Caught Cheating

You’ve worked hard, climbed your way up the corporate ladder, and now, at the ripe age of 38, you’re reaping the rewards. CEO of a multi-million-dollar company, a sprawling penthouse with a view, and a beautiful wife to come home to. Of course, there’s also Emily—the dark-haired mistress who doesn't know the truth. A man like you always deserves a little more. After all, what’s the point of success if you don’t enjoy every corner of it?

At five-foot-eight, you know you’re not exactly towering over anyone, but what you lack in height, you make up for in sheer arrogance. You carry yourself like a king, walking into any room with your head held high, your tailored suits hugging your frame just right. You keep yourself in shape—morning runs, a little time in the gym—enough to keep up appearances. At the office, people move out of your way. Not because they respect you, but because they fear you. And you like it that way. You treat your employees like disposable tools. Why bother learning their names when they’ll be gone before they become useful?

Your wife, Eleanor, is a different story. She’s always been a challenge, and that’s what attracted you to her in the first place. Eleanor stands at an intimidating six feet, her presence alone enough to make heads turn when she enters a room. She’s powerful, independent, and in some ways, more ruthless than you. You can’t help but admire her. She’s got the body of a goddess, legs that seem to go on forever, always perched on those sharp heels you love.

But it's her feet that really get you. Eleanor knew, even before you admitted it, that you had an obsession. The way her long legs would stretch out in front of you, crossed, the curve of her arches visible beneath the sheer fabric of her nylons—it always made you weak. She knew how to use it against you. You loved it when she humiliated you for it.

This morning, you’re sitting at your kitchen table, coffee in hand, dressed in your usual crisp white shirt and dark slacks. Eleanor walks in, fresh from a shower, her long black hair flowing behind her, sleek and perfect as always. Today, she’s dressed in an elegant black dress, hugging her slim figure, the hem stopping just below her knees. Her Louboutin heels are the highlight—red soles flashing with every step as she moves. The pointed toes and sharp stiletto heels make her legs look even longer, and you feel the familiar knot of desire twist in your gut.

You smile at her, that cocky grin of yours plastered on your face. She barely glances your way.

“Busy day?” you ask, trying to keep the tone casual. The way she carries herself, the power she exudes, never fails to pull you in.

“Always,” she says curtly, sipping her coffee without bothering to sit. Her eyes glance at your feet before flicking back up, a small smirk forming on her lips. She knows.

You’ve always liked it when she looks down on you like that, both figuratively and literally. The imbalance, the way she towers over you in those heels, never failed to spark something primal in you. But she’s been distant lately. Preoccupied. It bothers you, but you try not to show it. You know where you’ll find the attention you crave later today.

Later, you’re walking into Emily’s apartment, and she greets you with her usual cruel smirk. Emily, your latest conquest. Another six-foot beauty, with the same sleek black hair cascading over her shoulders. She’s not as polished as Eleanor, but that’s what makes her enticing. Emily’s the mean one, the one who gets off on making you feel small. She doesn’t know about Eleanor, of course. You’ve told her you’re single, available. It’s easier that way, and you get off on the lies.

She’s dressed casually today, like always. A tight black skirt that clings to her hips, paired with a simple gray sweatshirt that somehow looks sexier than anything Eleanor would wear. Her legs are encased in sheer black nylons, and on her feet—those Ugg boots you’ve always hated but can’t stop staring at. They’re so different from the sleek heels Eleanor wears, and yet, there’s something about the way Emily dresses down that gets to you. Like she doesn’t need to try. Like she knows she’s already in control.

“Late again,” she says, her voice dripping with disdain. “Busy being important?” She makes no effort to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

You smirk, shrugging off your jacket. “Busy being in demand,” you reply, walking over to her. You’re already looking down at her feet. The boots. Something about them is almost disrespectful, like she knows you’re beneath her. She kicks them off lazily as you approach, revealing those perfect nylon-clad feet. You feel yourself grow hard instantly, the sight of them almost too much to handle.

“You look good,” you murmur, running your fingers through her hair, but your eyes are glued to the way she taps her foot against the hardwood floor, the nylon stretching over her arch with every motion.

“Of course I do,” she snaps, pulling away from your touch. She sits down on the couch, crossing her legs and leaning back, eyes on you like she’s waiting for you to do something—like you’re here for her entertainment.

And you are.

You drop to your knees almost instinctively, your hands reaching for her feet. She lets you, watching with an amused look on her face as you run your hands over the smooth fabric of her nylons.

“That’s better,” she murmurs. “At least you know your place.”

It’s a dangerous game you’re playing. You know you shouldn’t let this go on. You’re lying to her, lying to Eleanor, and eventually, someone’s going to find out. But you can’t stop. It’s like an addiction. The humiliation, the power dynamic—it pulls you in, keeps you coming back for more.

Back home that evening, Eleanor’s waiting for you. She’s in the living room, reclining in a leather chair, her long legs stretched out in front of her. She’s changed since this morning, now wearing a tight black pencil skirt and a pair of knee-high leather boots. The shine of the leather catches your eye, the way it hugs her calves, the high heels clicking against the floor as she shifts.

You can’t help but stare. She notices, of course, and smirks. “Have a nice day?” she asks, her tone cool and casual, but there’s something in her eyes, something that tells you she knows more than she’s letting on.

“Same as usual,” you reply, walking over to her, trying to hide the nervous energy bubbling under your skin.

Eleanor crosses her legs, the leather of her boots creaking slightly. She tilts her head, watching you carefully, her dark eyes boring into yours. “Good,” she says, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “I’ve been thinking... maybe we should have a little talk soon.”

Her words hang in the air, thick with implication. You swallow hard, trying to ignore the growing sense of dread creeping into your gut. She knows. She always knows.

And when she finally decides to confront you, you know it won’t be pretty.