(This is a true story. My mother-in-law died years
ago, but we have many fond memories of our times with her,
and we miss her greatly.)
My mother-in-law, Margaret, officially, but Marge or Margie
to most people, and I always got along fairly well. I
treated her decent and liked her cooking and her daughter
was happy with me and I guess that was what she cared most
She had a small apartment on the first floor of the same
building occupied by the family business. There were two
bedrooms and a smaller apartment on the second floor and a
quite large loft area on the third floor. When my wife,
Glynda, and I were there we stayed in the small apartment.
Our two daughters would use the separate bedrooms if they
My wife’s dad had died a couple of years before and I don’t
think many people missed him much. He didn’t treat anybody
very well, least of all his wife, son, and two daughters,
and nobody’s cooking was as good as his, and although he
often said he could cook something better, he never
volunteered to do it.
We were down at “Mom’s” for vacation. There wasn’t much to
do in the little fishing and logging town, but it was close
to the beaches and the mountains. Glynda and I would go out
on the beach late in the afternoon and watch the sun go down
and then build a little fire and fuck for a couple hours on
a big blanket and then go home and soak in the steam bath
for a couple of hours and fuck some more. Or we would go for
a hike up in the mountains in the morning and then take a nap
and fuck in some grassy meadow for most of the afternoon.
You can tell there was one thing uppermost in our minds.
The steam bath was actually a Finnish style sauna. A very hot,
very dry heat, very little steam at all. Glynda’s dad had
built it in the back of the factory and it had become popular
with nearly everyone. In fact my oldest daughter was conceived
in it, near as we could figure.
Glynda and her mom were only about 20 years apart in age and
were mistaken for sisters quite often. Their size and build
were very similar except that Margie was a little bustier
and a little hippier with a few more wrinkles. And while
Glynda frosted her hair because it was fashionable, Marge
did it to hide some gray and look younger. It was difficult
to tell them apart without looking really close. And therein
lies the tale.
I had been over at the neighborhood tavern for a few hours
that afternoon, drinking beer and visiting with a few guys
that I knew from when we had lived there years ago. It was
dinner time, and I was a little tipsy, and also horny from
watching the barmaids running around in their short skirts
and low-cut blouses for several hours. I walked into the
downstairs apartment to see what the prospects for dinner
were. There were a couple of pots gently steaming on the stove
and my wife was standing at the sink fixing some lettuce and
veggies for salad. I walked up behind her, put my left arm
around her and squeezed her tit, and reached down in
front of her with my right hand and cupped her mons and
pussy and massaged it a little. She jumped a little and said,
I nuzzled and nibbled the side of her neck and said, “What’s
for dinner, besides you?”
She was breathing a little hard and leaning against me like
she was having trouble standing up. “Ohh … Unnn … I …
I … think th.. th.. that Glllyyyndaaaa …. is . up ..
stairs ..,” she gasped.
Well, I started noticing things then. Her breast was a
little bit larger and softer than Glynda’s and her tummy
wasn’t quite as flat, and her mons felt a little higher, and
then I opened my eyes and noticed what was looped over the ear I
had just begun to lick and nibble on. Metal glass frames!
Oops! Gramma wore glasses with metal frames and Glynda wore
plastic! Mea culpa!