over me. My body arches, a strangled cry tearing from my throat as the pleasure rolls through me in waves.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room is my ragged breathing.
My body slumps back into the chair, a soft, satisfied sigh slipping from my lips as I let the aftershocks ripple through me, my hand still resting between my legs with a warm, soft pressure.
Then I lift my foot—the one that was tormenting you—and glance down.
A thin string of your arousal stretches from my toes to your thighs.
A slow, lazy grin spreads across my face. “Well, well. Looks like someone enjoyed the show a little too much.”
I wiggle my toes, sending another drop splattering onto the floor between your knees, my gaze drifting down to take in the small puddle you’ve made on the hardwood.
“Oh, pet. What a mess.”
I let my foot hover in front of your face, gleaming in the dim light of the monitor.
“You know the rules. You make a mess, you clean it up.”
I glance from the floor back to your desperate, pleading eyes.
“Lick my foot clean. Then the floor. And you’d better not miss a single drop.”
Your face flushes a deep, humiliating red as your gaze flicks from my foot to the puddle on the floor and back again, your whole body trembling with a mix of shame and desperate need.
“Go on,” I prompt, my voice low. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
You lean forward, your breath catching in your throat as you move closer, your tongue darting out—tentative at first, then with more confidence as you taste yourself on my skin.
“That’s it,” I murmur, my foot tilting slightly to give you better access. “Get it all.”
I watch you, a smirk playing on my lips as your tongue works diligently, cleaning every last trace of your desperation from my foot.
Then I gesture toward the floor.
“Your other mess.”
You hesitate for a split second, your gaze flicking up to meet mine.
“Don’t look at me,” I chide, my tone sharpening. “Look at your mess. And clean it.”
Slowly, you lower yourself to the floor, your hips raised as you begin to lap at the puddle of your own making, the sight sending a fresh wave of satisfaction through me.
I reach down, my fingers tracing lazy circles over my still-sensitive clit, a soft sigh slipping from my lips as I watch you—so devoted, so completely mine.
“Good boy,” I murmur, my fingers pressing a little more firmly. “So good for me.”
Once you’re finished, you sit back on your heels, your head bowed, waiting for your next command.
I take a slow breath in, then let it out in a quiet, contented sigh.
“Water,” I say, my voice soft but firm. “Go get me a glass of water.”
You look up, a flicker of something—relief, maybe disappointment—passing through your eyes.
“Now, pet.”
You scramble to your feet, your movements clumsy with need as you hurry toward the kitchen. I watch you go, a small, satisfied smile playing on my lips, my fingers still resting between my legs.
My phone buzzes on the desk. I glance at the screen—a message from Mark.
‘Can’t wait for Saturday. Hope you’ve been keeping him on his toes.’
A small, wicked grin spreads across my face as I type back a quick reply.
‘Always. He’s been very… productive today.’