A man must bow down

Under the shadow of her grace Exactly one year had passed, long and thorny, since the moment Anna, my sun and my torment, left for another. His name was Artyom, a self-confident senior, and I, just her timid classmate, watched their happiness from the sidelines, like a bright but inaccessible picture. My whole world narrowed to her smile, her laughter, the flicker of her chestnut hair in the college corridors. By spring, a shadow of thoughtfulness had settled in her eyes, always so clear, and her laughter had grown quieter. The story unfolded itself, harshly and routinely: Artyom, having graduated, had left for his hometown without proposing marriage, or even a heart, or even a seat next to her on the packed train. He had simply vanished from her life, leaving silence in his wake. But autumn brought other changes. Returning to school, I saw that Anna had been transformed. A smooth, careful grace had appeared in her gait, and the contours of her figure revealed a soft, rounded line of her belly, which she no longer concealed. Pregnancy had illuminated her from within with a special, touching beauty, the beauty of a fragile vase holding the most precious thing. I admired her, holding my breath, still from afar, until my heart was ready to burst with silent tenderness. And so, on one of those November days, when the golden leaves had already crumbled to gray ash beneath my feet, she herself crossed the invisible line separating me from her. We met in the park, where the wind whispered of the past summer. "Hello," her voice, painfully familiar, sounded quiet and a little tired. "I've noticed your gaze has been finding me more often. Or is it just me?" "Hello, Anya. It wasn't 'steel.' I've always looked at you. It's just that now... now I have less reason to hide that look," I exhaled, feeling the ground slipping out from under my feet. "That's how ironic it all is," she smiled sadly, looking somewhere past me. "I rejected your devotion, and now I find myself useless. A kind of retribution for my blindness. I fell in love with a mirage, not a person." "What should a person be like?" I asked, afraid to frighten this fragile intimacy. “Honest. Faithful. Someone whose heart is your home, not a temporary stop,” she finally looked at me, and in her eyes I saw unspoken hope. “Now? No, I don’t love you. The pain he caused me dissolved everything else. But I’m grateful to him for one thing—this baby. He’s my true miracle. I will love him with all my heart.” "And I'm happy for you, Anna. Sincerely," the words came from the heart. "Really?" There was a hint of surprise in her voice. — More than ever. I will adore your child too. “Why?” she whispered, her eyes filling with moisture. "Because I love you. All of you. Your soul, your strength, your future. I've never stopped," the confession finally came, easy and liberating. "I knew it," a barely perceptible smile touched her lips. "I felt it. I saw how you looked at me, how you loved me, how you hesitated. Thank you for... for still being there." "Thank you for coming. Let me... Let me kneel before you," I asked, and in this request there was not only a request, but also a plea for forgiveness, for a new beginning. “Why?” She frowned. — To ask for forgiveness. For being too weak to fight for you then. For letting you go. “Oh...” she sighed, her face softening. “Okay. Go ahead.” I knelt on the cold, leaf-strewn ground, and in that moment I felt neither cold nor fear. Only boundless relief and happiness. "Anna, let me be near you again. Let me take care of you, serve you and... your miracle. Forgive my hesitation." “Get up,” she said softly. - No. I won't get up until you allow me to dedicate my life to both of you. "You're an incurable romantic," she shook her head, tears finally rolling down her cheeks. "I believed you were just like that. I wasn't wrong about you. So tell me... will you marry me?" “I will consider it an honor for me...,” I said, without taking my eyes off her. She extended her hand, and the gesture was so full of regal tenderness that it took my breath away. "Here is my hand. You can seal your promise." I carefully raised her hand to my lips and left a long, respectful kiss on it, into which I put all the loyalty of my soul. “Anya... I dream of kissing your foot as a sign of adoration,” I said, feeling the heat on my face. "Not here," she nodded sheepishly toward the group of first-year girls watching us with genuine interest. "They're already staring at us." “Let them see,” I said quietly but firmly. “Let them see how I find my happiness.” And without waiting for an answer, I leaned down and touched the suede toe of her boot with my lips. It wasn't just a gesture—it was a vow. Our student wedding came as a surprise to many. Some chalked it up to a pregnancy cover-up, but those who knew us better understood it was the culmination of a long, silent affair. We chose Anna's wedding shoes together, and for me it was a sacred ritual. I knelt down and tried on pair after pair for her, catching her approving nod or amused grimace. We settled on elegant white pumps with a thin, sturdy heel. At the wedding itself, when, following a stupid tradition, the bride's slipper was stolen, I refused to let anyone touch this symbol. I bought it back, raising it above my head to laughter and applause, and sipped from it myself, tasting not champagne but the sweet sense of belonging on my lips. On our wedding night, when we were alone in the cozy dimness of our room, I knelt by the bed and carefully removed those very same white slippers from her feet. First, I kissed them reverently, and then began my long-awaited ritual—showering kisses over every heel, every toe of her tired feet, feeling the life pulsing beneath my lips. "You're doing everything right," Anna whispered, running her hand through my hair. "I think the baby will be uncomfortable if we... if we're too active. But you can give me pleasure in a different way." She removed her lace lingerie, and I, holding my breath, pressed myself to her most intimate part. The thought that this temple of life, bearing a child, was now entrusted to my care and love filled me with sacred awe and ardent passion. I kissed her reverently, as if she were a sacred relic, then tenderly and patiently caressed her with my tongue, listening to her soft moans and rapid breathing. When she shuddered and reached her climax, I joyfully accepted all her sweetness, resolving to preserve its taste and aroma on my lips as a precious gift. "I didn't know it could be so... so deep," she muttered, already falling asleep. "Keep doing this until I give birth. And then... we'll see." I covered her entire body with kisses, every centimeter, but I lingered the longest on her rounded belly, whispering promises to her future offspring. And when sleep finally closed her eyes, I remained kneeling by the bed, holding her slippers in my hands. I looked at my sleeping wife, at my Mistress, at my Anna, and quietly thanked fate for this gift—to be her husband, her protector, and her most devoted subject. My entire future, bright and clear, now lay here, under the shadow of her grace. Test of loyalty I met Anna's mother, Valentina Sergeevna, before the wedding, but we only had a real conversation, without the fuss and celebratory noise, a couple of months after I became her son-in-law. She invited me to her place, setting the table for a serious conversation. Valentina Sergeevna, a woman with a penetrating gaze and a steely core, in her own words, loved to "take the bull by the horns." The phrase, in the context of our situation, sounded almost mocking, but I only smiled to myself. "Tell me honestly, Maxim," she began, pushing her cup away and looking straight at me. "Why did you marry her? For noble reasons? To 'cover up' the situation, as they say these days?" Her voice was stern, but in the depths of her eyes I detected not so much condemnation as concern for her daughter. "Valentina Sergeyevna, I don't think Anna or the future child need to be covered up in any way. There's not a shadow of shame in their existence," I replied calmly. “But you understand perfectly well that this is not your blood,” she did not back down. "Blood is a matter of biology. A father is a matter of choice, love, and responsibility. Born in my marriage, raised in my love, will be mine. Unconditionally." My words were firm, and I saw her stern expression falter slightly. "Fine, if you want to be a knight on a white horse, that's your right," she sighed. "Just make sure this chivalry doesn't turn into reproaches for my girl. I won't tolerate that." "You can rest assured," I said, bowing my head slightly. "It wasn't Anna who asked me for marriage. It was I who begged her on my knees to give me the happiness of being with her." "On her knees?" Her voice was filled with genuine surprise. "After she... was in that position?" "Exactly so, Valentina Sergeyevna. And I am grateful to fate for being so merciful to me." “Oh my God... So you’re not only noble, but also... kind of old-fashioned and gallant,” she shook her head, looking me over appraisingly. "I believe a man should bow before his woman. Before her strength, her choices, her destiny. Whoever she is and whatever she has done." "An interesting philosophy," she narrowed her eyes. "So, in your opinion, where is your rightful place? Under the thumb?" "Absolutely right," I nodded without a hint of irony. "Under the heel of her shoe, at her feet. Where I can best serve her and protect her." A complex mixture of emotions flashed in her eyes: mistrust, curiosity, and some distant sadness. "It's a shame I never came across one like that," she said, almost to herself. "I would have known how to use it. But mine... came and went, like all the others." "Valentina Sergeyevna, if Anna doesn't mind, you can also make use of me. I'd be happy to be of service to you as well—within reason, of course," I offered sincerely. "And what does 'within reason' mean?" A slight challenge resonated in her tone. - That means in my free time and if it does not harm my health, and therefore my ability to take care of your daughter. "To be honest, I've got a lot of housework to do. I'm short on men," she said, looking at me inquisitively. “I will consider your wishes as orders,” I answered simply. "Orders?" She leaned back in her chair, clearly stunned. "Are you serious?" It seemed she'd never met a man in her life who was so willing not just to help, but to obey. She remained silent, and I decided on a frank gesture. "So that you have no doubt of my sincerity, Valentina Sergeyevna, allow me to kneel before you. This will make it easier for you to see me not just as your son-in-law, but as your respectful servant." "In front of me? On your knees?" she gasped. "And in front of Anya, you too...?" — Constantly. This is my natural position in front of her. “Well, if in front of her...” She waved her hand, giving unspoken permission, but her gaze showed tense anticipation. I knelt down on the cool parquet floor of her living room. The position was familiar and comfortable. - Give the order, my lady. "Oh..." She ran her hand through her hair, embarrassed. "Okay... Take out the trash. And... wash the floors, please. Throughout the entire apartment." I rushed to get the job done. I took out the trash, thoroughly mopped the floors in every room of her cozy yet spacious apartment, and, noticing a slight mess in the hallway, wiped clean all the shoes in the closet. As I was finishing up, Valentina Sergeyevna, having brewed a fragrant cup of coffee, peered into the hallway. "Are you... polishing my shoes?" she asked, looking down at the shiny shoes in my hands. "Yes. Sorry, I was acting on my own initiative. You didn't order me. I simply believe that caring for a woman's shoes is a man's honorable duty, if he's given the privilege. I was trying to be helpful." "Gallant, damn it," she muttered, but a smile danced at the corner of her lips. "Well, if you enjoy it... But I don't get it, is this some kind of fetish of yours?" "Partly," I admitted without shame. "In many ways, my love for Anna began with her shoes. She forgot them at my place one day after class. For me, they became a symbol of her elegance, her unapproachability back then." "And what did you do with them?" Her curiosity clearly outweighed her embarrassment. "I worshiped them," I answered honestly. "I knelt before them. I kissed the sock where her toes touched. I inhaled the subtle scent inside, imagining her step. It was my quiet, secret ritual of adoration." "Oh my God... You're strange," she whispered, but there was no longer mockery in her eyes, only deep thoughtfulness. "Kiss mine too. The one you're holding in your arms." "Thank you for your trust," I said, respectfully lifting the elegant heeled pump to my lips and leaving a light kiss on its patent leather surface. "See? Now I'm under your heel, too." "Okay, stay," she nodded, and for the first time a certain assumed authority sounded in her voice. "Come on, the coffee's getting cold." But I didn't get up. Inspired by her acceptance, I bowed lower. "Valentina Sergeevna... Allow me to complete this sign of respect. Please place your foot on my head." There was a pause. I heard only the ticking of the clock in the living room. Then I felt the light, almost weightless touch of the sole of her slipper on my hair. She wasn't pressing, she was simply asserting her position. "And... do you like it?" Her voice came from above, quiet and a little embarrassed. "Very," I breathed, and it was the pure truth. There was no humiliation in the gesture, but a deep, almost mystical connection, an acknowledgment of her authority, her place as the eldest woman, my wife's mother, my second mistress. "It is an honor for me." Thus, I found not only a wife, but also someone whose affection and trust became almost as important to me. Valentina Sergeyevna quickly settled into the role of my second mistress. She accepted my attentions with dignity, sometimes with a touch of irony, but always with growing warmth. I reverently kissed her hands when we met, and if, tired after work, she allowed me to massage her feet, it became my highest reward. I kissed every inch of her well-groomed feet, from toes to heels, feeling her relaxation beneath my lips, hearing her quiet, contented sigh. At these moments, her breathing deepened and became more even, and a special, almost electrical, tension of understanding hung in the silence of the room. I knew a unique, subtle connection had been established between us, and this thought filled me with a strange, complex happiness. The most interesting part, I dimly suspected, was yet to come. And with humility and quiet joy, I awaited where this path of worship and service would lead me. Powerful femininity A year has passed since my life found its true, meaningful direction—serving Anna and her mother, Valentina Sergeevna. Anna gave the world a miracle—our daughter, Lilia. Of course, Anna is free from all the burdens of everyday life. Her world is Lilya, her peace and her pleasures. I find the deepest satisfaction in making sure our home sparkles with cleanliness, smells of freshly baked goods, and her wardrobe is impeccable. I am the hands, feet, and heart of this little kingdom, where she is the undisputed queen. Once a week, on her direct orders, Anna places her graceful foot on the back of my head and commands, "Go. Mom needs your help. Do everything properly." And I happily, almost gleefully, rush to comply. Of course! After all, another honor awaits me—to bow before Valentina Sergeyevna. To kiss her feet, to read in her eyes a mixture of condescension and hidden gratitude, and... Yes, everything was leading up to this, and then one day the inevitable happened. "Tell me, Maxim," Valentina Sergeyevna's voice sounded thoughtful as I finished polishing the parquet floor in her living room. "I'm not an old wreck yet, am I? Do I still have something in me that can attract men?" She stood leaning against the door frame, and there was a vulnerability in her posture that I hadn't noticed before. "Valentina Sergeyevna," I straightened up, looking at her with genuine admiration. "You are beautiful. Any man honored with your attention would consider it the greatest happiness to find himself at your feet." “You’re already at my feet,” she smiled, but the smile was sad. “And this is my great joy,” I confirmed. "But not everyone is like you. I... I've almost forgotten what it's like to be touched by a man who seeks pleasure, not favor," she said, turning away, looking out the window. "Do you sympathize?" - Sincerely. "There's not enough sympathy. You... you could have helped," her words hung in the air, thick and meaningful. — Me? But how? Introduce you to someone? In my circle... “That’s not what I mean,” she interrupted me, turning around. Her gaze was direct, bold, but deep down, there was a plea. “You yourself. You could... show me affection. A different kind.” My heart stopped for a moment. I looked down. "Valentina Sergeevna... I can't be unfaithful to Anna. She is my life. "Who's talking about betrayal?" Her voice softened. "It's about service. About attention. Anna herself told me how... skilled you are in the art of caressing a woman. She's very pleased with it." Her words weren't a request, but almost a statement. The air in the room became thick and sweet. "If... if you command," I whispered, feeling a chill of excitement run down my spine. "If it is your direct command." "Yes, Maxim," her voice regained its firmness. "I command." She stepped forward, slowly, with regal dignity, lifting the hem of her dress and spreading her legs. She was wearing no underwear. My gaze was revealed to a majestic, mature vulva, well-groomed, with silvery gray in the neat, soft curl of her hair. "She was waiting. She was prepared," flashed through my mind. And then another, wild, flaming thought: "How many passions, how many stories does this treasure know?" The thought made the blood rush to my temples. I knelt down, never taking my respectful gaze off her. Then, as if before a sacred relic, I bowed my head and touched my lips to her most sacred part. At first, reverently, timidly. Then again, more confidently, feeling her warmth beneath my lips, her special, tart, alluring scent of a mature woman. "Lick," her commanding, but already trembling, whisper sounded overhead. "Show me what you can do." And I plunged into this ritual headlong, pouring into it everything I'd accumulated over a year of adoration, all my devotion, all my desire to serve and please. My tongue became both an instrument and a prayer. I explored, caressed, worshipped, listening to her quickened breathing, her suppressed moans. And when her body suddenly trembled, contracted in a spasm of pleasure, and a wave of her ecstasy crashed over me, I didn't recoil, but accepted it as the greatest mercy, reverently collecting every drop. "Well done, son-in-law," her voice sounded hoarse and satisfied when I finally pulled away, still kneeling. "Diligent. Very diligent. I... liked it. I'll be using your services in this regard regularly from now on. Any objections?" “None, my lady,” I kissed her thigh, then gently moved lower to touch my lips to her ankle. “This is the highest honor.” "That's right. So thank me," she laughed, but it was a different laugh, more intimate, more trusting. In response, I showered her feet with kisses, merging the worship of a servant with the new, strange closeness of a lover-adept. From that day on, the ritual was established. Once a week, I would come, clean, bow, and then, at her command, go to her bedroom to perform a lengthy, almost meditative cunnilingus to honor her femininity. She was the Queen Mother, and I was her devoted page, whose tongue she allowed herself to enjoy. One day, after a particularly long and passionate session, we were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee, which, of course, I had made. "Tell me, Maxim," Valentina Sergeyevna began, thoughtfully stirring with a spoon. "Where does this come from? Such devotion to your wife, such... zeal in serving me. You wear your horns with such pride, as if they weren't a symbol of deception, but a badge of honor." I shuddered, not understanding. — What do you mean? What horns? "Well, what kind of ones?" She looked up at me in surprise. "You like being a cuckold, don't you?" The world around lost its clarity for a moment. - I... I don't quite understand what you mean. "Really?" Her eyebrows shot up. "And I thought you knew. I thought you and Anya had an agreement like that." "What deal?" My voice sounded strange, muffled. "Well... while you're here with me, she's... entertaining a guest. The one from the institute. He's in town sometimes, visiting her. I honestly thought you'd discussed everything... You're so understanding, so gallant." It felt like the floor had dropped out from under my feet. My ears started ringing. "She... Anna... with him?" I barely exhaled, feeling a searing wave of heat, followed by an icy cold, wash over me. "But I... I love her..." "So go ahead and love her, my dear," her voice sounded almost tender, but there was no trace of doubt in it. "What's changed? She's your Mistress. And a Mistress is free to do with her body and her time as she pleases. And it's not fitting for a slave to be jealous, but rather to serve and accept." Her words struck me as a shock, yet somehow resonated deep within my confused soul. Yes. She was right. It was a cruel but logical conclusion to my philosophy. “Yes...” I whispered, lowering my head. “Yes, you’re right. I’m her slave. Only her slave.” "That's good," she said, extending her leg. "Kiss me and go. Return to your Mistress. She must be waiting." I respectfully touched her foot with my lips, and this action, habitual and ritual, for a second brought the ground back under my feet. At home, I opened the door quietly, almost stealthily, listening. Suddenly... But no. The hallway was silent, only a pair of Anna's elegant slippers lay by the threshold. I picked them up, mechanically brought them to my lips, inhaling the familiar scent of leather and her perfume, then carefully placed them on the shelf. My heart was pounding. Anna was reclining on the living room sofa, wrapped in a light silk robe, open at the chest. Her face was serene, a tired, contented smile playing on her lips. She resembled a well-fed, affectionate cat basking in the sun. So the visit had been pleasant. So she was happy. "Darling, I'm back from Mom's," my voice sounded hoarse. "I did everything as you told me. Everything just the way she likes it." "Well done," she stretched lazily. "Mom called. She praised you." “Darling...” I took a step forward, kneeling by the sofa. “Let... let me serve you now. Now. Please.” She raised herself on her elbow, her gaze becoming intent and searching. "Even after your mom probably told you?" she asked quietly, without embarrassment. “Yes,” I breathed out passionately. “Now I want it even more. Double. Triple.” A slight smile touched her lips. "You're so amazing... But you know, I haven't had time to take a shower yet. I'll go quickly..." “No!” I cried, grabbing her hand and pressing it to my lips. “Please, don’t. I want you like this. Just as you are now. Let me… bow.” Her eyes widened, a familiar, commanding light flashing in them. "Oh, Maxim... you always know how... Well then," she leaned back against the pillows, gracefully spreading her legs, revealing her secret. "Go ahead. Show your devotion." I pressed myself against her, and the very first taste, the very first aroma—a mixture of her natural essence and the distinct, alien, masculine scent—hit me like an electric shock. This realization, this utter, crushing humiliation, sent such a surge of animal arousal through me that the world swam before my eyes. "I'll have to... I'll have to discuss the male chastity belt with her," flashed a vague, submissive thought. And I plunged in. I kissed, caressed with my tongue, penetrated deep, licking, sucking with frantic tenderness, trying to mix everything within myself: my love, her betrayal, my slavery, and her freedom. Anna writhed, moaned, her fingers digging into my hair. “Yes... yes, slave, like this... deeper... good...” she said through a moan. I couldn't respond with words—my tongue was busy with the sacred service. But my thoughts screamed: "Yes, Anna! Yes! I am your slave. Yours forever. Have fun with whomever you want, give your body to whomever you wish—I will always be here. At your feet. At your womb. Your happiness is my law, your desires are my destiny." And judging by the way her body responded to my caresses, the way her hand gently stroked my head at the end, she understood this without words. She accepted my sacrifice, my devotion in its entirety. And so, what lay ahead of us was not a simple, not ordinary life, but our own. That very life, strange, twisted, full of service and humility, in which I finally found my complete, unconditional happiness.