Forgiveness

She was reading something on her phone when I walked into the room; judging from the sound, scrolling through Instagram Reels (TikTok for suburban mothers in their 40s). Without looking up, she kicked her heels off and put her nylon covered feet on the table, her actions as much a command as if she'd spoken to me.

I knelt, leaned forward, inhaled deeply, the scent of nylon, leather, sweat, and her filled my nostrils, making me swell in my cage. I tenderly kissed her feet, one then the other, sat back, waited. 

After what seemed like an hour but was really only a minute or two, she stopped scrolling, looked at me almost disinterested, obviously still not over displeasure with me from the day before. But that was my Emily, when she was annoyed with me, she took a day or two to revert back to her normal self.

"Well go on," she said, her voice flat.

"Yes, Ma'am," I said, taking one foot in my hands, wrapping my fingers carefully around it, enjoying the contrast of my painted fingernails with her foot. As I rubbed her foot, I leaned back in, kissed each toe, first just my lips, then taking each toe between my lips like they were each a small cock.

"I'm still annoyed with you," she said after several minutes of me making love to her foot.

I sat back. "Yes, Ma'am," I said.

"I didn't say stop," she said, scrolling through her phone again.

"I'm sorry," I said, leaning back to her feet, doing to the other what I did to the first as she arched her foot, pointed her toes while I licked, sucked, kissed.. After five minutes, maybe more, I realized I didn't hear her phone anymore. I glanced at her, not obviously. She'd set her phone down, had her head back, but was watching me. As I kissed her one foot, she moved the other down to the floor, between my legs, but purposefully didn't touch me.

"When I assign you a task, I expect the task completed," she said.

"I know, Ma'am," I said. "There's no excuse."

"No, there's not," she said. "And as much as I'd love to run my foot over you, your behavior doesn't warrant it."

"I know," I said.

She put her foot back on the table, picked her phone back up, opened it, started scrolling through Reels again. "Go on," she said.

I continued, for probably the next half hour, kissed her feet, massaged her feet, all but made love to her feet. 

At one point, she looked up at me. "Are you leaking?"

I swallowed, nodded, hoped she'd play with me, find me with her foot, catch what was leaking, watch as I licked it clean. 

She pulled her feet from the table, slipped her wedge heels back on. "Go change your panties and wash them, I'm going to get ready for bed."

I did as ordered, came into the bedroom. She was ready for bed, under the covers, reading her Kindle. "Let's do better next time, shall we?"

"Yes, Ma'am," I said to my wife, still aroused from her feet, knowing I was going to have to sleep with that arousal.

We kissed goodnight and I went to sleep, reaching out for her, holding her arm, even that a gesture of taking responsibility and an acknowledgment of my place compared to her, Emily the leader, Sara the follower.