My wife, Amanda, has always had a dominant streak. Since we were married five years ago, she’s lost no opportunity to make it clear who’s on top in our relationship. It’s become almost a joke between us. But you won’t find any bondage equipment hidden in our bedroom or any corsets or thigh-high leather boots in Amanda’s closets. My wife makes a point of dressing beautifully, but very conservatively, and her style of domination is similarly subtle.

Our arrangement suits me just fine as my high-profile job makes a certain level of discretion desirable. If my clients or partners happen to spot us out together, they don’t see a mistress and her slave. All they see is me opening doors for an elegant, well turned-out woman.

Amanda is very striking — tall and curvy, with strong features and auburn hair. She walks like a queen, so there’s no question she’s strong as well as beautiful. Most people sense a certain something between us, but those same people probably aren’t overly familiar with terms like domination or submission.

Amanda is especially particular where her footwear is concerned. She favors handmade pumps of the finest Italian leather, which seem to have been shaped to her slender, elegant feet by some painstaking process. Even her bedroom slippers are of the very best quality.

As a footman of many years’ standing, I appreciate this. But as much as I love my wife’s shoes, I get a particular thrill from seeing her in stocking feet or totally bare.

When Amanda comes home after a long day at work, I’m expected to attend her, kneeling and removing her shoes with gentle hands. To me her naked feet are a symphony of colors and scents. I study the bands of dark pink left behind by her shoes, admiring how the marks contrast with her creamy white flesh.

If she’s in a good mood, she’ll grant me a brief stroke of her toes against my lips before she goes padding off to the couch to enjoy the drink I’ve prepared for her. If she’s feeling particularly indulgent, she’ll sit with her feet positioned so her heavenly soles are visible.

Honestly, once her shoes are off I can rarely suppress the urge to touch her feet. Almost as though they have a mind of their own, my hands will naturally begin to massage her the moment she’s sitting still.

Like most women, dominant or not, Amanda loves a good foot rub. At the first touch of my hands, she immediately leans back with her eyes shut, looking blissful.

One night as we were engaged in this most mutually pleasurable activity, Amanda impulsively slipped her foot from my hands and pressed it between my legs, caressing my aching dick through my pants.

“You’re hard,” she observed, walking her toes up and down the stiff length of my dick. She was right, of course. The very sight of her bare feet was enough to arouse me. But the gentle prodding of her toes was quickly making me more excited.

“I wonder if I could make you come this way?” she mused, even though we both already knew the answer.

Feeling bold, I eagerly reached for my zipper as I said, “It would feel even better if I were naked.”

But Amanda stopped me with a soft touch of her warm foot on the back of my hand.

“Hold on,” she said with a wicked smile. “I didn’t give you permission to stop rubbing me.”

I was a little disappointed, but returned to my task with a suitably submissive smile. Knowing Amanda, she was already planning something extra hot for the two of us. She loved public scenes, and the possibilities of a foot-job away from home seemed as intoxicating to me as I’m sure it was to her.

Sure enough, the following day I received a text from my wife, asking me to join her after work at our favorite Italian restaurant. We normally save eating out for weekends, so I was pretty sure I was in for a treat.

Almost as soon as I was seated, Amanda sauntered in. She was in the same dress she had worn to work, but at some point she had changed shoes. Instead of the pumps she had on that morning, she was wearing a pair of simple yet elegant peep-toe mules. Her toenails glinted through her black hose with a fresh coat of her favorite cherry-red nail polish. I knew immediately she was up to something, especially when she asked the hostess to give us a small, intimate table in the back. When we were seated, she made no mention of her footwear, just picked up a menu and began perusing the wine selection.

A moment later I felt her toes land on my crotch. The table was covered with a white linen cloth that was more than sufficient to hide what was going on. I immediately understood why she’d chosen to wear her mules. They could be effortlessly slipped off for a little impromptu foot fun.

As soon as Amanda’s toes began to work their magic, my cock went stiff. My balls tightened almost painfully. I slid down slightly in my chair, allowing my wife better access to my erection. When my wife cleared her throat, I almost didn’t hear her.

“I said, why don’t you get comfortable?” she repeated, casting me a smoldering look over the top of her menu.

I knew what that meant. I reached under the table and surreptitiously unzipped my fly. Even though the tablecloth kept my actions hidden, I still felt an exhibitionistic thrill. Soon I was groaning blissfully as my wife’s toes began stroking my naked cockhead.

At first, I hesitated to expose myself completely. But as I grew steadily more excited, I felt the entire length of my expanding dick escape my fly and seek out my wife’s foot.

Amanda’s hose felt silky-smooth but provided just enough friction against my tight, hot cockflesh to guarantee I’d be slowly driven crazy. My wife really knows how to give a footjob. At first she used only one ped, drawing her sole and the undersides of her toes repeatedly over my dick. A moment later, she had both feet in my lap, firmly imprisoning my cock between them.

By that point, our waitress appeared, introducing herself as Teresa. She was a cute, perky-looking girl in her 20s and immediately launched into a recitation of the day’s specials. If she noticed I was slumped in my chair and looking a little preoccupied, she gave no sign.

Amanda was keeping a careful eye on me as I placed my order. Once or twice, I felt her toes administer sharp tweaks to my cockhead when she apparently thought I was being too flirtatious with our server. She’s always been a bit jealous of younger girls, and I knew I would somehow pay for my minor indiscretion.

After curtly ordering a glass of wine and a salad, my wife took her bag and padded silently off toward the restroom. It was impossible for me not to notice that she didn’t bother putting her shoes back on. I watched her walk across the room, hypnotized by the regular flashing of her silken soles.

She returned soon enough, and this time, her feet were bare. She’d clearly taken off her stockings in the ladies’ room and likely stashed them in her purse. Upon sitting down, she removed a small plastic bottle from her bag, which I recognized as one containing personal lubricant. From the way her hands moved under the table, I gathered she was massaging the slippery stuff onto her feet.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Time to turn up the heat,” she said. I found the playful gleam in her eye so hypnotic that I actually jerked my chair even closer to the table, eager for what she was about to dish out. My dick was still hanging out of my unzipped fly. By that point, I had gone a bit soft, but my cock sprang back to life as soon as Amanda’s lubricated toes made contact.

A footjob from a barefoot woman is very different from one wearing hose, and I have to say I prefer skin on skin. The friction of smooth silk or nylon is less immediately noticeable, but the warmth of naked, fragrant soles pressing and rubbing against me is absolutely delicious. And it feels even more so when I’ve been brought to the level of excitement I experienced that night.

Amanda’s favorite move is to grip my shaft tightly between her big and second toes of her foot. She’ll have one set of toes pressing down at the root of my shaft, while the other snugly squeezes my cockhead as she slowly slides up and down my shaft. It’s impossible for me to resist pumping my hips in time with her hypnotic motions.

Unfortunately, as I was reaching a crucial plateau Teresa returned with our drinks. She chattered away as she set the glasses down, not seeming to notice Amanda’s gloating smile — or my own slightly pained expression. I was in no real danger of our server discovering my embarrassing position — unless I really lost control. I sat, gritting my teeth, as my wife engaged Teresa in a long, drawn-out conversation.

As if from far away, I heard Amanda ask, “You poor thing, standing all night in those heels. Don’t your feet hurt?”

“Oh, sometimes it’s awful!” she said. “I’d just kill for a massage!”

I thought I may have caught a faint whiff of her foot’s aroma. Had she slipped her shoe off as girls sometimes do when their feet hurt? I didn’t dare look; I was that close to shooting off.

Amanda’s own feet were moving more stealthily by that point. She could sense my precarious position was exciting me, and my orgasm was imminent. She tickled my balls with one big toe while the digits of her other foot kept up a gentle rhythmic pinching just below my dickhead. I was being slowly, meticulously ushered toward an irresistible climax. I gave her a pleading smile, but I knew I’d get no mercy.

“Are you all right?” Teresa asked. The pained look on my face must have made it seem I was suffering some kind of attack.

“Oh, look!” Amanda said suddenly, motioning toward the window as a distraction. “What’s that?”

The second our server’s head was turned, Amanda administered the coup de grace, a firm squeeze from her slippery toes that sent me tumbling over the edge. I gasped loudly as my balls shamelessly unloaded themselves all over her wriggling feet.

“What was what?” Teresa asked, turning back to Amanda.

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Oh, it was probably just someone on a bicycle,” my wife said dismissively. “Could you get us some extra napkins, dear? I always like to have them in case you-know-who over here makes a mess.”

As Teresa dutifully scampered off, I slumped back in my seat, eyeing Amanda with an exhausted smile.

“You’re awful,” I told her.

“That was nothing,” she said wickedly. “Wait till I get you home.”