"Thank you" for the help – gratitude from the mother-in-law.

My wife and I decided to surprise my mother-in-law with a new wardrobe – practical, spacious, from that catalog where everything promises hassle-free, eternal assembly. Of course, in reality, it always turns out differently. My mother-in-law, a woman in her fifties but with a figure that hasn't yet surrendered to the years – a widow living alone in a small apartment on the outskirts. My wife is always busy with work, so the assembly was entrusted to me. I arrived on Saturday morning, bringing a toolbox: screwdrivers, a hammer, a level. My mother-in-law greeted me with a smile, poured coffee, chatted about all sorts of nonsense. "Son-in-law, you're my savior," she said, slapping my shoulder. "Without you, I'd have struggled with this wardrobe forever."

I

laid out the parts on the floor in the bedroom where she wanted to put it. The instructions were in English, but I figured it out – a familiar task. The hours flew by, sweat poured down, my T-shirt stuck to my back. When I was screwing in the last hinges, my mother-in-law disappeared somewhere. "Probably went out for groceries," I thought, not looking up from my work. The wardrobe stood straight, the doors opened smoothly. I wiped my forehead with satisfaction when I heard footsteps. I turned around – and froze.

She stood in the doorway, transformed beyond recognition. High stiletto boots reached mid-thigh, hugging her slender legs like a second skin. Shiny black tights showed through the slits, accentuating her curves. A short leather dress – no, not a dress, more like a corset – cinched her waist, pushing her breasts forward, with a deep neckline revealing a lacy bra. Her makeup was provocative: bright red lips, smoky eyes, blush on her cheeks like the cheapest whore from a strip club. Her hair was loose, falling in waves over her shoulders. She exuded a heavy perfume scent – musky, arousing.

— I want to thank you, son-in-law," she said in a husky voice I'd never heard before. She stepped closer, not giving me time to recover, pushed me onto the bed – that same wide one with a wrought-iron headboard against the wall. I fell on my back, shocked, my mouth opened, but words got stuck in my throat. "M-mother-in-law... what..." was all I managed to squeeze out. She loomed over me, her eyes burning with lust. She pulled up my T-shirt, exposing my torso, and latched onto my nipple – the right one, which had always been my weak spot. Her tongue swirled around it, caressing, gently but persistently nibbling. A wave of heat washed over my body, my cock in my sweatpants instantly reacted, stiffening.

Her hand slid down, slipped under the waistband, grasped the shaft. Her fingers – warm, confident – began to caress, stroke the head, squeeze the base. "Mmm, so hard," she whispered, not letting go of my nipple. "Haven't seen one like this in a long time." I tried to resist – thoughts of "this is my mother-in-law, my wife will find out" swirled in my head – but my body betrayed me. My cock stood rock-hard, treacherously pulsing in her palm. It's hard to think in such moments, when reason drowns in a fog of desire. Resisting my mother-in-law in this state was impossible – shame burned my cheeks, but arousal overrode everything.

Suddenly, she straddled me, lifting her dress. The tights turned out to have a crotch opening – a cunning whore, I thought fleetingly. She sat on my face, pressing her moist crotch to my lips. "Lick, son-in-law," she commanded. "Show me how grateful you are." The scent of her arousal hit my nostrils – salty, musky, with a hint of perfume. I didn't have time to object: my tongue stuck out on its own, touched her clitoris, swollen and hot. She moaned, wriggled her hips, grinding herself deeper. Meanwhile, her hands pulled down my pants, my cock sprang free, and then her lips enveloped it – hot, wet. The blowjob was masterful: she took it deep, her tongue swirled along the veins, her lips rhythmically tightened. I licked her fiercely, penetrating her folds with my tongue, feeling her flow, wetting my chin.

Unexpectedly, she flipped over – a 69 position, but instinctively. My hands grabbed her buttocks, my fingers spread them apart while my tongue worked on her vagina. She spat out my cock with a smacking sound, sat on top for real. "Get inside me," she groaned, guiding the shaft into herself. I slid into her vagina – tight, hot, enveloping like velvet. She rode, her dress hiked up, her boots squeaking against the sheets. Her breasts swayed, nipples poking through the lace. I grabbed them, squeezed, she howled with pleasure.