Mother in law blackmailed
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Mother In Law Sweet free porn video
"I can't believe we're finally landowners!" Michael Woods stood on the front lawn, looking up at the house, the vinyl siding gleaming white in the sun. A mature oak shaded the big bay window of the living room, but none of the four bedrooms. He immediately began manhandling the realtor's sign out of the turf.
"I can't believe you talked me into that," Kendra motioned at the French window over the garage adjoining the house.
"What?" He said in disbelief. "Are you joking? It's a perfect little guest room with its own bath and everything. Yeah, it shares a wall with the Master, but Nance said it's totally soundproofed, so privacy's not an issue." Mike waggled his eyebrows meaningfully at his young wife.
"I really wish you wouldn't call her that," she clucked her tongue.
"She asked me to," he said. "She's your family friend, anyway. She even gave us a break on the fees."
"It's just ... familiar," Kendra huffed, agitated now. "Besides, she's not a family friend, she used to be a friend of my mother's, and the less said about her the better."
"Anyway, what's the problem with the room?"
"I dunno," her brow furrowed. "The name, I guess. How can it be a Mother-in-law suite? My mother in law passed away when you were five, and I haven't seen your mother-in-law since before we met. It's weird. Just thinking about it give me the heebiejeebies."
Mike tossed the sign aside, and walked over to hug his wife. "Ken, it's just a name. It doesn't mean anything. It's not going to summon your mother -- though I would like to meet her one day -- and we can call it the guest suite or the hobby room or the Velvet Lounge, if you like. Cheer up!" He motioned expansively. "All this is ours! All this space, all this green, all these rooms we can fill up with babies or puppies or balloons or any damn thing we please. No more walkups, no more street noise, no more-"
" ... creepy landlords," Kendra supplied.
"No more creepy landlords, or throwing rent money into a shitty two-bedroom apartment we'd never own." He held her face in his hands. "We're finally starting our grownup life."
Kendra's arms slid around him. "I guess things are looking up, after all." She smiled, and pulled him closer. "Well, one thing is definitely up, anyway."
He grinned. "Wanna see how many rooms we can 'christen' today?"
They ran into the house hand-in-hand, giddy and elated.
Nancy Perillo had, in fact, known Kendra Woods (nee Valentine) her entire life, watching her blossom from a mousy, nervous little girl into a mousy, nervous, unremarkable young woman. She had also, as Mike said, waived a portion of her commission for the purchase of their home; she hadn't told them that she'd also been representing the seller of the house, and took home a hefty commission from the sale of it as well.
She'd even told Mike to call her 'Nance, ' a courtesy she'd never extended to Kendra, or ever would. But then, he was a strapping man half her age and much better looking than his shrinking violet of a wife. For Nancy, the attraction had been immediate from the moment the young couple had walked into her office, all wide-eyed and naive. She had given Mike's lean, muscular frame more than a casual glance, taking in his vigor and assessing what he'd be like in bed. Excellent, was the first impression; and he wouldn't have been the first young husband to fall victim to the realtor's well-aged charms. In fact, it usually wasn't long after their first meeting that husbands were making excuses to view properties alone with 'Nance, ' particularly after they took a measure of the length of her legs, the brevity of her skirts, and the ample assets hidden underneath her smartly-tailored blazer. Mike, to his credit, didn't even seem to notice her silky blond tresses (shot through with an artful streak of gray), or the glossy plumpness of her mouth. He had eyes only for his wife.
It had taken her almost a minute to notice Kendra was even there, and another minute to realize she was Vivien's daughter.
That had, for once, taken Nancy aback. It was one thing to fuck strapping young men while their wives were picking out window treatments. It was another thing entirely to do it to her best friend's daughter. Not that she ever stopped thinking about it, of course, but even Nancy had her limits. The fact that Vivien was a cutthroat, predatory bitch was probably also a determining factor. A very rich, cutthroat, predatory bitch who happened to to be buying up property on the East Side...
Nancy hit the intercom on her desk.
"Tom-mmmmmy," she cooed. "Can you step in here a minute, please?"
The real estate firm's handsome young intern came galloping in through her door. All his forward momentum came to a halt as he caught sight of Nancy's hand, gently fingering her blouse, unbuttoned far enough to expose a generous helping of well-aged, mature cleavage.
"Yes Mrs. Pirello?" He asked after a long second.
"Can you be a dear and get Vivien Valentine from Valentine Holdings on the phone for me?"
"Um..." he said, watching her fingers slide along the silk. Every now and again he'd catch a glimpse of the lacy pink bra underneath. "Yes?"
"Good!" Nancy leaned back, and kicked her feet up on the desk, revealing miles of leg. She dangled one tall, tan pump from her foot. He stared for a moment, then blinked and reluctantly turned to go.
"Oh, Tommy?" She called, reeling him back. "Are you still seeing that little girl down in accounting?"
"Um," he watched her shoe twitch back and forth. "Janey, yeah. We've been steady for a while now."
"Riiight," Nancy said. "Plain Jane. You know, I don't think she's right for you."
"What?" He said, suddenly snapped out of his trance.
"No, honey. A boy like you needs someone who can take him in hand," Nancy sat up, and leaned over. The yawning cavern of her cleavage drew his eyes like a magnet. "Someone with a little experience in life, someone who knows what a boy needs, someone who can lead and mold him." She let the unspoken conclusion hang in the air. All Tom could do was stare at her enormous, mature chest.
"Anyway," she sat back. "Why don't you go and run my little errand, and think about it?"
"Um, sure. I mean, yes Mrs. Pirello." He took a last longing glance, and left, closing the door behind him. Nancy watched him go, and felt a delicious warmth growing between her thighs.
"Hey," Mike nudged Kendra as they lounged in the bed, admiring the crown moldings. "Wanna go again?"
"Jeez." She whapped him with a pillow. "Again?"
"Yeah, I figure we haven't properly christened these new sheets yet til we've fuc-"
"Mike," she cut him short. "You know I don't like that word."
He laughed. "Okay, fine. Until we've made love in them a few more..."
"Honey, I'm tired and I'm kind of sore after that last time." She sighed and rolled into him. "We've done 'it' almost every day this week. Maybe we can give it a rest for a few days?"
"Oh yeah? Well, how about I-"
DINGDONGADINGDONG
"Is that really what the doorbell sounds like?" Kendra asked. Mike laughed.
"We'll have to change that, I guess. Shall I go or do you wanna?" He gestured towards the door.
DINGDONGADINGDONG
"I would, but my robe is over there." She looked at him and pouted. "Pleeeeeease?"
"Alright, alright," he said, whapping her lightly with a pillow.
DINGDONGADINGDONG
"Jesus, those Girl Scouts are impatient," Mike said. He swung himself out of the bed and jumped into a pair of pajama pants. "I'm coming! I'm coming!" he shouted, galloping down the stairs as the doorbell went off again.
"Hold your goddamn horses, I'm cum-" he opened the door, and the rest of the words fell out of his brain.
The woman standing on the doorstep snapped her compact shut, and slid it into the pink clutch dangling from an elbow. For the first time, Mike found himself looking up into a woman's eyes, as she towered a couple of inches above his own height. They were green, under a sweep of deep auburn hair that coiled and looped and tumbled lazily down her shoulders. A brief leather jacket was hung around her shoulders, underneath which she wore a simple black t-shirt; the Ray-Bans dangling from the v-neck naturally drew Mike's eye downwards, but that was gilding the lily. The clingy jersey was stretched taut by her sizable chest, and he could just make out the scalloped lace of the bra she wore underneath through the fabric. A smile played at the corner of her plush mouth, painted a shimmering pink.
"Um-" said Mike.
"You must be my new son in law," the woman said. Her eyes raked him up and down, and Mike was suddenly very aware that he wasn't wearing a shirt. "Nancy did say you were a cutie." She swept in past him in a cloud of perfume. "Be a good boy and bring my bags in, won't you? They're in the car" Her hair brushed his face as she strode by, and he turned his head involuntarily to watch her strut, her impossibly long, lethal-looking legs flashing past in skintight olive jeans that did nothing to hide the sinuous curves of her ass. The tall heels of her black leather ankle boots tik-tok'ed ominously on the hardwood. An enormous red Hummer sat in his driveway, the back door open to reveal a host of bloated suitcases.
"Wait, what?" Mike shook his head, and wheeled around in the doorway, closing the door behind him. She stood at the foot of the stairs, one hand cocked on her hip, clutch dangling; brightly-colored nails sank just a little into the perfectly-rounded flesh of her left buttock. She tapped her foot impatiently.
"Where is that girl?" The woman asked, glancing around. "Ken? Kendra, sweetheart, it's your mother!"
Mike's breath caught in his throat. "Mrs ... Valentine?" She glanced back at him over her shoulder.
"Oh, you don't have to be so formal, honey." Kendra's mother said with a smile. "You may call me Vivien, for the time being. Now weren't you supposed to be doing something for me?"
"Vivien, I don't think that Kendra's-"
"MOTHER!" Kendra appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing a long white terrycloth robe. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" She came galloping down, feet hardly touching a stair on the way. "HOW DID YOU EVEN FIND US? MIKE! DID YOU LET HER IN!?"
"Um-" was all Mike got out before Kendra started yelling again.
"GOD DAMMIT MIKE!" He took a step towards her, concern written across his features. "DO NOT FUCKING TOUCH ME."
"Um-"
"Michael, honey." He felt Vivian's hand on his arm. Her voice was smooth as silk, but Mike could hear the steel in it. "Why don't you step outside while us girls have a little family heart-to-heart?" She gave him a gentle push towards the door.
Suddenly, Mike was standing outside watching as his own front door was slammed shut in his face. There was a click as the deadbolt slid into place. Raised voices could be heard behind it.
"What the hell just happened?" He asked nobody in particular. The opened door of the Hummer beckoned him from the driveway. He cast one last look towards the front door, sighed in a resigned fashion, and went to work pulling the first bag out.
There were three large Burberry suitcases and a single smaller carry-on bag, packed solid with clothes. It took Mike fifteen minutes of sweating and struggling to get them around to the unlocked back door after his knocks at the front produced nothing. He pushed the door open and poked his head inside. At least the shouting had stopped.
"Helloooo? Ken? Kendra?" With a grunt, he heaved the first bag through the back door. "Mrs. Val- I mean, Vivien?"
"In here, Michael dear." His mother-in-law called from within. Pulling the luggage by its handle through the house, he poked his head into the living room. There, on the couch, mother and daughter were hugging it out. Vivien had her arms wrapped around Mike's wife, and was gently stroking her hair.
"Everything okay?" He asked. Kendra nodded silently. Her eyes looked red and her hair was a disheveled mess, particularly in comparison to Vivien's own silken auburn mane.
"Why don't you carry my bags up to the guest room Michael?" Vivien turned her head to regard him. "We're having a little heart-to-heart here." She turned back to hug her daughter, and the hem of her t-shirt rose up out of the back of her jeans, revealing a long slice of creamy flesh at her lower back; Mike glimpsed some intricate scroll-work around the dimples that framed her tail-bone, and immediately looked away, embarrassed.
"Yeah, I uh, I'll be back," he stumbled out of the living room. His mother-in-law had a tramp stamp! Kendra didn't have any ink, but there was her own mother, tatted up like some co-ed. Mike hefted the handle of the bag he'd dragged in, and began lugging it up over the stairs. Idly, he wondered what Vivien's tattoo looked like. Something tasteful and girly, probably -- a butterfly or a tree in bloom -- then he realized that he'd been trying to visualize his mother-in-law's ink, and tried to shake the vision away. The spell was broken when the bag finally hit the top stair, and there was just the tiniest ripping sound as if extremely expensive fibers had given way just a fraction.
Mike froze, cursed, then gave the bag a quick once-over. There didn't seem to be anything amiss. Gingerly, silently praying to whomever would listen, he extended the handle and began pulling the bag down the hallway. Halfway down, there was another tiny sound -- this time, metallic. He stopped, and fell to one knee beside the bag. It was probably worth more than he made in a month, and there was no way he'd be able to replace it right now.
Closer inspection showed that the zipper had given way on one side, less than an inch or so. He could see a riot of brightly colored fabric just inside. Standing up again, he gingerly pulled it down the hall, even more slowly than before. When he got to the lintel of the guest suite at the end, Mike decided not to tempt fate, and lifted the bag up by the bottom; he gently laid it down on the floor, and gave a quiet crow of triumph.
His elation was cut short by the tik-tik-tik-tiktiktik-tiktiktiktiktik of the zipper's teeth as they all gave way in a cascading failure. He didn't even have time to curse before the top of the bag was pushed open by the pressure of the bag's contents, and they all came tumbling out in a heap on the floor. Before Mike even knew what he was doing, he was back down on hands and knees, frantically scooping up Vivien's belongings and trying to stuff them back into the case. It all seemed to be scraps of lace and nylon and silk and--
He held one up in both hands. It was a thong, in shimmering gold nylon, scarcely enough fabric for an eye patch, with the most delicate lace scalloping in the back. A tiny metal tag along the waistband read "La Perla." Absently, he rubbed the fabric between his fingers -- it was richer, sumptuous almost, than Kendra's plan white Hanes. The tag of a lacy pink pair waved up at him, reading "Agent Provocateur." A pair of lavender boyshorts with a tie-dye lace waistband screamed "LOVE PINK."
He ran his hands through the pile in wonderment: he'd never seen such an assortment in his life. Kendra owned one pair of cheap leopard-print briefs for "special nights" (that he was pretty sure she'd chucked shortly after they got married), and her mother apparently traveled with more thongs than Kendra had underwear.
"See something you like, Michael dear?" He looked up to see Vivien standing in the doorway, a bemused smile playing on her plush lips.
"Oh, shit no! I'm sorry I'm so sorry!" He began scooping the panties back into the carry-on at double speed, creating more mess than he'd started with. "The zipper broke and then everything just kind of," he gestured helplessly at the pile of underwear. Vivien toed the pink Provocateurs with her bootie and lifted them off the ground.
"You sure you weren't rifling through your mother-in-law's underwear, Michael?" Vivien dangled the panties in front of him. They swayed gently on the polished leather. "Looking for something naughty, perhaps?"
"Um ... no? That would-" His eyes were locked on the silky scrap of fabric. His fingers tingled with the memory of how they felt. "That would be wrong."
"Very wrong, darling." Vivien kicked them into his lap. "I'm practically your mother, after all. But I'm sure you would have seen them at some point." She let the words hang in the air for a moment. "I'm going to be here for a little while, and Kendra tells me you're the one who does the laundry. I suppose it's just as well that you get it out of your system now: I'd hate to find any of them missing."
"Hey listen," he rose to one knee. "I'm not sure what you're-"
Vivien kicked another pair at him, and Mike immediately fell back to both knees to catch them. "It's okay, Michael, dear. I'm sure you've never seen anything like these. My daughter's tastes do not exactly align with mine." She gave him an appraising look. "Most of the time, anyway. Kendra's always had somewhat ... simple tastes, like a little girl. I prefer the finer things in life, more ... complex pleasures that she's never really understood. I came here assuming the two of you were more or less the same, but perhaps I was wrong about you."
Mike was suddenly aware that his fingers were fondling the slick black panties she'd kicked at him. "Hey, I'm not like that." He dropped them. "I really don't understand what's going on here, but I'm not sure I like it." He began to rise from the floor again.
"There's nothing to be embarrassed about, Michael." She waved her hand dismissively. "It's perfectly normal for a strapping young man like yourself to yearn for something more complex, more mature. My daughter is simply a case of arrested development, but perhaps there's still hope for you."
"I'm sorry your bag broke," he said firmly. "I'll pay to replace it if you like. I'll go get the rest and then this conversation is over."
"Of course," Vivien stood aside so he could leave. "Your house is your castle. Except my little annex in here -- my little queendom. Please do remember to knock when you come back up. I'd hate to be caught in a ... compromising position." He strode out, and the door shut firmly behind him.
Mike was halfway down the stairs before he realized he had a prodigious erection tenting his pajama pants.
He didn't see Vivien again til later that evening, not even after he'd struggled the rest of her luggage up the stairs. He'd just left them by her door and knocked; she didn't emerge to retrieve them until after he'd gone back downstairs. She made Mike uncomfortable to say the least, but her effect on Kendra was startling -- after their little tete-a-tete in the living room, Ken had retreated to the living room to silently watch reruns of House Hunters International in her flannel pajamas. She didn't seem sad or angry, just kind of numb; Kendra wouldn't even answer his questions when he asked about what her mother had said or how long she was planning to stay. She seemed so out of it that he couldn't even work up the frustration to get mad at her.
It wasn't until he was in the kitchen, cooking dinner, that he heard the pad of bare feet on the linoleum and felt a pair of arms encircle his waist.
"Honey, I'm glad you decided to come out of your funk," Mike turned around to find himself staring straight into Vivien's vivid green eyes.
"Kendra's still out on the couch, vegetating." Vivien smirked. "I'm afraid you'll have to contend with me." She gave him a lingering squeeze and stepped away. His mother-in-law had dressed "down" for dinner, easing into a loose, heather-gray tunic and a pair of bright blue Nike cropped leggings; her toenails were painted turquoise and for a moment, Mike thought they looked like candy. Not that he had a thing for feet -- that was restricted to weird dudes -- they just looked, small, soft, pretty. Vivien wriggled them and he looked up to see her smirking again. He turned back to the stove.
"What's for supper?" She asked, coming in close behind him.
"Nothing fancy," he said. "Ken's feeling a little down, so I'm making her favorite -- grilled cheese and tomato soup." Mike stirred the pot, and Vivien's tiny sigh of disgust was like a small victory.
"Why don't I go see how my daughter is faring?" She said with a sniff, and padded away. He turned to watch her go; the hem of her shirt dusted just above the round globes of her behind, jiggling ever so slightly underneath the skintight spandex; the muscles of her thighs and calves were clearly visible through the thin fabric of her leggings. He sighed and turned back to the stove.
Moments later, muted voices came wafting out from the living room. "Fuck me," he muttered. What was she saying to Kendra out there?
Mike stuck his head out of the kitchen. Vivien was standing by the picture window with her back to him while Kendra sat on the couch, curled up in her Mickey Mouse pajamas and ratty robe. The sunlight shone straight through his mother-in-law's gauzy shirt, revealing a perfect silhouette, including the dramatic sweep of her waist. A single beam of light shot through the keyhole between her thighs.
"Kendra, honey, why don't you turn that garbage off and go put on some big girl clothes?"
"Mom, please," Kendra said in a quiet voice. "Just leave me alone and let me enjoy my show."
Vivien turned her head, and opened her mouth to reply when she spotted Mike watching them from the door with a disapproving look on his face. She turned around and leaned over the couch; the neckline of her tunic hung low, giving him a good look at the swell of her breasts, constrained by a heavy blue sports bra. "What are we watching, anyway?"
"Real Housewives of Chicago," Kendra said without looking up.
"Sounds fascinating," her mother said. "Michael, why don't you come join us and we can have a little family time?" She indicated the empty seat on the couch.
"I should really look after supper," he said, gesturing behind him.
"Oh come on. Just for a minute, then you can go back to whatever you were doing." Vivien reached down and patted the cushion. "I don't bite, I promise."
"Alright, just a minute," Mike cast a look back at the stove. The soup was bubbling, but the grilled cheese hadn't yet begun to get warm, so he had time. He took a set next to Kendra on the couch. She hadn't bothered to shower yet today, that much was obvious. Vivien hung over his left shoulder, her hair brushing his ear. They sat there in silence; a cast of rich bitches paraded across the screen, variously screaming at and scheming against one another. Mike noted that, although one or two appeared to have gone under the knife, the rest had all aged like fine wines, their bodies still quite slim and tight. One of his buddies who watched with his wife called it "Real MILFs of Chicago." A brassy blond in the world's shortest minidress flounced across the screen, jabbing her finger accusingly at a gimlet-eyed brunette with a deep tan.
"Ooooh, is that ... um, Nicola?" Vivien asked over his shoulder. "I believe I was reading about her. I don't watch this foolishness of course, but I occasionally see something online about it." Kendra grunted in the affirmative.
"This whole fight is real," she cooed. "You can't tell because of how it's edited, but they're fighting over her son." Nobody responded. "Nicola's the brunette over there: she's irresistible to young men, or a real 'cougar' as they say, so she's always got some hot young stud hanging on her arm. Well, she was bringing these hung cubs home with her from the clubs every other night, which was fine--"
"What?" Mike asked. "Sounds a little, uh, uninhibited to me."
"Oh sweetie! How else is a fine, mature woman like that supposed to manage her sex drive? Don't you know that ladies our age are in our sexual prime?" Vivien patted him on the shoulder. "We need someone who's ... in sync with our natural needs, not some disgusting old man."
"Anyway, Nicola was bringing home all these young men, when one grew particularly attached to her. A particularly delicious young virgin named James who really needed to be shown the ropes, and she was only too happy to lead him around by the co- nose, I mean." She paused for breath while the brassy blond woman took a swing at Nicola on screen, only to be restrained by another housewife. "So this young man is hanging around Nicola's house all the time, when her son comes home from college with his girlfriend, and he just spends his whole vacation just watching his mother with this young man, listening to them in the evening, in the morning, in the afternoon. Completely neglecting his poor girlfriend, who's just steaming the whole time."
"Why?" Mike said. "Who cares what his mom does?"
"Jealousy, perhaps?" Vivien said. "You know boys and their mommies."
"Wait you mean to say you think he wanted to..."
"Maybe not consciously, Michael," she gave him another condescending pat. "But you have to admit that she's smoking hot, and lots of young men have unresolved Oedipal Complexes."
"I don't buy that," he replied, folding his arms.
"I have a great deal of ... personal experience in that area, darling." Vivien chuckled. "In any event, there he was, simply green with envy over this James person, or whatever." She gave Mike some side-eye. "When along comes Candice, that lovely blond woman, to film in Jasmine's kitchen. They've always been rivals, and I guess she saw the opportunity for a little revenge. I'm a little vague on the specifics of what happened next, but suffice it to say that he and Candice ended up in bed together."
"What a jerk!" Mike said. "What happened to his girlfriend?"
"Oh, forgotten, I suppose." Vivien shrugged. "I only know what I read online. Anyway, now Jasmine and Candice are fighting like vipers in a pit. Or they're supposed to be, anyway. I don't think Jasmine's even all that angry about it -- apparently her son came back to the house once she snapped her fingers, just like a good boy should. It looks like Candice is the one who's pissed that her little trick didn't work."
"But it doesn't even make any sense!" Mike complained. "Who would do that? Why would anybody do that?"
"I think you're underestimating the power of mature-" Vivien began, but was cut short by the wail of the smoke alarm. "Did you forget something, Michael?"
"Ah, now this is a little more my speed," Vivien said with a smile as they pulled to a stop in front of La Douceur. A valet dashed out from behind a Doric column and around her Hummer, waiting patiently outside the driver's side.
"This is a little ... upscale," Mike said, somewhat nervously. He suddenly felt very out of place in his blazer and jeans combo. He stepped out of the car.
"Oh, don't worry about it Michael," Vivien said dismissively as she handed the keys over to the valet. "It's my treat! A thank you for allowing me into your home." She strutted around the rear of the vehicle and hooked her arm through his. "Just think of me as your sugar momma for the evening."
"I still don't see why Kendra couldn't come," he said as they strode towards the door.
"Don't you remember what she said?" She tut-tutted. "'Go on without me, I don't give a fuck.' Such language! Anyway, it gives us a chance to get to know each other a little. Thank you, Andre," Vivien said to the uniformed man holding the door open. Andre manfully tried not to leer at her and failed miserably.
In his defense, it would have been impossible for any straight man not to leer, even a little. Vivien's dramatic curves and perfectly tight body had been wrapped up in a silver-foil bandage dress that seemed to have been poured onto her, matching the silvery streak that shot through her mane. Despite the tightness of the confining spandex, her creamy cleavage threatened to spill out of the relatively modest neckline of the dress with each step she took; the front of the dress was modest only in relation to the back of it, which swept dramatically down her smooth, muscular back until it almost reached the upper slopes of her ass.
Mike got a good long show from that perspective. "Wait here, Michael, honey while I arrange a table," she put a long-nailed hand on his chest, and strode over to an imperious looking man with a pencil mustache that appeared to be the maitre 'd. As she walked away, Mike's eyes were drawn to the sensual beat of her hips and the muscular little dimples that bracketed her tail-bone; as before, a hint of scroll-work, deep blue against her pale skin rose up above the fabric of the dress. He couldn't really look away -- the glittering effect of the silver foil in the lights of the restaurant made it impossible not to look. There was a lot of baroque scroll-work, almost like wings, framing what appeared to be letters. Mike could make out an 'M, ' a 'Y' ... then an 'I' or something...
"Michael, honey?" His eyes snapped upwards. Vivien was watching him with a bemused smile on her face "Marcel here has arranged a table for us. Come, darling."
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