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Sara and I had been talking about the ins and outs of actually “owning” someone. This, of course, was of great interest to both of us, being longtime S&M enthusiasts. Occasionally living out submissive fantasies was fine, but I wondered what it would feel like to actually be possessed by another human being. We discussed the concept in depth over drinks.

I mused aloud about how to manage such a thing. My wife is a paralegal, so she approached the matter from a very logical angle.

“What about a contract?” she proposed, tapping her lower lip with a pencil. “One that lays out the dominant’s rights and the sub’s rights, and what both of them can expect.”

The idea wasn’t exactly original, but I liked it. Sara turned her smoldering eyes on me and flashed a wicked smile.

“Let me see what I can come up with,” she said.

And that was it for a while. We put on a movie and didn’t talk about the idea anymore that night. I have to admit I was more than a little aroused — as I always was whenever the conversation turned to control and discipline of a man by a woman. We hadn’t talked about this contract scenario being an exclusively femme domme thing. But given my own predilections, it’s not surprising that’s the shape it took in my mind.

Sara and I had been playing for years. In fact, we’d met online in a female domination chatroom. On the surface, our marriage was the very model of equality. But underneath it all was a firm conviction that in any man-woman relationship, it was the gal who had the upper hand. My fantasies were always 100 percent lurid, filled with images of a lovely but stern mistress standing over me with a whip in hand and her high-heeled foot planted firmly on my crotch. How would such an idea work in a real-life 24/7 scenario? It was a deliciously intriguing question.

About a week or so later, Sara came home from work with a big, sexy smile on her face and immediately began digging in her briefcase. In a moment or two, she pulled out a rumpled sheaf of papers.

“Wait’ll you see this,” she proclaimed.

She presented me with a slave contract, all printed out, with places for both of our signatures. There were a few addendums and corrections made in ballpoint pen. It seemed to cover multiple contingencies.

“Read it,” Sara commanded. “All of it.”

Getting through the whole thing took nearly an hour, though I’ll admit I went over several parts very slowly. It made for intriguing reading. Its style was classic legalese, but Sara had peppered it with rather specific and spicy terminology. The document basically gave the Owner (Sara) complete and unlimited dominion over the Owned Party (guess who?). In consideration of this, she would function not only as Owner, but as educator and caregiver for the party of the second part, ensuring he was the best piece of male property he could possibly be. I think a little judicious quotation is in order here, to give you a better understanding of the document’s tone:

“The Owner will regularly tease the SWOLLEN, HAIRY BALLS of the Owned Party until they are achingly full of come and ready to fucking explode. She will stroke and caress the aforementioned BALLS until the Owned Party is ready to take leave of his fucking senses, but under no circumstances will she allow the Owned Party to climax or blow his nuts until the situation provides her with maximum amusement. At such time, she will endeavor to push the Owned Party’s climax to its maximum conclusion, getting his hot spunk all over his crotch and forcing him to cry, ‘For you, Mistress!’ no fewer than three times.”

Here’s another bit I particularly liked:

“The Owned Party will on a daily basis see to the Owner’s hygiene and general well-being. He will, for example, provide oral cleansing of her beautiful, royal feet, taking particular care to lick them clean of each bit of funky toejam accumulated between her weensy and oh-so-kissable piggies. The Owner’s PLUMP ASS and HOT PUSSY also fall under this clause, particularly when they are at their most delightfully malodorous. The Owned Party shall do all in his power to get those tasty parts as clean as humanly possible. It shall be up to the Owner’s discretion to whale on his naughty slave-butt should she determine he has done less than his level best to destinkify her lady parts.”

Curling up on the sofa next to me, Sara urged, “Sign it. I wrote it with the girls over lunch today, and they all made me promise I’d take pictures of it with my phone and send a copy to each of them. Remember Claudia?”

“Oh, sure,” I said casually.

Claudia was a particularly hot colleague of Sara’s from Norway, who I’d always not-so-secretly had the hots for.

“Well, she specifically wanted a pic of you signing it, in addition to a copy of the document,” Sara crowed. “She was the one who put in the stuff about cleaning my stinky feet with your tongue, so don’t disappoint her.”

Claudia being witness to my humiliation — even in the most abstract, written form — gave me an instant hard-on, and the idea of her “making” me clean Sara’s tootsies nearly made me swoon.

“Do you have a pen?” I asked quickly.

Of course, she did.

Needless to say, we fucked like bunnies that night. Sara favored my naked body with slaps and the most sexy, vicious bites you can imagine. I fell asleep with a hard cock and dreamt of all the ways she would put me through my paces, pushing me to my most extreme limits.

But the next day — much to my disappointment — brought no new sexual experiences. Sara and I went to work as usual, met for dinner at a local bistro, and then cuddled on the couch while watching TV till bedtime. It was all very pleasant, but I kept expecting my “owner” to make some kind of advance. After all, the contract stated specifically that the “period of ownership” would begin immediately upon signing. When two more days passed with a similar lack of action, I asked her about it. She gave me an odd look over the top of her glasses. After fetching her copy of the contract from our home office, she scanned it briefly and read: “The period of ownership will begin immediately upon signature, but all activities will occur at the Owner’s discretion.” 

My cruel wife gave me a gloating smile.

“So, in other words,” she said, “you get what you get, and you don’t get upset. Now, unless I’m mistaken, there are dishes in the sink that need washing.”

This was not good news. Sara was very patient. She had to have some reason for withholding her “favors,” and I knew she would continue to do so until she was good and ready to mix things up. In the meantime, I would be forced to stew and likely endure (admittedly lovely) vanilla sex, while dreaming of spankings and the pleasures of worshiping her pussy, ass and feet.

As I’d mentioned, I’d read over the contract. But I didn’t remember anything in the wording about the fun beginning at the “Owner’s discretion.” Finally, I dug out my own signed copy. But there it was in my wife’s handwriting. Sara had initialed it, but when I asked about it later, she said, “Oh, you didn’t need to initial it. I put that in before you added your signature.”

Of course, the document was just a silly game between a husband and wife. It was in no way legally binding as far as the real world was concerned. Yet it was the basis of our particular kinky shenanigans. If I protested, I would just look petty. I decided to leave the whole thing alone and see where things went. But after another few dry days, I began to fantasize about scenarios based on the document’s wording. One evening, while indulging in a hot shower I took matters into my own hands. Remembering several of the document’s more delectable passages, I fondled myself. It felt so good I simply stood there playing with my cock in a state of complete oblivion. I was almost at the point of coming when Sara flung open the shower door.

“Well, well, well,” she said. “I see someone has forgotten the rule about the Owned Party not pleasuring himself without his owner’s permission.”

“I’m s-sorry,” I stuttered. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Sara took hold of my still erect cock and pulled me — gently, but firmly — out of the shower and into our adjoining bedroom. Unsurprisingly, she had a copy of the contract waiting for my inspection. Even more unsurprisingly, it specified the Owned Party would be subject to any punishment the Owner deemed fit — especially for unauthorized masturbation sessions.

“So, you’re going to punish me?” I asked, somewhat breathlessly.

“You bet,” Sara said, leering at me lasciviously. “That’s the rule, after all. Now get on the bed right this instant.”

I obeyed. My dick remained hard, and I was as horny as hell. I was also still naked. I spread myself out on the mattress. Sara pulled our favorite restraints from her dresser drawer. Soon, I was bound and utterly helpless. Then she padded out of the room, leaving me in an aroused and agitated state. I wriggled around on the bed, but I couldn’t free myself. My throbbing cock was embarrassingly erect. Small, fleeting itches kept crawling over my skin, and the sensation was maddening.

When Sara finally returned, she carried a bowl filled with water and ice cubes. I groaned because I knew all too well what was coming; she had used this trick on me before. She sat down on the bed beside me, keeping one of her hands submerged in the frigid liquid. She chatted with me about this and that — stuff about work and the news — nothing sexy at all. When my patience was almost at its end, she took her freezing hand from the bowl and caressed my hot cock with her chilled fingertips.

Gasping sharply, my pelvis jerked upward. Her hand was really, really cold. It was enough to make my swollen balls want to retract completely into my body. Her devious act was a torment that seemed to have no end. I begged my wife to give me a break, but mercy was not forthcoming.

“Sorry, sweetie,” Sara said tauntingly. “You’re the one who broke the rules.”

“But, but I didn’t know they WERE rules!” I whined.

“You knew. Don’t be such a baby,” she lectured. “What did you expect would happen if you played with your peepee without your owner’s permission? You think I’d just let that slide?”

Fair point, but it didn’t make my situation any more bearable. And Sara made it even worse by sexing up the procedure. She kissed my nips, my ears and my lips, getting me hotter and hotter, while continuing to tease my junk with her cool hand.

Had her fingers not been iced from the get-go, I probably would have climaxed in short order — and gotten myself into even more trouble. But her frosty touch numbed the pleasure in my nads. Being bound as I was, there wasn’t a single thing I could do about it. She eventually freed me — without letting me come — and I was nearly delirious with want.

By the end of the next week, I was one sad submissive. Sara seemed to be enjoying her cruel game. I had all but given up on the prospect of enjoying being her “property.” However, our sex life soon took an intriguing turn.

“The girls are coming over,” Sara curtly announced one Saturday morning. I simply nodded in response. It wasn’t unusual for her to have her colleagues from the firm over on weekends. Naturally, refreshments were required, and naturally, I’d be the one preparing them. I didn’t need Sara to show me the contract’s addendum about the Owned Party being required to produce snacks on demand. I took to the kitchen with my phone, so I could refer to my favorite recipe website and get to work.

The handful of guests started arriving in the afternoon. All of the women knew about the games Sara and I played, but I didn’t greet them in a dog collar or anything like that. I wore a neat, casual outfit and passed around trays of hors d’oeuvres. Still, there was an undeniable frisson of sex in the room as those professional ladies ogled at me. I imagined they were thinking about all the kinky things their friend Sara and her husband got up to when no one was watching. I could practically see the dirty thoughts flashing in their eyes.

Elegantly dressed Claudia commanded most of my attention. She was the Nordic goddess of my dreams — tall and just curvy enough. Her long ash-blonde hair was cut in a stylish bob. Her eyes were a frosty blue — nearly gray — and she had long, flirtatious lashes. The way she watched me with those cool, powerful eyes had me shivering with excitement. I felt like a virtual insect pinned under her unyielding gaze. Sara couldn’t help but notice this and smirked through the initial stages of her soiree. As for me, I obediently took drink orders, presented delectable snacks and nursed my naughty daydreams.

As the afternoon wore on, the guests began to drop away, each saying her goodbyes until only Claudia was left.

“Now that it’s just us,” Claudia said in her husky voice, “tell me what you have poor Richard doing all day.” She reached out and drew a long fingernail over the bulging fly of my trousers. I was startled but managed not to jump — and I was exceedingly glad I didn’t come in my pants.

“Oh, you remember what the contract specifies,” Sara said casually, picking up the document from a nearby table. “It’s all written down here. He does anything I want, basically. He takes care of our home and is required to sexually service me on demand. But I realized if I think of something new or particularly delicious that I’d left out, all I have to do is mark it down as an addendum. The little bugger can’t help himself — he always agrees to my terms. Isn’t that marvelous?”

“Brilliant,” Claudia said approvingly. She reached out and took the contract from Sara’s hand. “Oh yes, I do remember all of these charming requirements,” she said, looking over the papers. “Yes, here’s the part about licking your nasty feet.”

Sara laughed good naturedly at this little jibe as I self-consciously stared at the floor. I noticed both women’s feet were encased in stylish leather shoes. I wished they would ask me to lick their toes. As though reading my mind, Claudia said, “I do like that you reserve the right to revise the agreement.” She reached into the inner pocket of her suit jacket and produced an exquisite fountain pen.

Our regal guest said, “If you wanted him to, say, lick my feet, all you’d have to do is write: ‘The Owned Party shall be forced, at the Owner’s whim or that of her associates, to lick, suck and orally clean Claudia’s pretty feet as long as Claudia deems appropriate.’”

I gulped as Claudia scribbled the words she’d just said on the paper. I couldn’t believe what was happening!

“Yes, exactly like that,” Sara gushed. My wife motioned for me to initial Claudia’s statement, and I obeyed with my cock throbbing.

“Well, then,” Claudia said to me. “You’d better get to work, Richard. And, by the way, I deem it appropriate for you to worship my feet for 20 minutes at the very least!”

I glanced at Sara and was delighted when my wife shrugged in mock resignation. I got on my knees before my auxiliary mistress. With the utmost care, I slipped off her exquisite shoes and suppressed a moan of longing. Claudia’s feet were bare underneath, long and pale with expertly pedicured nails and perfumed with the most delicious smell of sweat. I pressed my lips to her warm skin, and with closed eyes, I kissed and licked her foot with abandon. My cock was achingly hard and seemed to grow even more so as I dragged my tongue along each of her soles.

As Claudia cooed dirty endearments, I dutifully put in my 20 minutes of foot worship under the women’s watchful eyes. My imperious wife and her bossy friend were studying my every move, and that knowledge stoked the flames of my lust.

Once our guest was content with my work, she eased me back onto my haunches by pushing on one of my shoulders with her free foot.

“Sara, I think he’s been such a good little bad boy. Doesn’t he deserve a reward?” Claudia proposed.

I stopped myself from shouting out a jubilant, “Yes!”

My eyes were doubtlessly filled with longing as I gazed at my gorgeous tormentors.

Finally, my wife replied, “I think you’re right, Claudia. All work and no play doesn’t make for a happy slave.”

Sara urged me to strip and sit on the couch. The gals got on either side of me and took turns giving me a tag-team blowjob. They worked so well together, I nearly asked if they’d previously shared peen. But I wisely kept my mouth shut and let me eyes drift closed. I didn’t know whose mouth and hands were doing what. I simply surrendered to the exquisite joy of two women eating me alive.

At one point, Sara rose and nuzzled my neck. I smelled her familiar perfume and opened my eyes to look at her. With her hair mussed and her lips looking swollen, she seemed sexier than ever. She leaned in close just as Claudia deep-throated my dick, and whispered in my ear, “Come for your mistress. Give her all your hot cream.”

With a groan, I released jets of jism, and Claudia swallowed every drop I had to give.

I’ve always been a slave to my passions, but now I’m even more thrilled to be a slave to my wife. I’ll gladly sign myself over to her — and her equally beautiful friends — for the rest of my days.

" />

The Contract

  • 1

Storyline

Sara and I had been talking about the ins and outs of actually “owning” someone. This, of course, was of great interest to both of us, being longtime S&M enthusiasts. Occasionally living out submissive fantasies was fine, but I wondered what it would feel like to actually be possessed by another human being. We discussed the concept in depth over drinks.

I mused aloud about how to manage such a thing. My wife is a paralegal, so she approached the matter from a very logical angle.

“What about a contract?” she proposed, tapping her lower lip with a pencil. “One that lays out the dominant’s rights and the sub’s rights, and what both of them can expect.”

The idea wasn’t exactly original, but I liked it. Sara turned her smoldering eyes on me and flashed a wicked smile.

“Let me see what I can come up with,” she said.

And that was it for a while. We put on a movie and didn’t talk about the idea anymore that night. I have to admit I was more than a little aroused — as I always was whenever the conversation turned to control and discipline of a man by a woman. We hadn’t talked about this contract scenario being an exclusively femme domme thing. But given my own predilections, it’s not surprising that’s the shape it took in my mind.

Sara and I had been playing for years. In fact, we’d met online in a female domination chatroom. On the surface, our marriage was the very model of equality. But underneath it all was a firm conviction that in any man-woman relationship, it was the gal who had the upper hand. My fantasies were always 100 percent lurid, filled with images of a lovely but stern mistress standing over me with a whip in hand and her high-heeled foot planted firmly on my crotch. How would such an idea work in a real-life 24/7 scenario? It was a deliciously intriguing question.

About a week or so later, Sara came home from work with a big, sexy smile on her face and immediately began digging in her briefcase. In a moment or two, she pulled out a rumpled sheaf of papers.

“Wait’ll you see this,” she proclaimed.

She presented me with a slave contract, all printed out, with places for both of our signatures. There were a few addendums and corrections made in ballpoint pen. It seemed to cover multiple contingencies.

“Read it,” Sara commanded. “All of it.”

Getting through the whole thing took nearly an hour, though I’ll admit I went over several parts very slowly. It made for intriguing reading. Its style was classic legalese, but Sara had peppered it with rather specific and spicy terminology. The document basically gave the Owner (Sara) complete and unlimited dominion over the Owned Party (guess who?). In consideration of this, she would function not only as Owner, but as educator and caregiver for the party of the second part, ensuring he was the best piece of male property he could possibly be. I think a little judicious quotation is in order here, to give you a better understanding of the document’s tone:

“The Owner will regularly tease the SWOLLEN, HAIRY BALLS of the Owned Party until they are achingly full of come and ready to fucking explode. She will stroke and caress the aforementioned BALLS until the Owned Party is ready to take leave of his fucking senses, but under no circumstances will she allow the Owned Party to climax or blow his nuts until the situation provides her with maximum amusement. At such time, she will endeavor to push the Owned Party’s climax to its maximum conclusion, getting his hot spunk all over his crotch and forcing him to cry, ‘For you, Mistress!’ no fewer than three times.”

Here’s another bit I particularly liked:

“The Owned Party will on a daily basis see to the Owner’s hygiene and general well-being. He will, for example, provide oral cleansing of her beautiful, royal feet, taking particular care to lick them clean of each bit of funky toejam accumulated between her weensy and oh-so-kissable piggies. The Owner’s PLUMP ASS and HOT PUSSY also fall under this clause, particularly when they are at their most delightfully malodorous. The Owned Party shall do all in his power to get those tasty parts as clean as humanly possible. It shall be up to the Owner’s discretion to whale on his naughty slave-butt should she determine he has done less than his level best to destinkify her lady parts.”

Curling up on the sofa next to me, Sara urged, “Sign it. I wrote it with the girls over lunch today, and they all made me promise I’d take pictures of it with my phone and send a copy to each of them. Remember Claudia?”

“Oh, sure,” I said casually.

Claudia was a particularly hot colleague of Sara’s from Norway, who I’d always not-so-secretly had the hots for.

“Well, she specifically wanted a pic of you signing it, in addition to a copy of the document,” Sara crowed. “She was the one who put in the stuff about cleaning my stinky feet with your tongue, so don’t disappoint her.”

Claudia being witness to my humiliation — even in the most abstract, written form — gave me an instant hard-on, and the idea of her “making” me clean Sara’s tootsies nearly made me swoon.

“Do you have a pen?” I asked quickly.

Of course, she did.

Needless to say, we fucked like bunnies that night. Sara favored my naked body with slaps and the most sexy, vicious bites you can imagine. I fell asleep with a hard cock and dreamt of all the ways she would put me through my paces, pushing me to my most extreme limits.

But the next day — much to my disappointment — brought no new sexual experiences. Sara and I went to work as usual, met for dinner at a local bistro, and then cuddled on the couch while watching TV till bedtime. It was all very pleasant, but I kept expecting my “owner” to make some kind of advance. After all, the contract stated specifically that the “period of ownership” would begin immediately upon signing. When two more days passed with a similar lack of action, I asked her about it. She gave me an odd look over the top of her glasses. After fetching her copy of the contract from our home office, she scanned it briefly and read: “The period of ownership will begin immediately upon signature, but all activities will occur at the Owner’s discretion.” 

My cruel wife gave me a gloating smile.

“So, in other words,” she said, “you get what you get, and you don’t get upset. Now, unless I’m mistaken, there are dishes in the sink that need washing.”

This was not good news. Sara was very patient. She had to have some reason for withholding her “favors,” and I knew she would continue to do so until she was good and ready to mix things up. In the meantime, I would be forced to stew and likely endure (admittedly lovely) vanilla sex, while dreaming of spankings and the pleasures of worshiping her pussy, ass and feet.

As I’d mentioned, I’d read over the contract. But I didn’t remember anything in the wording about the fun beginning at the “Owner’s discretion.” Finally, I dug out my own signed copy. But there it was in my wife’s handwriting. Sara had initialed it, but when I asked about it later, she said, “Oh, you didn’t need to initial it. I put that in before you added your signature.”

Of course, the document was just a silly game between a husband and wife. It was in no way legally binding as far as the real world was concerned. Yet it was the basis of our particular kinky shenanigans. If I protested, I would just look petty. I decided to leave the whole thing alone and see where things went. But after another few dry days, I began to fantasize about scenarios based on the document’s wording. One evening, while indulging in a hot shower I took matters into my own hands. Remembering several of the document’s more delectable passages, I fondled myself. It felt so good I simply stood there playing with my cock in a state of complete oblivion. I was almost at the point of coming when Sara flung open the shower door.

“Well, well, well,” she said. “I see someone has forgotten the rule about the Owned Party not pleasuring himself without his owner’s permission.”

“I’m s-sorry,” I stuttered. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Sara took hold of my still erect cock and pulled me — gently, but firmly — out of the shower and into our adjoining bedroom. Unsurprisingly, she had a copy of the contract waiting for my inspection. Even more unsurprisingly, it specified the Owned Party would be subject to any punishment the Owner deemed fit — especially for unauthorized masturbation sessions.

“So, you’re going to punish me?” I asked, somewhat breathlessly.

“You bet,” Sara said, leering at me lasciviously. “That’s the rule, after all. Now get on the bed right this instant.”

I obeyed. My dick remained hard, and I was as horny as hell. I was also still naked. I spread myself out on the mattress. Sara pulled our favorite restraints from her dresser drawer. Soon, I was bound and utterly helpless. Then she padded out of the room, leaving me in an aroused and agitated state. I wriggled around on the bed, but I couldn’t free myself. My throbbing cock was embarrassingly erect. Small, fleeting itches kept crawling over my skin, and the sensation was maddening.

When Sara finally returned, she carried a bowl filled with water and ice cubes. I groaned because I knew all too well what was coming; she had used this trick on me before. She sat down on the bed beside me, keeping one of her hands submerged in the frigid liquid. She chatted with me about this and that — stuff about work and the news — nothing sexy at all. When my patience was almost at its end, she took her freezing hand from the bowl and caressed my hot cock with her chilled fingertips.

Gasping sharply, my pelvis jerked upward. Her hand was really, really cold. It was enough to make my swollen balls want to retract completely into my body. Her devious act was a torment that seemed to have no end. I begged my wife to give me a break, but mercy was not forthcoming.

“Sorry, sweetie,” Sara said tauntingly. “You’re the one who broke the rules.”

“But, but I didn’t know they WERE rules!” I whined.

“You knew. Don’t be such a baby,” she lectured. “What did you expect would happen if you played with your peepee without your owner’s permission? You think I’d just let that slide?”

Fair point, but it didn’t make my situation any more bearable. And Sara made it even worse by sexing up the procedure. She kissed my nips, my ears and my lips, getting me hotter and hotter, while continuing to tease my junk with her cool hand.

Had her fingers not been iced from the get-go, I probably would have climaxed in short order — and gotten myself into even more trouble. But her frosty touch numbed the pleasure in my nads. Being bound as I was, there wasn’t a single thing I could do about it. She eventually freed me — without letting me come — and I was nearly delirious with want.

By the end of the next week, I was one sad submissive. Sara seemed to be enjoying her cruel game. I had all but given up on the prospect of enjoying being her “property.” However, our sex life soon took an intriguing turn.

“The girls are coming over,” Sara curtly announced one Saturday morning. I simply nodded in response. It wasn’t unusual for her to have her colleagues from the firm over on weekends. Naturally, refreshments were required, and naturally, I’d be the one preparing them. I didn’t need Sara to show me the contract’s addendum about the Owned Party being required to produce snacks on demand. I took to the kitchen with my phone, so I could refer to my favorite recipe website and get to work.

The handful of guests started arriving in the afternoon. All of the women knew about the games Sara and I played, but I didn’t greet them in a dog collar or anything like that. I wore a neat, casual outfit and passed around trays of hors d’oeuvres. Still, there was an undeniable frisson of sex in the room as those professional ladies ogled at me. I imagined they were thinking about all the kinky things their friend Sara and her husband got up to when no one was watching. I could practically see the dirty thoughts flashing in their eyes.

Elegantly dressed Claudia commanded most of my attention. She was the Nordic goddess of my dreams — tall and just curvy enough. Her long ash-blonde hair was cut in a stylish bob. Her eyes were a frosty blue — nearly gray — and she had long, flirtatious lashes. The way she watched me with those cool, powerful eyes had me shivering with excitement. I felt like a virtual insect pinned under her unyielding gaze. Sara couldn’t help but notice this and smirked through the initial stages of her soiree. As for me, I obediently took drink orders, presented delectable snacks and nursed my naughty daydreams.

As the afternoon wore on, the guests began to drop away, each saying her goodbyes until only Claudia was left.

“Now that it’s just us,” Claudia said in her husky voice, “tell me what you have poor Richard doing all day.” She reached out and drew a long fingernail over the bulging fly of my trousers. I was startled but managed not to jump — and I was exceedingly glad I didn’t come in my pants.

“Oh, you remember what the contract specifies,” Sara said casually, picking up the document from a nearby table. “It’s all written down here. He does anything I want, basically. He takes care of our home and is required to sexually service me on demand. But I realized if I think of something new or particularly delicious that I’d left out, all I have to do is mark it down as an addendum. The little bugger can’t help himself — he always agrees to my terms. Isn’t that marvelous?”

“Brilliant,” Claudia said approvingly. She reached out and took the contract from Sara’s hand. “Oh yes, I do remember all of these charming requirements,” she said, looking over the papers. “Yes, here’s the part about licking your nasty feet.”

Sara laughed good naturedly at this little jibe as I self-consciously stared at the floor. I noticed both women’s feet were encased in stylish leather shoes. I wished they would ask me to lick their toes. As though reading my mind, Claudia said, “I do like that you reserve the right to revise the agreement.” She reached into the inner pocket of her suit jacket and produced an exquisite fountain pen.

Our regal guest said, “If you wanted him to, say, lick my feet, all you’d have to do is write: ‘The Owned Party shall be forced, at the Owner’s whim or that of her associates, to lick, suck and orally clean Claudia’s pretty feet as long as Claudia deems appropriate.’”

I gulped as Claudia scribbled the words she’d just said on the paper. I couldn’t believe what was happening!

“Yes, exactly like that,” Sara gushed. My wife motioned for me to initial Claudia’s statement, and I obeyed with my cock throbbing.

“Well, then,” Claudia said to me. “You’d better get to work, Richard. And, by the way, I deem it appropriate for you to worship my feet for 20 minutes at the very least!”

I glanced at Sara and was delighted when my wife shrugged in mock resignation. I got on my knees before my auxiliary mistress. With the utmost care, I slipped off her exquisite shoes and suppressed a moan of longing. Claudia’s feet were bare underneath, long and pale with expertly pedicured nails and perfumed with the most delicious smell of sweat. I pressed my lips to her warm skin, and with closed eyes, I kissed and licked her foot with abandon. My cock was achingly hard and seemed to grow even more so as I dragged my tongue along each of her soles.

As Claudia cooed dirty endearments, I dutifully put in my 20 minutes of foot worship under the women’s watchful eyes. My imperious wife and her bossy friend were studying my every move, and that knowledge stoked the flames of my lust.

Once our guest was content with my work, she eased me back onto my haunches by pushing on one of my shoulders with her free foot.

“Sara, I think he’s been such a good little bad boy. Doesn’t he deserve a reward?” Claudia proposed.

I stopped myself from shouting out a jubilant, “Yes!”

My eyes were doubtlessly filled with longing as I gazed at my gorgeous tormentors.

Finally, my wife replied, “I think you’re right, Claudia. All work and no play doesn’t make for a happy slave.”

Sara urged me to strip and sit on the couch. The gals got on either side of me and took turns giving me a tag-team blowjob. They worked so well together, I nearly asked if they’d previously shared peen. But I wisely kept my mouth shut and let me eyes drift closed. I didn’t know whose mouth and hands were doing what. I simply surrendered to the exquisite joy of two women eating me alive.

At one point, Sara rose and nuzzled my neck. I smelled her familiar perfume and opened my eyes to look at her. With her hair mussed and her lips looking swollen, she seemed sexier than ever. She leaned in close just as Claudia deep-throated my dick, and whispered in my ear, “Come for your mistress. Give her all your hot cream.”

With a groan, I released jets of jism, and Claudia swallowed every drop I had to give.

I’ve always been a slave to my passions, but now I’m even more thrilled to be a slave to my wife. I’ll gladly sign myself over to her — and her equally beautiful friends — for the rest of my days.

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