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" "You make it sound like you want me to be her servant, Susan." "No, Michael, I want you to avoid any fights with her, for me.

"Michael," Susan softened, finally unfolding her arms, coming up to me, putting them around me, "please." I could smell her perfume. "You treated me, me, your wife's mother, like a sex object. And if my mother is in town she is going to stay here as our guest." "Susan, she's so mean to me." I sounded like a third grader, I realized, but I was an adult, I should not have to deal with something like that in my own home. You need to learn why women dress, you're going to feel that pretty feeling yourself, Michael, and maybe you won't be so quick to act like such a disgusting worm." I stood there. "Put them on," she ordered, "or I pick up the phone and call Susan." I had no choice. "Susan." "Michael, I know what you're going to say, and you're not entirely wrong about the way she treats you, but please, she's my mother. You're going to learn why what you did was so disgusting. I looked down at the ground, at her heel, continuing it's tapping, up slightly, at her legs. "Apology accepted, Michael," she said, stopping her foot. But that woman would not accept me regardless of any efforts I made. She would not sleep in our bedroom that night until I realized the error of my ways. Honestly, Michael, sometimes I wonder about you." "Susan, I..." I wasn't sure exactly what to say. It wasn't so much any more than her mother really did not like me. I made every effort to be a good son-in- law, a good husband. I allowed my eyes to drift sideways, I could still see them! "Pretty, even." She went back to the bed, picked up the garter belt, and fastened it around my waist.

Nothing worse than a fake apology, I found out once. I glanced up at my mother-in- law and still the bra cups were in my line of vision. Susan kept tapping for a few seconds, seemingly trying to decide if my apology was genuine. They were tight, constricting, pushed my stomach in, felt strange on my behind. Frankly, some males are, well, a bit more, feminine, as it were." What did she think of me? I knew based on the conversation I overheard with Susan. I looked down, saw the twin jutting and lace-covered mounds! "Sit on the bed, Michael." I couldn't refuse her now. I don't want you to be her servant, I just want you to avoid confrontation with her, okay? "Thank you Michael," she said, using my name in the way only she could, saying it as only she did. If that means you serve her now and then, so be it." "Yes, Ma'am," I answered, mocking her. To him, I instructed him to bring her things to the guest suite. She took off her overcoat, handed it and her gloves to me. Even if I give her credit for nothing else, she is a stunningly beautiful woman for a woman in her mid to late fifties. I could put up with this for a month, I knew I could. "Try that with some seriousness, Michael, and maybe the month will go by quickly." If only. Impeccably dressed every time I saw her, she was today, of course. Susan raised her foot up slightly so it was level with my face, mere inches from my mouth, my nose. A week later, Hurricane Cynthia arrived at our house. She was wearing a pink skirt suit, with black trim, pink or white nylons, sling back pink heels with large bows, oversized pearls, which all matched her demeanor of a blue blood society "I'm better than you and we both know it" attitude. I moved my hands up with her foot, continuing to massage her soft feet, to work my hand over them, over the nylon, rubbing deep into her muscles.