My God, Lena, what are you doing?" I hissed, my voice a strained whisper across the cluttered dinner table.
Her only answer was a slow, wicked smile as her stocking-clad foot traced a searing path up my inner thigh. The turkey and polite conversation about Aunt Carol's new garden gnomes faded into a distant hum. My entire world narrowed to the space beneath the linen tablecloth.
It had started innocently enough—a brush of her foot against my calf while she asked my wife, Sarah, for the mashed potatoes. A simple accident. But then it came back. This time, it lingered, the pressure deliberate. My fork had frozen halfway to my mouth. Lena, my exquisite mother-in-law, just sipped her wine, her eyes holding mine with a challenge I felt in my very core.
Now, her toes pressed against the straining fabric of my trousers, a firm, insistent pressure right over my cock. I swallowed hard, my jaw tight. She rubbed slowly, side to side, the friction maddening through the layers of cloth. I shifted, trying to find relief, and her smile widened.
With a glance at Sarah, who was deep in conversation with her father, Lena slowly, torturously, hooked her heel on the chair rung and slipped her foot from her shoe. My breath hitched. The next touch was pure, wicked silk, the nude nylon sheathing her arch as she dragged her sole along my length.
I gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles white. She pressed harder, her toes flexing, molding the silky fabric against the head of my cock. A soft, almost inaudible gasp escaped her lips, and her eyes fluttered closed for a brief, ecstatic second. She was enjoying this—the power, the risk, the feel of me hardening helplessly under her ministrations.
Her foot slid down, the pressure relenting for a agonizing moment before her toes found the button of my flies. She toyed with it, a feather-light tease that promised so much more. My heart hammered against my ribs. She leaned forward, her voice a husky murmur meant only for me.
"You look so tense, darling. Something on your mind?"