NEW: Mommy's Bottom Drawer [cd,femdom] 5/5

[Pervitron]

She lived on Michigan Avenue, in a duplex on a high floor with a
spectacular view of the lake. I kept it immaculate, my mother
trained me well. I'd arrive there in the early evening, a few
hours before her. I'd have dinner ready when she arrived, I'd
meet
her at the door with a drink, and she'd say how pleased she was,
what a good job I'd done.

And yes, of course, I'd play in her bottom drawer. I cleaned so
quickly, and so well that I had time to explore her room. Her
intimate wear was terribly attractive to me, my heart beat wildly
when I explored her dresser; I hadn't felt a thrill this intense
since that day in my mother's room. Yes, it was nice to have my
own pretty things, but these garments were charged with her
beauty, her sex, and so when I put them on, the feeling of
intimate contact with her was just indescribable. Silk was
Gabrielle's passion, all her underthings were the finest natural
silk. From her catalogues, I could see that most of the stuff was
imported from the orient. My favorite item was a cherry red
silk kimono, I loved wearing it when I cleaned. I kept myself
naked underneath, it thrilled me deeply to feel it rub and caress
my stiff dick. I was careful though, she never suspected that I
did these things, I was afraid if she found out she'd send me
away from her forever.

Our relationship took a while to develop. This was new to her
as well, At first, all she was interested in was to treat me like
a servant; she seemed content to have the place clean when she
arrived, and to know that a man was doing it as a sign of
devotion. She'd send me home shortly after she arrived at night.
But slowly, she succumbed to temptation. Put a fine piece of ass
in close proximity to any normal man, and sooner or later he'll
put a move on her. Similarly, when a woman sees that a man is
devoted to her, it won't be long before she listens to her inner
devil, and asks for more. A man that takes orders on domestic
chores might just as easily perform services of a more
intimate nature.

I certainly let her know I was willing.

After a few weeks, she asked me to do more personal things.
She'd call me before she arrived, and ask me to have her shoes
polished. This I was eager to do, and when I showed them to
her, I asked her if I could put them on. She sat on the couch,
and I knelt before her. I took her foot and held it like it was
made of delicate china. I placed the shoe on it slowly, using
the tips of my fingers to tease and caress her skin down there.
She was thrilled, I could tell from the film over her eyes that
she must have been wet with desire underneath. After that she
wanted her shoes polished every night, even if she wasn't going
out.

I began to call her mistress. I brushed her hair, I cut and
polished her toes, and I found an unspeakable pleasure in
cleaning her toilet. I made sure to leave this chore undone
until she arrived in the afternoon, it was so much better to be
watched while I was on my knees scrubbing her bowl. This became
almost a ritual for the two of us, she made sure not to flush in
the morning, she'd leave a bowlful of shit and piss all day. I
could smell it as soon as I entered the apartment. Shortly after
she arrived home I'd go into the bathroom and start in on it.
She'd follow me and observe, she'd point out the spots I was
missing. Thus a sort of private language developed between us,
my acts of devotion were like a mating dance that coaxed her to
be even more demanding, to reach within herself for deeper, even
more thrilling pleasures.

And of course, she wanted me to do more. After a few months
together, I didn't leave at night until I had pleasured her.
She'd lay back on her big Queen Anne's chair, and place her legs
up on my shoulder. I was born to do this, to tease and tickle
the nerve-filled crevices deep within her. She insisted that I
do this slowly, a proper service needed at least an hour to bring
her full passion alive. Oh! How I loved the sound of her, when
I coaxed her inner demon out from the prison of manners, and
respectability. I could feel in the heat of her cunt the
approaching release, and I was proud of my ability to hold her
there, poised on the brink. I was born to do this, I was made
to press my lips against the lower, earthy lips that God mode for
us.

I never dared to ask her for anything for myself. Despite all my
probing within her inner thighs, she seemed as remote as the
clouds, and I was afraid of any storm a selfish request might
unleash. So I held my passion off. I'd think of her all the way
home, the image of her snatch and the sound of her encouraging
voice would be fixed still and waiting within me. I'd hold it
like an inner light, until I got back to my apartment, and could
masturbate, and bring the sense of it alive. I'd relive every
sweet moment for my exploding cock.

She wondered why I was like this, and I told her about my Mom.
This intrigued her, something about the notion of a wife and
mother acting like a bitch was especially compelling for her.
She made me describe at length all the things we did for her.
She seemed particularly interested in my father. Did he ever
get angry? Did I ever see any affection between them. What did
he look like when she was angry at him? Did I think they had
sex? I never told anyone about my family, I knew that most people
would consider my parent's relationship to be, well, deviant.
But Gabrielle wanted to know everything, and telling her of these
things seemed only added to the intimate hold she had over me. I
was handing her the keys to my soul.

So when Gabrielle asked to meat my mother, I had no choice in the
matter. I had never brought a girl home. In fact, I had never
even mentioned a girl to my mother. But Gabrielle was not to be
denied.

I had my own bitch now.

**

Gabrielle and my mother just ... clicked together. Gabrielle was
right at home by the morning of our first overnight stay. My
mother would lay in her easy chair and be waited on by my father,
and Gabrielle would be similarly reposed on the couch. I'd be in
the kitchen with Dad, mixing drinks, doing our duties in silence.
I'd be doing the dishes, he'd be cooking, and we'd hear them in
the living room. Giggling among themselves, having a fine, lazy
afternoon. Once in a while they'd call out to us. Mom would
say: "Timmy dear, bring me my slippers." And off I'd go, ever
obedient. I was mad with desire; I'd bring my mother a drink, or
her slippers, an Gabrielle would give me this look, like she was
a witness to the inner framework of my life. Now she understood
me, she saw how I was raised with the single purpose of pleasing
a demanding woman. Gabrielle was assuming the erotic charge of my
mother in my mind, and the feeling was overwhelming for me. I
couldn't wait or the night, so we'd be alone in my room.

The visits home, and her developing closeness with my mother
changed our relationship. To that point, I had been her
personal servant, an expert provider for all of her needs. And
she was very appreciative, she praised all my efforts to please
her. I might have even convinced her to reciprocate, if I had
dared ask. But once she met my mother, she seemed to realize
that a relationship like ours had the potential for deeper, more
intense satisfaction on her part. She was never one to hold
back her anger, but now she realized that her anger could be
used, she could ride her anger like a wave, and feel the sexual
charge in its power. Bitchiness was such an elemental pleasure,
once a girl saw it played out, it was irresistible. Humiliation
is fun.

Those first nights were like a psychodrama: my mother made sure
Gabrielle knew everything that happened between her and my
father. My bedroom was right next to my parents. My mother
would curse at Dad, she'd call him all sorts of names, filthy,
dirty things, and I had the strangest feelings, knowing that
Gabrielle could hear every word. She was taking all this in.
Mom would say the vilest things, and it was clear from the tone
in her voice, and the quickness of her breath between the words,
that Dad was licking her all the while. I couldn't help it, I
was hard as a rock, there was such an air of base sexuality in
the air.

It carried over into the day. Gabrielle and my mother were
inseparable, they'd sit in the living room, giggling like
schoolgirls. Dad and I would bring them breakfast in the morning,
they'd be in the living room watching TV. They'd burst out
laughing when we left the room, as if they shared some private
joke at our expense. Dad's face was as red as a beet: now he
was being mocked not just by Mom, but by a strange woman as well,
I could see him fight to control his anger. He came close to
talking back once. Dad and I brought them each a tall glass of
iced tea, and Gabrielle told him sharply to take it back and put
more ice in it. I'm sure she told him, and not me, because Mom
put her up to it. They were running a scene.

Dad turned to her with an angry look: "Hey, who do you "

"Tom!" Mom cut in sharply. "Shut your mouth and do as you're
told!"

Dad deflated like a punctured balloon. He took her glass back
into the kitchen, and I followed. Their laughter fell on our
backs.

I'll never forget one particular night. My mother was really
cutting loose, this was like a clinic in abusive sex. Gabrielle
turned to me. She had look of pure arrogance, and she said:
"No wonder you're such a USELESS PEICE OF SHIT!" Oh! My desire
kicked into overdrive, the cruel hiss of her voice, and her foxy
grin made my need even more desperate. So I went down between the
covers, and showed her just what I was good for. That night, and
all the nights thereafter, there were two loud voices in my home:

"Slow down, SHITHEAD!"

"Christ! Use your FUCKIN' TOUNGE!"

"Oh, fuck! I wish I had a real man."

"O-h-h-h! Keep it right there. Don't you DARE stop!"

I knew they were talking about me. Sometimes at night, after I
had satisfied Gabrielle, she'd go downstairs to get a glass of
milk, or have a cigarette. It seemed that every time my mother
would follow. I could hear them, and while I couldn't hear what
they said, the whispers and the giggles convinced me that
Gabrielle was telling her about me, and she was learning about
Dad as well.

So now she knew everything. My mother must have told her about
my crossdressing; I could tell from the way she acted when I was
licking her. One time I was holding her right on the edge,
keeping her there as long as I could, while she unleashed her
abusive comments. And mixed in with that cruel torrent was my
mother's nickname for me: "Tissy." She said it as she came, and I
almost came myself when I first heard it - there was something
about the hiss in her voice, and the thought of what I was doing
to trigger it. I felt like an electric shock moved through my
body - for days afterwards I masturbated every chance I got,
hearing Gabrielle call me that again.

Another day she was getting dressed, she asked me if I had put
the run in her stockings. As if she didn't know! She was sitting
on the side of the bed, eyeing me coldly.

"I-I-I-I'm sorry." I knew I sounded like a baby.

"God! What a fuckin' PUSSY." She looked disgusted, like I was
repulsive to her.

Rather than make me angry, or ashamed, this only further
eroticized Gabrielle in my mind. The lower her expressed opinion
of my masculinity, the more desirable she seemed. I had always
loved her, her first attraction for me was the shape of her body,
the thrilling promise of it. But now that she knew all about me,
she knew all the intimate, embarrassing details that my mother
did, my desire took on the quality of a compulsion. Just a look
from her would stiffen me, I'd be hard as a rock all through my
nights of service. She knew all my buttons, she could see how I
responded to the contempt in her eyes.

Finally, I understood my Father. I knew why a man would
relinquish his conventional, everyday masculinity. It felt so
good to be opened up this way, to feel once again the
overpowering, helpless need that a baby feels.

One night around 2AM, I had gone to the kitchen to get the nail
polish remover. After a few weeks there, we'd settled into a
routine. I'd satisfy her orally for an hour or so, and then I'd
spend the next hour painting her toes. No doubt this was the same
routine as my parents, because every morning both Gabrielle and
my mother had a fresh coat of lustrous paint on their toes. So on
this particular night when I went to the kitchen my father was
already there.

He was reaching under the sink for the cotton balls as I walked
in. When he got up he saw me there. It was awkward for a
moment. Finally he held out the bag, and said to me: "I guess
you'll need some of these."

"Yeah," I said, as I reached into the bag.

"How are you and Gabrielle getting along?" He was looking
directly at me, he seemed a bit hesitant, and the question was
uncharacteristically direct.

"Um ... good." I didn't quite know what to say, but the look in
his eyes, and the fact that it was obvious by now that I was
beginning to treat Gabrielle the same way he treated Mom made me
want to be more open. "I know she's happy, I try real hard to
please her."

"She's very beautiful, I bet she looks lovely when you're ...
pleasing her." He had a distant, wistful look in his eyes.

"They're talking about us, you know. I think Mom told her all
about me." I didn't have to spell it out: I had a full length
pink terrycloth robe on, and a pair of Gabrielle's black lace
panties underneath it. He was wearing green silk robe that came
down to his knees, and I could see that he had white stockings on
his feet. We looked at each other quickly, scanning our bodies,
realizing what we were both wearing. He could see in my eyes
that I had something sexy on underneath my robe. But we kept to
our pattern, the obvious was never discussed.

"What color is it going to be tonight?" I wanted to let him know
about her.

"Neon purple" He held up the small bottle.

"Gabrielle wants Harlot Red tonight."

"I know where that is." It took him just a second to find it in
the large basket, he was in his element. Some men focus their
energies on accomplishment in the world, mastering the skills of
artistry or leadership. His skill and competence was focused on
knowing where all of her things were. He handed it to me, and
asked if I wanted any "top coat."

"What's that?" Much of this was still new to me.

"It hardens the nails, and also gives them a glossy coat that
catches the light." I had noticed that Mom's toes always looked
better that Gabrielle's, even though both women liked bold,
attention getting colors. There was something different about
Mom's that caught the eye. I realized now that there was a
certain brilliance to their color.

"OK, thanks." I took the bottle from his hand. "Gabrielle will
be pleased."

He was silent for a second; It seemed like he was on the verge
of saying something, so I waited. Finally, he spoke in a soft,
fearful voice. "Gabriella has lovely feet."

"I know, Dad. It was one of the things that attracted me to
her." I was talking as softly as he was, it was almost a
whisper, like we were sharing some secret.

"She's a lot like your mother was. Very strong, very ...
willful." The words came out of him only after great effort, I
could see that he was struggling to overcome a lifetime of
inhibition against saying things like this to other men.

"I know Dad. She's really tough." I felt a warm tingle saying
this, because I had the same inhibition, in the months since I
met her, this obsessive need grew in me, yet it was passion of a
sort I could never discuss with another man. "You got to hear
her talk when she's mad. She's got a real mean mouth on her."

His eyes started jumping around, partly from excitement, and
partly from fear, the irrational, guilty fear that was a
permanent part of his life with Mom. "You know, Gabrielle teases
me." That got my attention, the thought of her working on Dad,
doing some of the same shit she did with me. I found the idea
exciting. "Sometimes in the afternoon, when she gets home early
and I'm the only one home, she sits and watches TV with me." He
had a whimsical look, he was looking off to the side, as if
picturing her. "She kicks her shoes off, and starts flexing her
toes." I could see what was coming, Gabrielle had the most
lovely feet, they were delicate and so pleasing to the eyes. She
had done this to me many times. Whenever some insult of hers cut
too deeply, and I was sulking, she'd sit down and work her magic
with her feet. She'd be sitting near me, seemingly unaware of
me, but she'd cross her legs, and flex the toes of her top foot.
It was like a call to prayer, my blood would start racing and my
mouth would dry up. After a few minutes of this, I'd be on my
knees before her, holding her lovely foot in my hands, and
kissing her toes. I'd be lost in my passion, her insults
wouldn't hurt anymore. No, I'd want her cutting words to rain
down on me.

"She starts to rub them with her hands." He continued, eyeing me.
"I try not to look, but then she says things like: 'I hear
you're a master foot massager.' She stretches them out, they're
only a foot or so away from me."

"I know Dad. She's a tease." I was thrilled at the idea of her
giving Dad the Treatment.

"Shit! Don't I know it." He looked almost angry, miffed to be
teased like this, to have his desires stirred and left
unsatisfied, purely for her amusement. "She asks me: 'Come on.
Give them a kiss. You know you want to.'" He was looking at me
now, gauging my reaction.

His story had excited me. I had a thick hardon under my robe,
beneath the pair of lace panties that Gabrielle let me wear.
"It's OK, Dad, I won't mind."

His aspect changed, his mouth settled into a slight grin. I could
tell he was looking forward to it. He smiled. "You're really
lucky Timmy, to have a woman like that."

"Keeps me happy, Dad." I wanted to tell him all about her, the
way she made me feel. "Just so you know, Dad, it only starts
with the feet. She'll want you to suck them."

"That's OK!" I could see the excitement grow in him, no doubt
his dick was starting to swell under his nightie. "I-I-I like
... that."

I could picture it now, the smirk on Gabrielle's face, the
triumph she'd feel with yet another pussy boy to get off on.
"But then, you know, Dad, she really gets rough..." I watched
him closely, I wanted to see the look in his face. "I mean, she
really jams her foot in. I mean, the whole foot..."

"The whole foot?" He was hoping I was telling the truth, the
prospect of being treated this way by his alluring
daughter-in-law had him salivating like a panting dog.

"Yeah, she likes to be in up to her ankle." I was smiling at Dad,
loving the need my words aroused in him. I knew we only had a
minute, I'd have to get back upstairs soon or she'd be pissed for
keeping her waiting. So I wanted to leave him with something to
remember. "Yeah, she likes pushing her foot into your mouth. And
if you don't get enough in, or don't lick her toes the way she
wants..." I started to walk away, "... she likes to kick your
nose with the other." I turned around and saw him, open mouthed.
"Sure Dad, go for it, give her a kiss!"

**

Still the pattern remains, only now there are two of them. It's
Saturday afternoon, they're going shopping together. We write
down our chores, the list of things we're expected to do. But
there will be time, they know this as well as we do. We can hear
it in their laughter as they close the door. We stand at the
window and watch them drive away. We walk up the stairs, the
thought of our coming indulgence builds within us. He heads
towards his room, and I head towards mine. When I open my door
there is a surprise.

On the bed is an outfit: a maid's uniform. I feel a rush in my
panties when I see it, it looks so perfect. I pick it up, and
I note the shortness of the dress, how exposed my poor ass would
be when I bend over to clean. And then I see the panties, the
little girl frills and ruffles on the butt. Oh, they are sick,
those cunts! Still, I put it on - I can't help it, it rouses
such deep wishes in me. The lace at the top of the stockings,
the sheer glory of the garter belt. I'm breathing hard as I sit
on the bed, and put the shoes on. Heels impossibly high,
there's no way to work effectively in any of this. This is an
outfit for show.

I stand and reach under the apron for my cock. I pull it free
from the panties and I start to rub it. I know I won't last,
just a few quick strokes and I'll blow my stuff all over my
floor; I'll miss my moment. No, I was meant to be seen like
this, the thought of being seen in this state is too
delicious. So I stop rubbing - I hold myself off. I stagger out
the door of my room.

Dad is waiting in the hallway, with a matching outfit of his own.

We say nothing as we walk down the stairs. We start our chores.
He dusts and I iron. We move slowly, partly because of the
unsteadiness of our heels, partly because we are distracted by
the pressing need within us. It takes an act of will to refrain
from wacking off. We both knew they'll be home any minute. The
cunts will open the door, and they'll see us, the teasing and the
abuse will begin. I hold myself off for her. I want to feel
like this when I see the contempt in her eyes, and hear her
selfish laughter. I can hold myself off - she's taught me that.
I'll hold myself off all night long, if she won't let me do it.
I know it will be a long night.

Tonight Vern is visiting.

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