A Mother in Law's Visit

As I drove, I glanced in the rearview mirror at him lying bound in the backseat. "You're staying with me for the next few weeks," I announced. "Taking a little break from work."

I smiled at his muffled groan.

"Emma gave me all your passwords before she left. So helpful. I emailed your bosses this morning—told them you had personal reasons for being away a couple of weeks. They were very understanding. Asked if they could email you if anything came up." I chuckled. "Of course, I said yes. I'll be handling all your correspondence from now on."

I turned onto the highway, enjoying the smooth purr of the engine.

"We're going to have so much fun together," I purred, watching his body tense in the mirror. I could practically hear his thoughts: that my idea of fun would be anything but fun for him. He had no idea how right he was.

 The 45-minute drive was becoming quite entertaining. I could hear his muffled groans from the backseat—his arms aching and cramping, that pathetic bound cock throbbing like it was being split in two. I was hoping he was bursting for the restroom, as every bump in the road made him flinch. I hit a pothole deliberately, just to watch his body jerk.

I slowed to a stop, then reversed into my driveway. The garage door whirred open, and I pulled in smoothly, closing it behind us. I opened the back door. "Scoot out."

He did his best to comply, wriggling across the leather seats. I helped him stand, steadying his bound, trembling form. I closed the car door and took hold of his leash, guiding him into the house. I could feel his panic, not that it mattered. He was mine now; there would be no reprieve, and no one was going to interfere.

The house was familiar to him—he'd been in here many times before, always as the son-in-law, never as the slave. I led him in, his stockinged feet shuffling on the cold tiles. I untied the stocking around his head and pulled my panties from his mouth, watching him lick his dry lips like a thirsty animal.

I held a water bottle to his lips. "You've been a good boy on the trip," I told him, letting my voice carry a hint of warmth. "Keep it up."

He drank greedily, then gathered his courage. "Can I use the bathroom?"

I stepped in close, my hand shooting between his legs to grab his balls hard. He gasped. "You address me as Mistress or Miss June. Try again. Properly."

I squeezed for emphasis, feeling him tremble.

"Miss June," he stammered, "may I please use the bathroom?"

"Better," I said, releasing my grip and taking his arm to guide him. "Much better.”

 I slid the panties down and undid his cock, turning him, I sat him down firmly, holding his now semi-hard cock down into the bowl. "Go," I commanded, watching him blush crimson with embarrassment as his pent-up urine finally flowed free. When he finished, I shook him twice like a child, then had him stand. I turned him around and forced him to his knees. I sat on the toilet and relieved myself. When done, I grabbed his head and shoved his face between my thighs. "Clean me," I ordered. He hesitated, so I pressed his face in harder until his tongue began lapping away the remnants. Perfect. He was learning his place.

 I stood him in the lounge and took my time with the next phase. I wrapped a cold chain around his waist, hearing the satisfying click of the padlock. Leather cuffs went around his ankles—click, click—then a short chain between them, and another connecting that to his waist chain. He'd be able to shuffle, but running was impossible.

I unlocked the handcuffs. He moaned pitifully as he stretched his arms, shaking them out. I let him have his minute, watching the relief flood his face. It wouldn't last.

"Hands out," I commanded. I padlocked leather manacles to his wrists, connecting them with a foot of chain. I removed the belt from his neck and replaced it with a thick leather collar, snapping a leash to the front ring. A ball gag followed, forced between his teeth and buckled tight.

Finally, I removed the blindfold. He blinked heavily, squinting in the light. I took more pictures—his helpless form in chains and lingerie—and sent them off with a few taps.

"Follow," I ordered, grabbing the leash and pulling sharply. He scurried along as best he could, hobbled by his chains, exactly as he should be.

The house was ranch style—no stairs to navigate, which made moving my new property much easier. I led him past my bedroom door, letting him know exactly where I slept, to the small spare room at the end of the hall. I opened the door and shoved him inside.

The room was filled with boxes, old furniture, and accumulated junk—perfect.

This is your room," I announced, watching his face fall. "You'll spend the next couple of days clearing it out. The sooner you get it cleaned, the sooner you get to sleep on a bed.

 I yanked the leash hard, pulling him into my bedroom. The king-size four-poster dominated the space, and I watched his eyes widen as I pointed to the oversized dog bed in the corner. "That's where you'll sleep until you get that room ready," I told him, enjoying the way his jaw clenched around the gag. He wanted to protest—I could see it in his eyes, that pathetic spark of defiance. But his circumstances wouldn't allow it.

I led him back to the kitchen, his chains clinking with every hobbled step. "I'm hungry," I announced. "You're going to make me something hot while I change." I glanced at his chained wrists. "There's enough slack. You'll manage. You'd better."

I left him there, knowing cooking would be difficult but not impossible. That was the point. Everything would be difficult now. Everything would require his effort and my permission.

 I returned to find him busying himself in the kitchen, the smell of pasta and garlic filling the air. He'd set out two plates on the counter. I tutted loudly and put one back in the cupboard, then reached under the sink for the dog bowl I'd prepared. I set it on the floor with a deliberate clatter.

"This is where your food goes," I told him, watching his face crumple. "Until I say otherwise."

He dished the pasta onto my plate, his hands shaking slightly. "Now scoop the rest into your bowl," I ordered, pointing to the floor. "Kneel."

He dropped to his knees, chains clinking. I unbuckled his gag and wiped the drool from his chin with my thumb, then smeared it across his cheek. "Good boy," I purred. "Now you can eat.”

 I watched him eat, face buried in the bowl like the animal he'd become. It was a messy affair—sauce smeared across his cheeks, noodles clinging to his chin—but hunger drove him to finish every last bite. I ate in silence, savoring my meal while he groveled on the floor at my feet.

When I was finished, I pushed my plate toward him. "Dishes. And not in the dishwasher—by hand."

I sat there watching him, directing his every clumsy movement, delighting in how utterly pathetic he looked with food smeared across his face. "Look at yourself," I taunted. "A grown man, eating like a dog. No wonder Emma left you."

Once he'd finished, I ordered him to kneel before me. I produced a cold facecloth and scrubbed his face roughly, tutting at the mess. "Disgusting."

I ordered him to stand, then slipped a blindfold over his eyes, plunging him back into darkness. "Much better," I whispered. "Now you're ready for the next lesson.”

 I gave his leash a sharp tug, leading him through the house to my bedroom. The carpet muffled the sound of his hobbled steps. Once inside, I stopped him in front of the four-poster.

"Arms up," I commanded. "On your toes."

He complied, stretching upward. I hooked the chain between his wrist manacles to a ring installed in the ceiling beam, then let him lower himself onto flat feet. The chain pulled taut, securing him with his chest pressed firmly against the bedpost. He was stretched just enough to be uncomfortable, completely immobilized, perfect. I stepped back to admire my work, running my hand down his back.

I started by telling him that his behavior was adequate for the first day, but that a great deal of improvement was needed. He needed to learn. He opened his mouth to beg, but I cut him off.

"Shut up," I snapped. "Open that mouth again, and I'll gag you until morning. This time, I mean it."

His jaw clamped shut instantly.

"Better," I purred. "Now, you're about to be punished. And I expect to be thanked for taking the time to teach you how to behave properly."

I could see the defiance flicker in his eyes, that pathetic little thought racing through his mind: That wasn't going to happen. I smiled. They all think that at first. They all learn differently.

 That little rebellion lasted exactly five lashes with the cane before he started begging. I gave him fifteen more until he was sobbing openly, his body trembling as he struggled to stay upright against the bedpost. I let him hang there while I took a short break, sipping wine and watching him suffer.

Then came the flogger—multi-stranded leather that sang through the air before cracking against his already welted skin. More sobbing. More delicious tears were soaking his blindfold.

I climbed onto the bed behind him, settling against the pillows. I turned on my vibrator, letting the buzzing fill the room alongside his muffled cries. I was breathless already, talking as my fingers worked.

"Having a new toy is so hot," I panted, watching his body jerk with each sob. "I love seeing you broken and crying like this. So pathetic. So completely mine."

I ridiculed him between gasps, telling him how Emma would laugh if she could see him now, how he'd never been a real man, how he was nothing but a plaything for my amusement. My passion built until words failed, and I simply moaned, my free hand clawing at the sheets as I brought myself to a screaming climax, my body arching off the bed while he hung there and listened to every sound of my pleasure.