Mother-in-Law rules (NC-17)

Be warned...this gets violent, graphic, and sexual.

This violent fantasy is a sequel, but I seem to have lost the first part(s). Rats.

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Dear Diary,

This has been the most agonizing, the most bizarre, the most
emotionally upsetting day of my life! I am completely unable to wrap
myself around what has happened. Hopefully as I write about it, I'll
figure out what I'm feeling. But where to begin? I guess I'll start
with this morning, when I first got hints about what was to come.

I sat on the edge of the bed in our guest room, fidgeting and
impatient, watching as my mother Norma calmly painted her fingernails.
Mark had already left for work. I hoped to use this opportunity to
talk to Mom about him. She was in town visiting for a few days, on
some sort of business trip that she only vaguely described. "A
Women's Empowerment Forum," she had said, using the tone which meant
not to ask any more questions. As I sat there trying to talk to her,
I wondered why I bothered. It's not as if my mother had ever been
very good at being sympathetic or understanding. I mean, she's a
great woman—smart, determined, proper, elegant—but also a little cold
and impersonal. But who else could I talk to about my marriage?

As she methodically applied the dark purple polish—the shade she
always used when she was going to her most important meetings—Mom
tried to reassure me. "Jenny, darling, I'm sure Mark's fine.
Everyone gets in a little funk at Christmas. It's normal."

"But it was so sudden!" I replied. "The morning of Christmas Eve he
was fine, and then by that night he was…well, he was just a mess. And
by Christmas night, he would hardly talk to me. It was like, well,
like he was shell-shocked." I had to wipe a tear from my cheek. I
was so worried about my husband.

Mother swiveled her chair toward me. She held out her hand and
admired her work, then blew on her nails before turning her attention
back to me. "Jenny, I didn't want you to be involved. But there's
something that maybe you should see." I stood up eagerly, but she
motioned me back down. "Not now, dear. Later. Actually, I know a
little about what's going on with Mark—"

"He confided in you?" I asked, hurt that he would go to her and not to me.

"You could say that," Mom said. "At any rate, I'm going to be meeting
with him again. Today." She looked at her Rolex. "In fact, he's
coming back here in an hour and a half."

"The two of you are talking behind my back? Mom, what is going on?!"

"You'll just have to see for yourself. Mark and I will be, er,
talking in the living room. He assumes you'll be at work. Drive your
car a few blocks away and park it, then come back here. Let's
see…wait in this room. When he and I start talking, you can come
watch from the hallway. If the light is off and you stand behind that
hideous plant, I don't think he'll see you, but you'll be able to see us."

"Why don't I just stay around the corner and listen where there's no
chance he'll see me?

"No, darling. You'll have to watch. You'll have to see."

"See what?"

"I can't explain," she said. "One thing you have to promise, though.
No matter what happens, don't reveal yourself. Don't interfere. Just
watch. Do you promise?"

"I guess so… but Mom--"

"Don't worry…you'll understand everything soon. Now leave me alone to
finish getting ready." And like that I was dismissed. With my
mother, it doesn't matter how old you are: when she's ready for you to
leave, you leave.

So I went to figure out what was going on. If I had any idea of what
I would see, I would have left town right there and then, never to see
either Mark or my mom again. But how could I have known?

An hour and a half later I was waiting—confused, anxious, worried—when
I heard the back door open and Mark come into the house. I could hear
muffled voices; he was talking to Mom. Quietly I crept down the
hallway until I was right outside the living room. Despite what Mom
had said—that I would have to watch—I was afraid. I don't' know why,
but I was afraid. So I decided to listen first.

Their words didn't register at first, but I could tell a lot simply
from tones of their voices. Mark was angry. His voice was raised,
and it had an edge of fury. Mom's voice, in contrast, was icy,
steely, controlled, and yet still venomous. It occurred to me that
whatever was wrong with Mark involved Mom.

"—should never have done that. You violated me, you bitch," Mark
said. What was he talking about?

"Don't be such a baby," Mom replied. I winced at the tone of
condescension in her voice. "I'm giving you a chance to redeem
yourself." Redeem himself? Why would he need to redeem himself?

"What will that solve? That won't change what happened," Mark spat.

"You're afraid, aren't you?" Mom's voice was soft yet steely.
"You're not much of a man, in that case." Even without knowing what
was happening, I found myself growing angry at Mom and sympathizing
with my husband. What had she done to him?

There was silence after her last comment, then a sudden pounding of
footsteps, then a crash. Then I heard my mother grunt and yelp…in
pain! Had Mark attacked her? I wanted to look, but I was frozen in
place. Had Mark just attacked my mother? Then I heard thumping and
crashing, and more groaning and—could it be?—even wimpering from my
mother. My mother NEVER wimpered! Despite my fear and confusion, I
crept forward. I had to see what was happening.

The image in my memory is still shocking. My mother was on her knees,
bent over the sofa. Mark was behind her. With one hand he was
holding her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back. With his other
hand Mark held Mom's hair and was forcing her face down into the sofa
cushions. Her free arm clutched wildly but seized nothing but air,
and she kicked her feet in vain.

I would have broken my promise to Mom not to interfere and reveal
myself—except I was so stunned I couldn't move. And as I watched Mark
lift my mother up and throw her back down, I realized that part of me
was cheering him on. How awful of me! My emotions were contradictory
and overpowering; I simultaneously wanted to protect Mom and hoped
that she'd be humiliated.

But why was Mark doing this?

As he threw her from one side of the room to the other, I realized
something else bizarre (as if the entire situation weren't strange
enough): Mom didn't seem surprised that he was attacking her. She was
clearly in pain, but her predominant emotions appeared to be
frustration and anger, not surprise or fear. She wasn't trying to get
away; she was trying to fight back.

Why?

I turned away and sat down. What was going on? My husband and my
mother had gone insane! And I could only watch. I drew my knees up
to my chest and shivered. I was worried about what Mark would do to
Mom…and yet hoping that she would learn some kind of lesson.

"Do you give? Give up, Norma!" Mark was hissing at her, his voice
full of boiling rage. I crawled around and peeked at them again.
Mom's skirt had been ripped off and her blouse was torn open. Mark
stood behind her, one of his arms wrapped around her throat. She
clawed vainly at his arm but he held her tightly. "Come on, Norma. I
could choke you to death right now." Mom tried to kick backward with
her high heels, which she still wore, but she couldn't get a good
solid strike in. Mark laughed at her efforts.

Then he did something shocking, something that made me gasp so loud I
was sure they would both hear me. Holding her tightly around the neck
with one arm, he reached down with his free hand and started massaging
her crotch! I watched as my husband slipped several fingers into my
mother's vagina. She instinctively brought her legs together but
couldn't stop him. "Come on, Norma, give up. Give up or this isn't
all I'll do to you." And he rammed his fingers higher, causing my
mother to yelp while her body convulsed.

How could Mark be so cruel? Tears were running down my face now. I
was so confused. This was more than I could comprehend, mentally or
emotionally.

Clearly, I couldn't let Mark torture Mom this way. I had to do
something. But just as I was going to try to intervene somehow, Mom
took matters into her own hands. Literally! She seized Mark's wrist
with both her hands and pried it away from her crotch, and then bent
his pinkie finger backward sharply and violently. Mark howled with
pain. He released his grip and Mom fell to the floor, gasping. He
spun away and doubled over, holding his damaged hand. "Bitch!" he
yelled, in between under-the-breath curses.

Perhaps this was the time to show myself? I couldn't decide. Maybe
this would end it? If only it had ended right there.

But no. Mom rose to her feet, panting. Her chest was heaving. And
yet despite her torn clothes and disheveled hair, she looked, once
again, completely in control. Mark had his back to her, still nursing
his hand. She strode toward him, confidently, like a lioness. As he
turned toward her, Mom grabbed him in a headlock. If the whole
situation weren't so violent and brutal, it would have looked funny;
Mom is so much smaller than Mark, and in her fifties, after all. I
couldn't believe she was spinning him around the room by his head. He
was cursing at her, and she began to laugh.

Finally Mark grabbed Mom's legs and lifted her up, trying to force her
to let go. Instead, they crashed to the carpet in a heap. They
rolled across the floor, struggling for advantage. But it wasn't a
straightforward wrestling match—Mark was doing everything he could to
avoid Mom's legs. He was afraid of her legs! And she kept twisting
herself to try to wrap her thighs around his head or body. Meanwhile,
Mark was trying to stay on top of her and pin her arms down. He was
so much bigger and stronger that he kept her underneath him. And yet
he couldn't quite subdue her completely because Mom kept squirming and
sliding away, always trying to snare him with her legs.

And then, eventually, she did just that! Mark was straddling Mom's
stomach and holding both her wrists, when she somehow bent her body in
half and snaked her thighs around his neck. Instantly Mark released
her wrists and grabbed at her thighs, but it was no use. I couldn't
believe how strong Mom's legs must be: with a twist of her body Mark
was thrown to the carpet. He lay on his side, pawing at her legs
vainly, while she laughed victoriously. I didn't quite understand.
Her legs must be awfully strong. In no time my husband's face was
bright red. Mom had crossed her ankles—still wearing her high heels,
no less—and was flexing her legs rhythmically.

This horrific fight between the two people I loved most in the world
had shifted 180 degrees. Three minutes earlier I had been worried
that Mark would seriously my mother, yet somehow strangely happy that
he was putting her in her place. Now I watched as Mom held his head
prisoner between her thighs--the thighs of a fifty-six year old woman
were keeping my husband captive on the floor of his own living room!
I felt a pang of anger: not at Mom. I was suddenly angry at Mark.
Why couldn't he free himself!

I wanted to shout at him to be a man get up off the floor. "Don't let
Mom do that to you, honey!" I screamed in my head. But instead of
freeing himself, Mark was getting himself even more trapped. Mom had
grabbed one of his arms and was pulling it at a funny angle, holding
his wrist with one of her thin hands and digging her long, newly
polished nails into his elbow with the other. He was making a
high-pitched whine, clearly fighting the pain she was inflicting on
his arm. His free hand was no match for both her legs; he couldn't
budge them from his head. Mark's face was turning purple. It was
pathetic. He kicked his legs frantically, but I could tell it was
useless. Mark was completely helpless…my mother had overpowered my
husband!

The enormity of the situation hit me and my knees shook. I sat down,
gasping for breath. A few minutes earlier my husband was on the verge
of raping my mother, humiliating her out of some sort of need for
revenge. Now she was crushing his head between her thighs, possibly
breaking his arms, and all he could do was kick his feet like a baby.

Finally Mom let him go. He lay on the floor, gasping for breath
between his tears. She stood and walked around him, tossing taunts at
him like flowers. "What's the matter, Marky? Come on, get up. I'm
enjoying this, Mark. You actually fought for a while this time. I am
impressed. I like it much better when you fight…it makes my winning
that much more exciting. This is the most powerful I've ever felt in
my life, and it's pretty damn exciting. Come on, get up…I want to
wrestle some more."

As she talked Mark had crawled to his hands and knees, trying to
regain his senses. Apparently Mom's legs are extremely strong! She
circled him as she spoke. Suddenly, right when she was directly in
front of him, Mark lunged forward. "That's it, honey!" I thought.
"Don't be a wimp! Tackle her!"

But instead of getting tackled, Mom took a step back. Mark misjudged
the distance and wound up off-balance, still on all fours. Just like
that, he was trapped again: Mom was still standing, holding his head
between her legs as he knelt in front of her. He tried to pull her
legs out from under her but she reached over grabbed his crotch. He
winced and reached back, allowing Mom to seize one of his arms and
twist it behind his back. Once again she had captured him. He
squirmed feebly under her but to no end.

"Damnit, Mark!" I thought. I was furious that he was letting her beat
him up. Had I really been married to a wimp all this time?

If it had ended right there, I would be distraught and confused
enough. Amazingly, it got worse for Mark. As Mom pulsed her thighs,
she closed her eyes and let her head sway back. I knew that look;
I've felt it on my own face. She moaned as she held my husband in her
grasp, twisting his already injured arm higher behind his back,
clenching her legs tighter and tighter on his head. She moaned in
rhythm. Then she seemed to get an idea.

Thunk! Mom suddenly let her legs go and dropped to the floor—with
Mark's head underneath her. He was smashed face-first into the carpet
with her head on the back of his head. My God, I thought she knocked
him out! But his legs kept kicking and he kept flailing around with
his free arm as Mom gyrating and ground her crotch on the back of his
head and neck. She was getting off on him! And he couldn't stop her!
He may have been trying to talk, but his voice was muffled underneath
Mom's thighs.

My newfound contempt for Mark was suddenly erotic. I am so ashamed of
myself, that I found his humiliation exciting! As my mother rode him
for her pleasure, I turned and sat in the hall, my back against the
wall, and began to finger myself. I think Mom and I climaxed at the
same time! I thought they would hear my moans, but Mom's were so loud
I don't think they could. Well, of course Mark couldn't…he might not
even have been conscious at that point.

It was one of the most profound orgasms I've ever had. I rested there
for several minutes, sweating and panting, trying to gather my
thoughts and feelings. Had I really just orgasmed while thinking
about my mother beating up my husband?

When I peaked around the corner again, I saw Mark lying naked,
spread-eagled. Mom had pulled his clothes off and was shedding the
last of her own. Again I was stunned by the incongruity…an athletic
man in his prime lying shamed, beaten to within an inch of his life by
a small middle-aged woman, an elegant society woman with polished
fingernails at that. I felt revulsion for Mark and awe of my Mom…and
a desire to see more.

I stepped into the room. Mom looked at me expectantly. "So, honey,
what do you think of me?" She flexed her muscles in a parody of body
builders. I laughed.

Mark was jarred into the moment by the realization that he and Mom
were not alone. His eyes focused and saw me, then saw Mom doing a
victory pose. "What did you…?" he tried to ask.

"I saw everything," I said. He must have heard the contempt in my
voice. I knew I should console him, but I didn't. I said nothing.

Mark figured it out, though. He realized that, in order to earn my
respect back, he had to win back his honor against Mom. He charged at
her, so filled with fury that it seemed supernatural, and knocked her
to the floor. But he had lost too much energy already between her
vicelike legs and she was able to throw him off her.

This time I openly cheered Mom on as she jumped to her feet and began
stalking my husband. He tried to meet her head-on, holding his hands
out to grasp hers. Half an hour ago he would have easily overpowered
her, but now she laced her slim, elegant fingers in between his and
immediately took control. His face showed despair as she pushed him
backward and forced him down to his knees. Mom had Mark's wrists
bent painfully back. He was trying to slide his fingers out of her
grasp, trying to keep her nails from digging into the backs of his
hands, but he was at her mercy. And Mom was merciless. When she did
finally release his hands she kept him there, kneeling before her, and
jerked his head back by his hair so he had to look straight up at her.
From his point of view, next to her crotch, he was peering straight
up her stomach, between her heaving breasts, at her victorious grin.

She began talking about how thrilling it was to force a man to her
feet, force him to submit to her. He tried to protest but Mom grabbed
his face violently, driving her nails into his cheeks, forcing his
mouth open in a silent scream. As she tortured him with this clawlike
hold, she told him he would regret it if he didn't satisfy her. He
was forced to agree.

With a twinkle in her eye, Mom knocked him to his back and seated
herself directly over his mouth. He struggled only for a moment,
until she seized his scrotum. "Lick!' she commanded, and apparently
he did, while she held his manhood hostage. Once again she ground
herself on him, moaning in pleasure. As she rubbed herself on his
face Mom stroked his penis until it was clear he was on the edge of
orgasm himself. Mom's moans told me she had reached another climax.

She wasn't done with him. Quickly she hopped off his face, which was
now red and bruised, and plopped down on his crotch. He couldn't
fight her off. She mounted him and thrust herself up and down.
"Norma…no…please…no…" Despite his humiliation, he was so aroused that
he came inside her. Immediately Mom hopped from his crotch to his
face. Holding his wrists down, she forced herself onto his mouth and
let his own semen drain out of her. Then she forced his mouth closed
and massaged his throat until he swallowed. He was helpless to stop
her. Helpless.

I had two more orgasms, sitting on the floor of my living room
watching my mother rape my husband force him to swallow his own semen.

She stood and I looked up at her. She was marvelous, in a way I'd
never realized before. No, Mom doesn't have the body of an eighteen
year old cheerleader. But standing there, her breast sagging but
full, her hips wide but strong, her arms a little flabby but obviously
powerful, Mom looked like the queen of the Amazons. Yes, I'm
confused. Yes, I'm ashamed at Mark, and ashamed at myself for the
contempt I feel for him right now, ashamed at my arousal at his
humiliation. More than anything else, I'm proud of Mom.