"You want me to cook?" he splutters. "Uh, I could microwave a meal up if you want."
"No no, you're the lady about the house now, which means you're going to have to learn to cook at some point, and what better place to start..." Stepping behind him, your young, strong hands grip has bare waist, nudging him towards the chopping board of half-diced vegetables. "... than finishing up where the last lady of the house started."
Michael tries to squirm out of your grip, but you're far stronger than him now, and he is pinned between the kitchen counter and your body. As you push him firmly into his new place, he pushes back, his large mature backside pressing against you. Nature -or at least the bureau - have been more than kind to him in that regard, granting him a keister that strains against the fabric of the skirt now rubbing against you.
"I-I- don't know the first thing about cooking!" he moans.
Your left hand departs his waist and intertwines its fingers with his own, guiding him towards one of the larger, uncut carrot and coaxing his fingers around the shaft. Still keeping him pressed to the counter with to weight of your body, your right hand takes his. His skin is smooth as silk, and the fingers feel so demure and delicate under your thick, masculine ones. The change has robbed him of so much of his strength, supplementing your own with it - you could snap his arm with so much as a squeeze if you wanted to, and you suspect he senses that too, no longer resisting as you guide his hand around the kitchen knife. "I'm sure you're a natural," you whisper soothingly in his ear. "If not, the bureau sells a package on... feminine arts. I'm not entirely sure what is in it, but I'm sure cooking is one of the things covered. Perhaps I should trade a few months of your life in to find out."
Noticing the thinly veiled threat, he shakes his head, eagerly making a start on dicing the remainder of the vegetables before him.
You step away, watching for a moment and enjoying the sight. It is strangely compelling. After twenty years of marriage, it is like having a new woman in the house. A new wife. In terms of looks, Mikey has nothing over his mother - a little more rump in the trunk perhaps, but you'd be just as bored with his body after twenty years as Winifred's. But the novelty of having somebody who isn't your dearly beloved waiting on you makes you feel young again.
Or maybe that is just the decades of youth pumped into you by the bureau.
"One last thing..." An apron hangs from the handle of the kitchen cupboard. It is Winifred's - pink, with 'kiss the chef' written on it. You slip it over his head, smoothing the thick plastic apron down over his massive, naked breasts. "Arms up," you command. He raises his arms, and you tug the apron cords tight about his waist, tying him in with a double knot.
Though the apron just about covers his nipples, he looks more uncomfortable than when he was bare chested.
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