Sometimes it's best for a guy to put his foot down and say no while he's got the choice, especially when a Mother-In-Law becomes affectionate.
"Turn to me. Let me see you." There wasn't so much an edge in Zandra's voice, more of a purpose, as if she had something in mind, as her fingers lifted her husband's chin to examine his face from all angles, then fussed the collar of his polo shirt and brushed his hair a couple of times with her other hand.
"For God's sake, Zandra, we're only going to see your mother. I've never had to have a hair wash and a complete change of clothes before."
"You're going to make a good impression," his wife said airily as she put on her hat at the mirror and picked up her gloves. "That way she'll most likely show she's pleased to have us in her house."
Richard Hampshire followed her out of the house, feeling pleased himself that he looked so pristine that Denise was most likely to be nice to him. As they set off in the car, he wondered what she would be wearing today.
It turned out to be her brown pencil skirt with the kick pleat and a new blouse, in crisp white silk printed with a design in autumn colours. Her appearance always made him feel like a shy little schoolboy in front of her.
"Darling," she said as if she'd been waiting for Zandra all week, "I've got something to show you which you won't believe. It's going to quite change my life. Come this way into the sitting room." Three of four ample chains of large beads snickered across her generous bust as she opened the door and led the way in.
"I love your new blouse, mother. What do you think, Richard?"
Denise sailed on. What her son-in-law might feel was of no interest. She reached the angle of the room and turned to face into the alcove, a look of self-praise adding even more superiority to her majestic features.
"Mother! Are you going to have Marisa styling your hair at home?" Facing the visitors was a beige drying helmet in shining metal and glass, standing on a central column above a comfortable swivel chair cushioned in black leather. "And a mirror on the wall too. It's quite the salon experience."
"It's something I picked up from my Goddesses group. It's no ordinary dryer, darling," and she stood beside it and operated a hand set so that the helmet descended a few inches, then rose again to the top of its track, all without the slightest sound. "How long would it take for a wash, set and dry, darling, would you say?"
Her daughter looked around the alcove. "You don't seem to have a wash-bowl. Will you have to run along to the bathroom?"
"How long?" repeated Denise, her chin on her beads expecting to win this little point.
Zandra thought for a second. "Two hours," she said with a shrug.
Her mother pinned her with a steady stare. "Two minutes," she said, "or more if you're enjoying yourself." Her brows lifted at her success in astonishing her daughter. "And to prove it, we're going to use it now, this minute, so that you believe me." She looked round, almost by accident, and her face lit on Richard in the middle of the room.
"Richard darling," - she had never called him that before - "I want you to help." She held her hand out to him, so obviously that it would have been an insult to Zandra's mother not to take it. He found himself being led between the armchairs into the alcove to the waiting swivel chair. "What's it like to be your Mother-In-Law's guinea pig, darling," she said in a warm, motherly voice as she turned him and lowered him with her fingers on his shoulders onto its sinking seat. "The equipment comes with a marvellous accessory," she said to her daughter as she planted her son-in-law's hands on each curved arm-rest: not roughly; in fact everything she did to him was with a gentle firmness in those long, elegant hands of hers. He had never felt her touch before, other than that peck on the cheek he had received when they announced their engagement and again on their wedding day. Suddenly it had all become softness to the point of TLC.
She had a jar in her hand with a gilded lid which she unscrewed and brought out a hanging sludge of silver-speckled glue on the three middle fingers of her right hand, so that once she had put the jar down she could work it together between both hands in the way only divine women can rub moisturizer into alabaster skin. "It's called Grace and Glamour," she explained as Zandra watched from the other side of her seated husband. "It takes the place of water - in a virtual hair-wash and dry." Her smile became very wide as she showed them her hands - completely empty with no sign of glitter, silver or glue. "No need for a wash-basin or messy taps."
She looked up and reached the lowest plastic edge of the helmet visor as if to adjust it directly over where Richard sat. He didn't like to object but she could see the worry of a man who had never been under a women's dryer. She laced her fingers together on his shoulder and smiled. "It's just warm air," she said, and looked up to his wife. "Quite a nice feeling, isn't it dear?"
Zandra agreed and when Richard looked back to Denise she had more of the glittery Grace and Glamour in her fingers and made his heart skip a beat as she placed her hands this time on the crown of his head.
Richard Hampshire's hair was a mass of blond curls. Denise's sister Edna said it belonged on a girl's head, but Zandra liked it apparently. Right now his Mother-In-Law's fingers slipped through it like liquid feathers, caressing his scalp with the fingertips of an expensive and highly professional female stylist.
"Mmm, softly and sweetly," she said, her voice almost tender: not with the normal distance that warned him he needn't imagine he's welcome in her house. "It's so sensual - and delicate - and soft - and creamy." Her hands flattened more closely to that she was not only working the gel through his hair but was also stroking his whole head as if she was loving her adorable pet. Her blouse rustled against his shoulder and her beads and blouse collar caressed his ear, his cheek, his face. It can't have been, but it seemed like she was drawing his head into her bosom.
"What do you think of my blouse, Richard?" she asked, without changing the softness of her voice, although he felt her fingers withdraw from his scalp. A darker shadow descended round him as he realised the helmet was now much closer, hooding his head, shielding him from the room from behind, although he could see Denise and her hands, and to one side he saw Zandra's skirt beside his own hand. Then things changed, in a swimming, gliding, sinking kind of a way because he knew all of a sudden that he had no control. Like floating in golden honey.
"You were going to tell me what you think of my blouse, darling." Her hands were caressing his hair again, with her shiny sleeves and crisp cuffs in front of his face. Perhaps unintentionally, one hand caressed his face, her fingertips tracing his nose and his lips, then her fingers cupped the front of his face, fondling it tenderly.
"I - I love it. I love your blouse."
His voice was surprisingly assured. What he said wasn't an accident. It caused Zandra to stand up straight and look at her mother with her brows knitted into shock and annoyance.
"And what about my skirt, Richard?"
"I love your blouse. I want to wear your blouse, Denise." Inside his hood, his Mother-In-Law's fingers mingled with a flow of warm, sweetened air. Above him she exchanged looks with her daughter and pursed her lips as if to acknowledge that his confession came as no surprise. Zandra placed a hand on her hip, looking more aghast.
For Richard, it suddenly became as if Denise was spreading her blouse front round him, as her fingers rifled more affectionately through his hair and her hand cupped his face, while he felt her other arm draw him in round his shoulders. "Would you like to wear my blouse, darling?" he heard. It came from inside the warm helmet. There was a sound system: she was speaking to him through the helmet. His heart went out in his words.
"Oh yes, Denise. I want to wear your blouse, please."
Her fingers played, her hand cuddled and her arm tightened him closer into her bosom.
"What about my satin slip? Would you like me to dress you in that?"
The occupant of the chair gasped and gasped again. "I want you to dress me in your panties, Denise. Oh please! I dream of wearing your glossy, satin panties."
Her fondles played on, so softly, her voice so calm and tender, in contrast to the stormy face of his wife as she watched and listened. "Alright then, as long as you let me wash and dry your hair - under my lovely helmet." She gave him one last cuddle, then set the helmet to rise, and a moment later she had him on his feet and was undoing the waist of his pants.
"You've never told me about these feelings for my mother's panties," declared Zandra, her feet well apart in case she felt faint. "I'm not so sure I liked what I heard just now."
Her husband hung his head as his clothes were removed one by one. It was a battle to try and bring out a single word by way of explanation. "I - I didn't want to tell you - darling. I - I thought you might - be cross."
As her husband's boxers were removed, Zandra got a better picture of things: his cock was stiffened, heading towards one of its prouder erections. Was this her mother's flirting that had done it, or the prospect of wearing her seductive full cut panties with lace round the legs? Denise opened the closet she had had put into the sitting room, on the wall opposite the mirror, and brought out a pair of her panties: in coral pink satin panels with lace across the front of the gusset.
They dressed Richard in the panties between them and set him back in the chair, then Denise wheeled him effortlessly to the mirror. He sat, sheepishly under their gaze in nothing but his Mother-In-Law's panties, the front panel tented revealingly between his legs. She wheeled the helmet unit across the alcove too, until he sat in pregnant expectation beneath it. It was time for more of the crystal gel, which Denise applied liberally, even though it disappeared quickly so that it was her fingers that spread her feelings over his scalp, massaging long and softly until he relaxed into her control. His reluctance to speak changed as soon as the helmet descended and sat on his head.
"Mummy," he breathed, "Mummy, I love wearing your panties. They are filling my penis with - ohhh, with rosy sweetness. I feel lovely in your exquisite lingerie."
"I see. Have you felt my lingerie before?"
Her son-in-law gurgled softly in the soft, silky sensation of the helmet cupping his scalp. "I always feel lovely in your lingerie. These panties are one of my favourites."
Mother and daughter exchanged looks above him. "Tell Denise when you wore her lingerie, pet." He loved the way her hand cupped his chin inside the visor as her words came to him through the internal intercom.
"When Zandra and you go shopping and I look after the house." He mmm-ed with the pleasure of the memories. "I go straight to your room, Mummy, and open your drawers - and take my clothes off. I have to wear a john. Then I slide your panties up my legs - and fasten one of your bras round myself. I feel lovely at the mirror." Her fingers frolled his chin and cheeks, enticing more information from her innocent pet. "I drop one of your slips over my head - so that your satin slip rides over the point in your satin panties - then I open your closets - all three of them, to cuddle into your lovely, lovely coats and dresses."
"I see. I think we'd better get you ready so you can tell us some of your lovely feelings."
She released a handle under the chair and Richard rotated into almost a lying position, leaving him just enough height to see himself in the mirror between his legs, over the point of his stiff, panty-clad penis. From the closet she slid out a long, hissing cape of lilac satin, which she spread in a cloud through the air and let it settle over his reclining, naked body. She knew her daughter was annoyed from the way she shifted from one high-heeled boot to the other time after time, her hands on her hips, but she didn't hesitate to follow it with the sizzle of a second cape in crisp, rose pink nylon, which slid and hissed until it completely hid the shape of the first. Then she had a plastic cape that would not quite reach his penis. She fastened them all behind his neck and down his back, the first with Velcro, the others with large, feminine house-coat buttons. He was ready for his virtual hair-dressing, although the subject was how he liked to be dressed,
"Denise," he wanted to tell her, "I would so love to wear the clothes you are wearing. Your girdle and stockings, your blouse and your slip and your skirt. Oh pleeeease, dress me in them." His gaze searched her eyes through the plastic visor for the agreement that he craved. Instead their little chit-chat took an alarming turn.
"Do you want to be a girl, dear?"
"A - A girl?" He wasn't so much protesting as wondering how he could please his Mummy.
"Yes. I see you in a pretty frock over rustling petticoats. Just think of those silky dress linings, with pouffey sleeves and big satin bows."
Richard Hampshire's bare feet slid forward across the carpet and quivers of girlishness ran up and down his spine. "Y-Yes, I think so. I want to wear a girl's dress - and feel pretty."
The snort that escaped Zandra could easily have been a burst of black smoke. "That's it," she growled under her breath, doing everything she could to avoid falling out for good with her mother there and then.
Denise produced the desired little girls' wear: panties with frills, a little bra and corselette, petticoats which she guessed would bring him to ecstasy, and a dress. She could see what was coming and had the foresight to start by putting him into plastic baby pants over her own panties. They were white see-thru but scattered with pink dolls, and full bodied in softly crisp plastic. "I want my girl to wear Mummy's large pink knickers," she said, producing another pair of her French knickers in the palest oyster pink. As was his way when he was no longer under the helmet, he stood in silence, almost apologetic in his embarrassment, as she dressed him in all his girl clothes one after the other. Finally he resumed his seat, resplendent in a widely skirted satin party frock bouncing on layers of nylon petticoats. Once she lowered his beloved helmet he felt the warmth and the glow, that yearning to confess his blissful feelings, especially since it was his Mother-In-Law who had dressed him like this.
"Oh Mommy - Mommy I love my dress." His eyes were like saucers. "The material is so shiny and so smoooooth! My collar is so lacy and girly. Look at how wide my skirt is. Isn't it feminine! Beautiful! I feel like a girl!"
"And your panty is bulging, pet," oozed his Mother-In-Law, for she had slipped her hand up under those petticoat frills and along his thigh, sending shivers of emotion through his whole body. Her fingers felt their way up her satin pants, sliding them over the plastic of his baby pants until they could clasp affectionately round the large, very stiff shape of his genital.
"I'm a girl in my dress," he gasped, almost swooning with the feelings in his head at the same time as the throbbing in his Mother-In-Law's hand. "I love this pleasure - oh this ecstasy because you've dressed me, Mummy. I loved it when you were dressing m-m-me, and now you're hol-hol-l-lding me in your ha-ha-hand - so I'm getting more and more ex-x-x-cited. Oh Mummy, Zandra, I can't - Ohhhh, I'm cum-mmm-mmming into your lovely panties Mummy. I have to tell you. Oh - Ohhh. I want you to know. Ohhhh. I love you, Mummy. Aaaagghhh! I love you and I want to live with you. Ohhhhh! And wear your clothes. Ahh - Ahh! All the time."
He subsided into a slump with the side of his head resting in one side of his helmet and his arms in their satin sleeves lying lifelessly on the front of his dress. His eyes, which had never left his Mother-In-Law's face since she had gelled his hair and laid him back, gazed at her with the most reverent awe.
"Thank you Denise, oh thank you Denise. I love you. I love you in your girdle and blouse, and your fine satin panties. I like to pick them out of your drawer and slide them up my stockings - and I pretend I'm in front of you, slipping my arms round you and kissing you, with long, deep kisses, while I wear your lingerie and one of your beautiful skirts."
Zandra watched the whole performance and was not amused. It was bound to be the case and Denise knew it. "Darling," she said, "we need to have a good think about this." Her fingers held onto the precious organ she had just stolen from her daughter, still upright, still giving the occasional, very grateful throb. She was glad when Zandra half turned one of the armchairs and slumped into it, her face a picture of misery.
"I've seen the writing on the wall for a while, darling," her mother said to her. "He was a disappointment to you and you couldn't lead your whole life like that, knowing what you had missed."
Zandra drew a deep breath and exhaled it in a long acceptance of the inevitable.
Denise hid her smile by turning to her new prize through the visor. "I'm not disappointed," she said. "The Persuader does an amazing job - doing exactly what it said in the catalogue. It's occupant is incapable of telling a lie: what he or she says is the absolute truth. It was made for my little Richard, wasn't it, darling?"
"My four thousand pounds have not been wasted. In fact I'm already thinking I'll use the device every evening, to find out which girly costumes will turn on my new companion the most - and which ways of tickling and fondling make him feel most submissive while we are getting ready for our bedroom fun."
Zandra "Hmph-ed" with her chin on one elbow and looked out of the window, while her mother increased the pressure in her panty fondles and produced more ecstatic leg slithers in her new lap pet.
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