The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

My mother emerges from her bedroom in a white trouser suit.

She’s put on weight. The skin-tight cotton clings to her chunky hips and outlines the sumptuous cleft of her large, curvaceous butt. My Mom’s put on weight in all the right places.

The jacket gapes at the front on a cascade of white flounces where her big wobbly breasts thrust the jacket’s chic flaps apart.

“How do I look, Matty? This outfit isn’t too revealing is it?”

Revealing? There isn’t an inch of bare flesh from her five-inch strappy sandals up to the string of pearls around her throat.

Her eyes grow anxious:

“Perhaps I should put on something more loose-fitting…” I want to scream: ’No! No way! The tighter the better!’ “… I don’t want Howard to think I’m being forward.”

Howard’s Mom’s dopey boyfriend. He’s the most uptight, puritanical man ever. He insists that my hot, voluptuous mother dresses like a prudish old maid.

“I know Howard likes white… Howard says white’s his favorite color…”

I say:

“You look fine, Mom.”

In fact she looks more than fine. The trouser suit and flouncy blouse might cover every inch of my Mom’s silky skin but there’s no mistaking the voluptuous curvaceousness of her figure.

Beads of anxious perspiration prickle on her forehead. Her deep blue eyes grow more and more worried. Her plump lips purse. She glances at her watch.

“… Oh heavens…!… Howard’s due any minute and I still haven’t even warmed the hors d-oeuvres yet…!”

I groan inwardly.

Fu-uuuuuuuuuck!

Howard’s coming to dinner again!

My mother’s forever inviting her new boyfriend to come and eat with us!

The guy’s a total creep. Howard’s a one hundred percent doink. Howard doesn’t know how lucky he is— a dopey blonde bombshell like my Mom head over heels in love with him, and all he does is sit at our dinner table eating my Mom’s delicious cooking and lecturing her about the sanctity of marriage— my mother’s a divorcee— and the proper way to discipline children— that’s me—and picking holes in her cooking and her choice of outfit, telling her this outfit’s too ‘risqué’ and that outfit’s too ‘young for her’. Doctor Howard Montgomery is the Moral Tutor at my college. He takes his moral tutoring seriously. I don’t know what my mother sees in him. As well as being pompous and a prude Howard’s tall and weedy and pasty-faced, his hair is thinning, but apparently he has a ‘beautiful soul’.

“… Oh… I do hope Howard likes pâté de foie gras…”

I can’t help myself. I blurt:

“Hell, Mom! The guy’s eaten here a thousand times already! You know he likes your pâté!”

My Mom’s a sensational chef.

“… Now now, Matty… you know I won’t have you speaking rudely of Howard… he’s such a fine specimen of a man…!… he’s just the sort of role model a nineteen-year-old boy who’s never seen his father needs…!”

It’s hopeless trying to have a rational conversation with my mother.

Life was so much better before my Mom started going out with Howard Montgomery. Before Howard came along, she hadn’t had a boyfriend in ages, just her group of cougar girlfriends sitting round moaning about men and what a waste of space men are. My Mom was more relaxed and easy-going in those days. She didn’t feel the need to conceal every inch of her gorgeous body either, in case her bootylicious butt and voluptuous breasts upset Howard.

Those were the days when my Mom slopped round the house in skimpy tank-tops and short shorts cut high up her sumptuous split, when she didn’t care what anybody thought about her. Skimpy tank-tops and short shorts suited her. They suited me. With my father running away before I was born, my Mom and I had always been close. We’d grown even closer in my teenage years. By the time I turned eighteen we’d developed a special intimacy.

… Bri-iiiiiiing…

And now here’s my Moral Tutor, Doctor Howard Montgomery ringing on the doorbell, ready to give us another load of pompous wisdom in return for a cordon bleu meal.

Bri-iiiiiiiiiiiiiing…. bri-iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig…

Even the way he rings a doorbell is irritating.

My mother squeals:

“… Oh… oh… the door…!… there he is…!… run, Matty… open the door… I’ll just dash and check the beef bourguignon…!”

Mom heads for the kitchen and the million pots and pans she’s got simmering. I drag myself to the front door, the welcome-to-dinner brigade.

The minute I open the door Howard’s already smirking:

“Good evening, Matty. I presume, from the delicious odors wafting to our nostrils, that your mother is home, and busy in the kitchen!”

That’s the way Doctor Montgomery always speaks, as if he’s opening a shopping mall or launching a ship.

Like I said, a total creep. Howard’s tall and lean. He’s got knobbly knees and elbows. The sleeves of his check shirt are rolled up so you can see his knobbly elbows and thin biceps. His wears his tan chinos extra tight so everyone can see how muscular his kneecaps are. Pasty, washed-out face. Thin lips. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles balanced on the bridge of his beaky nose. The love of my mother’s life! The Apollo she’s hoping to marry! The ‘noble soul’ who’s got her totally under his thumb! It doesn’t bear thinking about.

I mutter:

“… Come in…” And under my breath. ”… creep…”

Ten minutes later Howard and I are sitting opposite each other at the dinner table and Mom’s running in and out of the kitchen, hot and flustered, dishing up the hors d’oeuvres. Crab sticks and spring rolls she made with her own hands.

“… Mm-mmmmmmmmm…!”

The spring rolls are delicious, especially dipped in Mom’s chili sauce.

Howard wrinkles up his face:

“I’m not so sure about ‘… mm-mmmmmmmmm…’, Matty. These spring rolls are rather greasy, and I know your mother’s trying to lose weight.”

Mom’s hot and bothered face turns crimson. She’s instantly devastated. My mother has the perfect, voluptuous, hundred-and-eighty-pound body and Howard’s on a ‘fitness’ campaign to get her down to a hundred-and-twenty.

She gushes:

“Oh Howard! I’m trying so-ooo hard! Those pounds just won’t come off!”

She is trying hard to lose weight too. She goes on a three mile jog every day. Her bedroom’s full of fitness equipment Howard insisted she buy. A treadmill. An exercise bike. A weights bench. Mom works out every morning in a hopeless attempt to get herself down to the stick-insect figure Howard finds desirable in a woman.

The spring rolls are deliciously greasy. Howard manages to eat six, fastidiously cleaning his fingertips on his napkin after each one. He’s thin as a rake. He can eat greasy food.

Over main course—Mom’s beef bourguignon is out of this world— Howard nods superciliously at Mom’s outfit, her flouncy blouse and fully-stretched pants suit.

“I approve of white, Teresa, but… with the weight you’ve been putting on…” Mom’s aghast. “… That pants suit looks somewhat…” He searches for a word. He can’t say ‘revealing’. ‘Revealing’ is his favorite word of dismissal, but Mom’s pants suit covers her all over. ”… Suggestive.”

Mom’s face is stricken.

“… Suggestive…?”

With the extra tightness, the white cotton models my mother’s sumptuous butt to perfection. The frilly flounces draw attention sensationally to her big, beautiful breasts. I shut my eyes. I’m getting a tingle just thinking about ‘suggestive’. I’m getting more than a tingle. I feel a definite ache in my big cock, a heavy throb of helpless yearning for my mother’s bootylicious body.

Mom’s already gushing:

“… Have you made another another video for me to watch yet, Howard… another blog…”

She’s amazed that someone as pompous as Howard could be an actual blogger.

He smirks:

“My video blogs aren’t only for you, Teresa… though you’re my favorite follower…” Mom whimpers with pleasure. “… When one has serious things to tell the world, one always aims at a wider audience…”

Howard’s got ninety-three subscribers to his blog ‘The Pattern Of A Perfect Life’.

Howard’s not just Moral Tutor at my college. He makes video blogs for his students and ‘fans’, ten minute videos, on how to live a perfect life and be a perfect person with a perfect mind in a perfect body.

Mom swoons:

“I thought your last one… ‘Self Discipline’… was so-ooo inspiring…!”

Howard teaches an ‘approach to living’ that’s based on self-restraint and the avoidance of excess in all departments, from weight to food to love itself. He knows full well that Mom is head over heels in love with him, but his feelings for her are those of a ‘perfect gentleman’, a ‘mature regard’. Howard’s fifty-three. At thirty-seven, my mother’s a mere ‘untutored girl’.

She preens:

“… My friends just lo-oooved the one about the ‘Attractions Of Modesty’.”

Mom’s got nice friends, a group of mid-thirties MILFs bewildered by the change that’s come over her since she started dating Howard.

I’ve seen some of Howard’s video blogs myself. Mom watches them religiously. ‘Self Discipline’. ‘The Attractions Of Modesty’. ‘Restraint In All Things’. ‘Weight Loss’. ‘Modest Clothing’. ‘Sublimation Of The Sex Drive’… all the ingredients that make a perfect, prospective wife.

I’ve watched dozens of Howard’s videos…

… In fact…

… Unbeknownst to Mom and Howard…

… Howard’s ‘blogs’ piss me off so much I’ve doctored the latest one so I can hypnotize her…

… I’ve altered the pixels and reprogrammed the audio so that they’ll put my mother in a hypnotic trance… a deep one… I’ve read up on the techniques for subliminal hypnosis of the limbic region of the brain…

… When she watches it… tonight, when Howard’s gone… the video will put her subconscious mind in a Theta brainwave state into which I can implant suggestions that Howard’s a total dork… that she doesn’t really love him at all… the command that she should dump Howard and get back to her old self and her old way of life…

… At this very moment Howard’s last video blog, which he sent to her computer yesterday, is waiting in my computer, remastered and reprogrammed from start to finish, altered from pixel to pixel from audio wave-length to audio wave-length in such a way that, the instant she watches it, my mother’s subconscious mind will be fully under my control… ready for me to alter her mind and change her behavior and make her give her asshole of a boyfriend his marching orders…

I’m in the cinematography and audio engineering course at college. Mom wants me to be a teacher, but Doctor Howard Montgomery’s put me off the idea of teaching forever. I’ve failed all my other subjects but I’m top of my class when it comes to sound-mixing and film editing. Movie-directing and script-writing also interest me, but it’s mainly the computer-generated-graphics side of the industry that I’m fascinated in.

I’ve downloaded Doctor Montgomery’s latest video blog and spent hours, a whole sleepless night, working on it frame by frame, altering a twitch of Howard’s lips here, an angle of his head there—Howard always delivers his blogs face-on and in close-up to the camera— adjusting his voice to a higher or lower pitch as required. When Mom watches the resultant video it will implant my desired trigger words— ‘easy’ and ‘hard’— in her brain— ‘easy’, solely when spoken by me— to place her mind under my complete control— and ‘hard’, solely when I speak it and no one else— to snap her out of her trance and bring her back to her normal dopey self and, above all, get rid of freaking Howard.

Mom comes bustling out of the kitchen She preens:

“… I hope you’ve left some room for afters, Howard…” She’s breathless with love and admiration. “… I’ve knocked up some pâté…” Knocked up? She spent hours slicing and grinding and mixing. “… I hope you still like pâté, Howard, my last attempt didn’t put you off… and after pâté there’s the cheese board…”

She sets the pâté de foie gras down on the table.

With the heightened nervous state she always gets in when Howard comes to dinner, and the heat in the kitchen, perspiration’s springing from her forehead and glistening on her cheeks, prickling the nude peach blusher she’s put on to highlight her high, chiseled cheekbones.

I can feel how her voluptuous breasts are over-heated, wobbling anxiously under their cascade of flounces, one of the flounces, right where her sumptuous softness is at its fullest, heart-stoppingly damp.

Mom’s over-heated all over.

Skin-tight cotton digs fervidly into the swell of her voluptuous mound. Even with her full, rounded thighs my mother has a sensational split.

Howard disapproves of make-up. He’s made several blogs about the disgust he feels for ‘painted faces’, but Mom’s cheekbones are so gorgeous she’s risked some nude peach blusher in the hope of arousing even just a little aesthetic appreciation.

“… How’s the pâté, Howard…?”

Howard tests a soupcon of pâté on his pâté knife:

“… Mm-mmm… a little spicy, Teresa… but quite passable…”

I see red.

I shut my eyes and everything goes black.

Black and then boiling red.

Fuck him.

I’ve had enough. There’ll be no more ‘… quite passable…’ and ‘… a little too spicy…’

My mother watches one of Howard’s video blogs, every night, religiously, before she goes to bed.

Tonight!

Tonight’s the night!

The minute Howard’s out the door.

I’m going to post the remastered video to my mother’s In Box.

I’m fighting back.

I want my old, easy-going mother back. I’ll reprogram her mind, get her out from under Howard’s thumb. He can preach and bully as much as he likes. His hold over my mother is finished!

Howard dallies over the cheese board. It’s nearly eleven by the time he stands up and gets ready to go.

My mother jumps to her feet, her sweaty hands smoothing down the skin-tight cotton over her ‘overweight’ hips.

It’s obvious she wants Howard to stay. It’s clear as day that she’d do anything to have Howard take her hand and raise it to his lips like he always does then lead her into the bedroom.

I can feel her body in its too-tight pants suit yearning for some hot, male love.

But Howard just raises her hand to his lips, as he always does. He murmurs a pompous adieu and heads for the door.

The door shuts.

Mom looks crest-fallen… but not too crest-fallen… being the object of a ‘restrained passion’ is better than nothing… Mom’s prepared to wait… she’s planning on Howard kissing her hand one day then leading her down the aisle… she’s hoping for a proper, well-run wedding and a healthy-mind-in-a-healthy-body marriage afterwards…

She frowns. Something’s bugging her:

“… Oh God…!… Howard’s video…!… the one he sent me yesterday…!… I still haven’t watched it…!”

She’s aghast. It’s as if not watching one of his stupid blogs is the crime of the century!

“… He sent it yesterday…!… and I forgot to watch it…!”

It’s the video I retrieved from her In Box, the one I’ve been working on.

“… I must watch it…!… what will he ever think of me…?… I must watch it right now…!”

“Right now?”

“… Yes… the washing up can wait…!”

Usually my mother waits till she’s in her nightie and off to bed before she imbibes Howard’s video messages. Usually she likes to watch them in bed, so she can absorb their nobility and wisdom in her sleep.

“… Yes… yes… where’s my computer…”

She hurries into her bedroom.

My hair stands on end.

Am I really going to do this?

Yes. Howard Montgomery’s an ass-hole. I’m saving my mother from him. I’m going to get my mother back.

While Mom’s busy setting up her computer on the dining room table, still littered with the remains of our meal, I rush into my bedroom and send the remastered video—it’s waiting in Messenger—to my mother’s In Box. It’ll be first in the queue of messages, with yesterday’s date still on the tag.

When I get back to the living room Mom’s sitting at the table, frowning at her screen saver and pushing dirty plates and half-filled glasses of water aside—Howard abhors alcohol— making space for her old Lenovo notepad.

“… Ah! Here it is! Yes. Yes… ‘Thoughts For Today’… thank God I never accidentally deleted it…”

She clicks on the message and the video comes up She presses PLAY… I stand over her shoulder and hold my breath.

… Dreamy music, a lulling melody flowing to a gently lilting rhythm… Howard always begins his videos with twenty seconds of marching music, trumpets blaring, trombones sawing, a brass band in full swing to get his audience inspired… it was hard extending the brass band wave-lengths, turning the drums to wind-chimes, the trombones to the murmur of waves lapping…

Mom sighs:

“… That’s better… such lovely music…!”

It took me hours to add the synthesizers and wind-chimes and to quieten the big bass drumbeat to a gentle heartbeat and extend the up-beat marching rhythm to a soothing pulsation.

Howard’s face appears, center screen, in close up. Howard likes his viewers to get a good look at his pasty cheeks and thin lips and big flashy glasses while he’s delivering his words of wisdom.

‘… Today’s blog is entitled… ‘Living With Sex…’

Mom murmurs:

“… God… isn’t he brave… Howard’s not afraid to tackle the hardest subjects…”

I whisper:

“… Ss-sssssssh, Mom… concentrate…”

“… Yes… yes… I must concentrate…”

I’ve altered the frames-per-second and the pixels configuration so that the little twitches and blinks of Howard’s myopic eyes through his hypnotically strong glasses take on a revolving, spiraling motion of their own.

‘… Some people think that sex is everything…’

For a second I think he’s talking about me. His message is aimed straight at me. But no, that’s just the hypnotic power of his remastered face.

‘… That sex is the most important thing in the world…’ A dramatic pause I’ve extended to make even more commanding. ‘… Let me tell you now… it isn’t…!’

My mother lets out a long, low, protracted, dreamy sigh:

“… That’s so beautiful…”

I’ve doctored every pixel of Howard’s face. As well as being far more handsome than it really is I’ve set off gently spiraling flexes in his cheeks, his jaws, his lips, his whole face infinitely more handsome than in reality and moving in a subliminal circular motion like a smirking vortex.

‘… When it comes to the… repro-oooooductive… in-nnnnnnnstinct…”

“… Mm-mmm…” murmurs my mother.

‘… Wa-aaaaaaaiting till you’re re-eeeeeeeeeady for tr-uuuuuuue lo-ooooooooove… is far wiser than sna-aaatching at-ttttttt… me-eeere sensu-uaaaaaaaaal ple-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesure…’

My mother’s sumptuous lips stir, but no sound comes out. Her eyes are glued to the screen, to every spiraling movement of her beloved Howard’s face.

My research into the hypnotic trance state taught me that this is the moment in the video where I need to implant my trigger words in my mother’s subconscious mind, deep in the limbic regions of her brain where survival instinct and sexual drive hold sway.

My timing’s perfect:

‘… When it comes to se-eeeeeeeeeeeexual matters… it’s best to take things easy…’

My mother’s head jolts. The trigger word accessing her hypnotized state is spoken in my real voice, not Howard’s, so that it’s only usable by me, but my mother doesn’t notice as easy sinks into her deepest neural cortex and remains fixed there waiting for when I speak it out loud in real time.

‘… De-eeeeeeelaying sensu-uuuuuuuuual ple-eeeeeeeeeeeeeesure can be ha-aaaaaaaaard…”

Her lustrous pile of salon-styled blonde hair stirs as the second trigger word sinks into her subconscious mind. Her breasts lift on a long slow swell of flounce-laden breath, but her brain registers the second trigger word, hard, without alerting her to its presence.

I’ve done it. Both trigger words are now firmly implanted in my mother’s limbic cortex, waiting for me to use them.

The video lasts for another eight minutes but I can tell from the rapturous softness of my mother’s breathing, the poised stillness of her chunky shoulders in their chic white jacket, that I’ve succeeded. I’ve reprogrammed my mother’s brain, I’ve altered her neural set-up, from the dopey gullibility that’s made her love a jerk like Howard into something wiser and more relaxed and easy-going, like my real mother really is.

‘… And so… let me end this video by saying…’

Who cares about the end of his video? Who gives a shit what the bastard is saying? My mother belongs to me now, not him.

Her screen goes black.

I lean over and click OFF.

She sighs:

“… Wasn’t that beautiful… such a wise wise man, Matty…”

I mutter:

“Sure is, Mom. The guy’s a freaking know-all.”

She hardly hears. She’s not listening. She’s rising from her chair in a certain state of confusion, her eyes somewhat bewildered, smoothing white, skin-tight cotton down over her chunky hips, straightening her chic jackets as if it’s stopping her from breathing quite right.

“Oh dear! Look at this mess! I haven’t even done the washing up!”

The table certainly is a mess.

Dirty plates and sticky dessert bowls.

Pâté de foie gras smears on knives and forks.

Spoons bathed in beef bourguignon sauce.

Glasses half full of water and orange juice.

She’s piling up plates and scraping leftovers into bowls. She’s already hurrying for the kitchen with a pile of soiled crockery rattling in her hands.

I say:

“Here, Mom! Let me help you!”

She wipes a strand of blonde hair from her eyes with her elbow, she looks back at me. Her big doe eyes are startled.

“Help me? Why! Yes. Yes, that would be nice, Matty!”

I’ve never been much help when it comes to jobs around the house.

I follow her into the kitchen.

The hot tap’s already running, jetting boiling water into a mountain of washing-up foam. Plates clatter. Silver—Mom always brings out our best cutlery for Howard—slithers into the froth.

I try to get the plates scraped clean before Mom shoves them in the water but she’s moving too fast for me. She’s hellbent on getting the washing up done, the kitchen spick and span, in world record time.

It’s my chance to begin saving her from herself.

It’s the best opportunity I’ll ever get to use the first trigger word— easy— and slip my mother back into her tranced state and start working on the deeper levels of her subconscious mind, erasing her dopey love for Howard Montgomery. My mother’s a passionate woman. When she loves, she loves deeply, even an imbecile like Doctor Howard Montgomery. It’s going to be hard to expunge her feelings for the bastard from her deepest neural regions but I have to start sometime, somewhere, somehow.

I murmur:

“… Take it easy, Mom…”

I deliver ‘easy’ with the special intonation reserved for the trigger word.

Her body jolts, like a chunky freight train changing track. She catches her breath. She takes her hands in their long yellow washing up gloves out of the heap of steaming foam. She elbows a moist strand of hair out of her eyes.

“… Why… yes… yes… we’ve got all night, haven’t we…?… there’s no need to hurry…”

I grab a tea towel.

“That’s right, Mom. Here. You wash. I’ll dry.”

There’s already a pile of spotless plates and bowls steaming on the draining board.

“… What a good idea… how good of you to help me wash up, Matty…”

She sounds so grateful I experience a stab of guilt. I’ve been a bit slack when it comes to helping her around the house.

She starts producing crockery from the boiling hot water at a much more relaxed rate. I dry the plates and bowls and stow them away in the overhead cupboard.

She’s in a full hypnotic trance. It’s time to start wiping her feelings for Doctor Howard right out of her spellbound subconscious mind.

I murmur:

“… It’s nice being on our own, Mom… isn’t it…?… just the two of us alone together… doing the washing up…”

She turns on the hot tap. She tops up the water in the washing up bowl, gets it boiling hot. In their long yellow rubber gloves her manicured hands can take the heat:

“… Why yes, Matty… you’re right… !… yes… yes it is lovely just the two of us so… intimée!”

Since she’s been dating Doctor Montgomery Mom’s been using all sorts of fancy French phrases and expressions.

She hands me a large serving dish. Still hot from the water, the dish is unwieldy. The gilded rim is masked in foam. A splash of hot water in the bottom jumps out and lands on my leg. For a stinging instant my jeans are wet with boiling water halfway up my thigh.

“Ow!”

“… Oh God…!… I’m sorry…!… are you alright…?… I don’t know why I’m so jumpy tonight…!”

I groan:

“… Don’t worry, Mom… it’s nothing… I’m fine… it’s nothing… just a bit wet, that’s all…”

In fact, the stinging’s stopped already, leaving just a warm damp patch on my jeans halfway up my thigh.

She’s horrified:

“… Just a bit wet…? I could have scalded you…!”

She reaches down and touches my leg.

Her hand in its wet rubber glove, gently, tentatively, breathlessly rubs at the wet spot on my jeans.

She rubs gently. Her fingertips are warm and supple through the loose, slippery rubber of her glove.

“… No, Mom… I’m fine… leave it… it’s okay… no harm done…”

All I want to do is change her into a better person, back to the Mom I used to know.

She presses her big, warm body closer against me.

“… Perhaps if I just rub it better, Matty…”

I stop breathing.

“… Yeah… okay… rub it better…”

Her warm fingertips trace tingling pulsations up the packed, aching muscle of my thigh.

Better? Inches from where her fingertips are stroking my leg, my cock’s throbbing like a fire hose in pain.

Her pussy, in skintight, white cotton, moves in closer, grazes her rubber glove, the backs of her supple knuckles, gently presses her fingertips’ hot friction more firmly against my thigh.

I murmur:

“… Maybe it’ll feel better if you take your glove off, Mom…”

Her eyes go big and wide and doe-like. Her beautiful blue eyes brighten, inches from my face.

“… My glove… ?… why… yes… of course… take my glove off… what a good idea, Howard…”

I nearly jump out of my skin.

Howard?

My heart stops beating.

She called me ‘Howard’!

I’m gaping at her. I can’t speak.

She’s looking straight at me, her eyes gazing deep into my eyes… and she thinks she’s looking at Howard!

Her fingers are stroking my leg, her fingertips are rubbing my thigh—my leg’s strong and muscular, my thigh’s nothing like Howard’s scrawny shanks— and… she thinks it’s Howard’s thigh. Her touch is suddenly hot and urgent, it’s suddenly hot and urgent because… it’s Doctor Howard Montgomery’s leg she’s massaging.

She slips her rubber glove off. Her fingertips return to my leg… a fraction higher up… a millimeter closer to the heavy weight gathering in my big, throbbing cock.

I mumble:

“… I’m me, Mom… Matty… your son… not Howard… Howard’s not here… Howard’s gone home…”

She pouts:

“… Mm-mmm… I know, Howard… Matty’s in his bedroom… it’s just you n me, all on our own… in the kitchen… it’s nice when it’s just the two of us isn’t it, Howard…?”

Her mouth moves in close to my mouth. Her plump lips breathe pâté de foie gras and beef bourguignon on my stunned lips

I look nothing like her dopey boyfriend. I bear not the slightest resemblance to Doctor Howard Montgomery. I’m good looking. Thick, wavy black hair. Nice brown eyes. Broad sensuous lips. Everyone says how handsome I am. I’m not a pasty-faced doink like Howard. Howard wears glasses. Howard wears stupid, wire-rimmed, academic spectacles. I don’t need glasses. My eyes are fine. I can feel how strong and dark and lustrous my eyes are, the way my mother’s gazing into them.

She breathes:

“… Just you n me, Howard…”

Her lips find mine.

We’re kissing.

I’m kissing my own mother!

Not an innocent peck on the lips. Not a harmless mother/son goodnight kiss.

A hot passionate kiss, our tongues twining in the luscious heat of both our mouths, her big slippery tongue grappling with my yearning mouth-meat, her hot tongue-tip searching for my throat, her naked hand rubbing burning heat, hot and hard, into my jeans where she splashed the boiling water.

I pull my mouth away. I need to say the trigger word. The other trigger word. The one to snap her out of the trance she’s in. This isn’t right. I need to get my mother back, back to her normal state, not this helpless insatiable yearning, like she’s still Howard’s girlfriend.

I drag my mouth away. I murmur:

“… Higher… touch me higher up…”

She breathes warm, urgent love into my mouth:

“… Yes, Howard…”

Her hand slides up my thigh. Her urgent stroking doesn’t stop. It gets faster. Her fevered palm gets hotter and more frantic, plowing packed denim inches from my cock, the beautiful veins on her inside wrist grazing the throbbing bulge in my pants.

I need to stop. I’ve got to stop this right now. She’s my mother, my big, beautiful, drop-dead-gorgeous Mom. I have to call a halt.

I groan:

“… Cup my balls… feel how big and tight my balls are…”

She whispers:

“… Yes, Howard…”

A hand strays round my neck, her other hand takes full possession of my rocks, my ball sac aches through my pants in the palm of her hand like it’s ready to explode.

She squeezes.

“… Mm-mmmmmmmmm…”

Her fingers knead the aching load pounding in my swollen balls. She likes what her fingers are telling her. She can feel how badly her son needs to shoot his big, hot, throbbing load into her.

My lips find her warm ear through a hot tangle of lustrous, salon-styled blonde:

“… Unzip my jeans…”

“… Yes, Howard…”

She’s freaking me out. I’ll scream if I hear another ‘Howard’.

Her fingertips find my zip toggle. Her fingers tug. She draws my zip down over the pulsing lump packed in my skintight jeans.

“… Fish it out, Teresa…”

I stop dead, aghast.

I just called her ‘Teresa’.

I’ve only ever called her ‘Mom’, maybe ‘Mommy’ a few times when I was little! I’ve never called her Teresa in my life! It’s only Howard who calls her Teresa!

“… Fish my cock out, Teresa… feel how big and hard it is…”

She doesn’t want to feel how big and hard it is. She’s Howard’s adoring girlfriend. She worships Howard’s dinner-table sermons. She hangs on every word that falls from his lips. Self Discipline. Restraint In All Things. Weight Loss. Modest Clothing. Sublimation Of The Sexual Instinct. The ingredients that will make her a perfect, prospective wife. Howard’s cock is the last thing in the world she wants to feel.

Or my cock either. I’m sure it’s bigger and much harder than Howard’s will ever be.

“… Yes, Howard…”

Her fingertips slip inside my shorts. Her supple fingers twine round my rock-hard shaft. It’s too big. I’m way too big to get out through my zip. She frantically unbuckles my belt, one-handed. She unbuttons my jeans. She pulls them down one-handed.

My mother’s hot fist takes possession of my tall, thick, rock-hard shaft.

She pumps voluptuously, breathlessly, her other hand tightening its grip round my neck:

“… Mm-mmmmmmm… I always knew you’d have a big one, Howard…”

I groan:

“… Yeah, babe… it’s big… it’s big and hard for you, Teresa…”

It’s not how Howard talks, but she isn’t listening.

Her lips graze mine:

“… You like the pâté, big boy…?… the beef bourguignon meet your requirements…?”

The warm friction tightens round my pounding piston. My packed shaft goes hot and slippery in her fist. Her yearning grip pumps harder and harder, faster and faster, frantic for all the hot throbbing cum her son’s big cock’s got to give her.

“… The spring rolls not too greasy…?”

Her mind’s still dwelling on the meal she cooked for her boyfriend. My mother’s still obsessed with the wounding things Howard said about her cooking. She’s been yearning to fuck Howard from the minute he walked through the door. The hours of preparation slaving over a hot oven were just so she could get his throbbing cock in her juicy cunt… and all the bastard did was lecture and preach at her, her blouse too ‘revealing’, her pants too ‘suggestive’… her pants are too suggestive right now… skin-tight on my mother’s voluptuous mound jerking suggestively to her knuckles’ frantic jerking, rubbing tight cotton into the yearning fingers pumping my rock-hard cock…

I mumble:

“… No… the spring rolls were perfect, Teresa…”

I’m tall and muscular. It’s lucky Mom’s got her high heel strappy sandals on. Her pussy’s on a level with my throbbing spear-head. Her hot palm plasters pre-cum all over my drumming tip.

She murmurs:

“… You got a hot load for me, big boy…”

I groan:

“… Yeah, babe… yeah… just for you…” She’s my mother. “… For you n you only…”

I reach both hands round behind her and thrust my fingertips under the waistband of her pants. The white cotton’s skin-tight. I have to jab and gouge to get my fingers between her pants and her skin’s silky softness.

A button pops. Her zip slides down. I clasp two voluptuous handfuls of sumptuous ass-cheek.

“… You don’t think I’m too fat do you, Howard…?”

Howard mutters:

“… No babe… you’re not fat… you aint overweight at all… your ass is simply perfect…”

It is too.

Bootylicious softness quakes in my hands. I knead and massage her toned fullness. My mother’s big butt yearns enticingly in the palms of my hands.

“… Oh… oh…”

Her tail-bone kicks. Her massive ass-cheeks jelly, pushing her throbbing cunt, some wet thong, her slippery mound, harder against my aching shaft.

I sink my fingers in deep and part her sumptuous ass-cleft.

“… Oh… oh… oh fuck…”

The dreaded word. The top word on Howard’s banned vocabulary list. The word my mother would never dream of saying to Howard’s face. One breath of ‘fuck’ and Howard would be straight out the door.

We’re kissing… we’re kissing passionately… her west gash rutting through her zip on the full length of my rock-hard cock…

… My mother’s climaxing…

… My Mom’s going over the brink…!

… I haven’t even got my cock inside her… I don’t want to have my cock inside her…

… My big thing slithers up and down her silky belly, my aching shaft knocks against her shaved mound through her thong… I never even knew my mother wore a thong… I never even realized she shaved her pussy…

… My rock-hard shaft’s slipping and sliding between her legs…

… And she’s cumming…

… My mother’s climaxing already…

“… Oh… oh… oh fu-uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck…!”

Her belly’s slippery. My shirt’s gone. Her chunky body slithers on my ripped abs, her luscious tits jiggle on my pumped pecs. She isn’t wearing a bra. Her sumptuous body-weight throbs spasm after spasm of hot juice all over my rock-hard manhood. There’s a tearing sound. A cascade of flounces parts. My Mom’s full, toned tits are suckling my chest. Her tight nipples plow delicious messages into my muscular pecs.

“… Please, Howard… ple-eeease…” I’m still Howard. “… Fuck me… fuck me hard…”

I’m her son. I don’t want to fuck her. My cock’s about to explode but that doesn’t mean I want to fuck my own mother. Especially as Howard Montgomery. Even as myself.

She’s got hold of my cock. Her grasp grows tight and frantic, guiding my throbbing spear-head towards the wet place where she goes in and in. She goes up on tip-toe. She crushes her full body against me. She guides my drumming tip towards her luscious, sopping fuck-hole.

“… Yes… yes… ye-eeeeeeeees… stick your big cock in my hot, tight cunt…”

There’s a jolt.

A throb shudders my whole body.

I save myself just in time.

A wave of pleasure sweeps up my body.

I’m pumping surge after surge of hot cum up my mother’s silky belly, lassoing her massive tits in skeins of throbbing semen. I cum so bigtime a few warm drops are spattering on her chin.

She’s kissing me. Her chunky belly is spreading sticky spunk all over my stomach and we’re kissing.

“… Oh… that feels so good, Howard… you don’t know how good your hot cum feels on my fat belly…”

“… Mo-ooooooom…!”

She’s not listening.

“… It was all a bit quick wasn’t it, darling…?” Darling? “… But don’t worry… next time we’ll do it better, Howard… next time we’ll go all the way…!”

She grabs my cock.

It’s still stiff.

He sticky body feels so good rubbing against me, my cock’s still rock-hard, slippery too now, festooned in sweat and semen. Mom’s pumping me again. Warm cum squeezes between her knuckles. She’s pumping me erect again.

“… Mom… stop it…”

“… We can do it again… we can do it again as many times as we like… I love you, Howard… I love your big cock so much… I want it deep inside me… I want to go all the way this time…!”

She means now.

Right now.

I need to say the trigger word.

I have to snap her out of her trance before something dreadful happens and I end up fucking her. I’m not a total ass-hole. I need this to stop right now. I need to say ‘hard’ in my own special, trigger-word way of saying ‘hard’…

… I can’t…

… A dreadful realization hits me…

… I can’t say the trigger word…

… It’s impossible…

… There’s no way I can snap her out of her trance right now…

Her slacks around her knees. Her blouse buttons popped. Her naked breasts and belly dripping with my cum. My cock not even relaxing. My big thing still raw and throbbing in her hand, yearning to take her up on her offer and go all the way!

If I snap my mother out of her trance now she’ll realize what’s just happened!

I need to get her cleaned up and properly dressed first.

I have to get my own clothes in order.

Spray some air freshener. The tang of hot cum fills the kitchen. Pray to God that when I bring her out of the trance my mother doesn’t remember anything.

She purrs:

“… Oo… you’re nice and stiff again, Howard… why don’t we go in my bedroom…?”

Howard’s a bully. Howard’s an uptight, moralistic bully. He’s always bossing people around. He’s forever issuing orders, telling my dopey Mom what to do.

I stand up straight. I draw my shoulders back. I scowl at her in full-on moral judgment. My voice grows stern:

“That’s enough, Teresa! No more! That’s very selfish! I’m surprised you’re so self-indulgent!”

Mom’s face crumples. Her beautiful blue eyes darken. Her plump bottom lip quivers.

“… Oh… oh… oh yes… I didn’t mean it, Howard… I didn’t mean to be so self-centered…”

‘Self-centered’ is one of the words Howard uses for people who can’t control their ‘lower urges’.

I furrow my brow. I scowl even harder.

It’s quite nice being Howard, in a way.

I announce:

“… If you and I are to have a proper relationship, Teresa…” My mother’s doe eyes go all big and liquid blue. “… You’ll need to be able to distinguish between a noble love and common lust…!”

Actually, it’s a buzz talking like Doctor Montgomery.

“… Yes… yes… I’m sorry, Howard… I’m so sorry…”

I point in the direction of the bathroom.

“Go and have a shower at once!”

“… Yes… yes… a shower…”

“Clean yourself up! All over! I’ll talk to you when you’re in a fit state to be talked to!”

“… Thank you, Howard… thank you so much… yes… yes… a shower…”

My mother pulls her slacks up around her thighs. She covers her breasts with a handful of flounces. She waddles off towards the bathroom.

It feels pretty good being an uptight, bossy puritan.

Soon I hear the rush and gush of the shower. Clouds of steam billow from the bathroom door.

A wonderful sense of calm and empowerment sweeps over me.

I let myself be tempted in the kitchen, that was all. Things got a bit out of control doing the washing up, but that’s all over now.

I’m back in control.

And the first thing I need to do is get rid of my mother’s foolish infatuation with Doctor Montgomery. I need to get that dopey crush out of her head asap. I’ll expunge every last feeling of affection she’s ever had for the bastard from her mind. I need to get my life back on track after this shocking derailment.

It’s lucky my little sister’s away in Florida. I dread to think what the precocious little brat would have thought, or said, or done, if she’d been home, if my little sis had caught Mom masturbating me in the kitchen.

My mother’s voice lilts through a cloud of steam:

“… Howard… can you pass me the shampoo please…? My hair’s a complete mess!”

I growl:

“Yeah. Okay, Mom.”

I’m not having any of this ‘Howard’ business any more.

I grab the shampoo off the shelf and hand it into the open shower stall.

In the thick steam my mother’s body is a glistening undulation of slippery curves and luscious troughs. There’s a glimpse of blonde hair plastered thick and dark to her head and all down her chunky shoulders. Her shaved mound flashes a moment’s puffy smoothness through a gap in the clouds. Her broad ass lifts like two Great White Whales surfacing in a sea of hot mist.

She purrs through the drumming of the shower:

“… Shampoo, my hair for me, Howard… come and shampoo my hair…”

I’m pulling my shirt off over my head.

I’m stepping out of my jeans.

Something terrible is happening.

Something disastrous, that wasn’t meant to happen, is taking place.

I’m stepping into the shower. I’m stepping into the torrent of steaming water with my mother.

I’m hypnotized too.

Hypnotized by her toned, curvaceous ass, by her big, wobbly breasts.

I’m as hypnotized as she is.

I’m in a trance too!

There’s no way I can stop myself stepping under the jet of water with her.

She’s my sex slave… and I’m her sex slave…

… A pulsing wetness that isn’t hot water… a throbbing moisture between her legs that isn’t the silky glisten of her dripping skin… is drawing me into the jet of scalding water… is pressing my muscular body against her soft, curvaceous one… my cock’s rock-hard again… it’s grazing the chunky fullness of her winged hip… my mother’s hypnotized me… I’m as out of control as she is…

“… Shampoo my hair, Howard… I can’t do a thing with it…”

I spurt shampoo on the thick, dark hank hanging between her shoulder-blades. Her butt sways backwards and nestles, smooth and slippery, against my throbbing cock.

“… More… use more shampoo, Howard… my hair’s so thick and unruly…”

She wants me to fuck her. My mother, the woman who bore me in her body, delivered me screaming and crying into this terrible world, wants me to take her hot cunt. Her molten gash is already plastering my pounding piston with sweet delicious juice.

“… Use the whole bottle, Howard…”

I spurt lassos of sticky gel onto the back of her head, all down the heavy hank between her sumptuous shoulder-blades.

She presses herself backwards against me.

“… Rub it in for me, Howard… rub it in real good…”

I massage her scalp. My fingertips knead the messages pulsing in my mother’s shapely scalp through her thick, soapy hair. I grab handfuls of heavy, darkened mane and lather the shampoo in. Her wet hair tugs between my fingers. Silky lather escapes between my knuckles and froths on my wrists.

“… Mm-mmm… yes… that feels nice, Howard…”

I want to scream ‘I’m Matty!’ ‘I’m your son!’ ‘I’m not freaking Howard!’

Her ass settles backwards onto my stiff cock. Her ass-cheeks jelly on my throbbing prong. Her sumptuous softness opens. I rub my aching cock up and down my mother’s silky cleft.

“… Mm-mmmmmmmmm… ye-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees… that feels so good, Howard… you lather my hair so good…”

Her tail-bone kicks. Her butt jerks. I grind my stiff cock into her toned ass-crease deeper and hotter. I plow my packed shaft into the silky place where her orgasm’s kicking off.

“… Lower, Howard… lower… my hips… my belly… I need soaping up all over…”

My fingers slide down her silky flanks. My palms ride on her chunky hips, rub luscious lather into her quaking belly… her voluptuous mound…

Her body undulates against me.

“… My pussy, Howard… soap my tight little cunt… feel how wet your baby is for you…”

I never even realized he even called her his baby.

She’s in control. We’re both hypnotized. I’m in control of her. And she’s in control of me.

My fingertips slip into my mother’s wet gash. Her sopping pussy spasms instantly on my yearning knuckles.

“… Yes… yes… feel how wet my tight little cunt is for you, Howard…”

She isn’t tight and little at all. Her molten gash is wet and wide open. I’m stabbing three fingers into her sopping meltdown. Her hot cunt goes into rut. Her pulsing gash rides my fingertips over the brink again and again and again.

“… Yes… yes… ye-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees…!”

She goes up on tiptoe, her hand grabbing wildly, her luscious fuck-hole searching for my throbbing spear-head.

“… Please… ple-eeeeeeeeese…”

I’m going to fuck her. I’m about to fuck my own mother!

My swollen tip locates her melting pussy. Her cunt’s wet lips turn to slippery cling-film, clasping and unclasping on my thick tip.

“… Yes… yes… fuck me, Howard… fuck your baby hard…”

I groan.

I groan the trigger word out loud:

“… Yes… yes, baby… gonna fuck my baby… hard…”

In my special trigger word voice.

Her body stiffens in mid convulsion. My mother’s voluptuous body jumps out of its slippery skin.

My cock’s thick tip slips free of the hot swamp pulsing between her legs.

My throbbing spear-head’s pumping surge after surge of hot cum up my Mom’s sumptuous back, her plaited spine, her winged shoulder-blades, against the downward force of the jetting water.

She yelps:

“… What the…?”

I can hear the bewilderment, total confusion, in her voice.

“… Matty…?”

I jump backwards out of the shower stall through clouds of billowing steam. My feet slip on wet tiles. I nearly go over.

“… Matty… what are you doing in here…?”

She can’t see me through the steam.

I’m hurrying into my pants.

I yell:

“… Just seeing you’re okay, Mom… you’ve been in here a long time…”

She’s snapped out of her trance. Her voice is back to normal. Confused. Beseeching. Dopey.

“… Have I…?… my back feels all sticky…”

I mumble:

“… It’s probably just something from the kitchen, Mom… something you were cooking…’

A deep sigh:

“… I guess so…”

“… Make sure you wash it off…!”

A smile in her voice.

“… Okay… okay, you silly Billy… I’ll make sure I wash it off…”

The taps finally turn off. The water stops drumming. The clouds of steam subside.

“… Don’t look…”

I hand her in a towel.

She emerges wrapped in a soft towel, tucked innocently between her large breasts.

She smiles:

“My! What an evening, Matty! Howard complained about the pâté, but I think he quite liked the beef bourgignon!”

“Yes. I’m sure he did, Mom.”

“And you even helped me do the washing up!”

“I sure did.”

“And that latest video of Howard’s was so-ooo fascinating! He makes such interesting blogs.”

“He sure does, Mom.’

She’s still totally in love with the bastard.

She pouts:

“He wants me to lose weight. I think I’ll go for a good long jog tomorrow.”

“If you want.”

An extra brightness in her voice:

“Why don’t you come with me, Matty? It’s so nice doing things together, just you n me!”

A sudden dread churns my stomach. She’s never asked me to accompany her on her jogs before.

She’s forgotten everything. She’s oblivious of everything that happened, except for the feeling that something did happen.

“And Sandra’s home from Florida tomorrow!”

Fu-uuuuuuuck!

My brat of a little sister! Spiky punk hair-do! T-shirts and short shorts! Plenty of attitude, sticks her nose in everywhere. Just turned eighteen and my little sister thinks she knows everything.

With Sandra around the house I’m going to have to be doubly sure nothing like tonight ever happens again.