The Man of the House

I never really got to know my wife's father Martin, but from the little I did see of him, he appeared to be a real tartar: Martin would invariably be glaring out of the window when I arrived to collect Alison for our dates and be standing there again when we returned. That return had to be no later than ten o'clock on midweek nights, or 10:30 at the weekends and with no 'loitering in the driveway making a spectacle of yourselves' when we did return.

The only times I ever crossed their threshold were to attend the occasional Sunday lunches to which I was invited and though Alison's mother Joan was a fantastic cook, pleasant memories of those meals were sparse. The lunches put me in mind of a job interview, or those times that I'd been called into the Headmaster's study during my schooldays; a barrage of questions, which had me considering what the expected/required answer was before I gave it; stressful rather than enjoyable and I invariably left as soon as good manners allowed.

I'd been dating Ali for almost a year when Martin died in a workplace accident and while I attended his funeral and said the right things, in all honesty I heaved a sigh of relief; I got the feeling that I wasn't the only one attending from nothing beyond a social obligation. Martin did at least leave his family financially secure: One life-insurance policy paid off the house, while a second provided a lump sum cash payout and an ongoing pension too. While there was no question of negligence our fault, Martin's employers arranged a similar cash payout and pension provision.

My own welcome, or up until then perhaps 'tolerance', in the Harris household changed overnight. On arriving to collect Alison the following Friday evening, Mrs H invited me inside to wait as Ali was 'running late' and during our conversation -- the first one we'd ever shared? -- she ventured that: "There's no need for you two to rush back on my account; you're both more than capable of deciding what's an appropriate time for yourselves." That said, we didn't press things and returned soon after eleven and while Mrs H wasn't patrolling at the window, the lights were on; she was obviously still up.

The following night we pushed the boat out and didn't get back until almost midnight; then I attended lunch on the Sunday too. That proved to be a far more enjoyable affair, the food was as good as ever, but now with an accompaniment of sociable, relaxed and comfortable conversation. It was during that meal when Alison's mother proposed that I drop the 'Mrs Harris' and in future address her as Joan, or Mum -- Wow! If that were not enough, she followed it up by suggesting that if I were planning to join them for lunch on the following Sunday, it would make sense for me to stay over on the Saturday night; even Alison was gobsmacked by that bombshell.

When I arrived on the Wednesday evening for our regular mid-week date, I was again invited in so that Joan might 'pick my brains for a few minutes' with regard to a few things that she didn't quite understand; Ali and I didn't get out at all that evening, but to be honest, it was no hardship. The majority of Joan's problems proved to be straightforward issues regarding household bills and the like, it soon became clear that these, along with everything else, had been dealt with by Martin; I was only twenty-one and living at home with my own parents, so back then I didn't have all the answers, but a phone call to my father resolved any that were beyond me.

Those sort of enquiries became a regular feature with more than a few needing explaining and/or dealing with more than once; Joan invariably mentioning how she 'struggled with such things and didn't find it easy without a man about the house to deal with them.' Before long I was co-opted into dealing with all such matters, though when Joan began to ask my advice with regard to the investment of her insurance pay-outs, I knew that I was out of my depth. I spoke to my father; who asked around then put Joan in touch with a suitably qualified adviser, though Joan insisted that I sit in on those meetings too, 'just to keep her straight'.

That first night I stayed over was suitably chaste and above board, Alison and I returned around 11:00 to find Joan -- as ever -- waiting up for us; though after showing me to their guest room and back down the stairs to where Ali was making coffee, she left us to our own devices; we didn't push it, a kiss and cuddle in the lounge, then up to our separate bedrooms where we stayed. Thereafter, either I stayed over at Joan's or Alison would come to stay at my parents house, almost every weekend; we lived twenty miles apart, so it allowed me to park the car and enjoy a beer or two.

Of course it also allowed me to enjoy Alison; the chaste and above board bit didn't last long, a quarter-hour after overtly parting on the landing, I would tip-toe along to Alison's room to enjoy an hour or two's lovemaking. Things progressed like that for a few months, though we increasingly spent our weekends at Joan's place rather than my own parents'; I was often doing small maintenance and repair tasks for Joan, but more importantly, it was easier for Alison and I to enjoy an illicit fuck when we were there.

The next evolution came one Sunday morning: Joan was invariably the first up and made Alison and I cups of tea in bed; she'd place mine on the table outside my bedroom door, knock solidly and call out to tell me it was there, then continue along the landing to deliver Alison's. As usual I woke to Joan's knock and call, the difference that morning was, that I'd heard her from Alison's room; it wasn't the first time that we'd fallen asleep after sex, but it was the first time we'd slept through until morning.

Alison's tea got delivered to her bedside, so seconds later there was a tap on the bedroom door, then Joan stepped into the room; Alison, was still asleep, so the first thing that Joan saw was my embarrassed face. The cup and saucer Joan was holding rattled, but she didn't spill a drop; with composure regained, Joan silently walked around to place it on the bedside cabinet beside Alison, then catching my eye once more she stuttered "it seems you'll be needing both cups in here this morning." Joan went back to the landing, returned with my tea and having handed it to me, departed and closed the door without uttering another word. Fuck!

The moment Joan left I woke Ali and gave her the bad news; we loitered over our teas, but couldn't put things off forever; half an hour later we headed downstairs to the kitchen. I don't know what we expected, but it wasn't what we got: Joan was preparing breakfast just like any other morning, similar conversations flowed and neither Joan nor ourselves made any reference to what'd transpired. Thankfully I'd arranged to play football that morning, so made my exit a little more promptly than I might otherwise. But speaking to Ali on the phone that evening she reported that Joan had continued to remain silent; Joan she still didn't mention it when I visited on the Wednesday evening.

It was with some trepidation that I arrived, the following Friday evening, this was surely the moment for the shit to hit the fan; I made a point of getting there late to provide Ali and I with a good excuse for leaving quickly. As Alison opened the door, Joan appeared in the hallway and her eyes locked on my overnight bag, my gut tightened as Joan began to speak: "If you're as late as Alison says, you two had better shoot off straight away; I'll put your bag upstairs for you Mike..." I managed nothing beyond a dumb nod as Joan took the bag from my hand "... there's no point in messing up two beds unnecessarily, so I'll drop it straight into Alison's room." Joan turned away as Ali while I looked at each other flabbergasted.

The following and indeed on all subsequent mornings, Joan delivered two cups of tea to Alison's room, though now Joan knocked and waited outside the door until we answered before coming in. With Joan condoning our sharing a bed, my overnight stays became even more regular, my Wednesday night visits became over-nighters and the weekends soon included Sunday nights too; though I didn't notice it at the time, Joan began calling on and deferring to me even more.

Four months later I finished my apprenticeship and was now a qualified Heating and Air Conditioning Engineer; my wages doubled overnight. On the strength of that Alison and I announced our engagement and began saving towards buying our own home, though given the crazy property prices in our area, it wasn't going to be easy. Besides the hefty pay rise, my promotion saw me working from a new depot, a fifty mile round trip from my parents' place, but only five miles away from Joan's; it was a no-brainer, I began to stay there almost every night.

That progression quickly saw the conversation turning to: 'We may as well just get married now and stay with Mum until we can afford a place of our own'; the idea was fine by me, so Alison and I were married eight weeks later. We flew to Cyprus for a two week honeymoon -- saving for our own house was no longer such a priority -- and it was when we returned from that holiday that things changed substantially:

We arrived to find that Joan had re-done the upstairs of the house while we were away. All the bedrooms were re-decorated with the main one completely refitted and refurnished; my own and Alison's stuff had been moved into there too, while Joan had transferred her own things into Alison's old room. We were more than happy to swap and Joan's comment that "with two of you sharing, it makes far more sense for you to have the bigger room" couldn't be disputed. What I didn't fully appreciate the significance of was Joan's addendum: "Besides, with Mike now being the man of the house, it's only right that he sleeps in the master bedroom."

Over the next few months 'Man of' and 'Master of the house' began to appear often in Joan's lexicon and besides the swap of bedrooms, there were other alterations too: At meal times I was now allocated the chair at the head of the table and was also referred to with regard to the menus; when I casually mentioned a liking for Indian and Thai food, Joan bought suitable cookbooks and necessary ingredients, learnt how to cook my favourite dishes and added them to the menu. Similarly, the Lay-Z-boy reclining chair in the lounge which Joan had been using since Martin's death now became solely my preserve.

I'd long been giving opinions and advice, but now all household decisions became mine; irrespective of Alison's thoughts or opinions, Joan would invariably defer to me. To begin with I found it amusing and would often voice some ludicrous opinion just to wind up Ali; I could argue that black was white and Joan would agree, on the basis that as the 'Man of the house' so 'must know best'. Only when Alison stopped taking the bait, thereby taking the fun out of it, did I stop playing silly-buggers; besides, Ali would take her revenge in our bedroom, I was only ever Master in there when Alison allowed me to be. My teasing aside, it was an idyllic period.

I'm sure things would've gone on like that forever had Leo not rocked the boat. I'd known Leo for years, he was one of the group of friends who'd stayed in touch after leaving school; our lives had diverged, be we still met regularly at a local pub to sink a few beers and watch the Monday night football on TV. Now living twenty miles away, so having to drive home, I'd not been attending as often as I used to and may not have gone that evening either had Alison been at home. Alison was climbing the corporate ladder with one of the major banks and had gone away for three days on some training course.

The guys had taken the piss about my irregular attendance from the moment I arrived, accusations that I wasn't allowed to go out with them nowadays as I 'under the thumb' with Ali and equally so with Joan; there were lots of mother in law jokes made at my expense. None of it was true, hell, Joan had offered to drive me to and back home from the pub that evening, suggesting that she could 'just wait in the car with a book'; Joan wasn't the sort of lady to sit alone in a pub. There was no mileage my in arguing back, the guys would have loved that and ripped the piss out of me even more; then in a moment of silence, Leo's interjection landed:

"Of course, Mike knows we're only giving him a hard time because we're jealous of the sweet gig that he's landed; the luscious Alison might be away tonight, but he's still got Mrs H's juicy cunt to slip into when he gets home." Unsurprisingly the guys all shouted him down; hell, I too was creased-up laughing at the suggestion, but when things settled down, Leo continued:

"You need to look a bit closer and then think about it; beneath that old fashioned hairstyle and the schoolmarm glasses, Mrs H is quite a looker, not drop-dead gorgeous I'll grant you, but we've all had a lot worse..." That drew more laughter, but less than his opening line; it tailed off completely as the other guys and indeed me too realised that there was more than a little truth in what Leo had just said.

"...To be fair I have an advantage over the rest of you: Last summer, during that really hot spell, I did a job just across the road from Mrs H's" -- Leo installed plastic windows and doors -- "and she was working in her garden while we were there; I was bloody amazed! Instead of the dowdy clothes she usually wears, Mrs H was kitted out in a pair of Capri pants and a loose man's shirt; when it got hot in the afternoons, she even tied that shirt off underneath her boobs. I'm telling you, she's got a cute little body tucked away under that frumpy clothing, her tits aren't the biggest, but she's got a trim waist, a tight arse and a cracking pair of legs. Mike's well away with that one, I'll bet he's shagging her whenever Ali walks out of the door."

There garnered another round of crude and raucous comments, which only tailed off when the match kicked off; to be honest I only ever half watched that, thoughts of Joan and what Leo had been saying about her continued to divert my attention: I'd never contemplated Joan... in that way, but she was quite sweet faced, as Leo had spotted, lose the glasses and ignore the hairstyle, Joan was a pretty lady; she never wore make-up and I could now see that with just a little effort she'd be seriously attractive. His review of her body was harder to imagine, Joan's dress style ran to loose sweaters, tweedy, below the knee skirts and clumpy, sensible shoes. Joan's wardrobe was twenty five years out of date and would've looked conservative even then; that said, Joan wasn't overweight, so it could be true.

I never got entirely back into the swing of the evening and continued to ponder what Joan might look like with new glasses or contacts and a re-style of her copper-blonde hair, along with a touch of make-up and a more flattering wardrobe. In my distraction I'd sunk four pints by the time I set-off home, not drunk, but I'd have been in trouble had the police pulled me over. Still contemplating the results of a make-over for Joan as I drove home, it struck me that I could probably make it a reality: I was the Man of the House after all, so if I were to suggest to Joan that she did what I was visualising, I'd no doubt that she'd go for it; if Mike thought that, it must be true.

I arrived home near midnight, the lights were on and I could see the TV flickering beyond the curtains; whenever Alison or I went out in the evening, Joan still stayed up until we returned in case there was anything we needed. Joan asked if I wanted a coffee or a cocoa as I stepped through the door; I settled on a coffee, then before heading for my lay-Z-boy I watched Joan head into the kitchen. Even when ready for bed Joan revealed no hint as to the body which Leo had described, her dressing gown was shaped like a bell tent, buttoned tight beneath her chin and a hem that brushed the top of her slipper-clad feet; the Master of the house was going to have to instruct Joan to wear something a little more... alluring.

I was sat in the lounge, tuning the TV to the end of a football highlights programme when Joan delivered my coffee; as expected, she wasn't having one herself... 'I'm going up to bed, unless there's anything else you want?'

I swear to God that the thought hadn't crossed my mind before that moment; I'd been undressing or more precisely re-dressing Joan in my mind for much of the evening, but nothing more. But I was the Master of this house, wasn't I? "No thanks, I'm good... Oh, but leave your bedroom light on when you get into bed."

I kept my attention on the TV screen, pointedly not looking around; I could imagine the quizzical expression that would have now been playing across Joan's face: "Whatever for Mike?"

"Because in a quarter of an hour, when I've drunk my coffee and this programme's finished, I'll be coming in to fuck you." I delivered the line in a casual tone with my eyes still glued to the TV screen, appearing to ignore Joan completely; but I heard her breathing heavily and could picture the pink flush and film of perspiration that would be making Joan's face glow. I never looked around and Joan must've stood there for over a minute, perhaps two before she turned and walked silently to the door;.

Only when I heard Joan's foot falls on the staircase did I call out an addendum: "And wear something sexy!" No response, but Joan's footsteps paused for several seconds before she continued upwards.

I'd finished my coffee inside three minutes and by then couldn't give a shit about the TV programme; but the Man of the House had said fifteen minutes, so I waited. Having turned the TV and lights off, I took a few deep breaths to steady my nerves at the foot of the stairs, then climbed them at a casual, unhurried pace; I hadn't wanted to pause. I was halfway up when I saw light shining around the edges of Joan's bedroom door and walking down the landing when I noted that the door wasn't actually fully closed; unusual, I took that as a sign of assent, or at the very least, capitulation.

I looked directly toward Joan when I entered the bedroom and kept our gazes locked as I undressed; once again I strove to be casual and unhurried, this was just an everyday 'normal' thing for me to be doing. Beyond her face there wasn't much else of Joan to be seen, she was beneath the covers and those were drawn-up tight beneath her chin. More positively, the covers on the opposite side of the bed had been turned back; ready for someone else to join her?

That surely smacked of assent rather than merely yielding? I accepted the invitation and without words slipped in beside Joan, flicking the covers off her as I did so; a moment later I shuddered then froze, the expression on Joan's face told me that she'd noted my response: "You... you... don't like it?"

"It's bloody awful Joan, get rid of it."

Joan looked crestfallen as she peeled off the nightdress she was wearing, it was short and diaphanous, but that was the end of any good news: An orangy-pink thing in scratchy looking nylon, festooned with small ribbons and embroidered flowers, straight out of the 1970s, it was dreadful!

In hindsight there perhaps was more good news: I suspect that Joan's eagerness to remove the vile garment from my sight, overrode the reluctance to get her kit off that I'd expected. Joan tossed the night dress across the room: "I'm sorry Mike, but it's the only thing I had that was... suitable. I bought it for my honeymoon and I've never worn it since; Martin didn't like me to wear anything...revealing... he didn't permit it."

"Well I'm the Man of the house now and I do want to see you wearing something more revealing, in fact I insist upon it... You'll need to go shopping and get something a lot racier... before the next time."