The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

A loud sound echoes in my dreams, roaring like a jet-engine, until my eyes fly open and I realize three things all at once: It’s the vacuum. It’s right next to my fucking head. And my mom is in my room with it, moving it back and forth across the carpet by my bed.

“What the hell?” I scrub at my blurry eyes, groaning, but then my breath freezes in my lungs as I glance at her.

Her eyes are wide and blank, the white part bloodshot, and the skin underneath sunken and purplish (like she hasn’t slept at all). Her hair is a wild, blonde nest. She looks absolutely terrible. Even with both her huge tits popped out the front of her white, sport’s shirt.

“Mom?” I croak.

“Morning, son,” she says tonelessly, her lips twisting into what might be a smile, but looks more like a grimace.

Oh no, I think wildly, barely able to have clear thoughts due to the persistent howl of the vacuum and because I just woke up. But one thought becomes solid, screaming inside me: What’s wrong with her?

“Can you shut that off—” I yell, throwing my legs over the edge of the bed and then standing to confront her. “Fuck!”

She does, looking up at me with her red eyes and a creepily dull expression. “Yes, son?”

“Why are you—” I gesture all around me, and then settle on, “—aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for work?”

She just stares at me, or rather through me, and my heart doubles in speed. Did I break her somehow? Is this how she’s going to be from now on, since I kept making her show me her breasts? Or is she having a mental breakdown because of what I did to her last night? Her face still has little smears of flaky cum on it….

Or maybe she took a bunch of those damn pills Mike brought over.

“Shit,” I whisper, running out to the living room to check the place I’d left the bottle of pain relievers.

It’s still nestled into the seam of one couch cushion and backrest, along with the note, and I snatch it up, immediately relieved to feel the slight weight of pills rattling around inside. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t take any of them. I open it up, counting the pills quickly (there are only six) and then I read the label: Michael Russo, oxycodone, QTY: 24.

Well, that’s unhelpful. There’s no way she took eighteen of them or she wouldn’t be conscious. Obviously her personal trainer gave her his leftovers—but what else was he supposed to do?—since it’s not like he’s a doctor. I’ve decided I like Muscle-Mike, and so I don’t curse him as I shove the bottle into my pajama bottom’s pocket before calling out, “Mom, did you take any pills?”

She totters out to me on unsteady legs, limping a little, her tits swaying and knocking heavily into one another. “No….”

“Pull up your shirt, mom, please.” This isn’t the time to be distracted, and I’m completely freaked out by the way she’s acting so weird—even if my cock twitches a little, clearly interested in the rounded flesh and pink nipples that are hardened in the cool, living room, air.

But what if I can’t get my real mom back? What if I have to keep her at home, like a demented pet, and she can’t work anymore or pay the bills? My breath quickens, my head spinning in panic, and then I snap my fingers at her three times and shout, “Go back to normal, mom! It’ll help me if you’re normal again!”

She’s still stuffing her tits back into her shirt, but she raises her eyes to mine and her eyebrows furrow into a confused crease. “Normal?” She pauses, then brings her shirt back down and lifts up both her breasts at me, jiggling them a little.

Offering them to me….

“No!” I bark, turning away in shame.

Oh God, I did break her! Just like Mr. Brenner did by making his daughter over scrub their toilet….

But how? I didn’t really ask her to show me her tits that much, did I?

“Mom, put your—cover yourself up for Chrissake!” I need to get to school, I realize; I need to ask Mr. Brenner how to fix this. “Just . . . just stay there!”

I brush past my zombie-faced mother and start to dress in a mad rush. The clock by my bedside table reads 6:54 AM and my heart sinks. It’s too early to go to school quite yet.

Maybe that means I should help my mom get cleaned up in case anyone comes by to check on her. I should also figure out how to contact her boss, so that she doesn’t get in trouble for not showing up to work.

She’s still standing exactly where I left her when I come back, and I sweep my eyes over her, taking in her tight yoga pants, messy hair, and crinkled sport’s shirt that’s just barely containing her massive fun-bags. It’s time for her to shower and dress a little more appropriately, I decide, and then do up her hair and make-up like she usually does.

“Mom, listen to me,” I say sternly, snapping my fingers a few more times for emphasis. “I need you to help me out here and at least look normal again. First, let’s get you in the shower.”

Relief floods me as she begins walking towards her room, and I follow her like an obedient puppy, hoping that I won’t need to hold her hand all through this process. Even if her brain is scrambled, I don’t want to be taking care of her like she’s senile.

Because gross.

I shove that thought deep down, and when we get to her room I’m relieved that she keeps going, straight into her master bathroom. From the corner of my eye, I watch her strip down, but I try not to notice much as I dig through her walk-in closet for something that she might wear to work on a typical day. She usually dresses up pretty nicely—and although I’ve never paid enough attention to know exactly what she does, I’m sure it’s expected that she be presentable and feminine, or whatever, for her job. I pick out a red dress and lay it out on her bed, and then for good measure I find some lacy white underthings for her and some white high heels. Is that what they call matching?

Good enough, I tell myself, as I hear the shower going in the master bathroom.

I peek inside, wanting to make sure she’s actually washing herself and not just standing in the shower like she’s braindead, and am relieved to see movement behind the frosted glass. Thank God I don’t have to scrub her, my mind whirs, but the thought sends heat down to my groin as I watch her silhouette rub soapy lather all over her juicy tits and down her flat stomach. It would have been kind of nice, my mind insists, before I hiss at myself, “Stop it.”

“What, dearest?” My mom cracks open the glass door, gazing at me with soap trails glistening all down her perfect body.

I swallow hard, momentarily caught up in the sight of her sexy body, all shiny and wet, with the strong scent of her coconut shampoo filling my nostrils. One of my deepest fantasies is sliding my naked body, slick with soap, all over a beautiful girl in the shower. My erection pops up, tenting my jeans noticeably, but my mom just keeps gazing at my face, her blue eyes still bloodshot and tired, but mesmerizing anyway.

She wouldn’t even care if you joined her, my mind whispers. She wouldn’t know any better….

(But I would, I snip back silently).

It’s then, watching her stare at me with her glassy eyes, that I suddenly remember my teacher saying: ‘I chose ‘kumquat’ because it’s a funny word….’

“Kumquat!” I yelp, before I can think it through, as a rush of ‘oh-my-God-I’m-such-an-idiot’ takes hold of me.

Instantly my mom’s eyes focus on me. She begins to scream, slamming the shower door shut.

“Chris, what the fuck are you doing in here?”

“I—I uh,” I stammer.

“Did you drug me?”

“No!”

“Get out! Get out you filthy pervert!” she yells, banging on the glass with both her fists until the door pops open again.

We stare at one another, my heart thundering so loud in my chest that it hurts, and a wave of anger hits me like a tsunami, making me see red. How dare she say such shit to me? She’s called me a worthless leech, a liar, and all sorts of horrible things before, but she’s never called me a pervert.

The fact that it’s somewhat true makes my anger boil hotter.

“I found you drunk and passed out!” I yell, spittle flying from my lips. “This isn’t my fault!”

“Get out!” she screams, yanking the door shut again. It rattles so hard it sounds like it might break. Just like my sanity. “I should call the police!”

That does it. Something in me cracks open, hot and bitter like acid, and I snap my fingers three times, barely controlling my urge to burst through the door and throttle her (because now she’s howling obscenities at me—and still threatening to have me locked up); I just want her screaming to stop. The neighbors might hear—for fuck’s sake! I just want to take control of the situation again.

“Mom, stop it!” I order. “Stop being a fucking bitch!”

She falls blissfully silent, and I have to lean against the closed shower to catch my ragged breath. How dare she accuse me of drugging her? I didn’t do jack shit. She’s the one who’s been drinking and being stupid, before a work day of all times. Sure, I might have mind-addled her a little, but she’d still be a hungover piece of shit, even if I hadn’t done anything.

“Open the door,” I demand, stepping away.

The door cracks open, my mom’s face peering out, once again blank and calm, like she doesn’t remember any of the harsh words we just hollered at one another. The anger pulses through me like a war drum, beating red behind my eyes.

“Get on your knees,” I tell her.

I’m so stressed out and angry that I don’t even think about how wrong this is, because my erection is still throbbing like a bad tooth, aching to be pleasured so that I feel some sort of relief. My mom just accused me of being a pervert, after all. Even if it might be kind of true, I don’t really deserve it.

Do I?

I won’t do anything insane, I decide, as I release my boner and eye her soapy tits. They look so inviting, all glistening and pale, with her pink nipples pointed up at me. And she looks so calm and submissive now, almost like she’s not my mother at all, but some hot, blonde MILF kneeling before me . . . just waiting for my load.

Don’t do this, a little voice in the back of my mind tries to tell me, but I’m already stepping forward so that I can squeeze her wet, shower-soaked tits in both my hands. They burn against my palms. So hot and soft that I can’t think of anything else but sliding my cock through them.

My cockhead is dribbling precum all over the floor already, and I know it’s not going to take long as I shove the shower head stream away and step in far enough to get close to her.

“Tilt back . . . grab your ankles,” I instruct, “to help me….”

I feel possessed by a force that’s not quite myself as I watch her obey me. She deserves this treatment, every sizzling fiber of my being tells me. She deserves to be used and demeaned for accusing me of such awful things. Plus, she looks incredibly sexy all arched back with her huge tits heaved forward, her long neck exposed and her blonde hair a waterfall behind her.

At this angle, with her head tilted so far back, it could be anyone. A pornstar. A random acquaintances’ aunt. A lonely housewife next door.

(Or your mom, the little voice inside me chirps, but then wheezes out as I crush it down.)

I grab my cock and brush it against one of her nipples, shuddering as the sensation of warm flesh teases my cockhead. All thought drifts away as I gather up her tits and push into the furrow between them. A jolt of ecstasy replaces my hesitance, and then I’m fucking her soft, wet fun-bags, my knees buckling with each blissful thrust. It feels amazing.

The sloppy sounds of her water drenched tits and my pre-cum oozing dick fill the air, and I’m transported far away, onto some muggy beach with the tropical scent of coconuts lancing through me as I fuck some bimbo in the sand.

“Christ,” I growl, squeezing the round globes of her tits tighter around me.

My world narrows to a sharp point, the white tile of the bathroom expanding into one, long blur, and then orgasm hammers through me. I spray her pretty throat with ropes of thick cum, then pull back to finish on the rest of her. White ribbons fall over her bouncing breasts, no longer supported by my hands, and drip down on her closed thighs and knees.

Relief and panic hits me all at once. I need to get out of here. I shouldn’t have just done this. What if she remembers it when she wakes up—because we’d gotten into a fight when I awoke her only minutes ago?

“Wash off,” I snap at her, stepping back and closing the shower door.

I right myself, stuffing my cock back into my boxers and doing up the fly of my jeans, and then I tell her, “You laid clothes out for yourself on the bed. Get dressed after you shower. Go to work.” I pause, stepping to the bathroom door before I call out “Kumquat!” and then I make a mad dash out of the house and to my car.

I have no idea if any of that will work, but I hope to whatever higher power that it does. And I need to get to school; I need to talk to Mr. Brenner. Pronto.

“She doesn’t seem to be changing very much,” I confide in Mr. Brenner, after a long day of anxiously awaiting last period (and then fumbling through his class in a sort of agitated frenzy). “She’s still mean and bitchy and thinks the worst of me.”

He laughs, jovially and lighthearted, because he has no freaking clue what I’ve been up to. “It takes time, son. Weeks at least. Months maybe. It’s not even been a full week yet! Don’t expect miracles—since you obviously don’t count my brilliant script as one….”

He sniffs a little bit at that, tilting his chin up in a show of comedic offense.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I really do appreciate everything you’ve done for me . . . and it’s all very brilliant.”

“I mean, she’s not taking your car anymore, is she?”

“No.”

“And she’s not making you do all the cleaning, or cooking for yourself, yeah?”

“Right….”

“Isn’t that what you needed?” He quirks an eyebrow at me, and I hate that heat rushes to my face.

Suddenly I’m unable to look at him. A little sigh escapes me. “Yeah.”

For a moment I think I’ve given the game away and that he’ll grow concerned, but he just reaches out and pats my arm.

“I know you want her to be nice and loving, too—as any son should expect his mother to be—but that’s going to take some time. Rewiring is a slow process. She’s not going to be greeting you with a smile every time you come home any time soon.” He grins at me, his eyes twinkling in a way that lets me know he thinks he’s very funny as he says, “Patience youngling.”

“Uh huh,” I agree, a smile breaking across my face.

I’m relieved that he doesn’t suspect anything, and I’m feeling a little better that he’s reassured me—even if I didn’t actually tell him my real concerns, about how I think I might be making her worse somehow. Unpredictable even.

What if when I get home the cops are there? What if we get into another screaming match, where she calls me all sorts of horrible names and then tells me to hit the streets? What if I’ve fucked everything up beyond all measure—and a few snaps of my fingers won’t fix it?

I keep my smile plastered on my face as our conversation drifts to schoolwork and what I plan to do after graduating. It’s still early April, so I haven’t really given it a whole lot of thought. I don’t really feel ready for college, but I don’t admit that to Mr. Brenner, and I feel shitty as I pretend that I’ve already been scoping out places I might attend. Really, I kind of just want to stay home for another year or so and relax. Maybe do some programming of my own, on my own time, at home.

It’s not long before I find myself back in my car, my knuckles bone white as I death-grip the steering wheel. I don’t really want to go home right now, I realize, but there’s nowhere else to go….

The spicy scent of pepperoni and cheese assaults me as I walk through the door. For a moment I think I must be smelling the neighbor’s dinner, but then I walk down the short hall and see my mom in the kitchen, leaning over a pizza box and wearing the red dress that I picked out for her.

“Hungry?” she asks, not looking at me.

“Uh, sure….”

My breath catches as she turns around, smiling. It’s not exactly at me, I realize at once, noticing that her eyes don’t really acknowledge me but rather at the plates she’s set out on the dining room table. She hums to herself as she gestures for me to grab the plates, and then she busies herself with pulling out cups from the cabinets, so that she can pour a couple of glasses from the two-liter of Coke she apparently bought.

I’m so surprised that I can barely speak, but then a question bubbles out of me, “Since when do you drink soda?”

She still doesn’t look at me, but her tone remains cheerful. “Why’s that matter?”

“I dunno,” I murmur, bringing the plates to her.

I wonder why she didn’t just keep them by the pizza box, but this whole situation is so weird on its own that I realize it’s a dumb concern. She never orders in dinner. And if she ever did, it’d probably be healthy crap like tofu or salad. She definitely has to be up to something….

“Look, I’m sorry for fighting with you this morning,” I start in hushed tones.

I really don’t want to be kicked out, and it would be really shitty if she did it over an impromptu pizza party. She knows I love pizza.

“What’re you talking about, Chris?” Her eyes finally meet mine, clear and bright and cognizant, with no anger or resentment that I can see boiling within them.

“Uh. I thought we might be late to school and work,” I stammer.

“I wasn’t late. Were you?”

“No.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter, grabbing a slice of pizza and taking the cup of soda she offers me. “Guess I overreacted.”

“You usually do,” she practically sings.

I roll my eyes, but am a little relieved to hear the narcissistic lilt back in her voice. That’s the mom I know, my mind whirs, always eager to point out my faults….

(But she did buy you dinner, without you asking, another internal voice lectures me.)

Could this be part of the rewiring process? Mr. Brenner had made it clear that the changes would be small and slow, and this does seem to be a step in the right direction.

I smile at her, although it’s an uneasy one. “Thanks, mom.”

She doesn’t seem to hear me, her humming growing louder as she serves herself and then sits down at the table beside me. She’s still limping a little. “I got promoted today. Finally!”

“Oh?”

“For some reason they think I’m being overworked.” She cackles, and I can see the sly gleam in her eye—but also still some of that bloodshot tiredness she had all morning—like she thinks she got away with something. “I told them that I pulled my hamstring running around all day yesterday—”

Her voice becomes a bitchy drone, complaining about how her boss makes her run his personal errands, but all I can think about is how she actually got injured at home (with Mike), and then she’s complaining about him, too.

“Think he gave me a bunch of fake pills,” she mutters, pulling the little bottle out of the purse slung around her shoulder and slapping it down on the table. “Been taking these all day and they don’t seem to do a damn thing!”

I bite my tongue, because clearly they’re affecting her by the way she’s grinning and chattering on like a manic drug-addict. I guess I should’ve figured that she would take them—since I’d left the bottle (and the note) on the couch before I’d left this morning.

“I should fire him, the useless sack of shit….”

“Hey now,” I bite out, instantly annoyed at her. “He’s really gone out of his way for you.”

“What, does Chrissy-poo have a little crush?”

I glare at her, shoving my plate of uneaten pizza away, my appetite vanishing.

“I’ll let him know,” she says coyly.

“I’m not gay.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me!” She laughs, a hateful little sound that sets my teeth on edge.

Why is it always like this with us? I want to throw my glass of soda straight into her smug, giggling face. I want to tell her to fuck off. I want to grab my plate and throw it to the floor, hard, to scare her as it shatters on the ground.

She must see the dark cloud of anger in my eyes, because her own take on a defiant, eager gleam.

“It’s not like you ever bring any girls around,” she says softly.

I don’t know how or why she always gets so far under my skin, but I lurch up from the table, yelling, “Why are you always such a fucking bitch to me?”

“Language!” she cries, slapping her hands down on the table. “How dare you speak to me like that?”

“How dare you?” I yell back.

“Because I don’t want you living with me until the day I die! Alone and still a virgin at sixty—”

“Shut up!” I snap my fingers at her, before I even realize I’m doing it. Three times. “Stop it!”

Her eyes glaze over, the goading smile on her face softening. My breath leaves me in shaky rasps. Neither of us have eaten anything. Nothing can ever go smoothly with this woman! I’m still one second away from sweeping the entirety of our dinner onto the floor when I hiss at her, “Get down on your knees, slut! I’ll show you how gay I am!”

Part of me knows I shouldn’t do this, but I’m so enraged that I don’t care. She’s tricked me into thinking she could be a good and nice mom—but she’s still a narcissistic cunt who baits me every chance she gets. Kneeling before me, with her glazed eyes and submissive face, she looks much less threatening. She also looks sexy as hell. And I want to demean her again, just like she’s done to me by calling me a gay virgin.

“Sluts pull out their tits,” I hiss.

She yanks down the front of her dress, ripping it a bit to expose the lacy white bra I picked out for her. A mean thrill goes through me as I think of how expensive it probably was, but then I’m annoyed that she just stops, only pushing up her chest at me.

“All the way,” I snap.

She undoes her bra and pulls it away, dropping it to the floor obediently.

I eye both of her large breasts, imagining them dragging across the smooth tile of the dining slash kitchen floor. “Crawl toward me.”

It’s such a beautiful sight that my breath stops. Her tits flop as she gets on her hands and knees, weighing her down, and her pink nipples brush the cold floor as she slinks forward. She looks like such a filthy slut—all dressed in red with her ass in the air and her hips sashaying back and forth with her movements.

“Good girl. Now kiss my feet.”

An intoxicating burst of power flows through me, making my head feel dizzy and light as her pretty mouth brushes against each of my shoes. I think about making her into my footstool again. Just having her positioned by the table and serving as my furniture while I eat my pizza like a king.

But I’m not really hungry right now. Maybe I will be after my quickly forming erection is dealt with.

“I want you to stop calling me gay,” I tell her. “Sit up and look at me.” When she does, I slap her tits hard enough that they bounce together and a pink mark remains. She flinches, but her face remains calm and blank. “If I was, I wouldn’t be so interested in these….”

“I don’t think you’re gay,” she murmurs.

I spit on her left tit, watching the clear fluid lazily drip down to her nipple. “So stop insinuating that I am.”

She nods like she understands—although I’m really not sure she does, with as mindless as she seems to be—and then I tell her, “Lick my spit off your tit.”

A little groan escapes me as she lifts her large breast up, the nipple just reaching her mouth, and I watch as her pink tongue dips out to drag across the slimy trail of my saliva.

“Lick them until they both shine.”

She does, like a sexy cat, bathing both her breasts until they are shiny and slick with her own saliva. My cock throbs against my thigh. I can’t help but imagine how that tongue would feel all up and down my shaft. Pre-cum wets my jeans as I watch her, and I can’t help but reach down and jiggle her saliva soaked tits together, watching them slide erotically against each other and her licking mouth.

“Good girl….”

My anger has dulled enough with my lust that I’m still hesitant to take this too far. Just using her tits isn’t really a crime if I’ve already done it before. It doesn’t hurt her any.

I pull out my erection and then place it on top of her tits, halfway forgetting to tell her to stop licking as I rub myself against her hot, smooth flesh.

“Fuck,” I rasp as her warm tongue dances across my cock, like she doesn’t quite realize it’s there.

This is so wrong, but it feels so right—intense pleasure coursing through me as we both cup her tits (my hands now over her smaller ones), and as I grind against her, feeling the smooth slide of her breasts against my undershaft and the teasing caress of her tongue on top.

“Such a good slut,” I say with a moan.

The world grows brighter and brighter around me, all tits and tongue and soft, wet heat, and then I’m spurting all over her—covering her already soaked tits with ropes of my hot, sticky cum. Some of it gets into her mouth as she keeps licking, and I moan again, the pleasure growing more intense as my orgasm peaks.

When it’s over I look down at her: her huge tits dripping with my seed, her plump, red mouth all shiny and wet, and her dress ripped and soiled—both with saliva and cum. She looks like my mother but also like a filthy, degenerate whore. It’s horrific and beautiful all at once.

She deserves this, an internal voice inside my mind insists as I fight a fresh wave of guilt down.

My stomach grumbles. The pizza suddenly smells good again. All the anger I felt has lapsed, and now all I want to do is relax and eat—without a bitchy woman nagging at me.

“On your hands and knees again,” I say softly. “Crawl under the table.”

I’ll use her as a footstool and eat my dinner in peace. Then I’ll make her go clean up before I release her again. I’m not sure what I’ll do with her destroyed dress (maybe burn it in the backyard, or chuck it in some far away dumpster), but I know I can’t leave her to discover it. That’s for a later me to worry about, I decide as I happily munch on the pizza, with my feet propped on her back. For right now I’m sated sexually and enjoying a delicious meal—and for all the demented world around me, with my cum-drenched mother as my footrest, I do feel like a king.