It had only been a few days since I got married. Like always, I used to go jogging every morning, and afterward, I would sit on the sofa for a while. I kept my socks inside my shoes, but every time I returned from my shower, I would find one of them lying outside.

I asked my husband about it, but he denied knowing anything. Yet it happened every single day. That’s when I began to grow suspicious.

One day, after returning from jogging, I quietly observed what was going on. As soon as I took off my shoes and pretended to leave, I saw him secretly sniffing my socks.

Now, I’ve always had a dominant nature. I didn’t confront him immediately—I had a better idea. Why just settle for a regular husband when I could have someone under my complete control? A female-led relationship, where I held all the power.

So the next day, just like usual, I went for my jog and came back. I sat on the sofa and casually placed my feet up on the table, crossing them gracefully. When my husband entered the room, I could clearly see the nervousness written all over his face.

I slowly began moving my feet, left and right, deliberately teasing, testing his reaction. And that was all the confirmation I needed. He wouldn’t admit it himself—but I knew his secret: a deep, unspoken foot fetish.

And that’s when I began the process of turning him from my husband… into my obedient little Subby Hubby.

Next Day

It was Sunday—the perfect day to elevate things to the next phase.

I had been waiting for the right moment to fully assert control. I had watched him, tested him, broken through his layers of denial. And now, I knew he was ready. Or at least, ready to be broken.

This morning, I didn’t play the subtle game. I walked into the living room while he was sitting with his morning tea and placed a stack of his important documents—bank papers, personal ID copies, even our marriage papers—on the center table. Before he could ask anything, I lit a match.

His eyes widened in disbelief as the papers caught fire. The flames flickered and consumed his identity—his old identity. I stared at him with calm, cold confidence.

“From now on,” I said, my voice low but firm, “this house runs by my rules. I am the law here. Not you.”

He jumped from the sofa, panicked. “Are you crazy? What are you doing?!”

He tried to argue, to shout, to reclaim some of that masculine authority he thought he still possessed. But I didn’t let it go on.

One sharp slap across his face silenced the room.

He froze. I could see it in his eyes—shock, fear… and something else. Submission. It was hidden beneath layers of ego and confusion, but it was there. That was the moment he realized: I wasn’t the girl he married. I was something far more dangerous—and desirable.

Still, he tried to speak again. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t need to. I simply played a video on my phone—a clip of him sniffing my socks.

His expression collapsed. Horror. Shame. Desperation. I let the silence sit heavy in the air for a few seconds.

“I could upload this online right now,” I said, without blinking. “You’d be a joke in front of the entire world.”

He dropped to his knees in front of me, tears already forming in his eyes. “Please… please don’t…”

“Crying won’t help now,” I said, standing tall over him. “From this point onward, you obey. Without question. Understood?”

He looked up, and then—he kissed my feet.

That was it. The final barrier crumbled.

“Good,” I whispered. “Now, let’s begin.”

I sat on the sofa, legs crossed, observing him kneeling like a lost dog. “Tell me,” I said, “how will you greet me from now on?”

He looked up and softly said my name.

Another slap.

“No,” I snapped. “From now on, you address me as Ma’am. Say it.”

He hesitated, then finally nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Better,” I smiled. “Every mistake you make will earn punishment. Every good deed will also bring you punishment, in a different form. Praise isn’t pleasure anymore—it’s power.”

He said nothing—he couldn't. He just whispered, “Yes, Ma’am.”

The day was a holiday. So I told him, “Let’s begin with basic training.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied.

“Follow me,” I said, walking slowly, making sure he followed closely, eyes down.

But then I noticed something—a tiny bit of eye contact. I stopped.

“You’re not supposed to look at me directly,” I said.

He quickly lowered his gaze.

“In front of me,” I said firmly, “your eyes belong to the floor. You look up only when I allow it.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said again, almost in a whisper.

The rest of the day was filled with structured commands. When to walk. When to sit. How to kneel. How to respond. Where to keep his hands when I speak. When to thank me for punishment. How to kiss my feet correctly—soft, slow, without slobbering like a dog unless ordered.

By the time night fell, he was visibly exhausted—not physically, but emotionally. He had been stripped down to the raw essentials of who he was: obedient, eager, ashamed, and slowly, addicted to my control.

When it was time to sleep, he naturally followed me to the bedroom.

But I stopped him at the door.

“No,” I said. “You don’t sleep beside me anymore. That’s not your place.”

He looked at me, confused and hurt.

“You sleep on the floor now,” I said coldly. “And my slippers will be your pillow from now on. Because that’s what you are—someone who exists at my feet.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t protest. He simply nodded, knelt down, and arranged my slippers next to his cheek as he lay down.

He had no other choice. And deep down, he knew this was exactly where he belonged.

As I turned off the light and climbed into bed, I looked down at him one last time and said, “Good night, slave.”

“Good night, Ma’am,” he replied softly, already halfway asleep—with my scent under his cheek, and my dominance wrapped around his soul like a chain.

Day 3 was complete.
And the transformation had truly begun.