Sissy Mother In Law Humiliation

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Here you'll find my favorites Sissy & Femdom stories, the best one I've ever read over the net since many years and believe me, that's a lot ! I'm also a wool fetishist, so you may come accross this type of topic around here too... Hope you'll like it !
"Susan," I moaned, "you've got to be kidding. A month? A fucking month?" I looked at my wife, narrowing my eyes, a sure sign I was angry, as if my tone left any question that my swearing did not. "What the fuck, seriously?"
"Do you need to swear at me, Michael," my wife snapped back, eyes narrowing more than mine. "Do we really need to take it to that level?"
Great. In the span of two seconds our argument quickly changed. I went from having the high ground, to losing it, in that span of two seconds.
Two seconds. Susan just stood there, arms folded across her chest, tapping her high heeled foot against the hardwood floor, waiting.
"Susan," I said again to no avail. It was kind of a cardinal rule of our relationship. No swearing at one another. Even in an argument. Nothing stopped one faster. I didn't like to be cursed at, Susan even more so. She would not talk to me until I apologized.
I looked down at the ground, at her heel, continuing it's tapping, up slightly, at her legs.
I sighed. "I'm sorry for swearing at you, Susan," I said.
Susan kept tapping for a few seconds, seemingly trying to decide if my apology was genuine. Nothing worse than a fake apology, I found out once. She would not sleep in our bedroom that night until I realized the error of my ways.
"Apology accepted, Michael," she said, stopping her foot. "Now, as to mother, Michael...she's my mother. I'm supposed to tell her to get a hotel room? Honestly, Michael, sometimes I wonder about you."
"Susan, I..." I wasn't sure exactly what to say. She knew I did not like her mother. It wasn't so much any more than her mother really did not like me. Simple as that. I made every effort to be a good son-in- law, a good husband. But that woman would not accept me regardless of any efforts I made. "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. 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.
"Michael," Susan softened, finally unfolding her arms, coming up to me, putting them around me, "please." I could smell her perfume. I could feel her breasts pressed up against my chest. It really wasn't fair. Susan was not trying to play unfair, but the reality was that how could I say no?
"For me, Michael," Susan asked, honestly putting the choice to me, which left me no choice.
"And Michael, I know what you're thinking, but please, behave, okay? Just fetch her tea, put up with her, respect her, do whatever, for me, okay?"
"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. I don't want you to be her servant, I just want you to avoid confrontation with her, okay? If that means you serve her now and then, so be it."
"Yes, Ma'am," I answered, mocking her.
"Try that with some seriousness, Michael, and maybe the month will go by quickly."
A week later, Hurricane Cynthia arrived at our house. Like all modern hurricanes, it arrived on schedule, with plenty of warning, started out slowly, but changed the lives of everyone who lived through it.
She arrived on our doorstep in all her blue blood glory. I opened the door and what awaited me was a tuxedo clad driver with my mother-in-law several feet back. "Mrs. Cynthia Stanton," the driver announced formally.
I almost laughed at the pretentiousness of her arrival. Announced by a driver. To her daughter's house. Oh, how like her.
"Thank you," I told the driver, "please, Mrs. Stanton, come in," I said to her. To him, I instructed him to bring her things to the guest suite.
"It's so nice to see you, Mrs. Stanton," I said as she walked into the foyer.
"Thank you Michael," she said, using my name in the way only she could, saying it as only she did.
She took off her overcoat, handed it and her gloves to me. I'll say this about Cynthia Stanton. Even if I give her credit for nothing else, she is a stunningly beautiful woman for a woman in her mid to late fifties. Impeccably dressed every time I saw her, she was today, of course. 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 took her coat, hung it in the closet, turned to find her already sitting in the living room. Actually, perched may be a better word, perched on the edge of a chair, back straight, sitting as if on a throne, as if she was the queen, as if she ruled my house.
"May I offer you coffee or tea?" I winced inside, less than a minute after arriving I was already waiting on her, acting as a servant.
"There, it wasn't too bad, now, was it," Susan asked when she got home from the office.
"Not too bad? I basically had to take a day away from work to wait on your mother hand and foot. How could that possibly be that bad? How could it possibly be that bad for a professional man to be treated like a servant by his mother-in-law?"
Susan's features softened. "Michael, come here." She was sitting on the bed still dressed in the skirt suit she'd worn to work. While not as "stuffy" as her mother, Susan too was always dressed impeccably, and unusual for women of our generation, would never wear pants to work on principal.
I stood my ground. Perhaps I was being petulant, but this was just the first day of a month of dealing with her mother.
"Michael, sweetie, I know your feelings, I know how she can be, I certainly know how she can come off."
"She treats me like a servant, Susan."
"My mother treats most people that way, hon, don't take it personal. Besides, you're not doing it for her, you're doing it for me."
I frowned at Susan. "For you, huh?"
"Yes, sweetie, just - I don't know - you're not serving her, Michael, when you're doing something for her, you're doing it for me, right? I mean, I know how you feel about her, you wouldn't do this if it wasn't important to me. You're doing it for me."
This sounded like some reverse psychology bullshit to me.
"Me, honey, you're serving me, not her, okay?"
"What, you like to serve your wife, don't you?" Her tone said nothing. It was in her eyes. Her tone was flat, but there was something in her eyes.
"Susan," I said, actually blushing, quickly giving away what my thoughts were, even if hers did not match.
To be honest, I did love serving her. I loved bringing her coffee every morning. I loved jumping up to get something for her. I loved doting on her, treating her like a princess, like a queen. I loved giving her back rubs, foot rubs. I loved cooking for her. I just loved her so much, that doing things for her brought me joy.
"I could use a foot massage," she said, tilting her head, slipping her feet out of her heels. "Please."
I sighed, anger gone for now. "Okay." Susan took and let out a deep breath, leaned back on the bed and closed her eyes. Without thinking much of it or about it, I knelt down on the ground in front of her, at the head of the bed, took one of her nylon covered feet in my hands and began her massage.
I quickly became lost in my relatively simple task, I quickly became lost in massaging her feet, her ankles, her calves.
"You like serving your wife, don't you?" Her question floated through my mind. I did. I focused so much on her. I was happiest focusing on my wife. I found true happiness serving her, pampering her. If I could just think of her mother in that way. Serving my wife by serving her mother. I could put up with this for a month, I knew I could.
Susan raised her foot up slightly so it was level with my face, mere inches from my mouth, my nose. 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.
But I knew what she wanted now, I knew what she was offering. I could smell her, the scent drifted to me, had, of course, just the effect she wanted. She wanted me to do it and I was more than happy to submit to her wishes.
For I wanted it as much as she. "You like serving your wife, don't you?" I did. She knew I'd want to take her foot into my mouth as much as she wanted me to. She knew the scent of her lovely foot, right in front of me, as I touched it, as I looked at it softly wrapped in nylon, made her irresistible.
I'd admitted to her on several occasions that I was a leg and foot man. That the sight of her legs immediately attracted my eye. That I was somewhat infatuated with her feet, with rubbing them, kissing them. That either, clad in nylons, drove me to instant sexual desire.
She knew it. She often used it, lovingly, to her advantage.
So I moved my head ever so slightly, opened my mouth every so carefully, took my wife's foot, her toes, nylon and all into my mouth.
"Oh, Michael," Susan moaned. Yes, she was getting just what she wanted, her husband, her eager husband, kneeling before her, gently sucking, lovingly kissing, tenderly licking her foot, and showering attention on her, for her.
"You like serving your wife, don't you," she asked me again, softly, moaning while speaking.
God, how I did. I loved it, loved pampering her, touching her, pleasing her. When we made love, I'd much rather lick her than be licked. I'd much rather touch her than be touched. I'd much rather make her cum than cum myself. The feeling was mutual, I knew. And that was a good thing. I wanted to serve and she wanted to be served.
For she'd much rather be licked than lick, be touched, than touch, be massaged, than massage. Whereas once in awhile, she'd go down on me, she wasn't ever that into it. And I didn't care. I'd much rather go down on her, I'd much rather lick her, I'd much rather spend two hours licking her pussy than get two seconds of her reciprocating to me.
It was a point of pride for her, how excited I'd get pleasuring her. It was almost a game, a test. I'd spend an hour, more, massaging her, licking her, bringing her to orgasm after orgasm. And she would not reciprocate. She'd moan, she'd touch me, she'd run her fingers through my hair, she'd tell me how good I was, how much she loved me.
She'd touch my skin, toy with me, but carefully, so carefully, avoid any contact with my penis. I'd be on top of her, making her thrash with orgasm after orgasm, my penis mere inches from her hands, right on top of her face, but she'd pretend it wasn't there. She'd ignore it, she'd ignore what was right before her, almost teasing me, making me more wild with desire, more desperate to please her.
I'd be dying, just dying for her touch, for her to blow on it, kiss it, touch it, lick it, but she wouldn't. And strangely enough, that would make me want to make her cum that much more, to lick her that much more, and to taste her that much more.
Until, finally, sometimes after hours, she'd touch me. Susan would finally touch my penis, so hungry for contact, she'd touch me, just brush against me, lightly, and I'd lick her so hard, so explosively.
Once when she did that, when she finally touched me, she said, "I love feeling you leak cum just from making me cum. I love feeling your penis drip." Well that was too much for me to hear. She loved that I'd get so hot, so excited, so turned on from pleasing her, from licking her, that I'd literally be dripping cum before I'd even been touched. That turned me on so much I immediately exploded in orgasm, making a terrible mess all over me, all over her, all over the bed.
Did I like serving my wife, did I like serving Susan? Yes, yes, over and over again, yes.
I loved it, needed it, craved it, wanted it.
I licked her ankle, her shin, her calf, licked each part of her leg, one then the other, left, then right, slowly kissing my way past soft nylon to softer skin, slowly following the path of her scent, of her perfume and of her more natural smell.
When I reached her thighs, Susan started moaning, started breathing heavily. Her fingers found my head, found my hair, rubbed as I licked, kissed, teased her inner thighs. I knew what she wanted.
I tilted my head up, blew a breath, a hot breath of air, onto her sweet spot, onto her triangle, onto her pussy. "Oh, Michael," she moaned louder, "yes, Michael, kiss me, kiss me."
I wanted her as much as she wanted me. I could smell her, her wetness, the musk, the excitement. The thin nylon of her pantyhose, the only thing between my mouth, my nose, and her pussy could not possibly contain the scent, the need, the animal urge.
I flicked out my tongue, quickly, running it along the seam of the pantyhose crotch covering her, tracing it, as it went over her lips. She orgasmed from that lick, that one lick. She shuddered, grabbed my head, pushed me back towards her wetness, "again, Michael, oh god, again."
I licked her again, again through the nylon, I tasted her, the juices flowing, her orgasm continued, the shuddering continued, as she pulled my head now, pulled my face into her, into her crotch. I wanted her. I wanted her now. I needed her. I couldn't stand it. Normally I'd lick her for hours.
But I needed her now. "You like serving your wife, don't you?" Her words were on my mind, encouraging me, pushing me. I needed her now!
While licking, not missing a lick, I reached up, grazed her pussy, her lips, her clit, licked, moved my hands to the waistband of her pantyhose. "Michael, wait," Susan said, her hands releasing their pressure on my head.
"What, hon," I said seductively, continuing my lapping at her pussy while continuing to tug at her pantyhose.
"Michael, I - ohhh -" she shuddered, gripping the sides of my head with her thighs as I lapped at her clit. "Michael, honey, I - we shouldn't my mother " She was breathing heavily, gasping.
"I " she sucked in and out for air, "I do, but I not now, not she she's here, I "
"Shhhh, baby, shhh," she said, still pushing herself against me, still shuddering in orgasm.
It was a weird place I wanted to get angry with her for letting me get so sexually charged and telling me no. For letting me lick her, get her off, and tell me to stop.
You like serving your wife, don't you? I do, I do. I was serving her, I was getting her off.
Susan was gently pushing my head away, gently pushing my face from her, gently coming down. "I love you, Michael."
I loved her, too, I loved her, too. I wanted her. I wanted to please her.
We cleaned up a little, though Susan really had nothing to do save straighten her skirt and her hair. I washed up, washed her juices off my face and Susan and I took her mother to dinner.
At least at dinner Mrs. Stanton treated everyone the way she treated me. Entitlement. She was a true blue blood, better than everyone. Not in a mean way, not really, but there was certainly an air of superiority with her. Maybe I shouldn't take it personally.
Maybe that was just the way things were, my wife's mother was a devil in a dress.
"I'd like fresh linens in the bathroom if I could, Susan."
"Of course, mother," Susan said, looking over her shoulder to her mother who was sitting in the back seat of the car. "Michael, you'll take care of that," Susan asked, looking back towards me.
"Sure," I answered, gripping the steering wheel. It was my job in the division of household labor, to take care of the bathrooms, but hearing the request from Mrs. Stanton nevertheless steamed me.
I like serving my wife. Serving her mother was serving her. "I'd be happy to take care of that, Mrs. Stanton," I said, looking in the mirror at my mother-in-law.
"Thank you, Michael," she said with the same tone she thanked the waiter at the restaurant.
In bed later that night I immediately tried to finish what I was not allowed to finish earlier, spooning my wife, my quickly growing penis pressed into her back.
"Michael," Susan sighed, "I told you, not while Mother is here."
"Michael, her room is right next to us, she'll here us, I I can't "
"Come on Susan," I whispered, "we can be quiet, can't we?"
"You know how I am," she giggled. She was right, she was a moaner, a talker.
"Susan, I can't go a month without screwing you," I begged, humping her back without shame.
"You don't have to go a month, sweetie, just, not when she's right in the next room."
"God, Susan, I'm so so horny," I growled. "You got off, today, several times. I didn't and, I I ache, please."
Susan, bless her soul, was insistent and headstrong, but she wasn't without mercy. She was responding to my humping by moving her hand behind her, taking me in her soft fingers and massaging me. "Maybe you're right, Michael," she said, "I suppose you did serve your wife this afternoon, didn't you?"
"You did tell me you liked serving me, it showed, you brought me to orgasm after orgasm with that mouth of yours, lover."
Susan moved my swollen organ between her thighs, directly into contact with her warm pussy, the pussy I so lovingly licked for her earlier.
"Shhh, Mother," Susan scolded. "You make any noise and it will be like she's here watching you do this to her daughter."
"Shhhh, there, there, lover, quiet, quiet, Mother." Susan moved with me, moved so I continued to rub against her, continued to feel the warmth of her pussy without entering her.
I tried to shift so I'd push into her, but she kept moving with me, not allowing me. "I told you I don't want to make love, Michael," she softly chastised me. "I don't want her to hear me, just let me get you off."
Frankly, I didn't care that much, I just wanted to get off. "I'll make a mess," I managed to meekly protest.
"Don't worry about that, lover," she whispered, "you just keep at it."
It didn't take long. It was a mess.
I heard Susan's alarm go off early on Saturday morning so she could get up and ru
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