"Hey, Pester," Jolie yelled. "Get your wimpy ass in here."
She heard him running up the steps from the basement, where she had sent him to do some hand laundering by picking up each item of dirty clothing off the floor with his teeth, and dropping them onto the table by the sink. She knew that he would be totally distracted because everything in the pile was hers: socks, panties, tube tops, short-shorts. The way he obsessed over her clothes he would by sucking and sniffing each piece as he retrieved it. Then he would have to get back down on his knees and fetch the next one. Jolie had strict rules about how he did his chores and even if she wasn't there he was too cowardly to try to disobey. When he got upstairs and met his wife in the kitchen she had to laugh. "You look ridiculous, pussy boy. Who picked out that silly outfit for you?"
"Y... you did, Deawest." She made him mispronounce 'dearest' that way because it always amused her and, at the same time, reminded him that he wasn't even allowed to speak properly if she so willed.
"I did?" she said, sounding like she really meant it. "I selected those fuzzy pink slippers, the open-crotch saffron panties that leave your tiny dick on display, and that little red bowtie with the elastic neckband? You're saying it was ME who made you dress up like a total sissy weakling?"
"Well..." he began, frightened of saying anything wrong. "I... think it was you."
She stepped up to him and slapped his face, first one cheek and then the other. As he stood there, stunned, she snarled at him, "Of course it was me, you pathetic failure, you unconvincing imitation of a man. I always tell you what to wear around the house."
"I..." He sniffled. "I'm..." He blinked back tears. "You're right, Deawest. Like always."
She pinched both his nipples and twisted them until his face was red and he was whimpering. Then she let go and told him, her voice now level, "I called you up here to let you know that one of your lazy friends called."
"But you didn't give me the phone."
"Of course not. Your laundry boy duties are much more important than any illusions you're hanging onto about me letting you have a personal life. You're here only to please me. Only to do as I tell you." She stared at him and any thoughts he had about responding suddenly evaporated. Instead he just bit his lips and nodded. "That's more like it," she pointed out. "Anyway, your friend was somebody named John or Joe or 'jerk'. Whatever. He said he had your bowling trophy from back when I still let you go out stay in that stupid league. I pointed out to him that you were a rotten bowler and the only reason your team won was because the rest of the guys were halfway good. He admitted I was right but he said you could still come around and pick up your prize. Then I explained that you had too many jobs to complete around the house and couldn't be bothered with that."
Forgetting himself, Pester asked, "You didn't tell him what... kind of chores I have, did you?"
"Of course not. I didn't want to embarrass you."
"Oh," he signed in relief. "Thank you so much."
She went on, "Though I did mention that you had to clean the kitchen floor with your little green dustpan and brush. And that you had to do it on your belly, moving around without getting up onto your knees."
"You told him THAT?" Pester whined.
"It's okay," his wife soothed. "Because I made it clear that the only reason you had to stay down there on your belly is because you'll have the dustpan handle in your mouth and be sweeping everything into it that way. When he realized that I was serious he laughed at you. I told him that you've been reduced to household help and there was no way you would ever be allowed to re-join that league. He wanted to know what to do with the trophy with your name on it, so I told him I'd send a picture of you in one of your 'work' outfits that they could tape to the trophy, and that then they could put it on display at that bar where you used to go after you bowled."
"B... b... but then EVERYBODY will see it."
"That's the idea, balloon-brain. All those guys you thought were your friends will have a lot of laughs at your expense. You'll never be able to look any of them in the face again without turning beet red." She laughed nastily as he lost control and started to weep.
"Wow," she said. "Even after I did all that to you, you can't stand up for yourself. You are a total failure as a husband, Pester. That's why I have to have my lover, Chuck. Speaking of which, he's coming over tonight. There's a list of chores for you to complete before he gets here at eight. It's in your room, right in the middle of your pink bedspread. Get moving, worthless. If any of that stuff doesn't get done your ass is going to wind up in intensive care."
He wanted to tell her how unfair she was being, how mean, and he was sure that when he saw everything on the list he could add that she was being unrealistic. Jolie always gave him more work than he could reasonably handle in the time she allowed. Instead, he got his crying under control and answered, "Yes, Deawest. I'm sorry if I got out of line. I should know better."
"That's right, you should. But you always forget because of what you are. What are you, Pester?"
"I... I'm a useless, pitiful, good-for-nothing, poor excuse for a man. I was born without a spine and my balls are made of jelly. I don't deserve to have you, Deawest."
She shook her head and said, "Now tell me something I don't know." Then she pointed and ordered, "Hop to it, fairy."
He scurried off to find the list and she grinned behind his back. It was so much FUN to torture her idiot husband and mess with what passed for his mind. She wondered if there was any limit to how far she could push him, how completely she could obliterate his manhood. Well, even if she never discovered his limits, she would still have fun trying.
Pester entered his 'room', which was really just a walk in closet that Chuck had converted into his living space. His 'bed' was a cot and the 'spread' was an ugly fringe-bordered throw. He almost went into shock when he saw the dozen jobs on her list. He rushed to get started and knew he'd be very lucky to finish by eight. Still, there was no alternative. His wife loved to put him into these situations, where success meant almost knocking himself out, but failure would cost him much more. There were never good choices, only ones that were slightly less bad. He got his mouth-mop, which was a small mop head with no handle, and stuffed its back end into his mouth. Then he filled a bucket with hot soapy water to clean the bathroom floor. He had to dip the mop into the water, deep enough that his face was inside the bucket and the fumes from the strong soap made his eyes water. Then he needed to get his face close to the floor tiles and press the mop against them before he started to move it back and forth. It was difficult and humiliating, and would leave his neck sore for hours, along with having that deadline hanging over him. Jolie was so clever when it came to making every job as arduous, frustrating and stressful as it could be. He struggled to complete the task, all the while mentally trying to tally up the lengths of ALL the tasks and calculate if he could finish on time. It didn't look good. His girlish slippers kept falling off, the panties were too small and their elastic dug into his skin, and the bowtie's neckband chafed at his neck.
Hours later he at last completed scrubbing around the base of the drainpipe under the kitchen sink. It was aggravating to have to do that because he knew, as well as his wife did, that no one would even see that area. Even so, she made him perform the needless task whenever it suited her fancy. Worse, he had to do it with his own toothbrush. He sprang to his feet and raced to his room, losing and retrieving the same slipper twice on the way. Once he was in there he found a note taped to his 'mirror', which was just a piece of aluminum foil in a frame. He read the note and his heart sank. Jolie was commanding him to put on one of his wigs, the tawdry yellow one that reached to just past his ears on the sides and in back, and which had bangs in the front. He cringed at the thought of being seen in it by Chuck, who had never gotten an eyeful of it before, but any sort of objection to Jolie might trigger one of her mood swings. Not only didn't Pester want to incur any punishment, but more importantly he didn't want to lose any of his rare privileges, especially not that one that he treasured so much.
So he settled the unattractive wig atop his head and patted down some of the flyaway hairs. He made him resemble a street-corner hooker. He cringed mentally at the image. Then he heard the doorbell ring and scurried to answer it. He knew that Chuck would be there, waiting to laugh at him and push him around before he took Jolie out for the evening, ending up at his place, where he would screw her senseless. When she returned in the morning, or maybe not until afternoon, she would despise Pester even more because he was helplessly unable to stop her from cuckolding him over and over. Before he got there Jolie halted him and said, "I wouldn't want you to think that I'm totally heartless, Pester. After we leave you can go into my shoe closet, take the tall leather boots, the oxblood ones, and go to your bed with them. You may fetish them all you like. I wore them last night when I went clubbing with the girls, so they should have plenty of my scent in them. You may touch your pansy pee pee but you may NOT squirt it. It will still be a long while before you're allowed to empty your baby balls. Understood?"
Oh, yessss, Deawest," he gushed appreciatively. "Thank you soooo much." He was quivering with happiness.
She told him, "Oh, and from now on when you thank me, which you should be doing ALL the time, you will say 'Thwank ooo'. Right?"
"Yes. Absolutely. Thwank ooo, Deawest."
She snickered at his unthinking compliance and his mindless gratitude for the boots. Then her expression turned severe and she told him, "Now answer that door, you hopeless dodo."
"Yes, Deawest," he said breathlessly as he raced off. "Thwank ooo, Deawest."
A half hour later, after the usual ridicule and abuse from tall, broad-shouldered Chuck, Pester went fearfully to his wife's footwear closet. Once she had granted him similar rights and when he opened the door there was a note waiting that said, "Just kidding. Get to work," and attached to it was one of her unreasonable lists of jobs, jobs, jobs. But this time his precious privilege was not cruelly revoked. This time he was allowed to grasp the beloved boots and scuttle fearfully, as if he imagined someone was in pursuit of him, to his tiny room. Once there he curled up on his side on the cot and hugged the boots to his narrow chest. At once his undersized penis jumped to life and stiffened to its unimpressive, full three inch length. No wonder his wife didn't want him sexually. Naturally she had to seek a real man like Chuck. The evidence was between Pester's slender legs. He bit his lower lip fretfully but then, as he breathed in the mingled scents of leather and Jolie's foot sweat, his heart grew buoyant and he even smiled. His world shrank until it was filled with thoughts of his wife's small feet and the great gift she sometimes gave him of being permitted to kiss them, lick and suck them, to rub them all over his face. She might sit there calling him names like 'pipsqueak' and 'toe boy' but he didn't care, so long as he was allowed contact -- intimate contact -- with those twin beauties at the ends of her shapely legs.
That was how Pester spent the long hours of the night. While his wife was out on an exciting date, having drinks and good food, he lay there hugging those precious boots, his face often covered by the open end of one of them, as he huffed the unmatchable aromas and lightly stroked the laughable erection that he wasn't allowed to coax to its intended purpose. He pictured his wife and Chuck sitting at a table, in a darkened corner of that club they liked, which he had never seen the interior of, in the shadows, laughing over their drinks and nibbling their meals, both of them planning ahead to the great sex they would share at Chuck's place. He sighed. It was terrible to be a despised cuckold wussy, to know that he didn't have what it took to claim his own wife, to have to suffer the misery he felt as he compared his situation to that of the happy couple. But at the same time, his wife had tapped into his secret desires, which she had easily spotted and played upon since even before they got married, had taken control of his life, and ruled its every aspect. Even so, when the mood struck her she deliver to him bliss like he was feeling now, the joy of cherishing her shoes, of worshipping her feet. That, to him, was perfection.
Could he expect anything else? A person who couldn't fulfill the terms of his own manhood? Wasn't it right that someone like him, who was such a pest to his spouse that she had re-named him Pester, should have to live in misery and live for the few crumbs of charity she tossed him, the giddy moments when she let him be himself -- the unworthy little nothing who existed to become one with her shoes. Her feet.
She heard him running up the steps from the basement, where she had sent him to do some hand laundering by picking up each item of dirty clothing off the floor with his teeth, and dropping them onto the table by the sink. She knew that he would be totally distracted because everything in the pile was hers: socks, panties, tube tops, short-shorts. The way he obsessed over her clothes he would by sucking and sniffing each piece as he retrieved it. Then he would have to get back down on his knees and fetch the next one. Jolie had strict rules about how he did his chores and even if she wasn't there he was too cowardly to try to disobey. When he got upstairs and met his wife in the kitchen she had to laugh. "You look ridiculous, pussy boy. Who picked out that silly outfit for you?"
"Y... you did, Deawest." She made him mispronounce 'dearest' that way because it always amused her and, at the same time, reminded him that he wasn't even allowed to speak properly if she so willed.
"I did?" she said, sounding like she really meant it. "I selected those fuzzy pink slippers, the open-crotch saffron panties that leave your tiny dick on display, and that little red bowtie with the elastic neckband? You're saying it was ME who made you dress up like a total sissy weakling?"
"Well..." he began, frightened of saying anything wrong. "I... think it was you."
She stepped up to him and slapped his face, first one cheek and then the other. As he stood there, stunned, she snarled at him, "Of course it was me, you pathetic failure, you unconvincing imitation of a man. I always tell you what to wear around the house."
"I..." He sniffled. "I'm..." He blinked back tears. "You're right, Deawest. Like always."
She pinched both his nipples and twisted them until his face was red and he was whimpering. Then she let go and told him, her voice now level, "I called you up here to let you know that one of your lazy friends called."
"But you didn't give me the phone."
"Of course not. Your laundry boy duties are much more important than any illusions you're hanging onto about me letting you have a personal life. You're here only to please me. Only to do as I tell you." She stared at him and any thoughts he had about responding suddenly evaporated. Instead he just bit his lips and nodded. "That's more like it," she pointed out. "Anyway, your friend was somebody named John or Joe or 'jerk'. Whatever. He said he had your bowling trophy from back when I still let you go out stay in that stupid league. I pointed out to him that you were a rotten bowler and the only reason your team won was because the rest of the guys were halfway good. He admitted I was right but he said you could still come around and pick up your prize. Then I explained that you had too many jobs to complete around the house and couldn't be bothered with that."
Forgetting himself, Pester asked, "You didn't tell him what... kind of chores I have, did you?"
"Of course not. I didn't want to embarrass you."
"Oh," he signed in relief. "Thank you so much."
She went on, "Though I did mention that you had to clean the kitchen floor with your little green dustpan and brush. And that you had to do it on your belly, moving around without getting up onto your knees."
"You told him THAT?" Pester whined.
"It's okay," his wife soothed. "Because I made it clear that the only reason you had to stay down there on your belly is because you'll have the dustpan handle in your mouth and be sweeping everything into it that way. When he realized that I was serious he laughed at you. I told him that you've been reduced to household help and there was no way you would ever be allowed to re-join that league. He wanted to know what to do with the trophy with your name on it, so I told him I'd send a picture of you in one of your 'work' outfits that they could tape to the trophy, and that then they could put it on display at that bar where you used to go after you bowled."
"B... b... but then EVERYBODY will see it."
"That's the idea, balloon-brain. All those guys you thought were your friends will have a lot of laughs at your expense. You'll never be able to look any of them in the face again without turning beet red." She laughed nastily as he lost control and started to weep.
"Wow," she said. "Even after I did all that to you, you can't stand up for yourself. You are a total failure as a husband, Pester. That's why I have to have my lover, Chuck. Speaking of which, he's coming over tonight. There's a list of chores for you to complete before he gets here at eight. It's in your room, right in the middle of your pink bedspread. Get moving, worthless. If any of that stuff doesn't get done your ass is going to wind up in intensive care."
He wanted to tell her how unfair she was being, how mean, and he was sure that when he saw everything on the list he could add that she was being unrealistic. Jolie always gave him more work than he could reasonably handle in the time she allowed. Instead, he got his crying under control and answered, "Yes, Deawest. I'm sorry if I got out of line. I should know better."
"That's right, you should. But you always forget because of what you are. What are you, Pester?"
"I... I'm a useless, pitiful, good-for-nothing, poor excuse for a man. I was born without a spine and my balls are made of jelly. I don't deserve to have you, Deawest."
She shook her head and said, "Now tell me something I don't know." Then she pointed and ordered, "Hop to it, fairy."
He scurried off to find the list and she grinned behind his back. It was so much FUN to torture her idiot husband and mess with what passed for his mind. She wondered if there was any limit to how far she could push him, how completely she could obliterate his manhood. Well, even if she never discovered his limits, she would still have fun trying.
Pester entered his 'room', which was really just a walk in closet that Chuck had converted into his living space. His 'bed' was a cot and the 'spread' was an ugly fringe-bordered throw. He almost went into shock when he saw the dozen jobs on her list. He rushed to get started and knew he'd be very lucky to finish by eight. Still, there was no alternative. His wife loved to put him into these situations, where success meant almost knocking himself out, but failure would cost him much more. There were never good choices, only ones that were slightly less bad. He got his mouth-mop, which was a small mop head with no handle, and stuffed its back end into his mouth. Then he filled a bucket with hot soapy water to clean the bathroom floor. He had to dip the mop into the water, deep enough that his face was inside the bucket and the fumes from the strong soap made his eyes water. Then he needed to get his face close to the floor tiles and press the mop against them before he started to move it back and forth. It was difficult and humiliating, and would leave his neck sore for hours, along with having that deadline hanging over him. Jolie was so clever when it came to making every job as arduous, frustrating and stressful as it could be. He struggled to complete the task, all the while mentally trying to tally up the lengths of ALL the tasks and calculate if he could finish on time. It didn't look good. His girlish slippers kept falling off, the panties were too small and their elastic dug into his skin, and the bowtie's neckband chafed at his neck.
Hours later he at last completed scrubbing around the base of the drainpipe under the kitchen sink. It was aggravating to have to do that because he knew, as well as his wife did, that no one would even see that area. Even so, she made him perform the needless task whenever it suited her fancy. Worse, he had to do it with his own toothbrush. He sprang to his feet and raced to his room, losing and retrieving the same slipper twice on the way. Once he was in there he found a note taped to his 'mirror', which was just a piece of aluminum foil in a frame. He read the note and his heart sank. Jolie was commanding him to put on one of his wigs, the tawdry yellow one that reached to just past his ears on the sides and in back, and which had bangs in the front. He cringed at the thought of being seen in it by Chuck, who had never gotten an eyeful of it before, but any sort of objection to Jolie might trigger one of her mood swings. Not only didn't Pester want to incur any punishment, but more importantly he didn't want to lose any of his rare privileges, especially not that one that he treasured so much.
So he settled the unattractive wig atop his head and patted down some of the flyaway hairs. He made him resemble a street-corner hooker. He cringed mentally at the image. Then he heard the doorbell ring and scurried to answer it. He knew that Chuck would be there, waiting to laugh at him and push him around before he took Jolie out for the evening, ending up at his place, where he would screw her senseless. When she returned in the morning, or maybe not until afternoon, she would despise Pester even more because he was helplessly unable to stop her from cuckolding him over and over. Before he got there Jolie halted him and said, "I wouldn't want you to think that I'm totally heartless, Pester. After we leave you can go into my shoe closet, take the tall leather boots, the oxblood ones, and go to your bed with them. You may fetish them all you like. I wore them last night when I went clubbing with the girls, so they should have plenty of my scent in them. You may touch your pansy pee pee but you may NOT squirt it. It will still be a long while before you're allowed to empty your baby balls. Understood?"
Oh, yessss, Deawest," he gushed appreciatively. "Thank you soooo much." He was quivering with happiness.
She told him, "Oh, and from now on when you thank me, which you should be doing ALL the time, you will say 'Thwank ooo'. Right?"
"Yes. Absolutely. Thwank ooo, Deawest."
She snickered at his unthinking compliance and his mindless gratitude for the boots. Then her expression turned severe and she told him, "Now answer that door, you hopeless dodo."
"Yes, Deawest," he said breathlessly as he raced off. "Thwank ooo, Deawest."
A half hour later, after the usual ridicule and abuse from tall, broad-shouldered Chuck, Pester went fearfully to his wife's footwear closet. Once she had granted him similar rights and when he opened the door there was a note waiting that said, "Just kidding. Get to work," and attached to it was one of her unreasonable lists of jobs, jobs, jobs. But this time his precious privilege was not cruelly revoked. This time he was allowed to grasp the beloved boots and scuttle fearfully, as if he imagined someone was in pursuit of him, to his tiny room. Once there he curled up on his side on the cot and hugged the boots to his narrow chest. At once his undersized penis jumped to life and stiffened to its unimpressive, full three inch length. No wonder his wife didn't want him sexually. Naturally she had to seek a real man like Chuck. The evidence was between Pester's slender legs. He bit his lower lip fretfully but then, as he breathed in the mingled scents of leather and Jolie's foot sweat, his heart grew buoyant and he even smiled. His world shrank until it was filled with thoughts of his wife's small feet and the great gift she sometimes gave him of being permitted to kiss them, lick and suck them, to rub them all over his face. She might sit there calling him names like 'pipsqueak' and 'toe boy' but he didn't care, so long as he was allowed contact -- intimate contact -- with those twin beauties at the ends of her shapely legs.
That was how Pester spent the long hours of the night. While his wife was out on an exciting date, having drinks and good food, he lay there hugging those precious boots, his face often covered by the open end of one of them, as he huffed the unmatchable aromas and lightly stroked the laughable erection that he wasn't allowed to coax to its intended purpose. He pictured his wife and Chuck sitting at a table, in a darkened corner of that club they liked, which he had never seen the interior of, in the shadows, laughing over their drinks and nibbling their meals, both of them planning ahead to the great sex they would share at Chuck's place. He sighed. It was terrible to be a despised cuckold wussy, to know that he didn't have what it took to claim his own wife, to have to suffer the misery he felt as he compared his situation to that of the happy couple. But at the same time, his wife had tapped into his secret desires, which she had easily spotted and played upon since even before they got married, had taken control of his life, and ruled its every aspect. Even so, when the mood struck her she deliver to him bliss like he was feeling now, the joy of cherishing her shoes, of worshipping her feet. That, to him, was perfection.
Could he expect anything else? A person who couldn't fulfill the terms of his own manhood? Wasn't it right that someone like him, who was such a pest to his spouse that she had re-named him Pester, should have to live in misery and live for the few crumbs of charity she tossed him, the giddy moments when she let him be himself -- the unworthy little nothing who existed to become one with her shoes. Her feet.
