MISTRESS ISABELLA - 473 My husband do not prepare dinner... By Mistress Isabella

Dressed in her revealing dress and shiny high-heeled boots, Mistress Isabella stomps her way into the kitchen to find her husband cowering in fear. She glares down at him, her chiseled features twisted in anger. "You pathetic excuse for a man," she spits. "I come home after a hard day of work and there's no food on the table. What do you call yourself?"

He cowers even further under her gaze, trembling in fear as she looms over him. "Master," he whimpers quietly, his voice barely audible above the sound of her heavy breathing. "I... I'm sorry, I just couldn't get it right."

Mistress Isabella smirks cruelly. "Well," she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Looks like I have my work cut out for me tonight." Reaching behind her, she unclasps her dress and allows it to fall to the floor in a heap. She's wearing nothing underneath, revealing her perfect, flawless body to his trembling gaze. "On your knees," she commands him in a low growl, pointing to the cold, hard floor. "It's time you learned your lesson."

Obeying her every word, he gets onto his hands and knees, the position making him feel even smaller and more vulnerable. The smell of fear emanates from him as he looks up at her, anticipating the horror that's about to come his way. "Are you afraid?" she purrs, her hand running gently down his spine. "You should be." Snapping her fingers, she snaps her fingers and he freezes immediately, obeying her every command with frightful obedience. "Good boy," she whispers softly before smacking him hard across the face.

She motions for him to turn around and he does so obediently, exposing his tight, trembling ass. A amused smile plays at the corners of her mouth as she reaches between his legs and grabs hold of his cock, squeezing it gently. "You're excited," she observes, her voice taking on a mocking tone. "But you'll have to wait a while longer." Squeezing his balls, she lets go and steps back, her hand still cupping his balls gently.

Mistress Isabella walks over to the fridge and pulls out a fresh feces sample, holding it in front of her with a wicked grin. "This," she says as she makes her way back towards her husband, "is what I'm going to feed you tonight. My warm, fresh shit. Because that's what happens when you disobey your mistress, don't you think?"

She gently pushes him down onto his back, spreading his ass cheeks apart so that he can see how she's going to take his punishment. "You're going to swallow every last bit of it," she promises him, grabbing him by the hair and forcing his head into her hand, her fingers now coated in warm, steaming shit. "And if you don't, you'll be in big trouble, won't you?"

He whimpers pathetically, unable to resist his mistress's command. She pushes the mound of shit closer to his face, teasing him until he finally opens his mouth and lets her shit-covered fingers slip inside. Groaning, he closes his eyes tightly as she feeds him her warm, fresh feces, the taste bitter and acrid on his tongue. But he obeys, knowing the consequences if he were to disobey her again.

As she finishes feeding him, Mistress Isabella steps back, a look of fierce pride on her face. She is in control, and her husband knows it. "Now get up," she commands him, the power in her voice enough to make his knees shake. "And from now on, you'd better remember who's in charge here."

He slowly gets to his feet, his eyes downcast as he awaits further instruction. "That's a good boy," she purred, running her hand down his chest playfully. "I think you've learned your lesson."

With that, she walks out of the kitchen, leaving her husband kneeling in the middle of the floor, still trembling and terrified. But he knows she's right: he doesn't ever want to cross her again. And if he does, he knows what's coming his way. Because with Mistress Isabella, disobedience always comes with a heavy price.