The Therapy My Mother-in-Law Devised to Tame Me

I had this fixation from a very young age, long before I knew what to call it. Women’s feet undid me: the curve of the arch, painted toes, the way they slipped their shoes off without thinking. I never confessed it to anyone. I carried it like a secret for years, convinced it was something that belonged only to me.

When I married Marisol, she eventually found out and, in her own way, accepted it. She played along with me from time to time, let me massage her feet in front of the TV, pretended not to notice where my eyes kept drifting. But over time it started to bother her. She said I paid more attention to her feet than to her, and maybe she was right. I thought I made up for it, that I fulfilled every one of her wishes. I told myself we were happy.

The problem was another. There was another woman whose feet obsessed me even more than my wife’s: Dolores, my mother-in-law.

A mature woman, dark-haired, tall, around forty-five, almost always in high heels that forced her to walk with deliberate slowness. Every time we ended up at a family lunch together, it took enormous effort not to stare. My eyes drifted there on their own and stayed glued to her feet.

Dolores was a woman of rigid ideas. For her, what I had was not an innocent quirk but an indecency. And she noticed. Of course she noticed. Someone like her notices everything: the look that lingers too long, the awkward silence, the way I swallowed when she took off a shoe in front of me.

From there, things began to go wrong.

First came anger. Then a silent investigation I didn’t learn about until much later. I don’t know how she confirmed it, but she came to have absolute certainty that I desired her feet, that I fantasized about kissing them, massaging them, having them close. And instead of talking to me about it, she decided to act.

She looked for a psychologist. She told her the whole story, every last detail. Together they designed what they called, with a smile I never saw coming, an “inverse therapy”: to make my own fantasy become so intense, so overwhelming, that I would end up disgusted by it.

Dolores also mentioned that she had detected something else. That I desired, with the same intensity, Carolina, a friend of Marisol’s who worked with her. A blonde with an easy laugh and sandals that left her feet exposed all summer long.

The four of them met a few days before. My wife, my mother-in-law, the psychologist, and Carolina. They agreed on every step. And I, meanwhile, kept living my life without suspecting a thing.

***

The following week I went to my first “session.” The psychologist, a woman with gentle gestures and a soothing voice who introduced herself as Renata, offered me a glass of water as soon as I walked in. I drank it without thinking. Four swallows. I remember the room beginning to tilt, the words growing heavy on my tongue, and then nothing.

I woke up tied down.

I was lying on my back on a leather bench, my arms and legs strapped in, my head immobilized. I couldn’t move anything. My mouth was covered with tape, I was completely naked, and I felt, with a shiver, a device cinched around my cock and something squeezing my balls.

When my vision cleared, I saw the four of them. Renata, Marisol, Dolores, and Carolina, standing around me, looking at me and laughing under their breath.

I tried to sit up by pure instinct. There was no way. The straps didn’t give even a centimeter.

—Relax —said Renata, stepping closer—. You’re not going anywhere.

She yanked the tape off my mouth. She explained everything to me with a calm that was more terrifying than any shout: my fetish, my mother-in-law’s disgust, my wife’s accumulated frustration. Every word was true, and I had nothing to say back. I stayed silent, burning with shame.

—Do you want to say anything in your defense? —she asked.

I opened my mouth, but before a syllable could come out the four of them started humiliating me. That I was a degenerate, that this fucking foot thing was going to be cured one way or another, that it was high time someone put me in my place. They didn’t stop laughing.

—If you like feet so much —said Dolores—, you’re going to have all you want.

They stuffed a sock into my mouth. The smell hit me at once, thick, sour, impossible to ignore.

—I wore it for two whole days —my mother-in-law said, leaning over my face—. It’s all yours.

They sealed my lips again with tape. Then they strapped one of Marisol’s shoes to my face, secured with belts, so that every breath filled my lungs with that intense odor. I couldn’t turn my head, I couldn’t spit, I couldn’t do anything but breathe what they decided.

—Isn’t this exactly what you wanted? —Carolina mocked—. Breathe it in. I want to hear you. Pig.

I stayed like that for ten endless minutes, motionless, while the four of them chatted and laughed as if I were a piece of furniture. The smell made me dizzy. The tape pulled at my skin. And yet, somewhere inside me, something responded.

***

Then they turned on a machine connected to my cock. It began to move up and down, with a mechanical, steady rhythm, imitating something that wasn’t real. The arousal hit me all at once, treacherous, impossible to stop.

I was enjoying it. I didn’t want to, but I was enjoying it. And that was exactly what they expected.

They took the shoe off my face and tilted the bench forward, leaving me half-hanging upside down. They seated Carolina and Dolores on the sofa. Marisol and Renata stood in front of me.

—Carolina —the therapist ordered—, take off your shoes and put your foot on his nose. Make him get really turned on.

Carolina’s bare foot pressed against my face, right under my nose. The hot smell flooded me and, to my humiliation, it worked. I started getting even harder. Marisol was stroking my balls with her nails, slowly taking me toward the edge.

I got almost to the limit. And at the exact instant the orgasm was about to explode, I felt a dry, brutal shock in my balls. Everything shut off at once. Pleasure vanished as if it had never existed, leaving only a dull pain and a frustration that arched my back against the straps.

They laughed out loud.

—Poor loser —said Marisol—. You’re not going to cum. Every time you get turned on, you get shocked. It’s that simple.

Carolina looked me in the eye, amused, and pressed her foot harder against my face.

—Breathe. Breathe harder. I want to see you beg us to turn off the machine. I can’t hear you.

It was precise torture. The machine brought me again and again to the edge, and each time the shock ripped the pleasure away at the root. I started moaning, pleading against the sock still in my mouth, unable to form a single intelligible word.

They didn’t stop. Twenty minutes with Carolina’s foot pressed to my nose, until they finally turned the device off. They strapped a shoe to my face again and left the room, leaving me alone with that sour smell that seeped into me all the way down.

***

When they came back, the three of them were barefoot. They removed the sock from my mouth—the relief was enormous—and the shoe from my face. Then they stretched their feet out in front of me, the soles inches from my eyes.

—Look how dirty ours got after walking outside —said Dolores—. Guess who’s going to clean them with his tongue?

I thought they were bluffing. I stayed silent, motionless. The machine switched back on and a shock stronger than the previous ones ran through my whole body.

—Stick out your tongue and start with your mother-in-law’s feet —ordered Renata—. Come on.

I had no choice. I stuck out my tongue and started licking. Dolores set the sole of her foot against my mouth with cold authority.

—The whole sole. I want it clean. And don’t spit anything out: you swallow everything.

I licked in disgust and fear, while that infernal machine kept masturbating me and forcing me to get turned on against my will. Every time my body responded, another shock came. I cleaned my mother-in-law’s feet, then my wife’s, then Carolina’s. They were spotless; my tongue was not. A degrading scene that stretched on for another twenty minutes amid laughter and the repeated insult: pig, pig, pig.

At last I felt it ending. They unstrapped me from the machine and, for that day, the torture stopped.

The three of them left. I was left alone with Renata, who fitted a chastity belt around my cock and locked it with a key.

—You’ve got two sessions left —she said, slipping the key into her pocket—. You’d better come the next few weeks, or you’ll never use this again.

I left without protest. I had no other option.

***

I went back the following week. There they were again, immaculate, in high heels, perfectly dressed as if they were going to a party and not to humiliate me.

As soon as I walked in, they ordered me to undress and get on all fours. Renata fitted a collar around my neck, and one by one they started giving me orders.

Carolina began.

—Kneel and kiss my feet. And thank me for last week’s treatment.

While I kissed her feet—three long minutes—Renata hit my ass with the soles of her flat shoes. The same ritual was repeated with my mother-in-law and with my wife: kiss, thank, take the blows.

After that they laid me face down over Renata’s lap to spank me, while the three of them stood with their feet on my face, forcing me to breathe that tripled smell. When the spanking ended, I still had to massage the three of them’s feet while they discussed my “progress” as if I weren’t there.

They kept me in the chastity belt for another full week, to check that the treatment was working.

The final session was the ultimate test. They tied my hands and feet behind my back, in a tense, uncomfortable position. They put Dolores’s foulest-smelling shoe on my face, rested their feet on my back, and spent an hour talking among themselves, watching to see whether my body would react again.

It didn’t react. I was exhausted, aching, beaten. And seeing me like that—uncomfortable, annoyed, completely shut down—they concluded the therapy had worked and discharged me.

The inverse therapy worked, in its own way. My fetish didn’t disappear completely, that would be a lie. But it became much more controlled, locked away in a corner I no longer dare return to without remembering that leather bench, the four women’s laughter, and a smell that still, whenever I least expect it, finds me again.