I Deliberately Turned My Mother Into A Sex Doll
* * *“Wow, what the hell is this?” I mutter, digging out an old, wooden lockbox from the basement.
It has my father’s name engraved on it, ‘Alex’, and the lock is rusted, nearly broken. I don’t know much about my father, truth-be-told, because my mom never speaks of him (since he died when I was very young, and every time I try to bring him up, she bursts into tears).
I bash the box lightly into the cement floor, aiming at the lock, and to my satisfaction it snaps open.
Finally, I might learn a little bit about him, I think, greedily pulling out the contents, which—to my disappointment—consists only of a folded-up piece of paper with scribbles across it.
“Aaron!” my mom shouts, her voice panicked from the top of the basement stairs, “What’re you doing down there?”
I hastily stuff the paper into my pocket, kicking the box back into the corner where it’s obscured by other piles of junk. An immediate lie comes to me about hearing squeaking vermin and being concerned, so I yell back, “Nothing mom! Thought I heard rats—”
“I told you not to go down there!”
“Sorry!” Sometimes she can work herself into a snit over the smallest of things, so I make a mad dash for the stairs. I can’t let her know what I’m doing down here . . . or what I’ve found; it would only make us fight. “Just wanted to be sure we’re safe!”
She meets me halfway, pulling me into a nearly crushing embrace, her toned arms strong and sure. The wave of her musky-sweet scent and light perfume makes me instantly warm and dizzy. “I’m the one who keeps us safe, not you.”
“Of course, mom,” I murmur, enveloping her back in a tight hug; I know that ever since my dad and grandma died in the accident that she’s insanely overprotective of my sister and I.
We linger in each other’s arms for a moment, the smell of her sweet perfume and skin making me both calm and alert all at once, and then she lets me go, motioning for me to follow her out of the basement.
“Marielle is complaining that you ate all the lunch meat,” my mom tells me, “and that you haven’t cleaned up your room….”
I roll my eyes, huffing. It’s not my fault that I’m always hungry (I’m a nineteen-year-old boy who needs calories to exist) and that I have to share a room with my bitchy sister, because my mom has had to scrimp and save to house us all without my dad’s help.
I burst into our shared room, spotting my sister lounging on the bottom bunk (her bed), with her long, golden hair fanned out and her blue eyes stuck on her cellphone. My eyes spit daggers at her. “Why are you always whining about me?”
“You eat everything,” she says, without looking up, “and you smell.”
“Do not!” I insist, picking up a dirty sock to throw at her.
She screams, acting mortally wounded, so that mom pops in to see what all the ruckus is about.
“Aaron hit me!” Marielle howls.
“With a sock!”
My mom narrows her hazel eyes, glaring at the both of us. “You two will be the death of me. Either get along, or get jobs and get out!”
I know she doesn’t mean that, because I know she’d rather die than let either of us out of her sight, so I don’t react as she spins around and stalks off, only smiling at my little sister, goading her with my gaze.
“Why’re you staring, pervert,” she mutters, not really asking a question as she rolls onto her side. “Throw a sock at me again and I’ll stuff it up your ass.”
You wish, I think, but I clamber up the stairs to the top bunk, so that I can read the note burning in my pocket in peace; I know that Marielle is too busy living it up on her phone to bother me, and I know that my mom is sick of our bickering, so I have a few minutes to myself, at least, even in our cramped space.
‘CONFESSION’ the first line of the scribbling scrawl reads, and my eyes widen as I clutch the paper in one hand.
‘I didn’t mean to do it, and I want that known,’ my father’s handwriting reads, ‘but Marielle and Aaron are both my children, born by unconventional means….’
Unconventional means? What the hell does that mean? my mind blares.
As far as I’ve always known, my mom birthed both me and Marielle and was in a loving marriage with my father. Our grandma helped raise us when we were small, but then she and my dad got into a car accident, which left my mom completely and utterly devastated.
Even though I’m not sure what I’ll read next, I can’t help but continue on: ‘It started with a website a friend of mine found, offering pills that would turn any girl into someone who mindlessly adored you.’
I blink at the paper, unbelieving. What the hell am I even reading? Was my dad a nut or something?
‘My mom took one first, by accident—and then later, I fed one to my cousin, Sarah, too.’
“Jesus,” I hiss, because Sarah is my mother’s name, and suddenly this paper is saying way, way too much.
So much that I don’t even get what it’s saying.
I nearly crumple it up and stuff it back in my pocket, especially when Marielle asks in a deadpan voice, “What?”—but I just ignore her, and she doesn’t question me again, as I keep reading in shocked anticipation.
‘Honestly it was the happiest time in my life having Sarah and my mother be my wives. The son and daughter they both bore me are my greatest accomplishments—ones I do not regret at all….’
Oh, God—Oh-fuck, my brain screams, and this time I slam the paper down on my stomach, breathing hard.
Suddenly a lot of weird things make sense. First, I’ve always had a secret attraction to both my mom and sister, although I’ve tried very, very hard to deny it and keep it down (….just like your weird dad, my mind taunts). Second, Marielle doesn’t look very much like me or my mother, with her blue eyes, blonde hair, and big tits—my mom and I are both leaner with darker hair and hazel eyes. Third, my mother has always told Marielle how much she looks like our grandmother….
MARIELLE’S mother, my mind blares. My DAD’S mother….
Even though I’m shocked and horrified, my cock sprouts up suddenly, visions of my father seducing his own mom and cousin filling my mind. It’s so filthy and wrong and immoral, but it validates all my weird dreams and fantasies, so I can’t help but peer back at the letter, taking in the final admission of where my dad found the pills and how exactly they worked.
But I can’t do that to my own mom and sister, can I? Even if I am horribly horny and isolated in this rural, bumfuck town with them, right?
Every day is agony after I learn the truth about my sister’s and I’s existence. Because my mom was so bent out of shape after the accident, she’d homeschooled Marielle and I, meaning that neither of us has been properly socialized with other people, and neither of us knows what to do now that we’re adults. We live, eat, and sleep all in this confined house together: bickering, laughing, and existing moment by moment, but not growing into anything but the stunted family unit we’ve always been.
None of us have any friends. Not real ones that we hang out with, anyway. It’s never been very apparent to me, until I read in the letter about my dad’s best friend, Billy, and how he was somewhat to blame for my dad finding the mysterious website that sold ‘brainwashing’ pills.
I’m still not entirely convinced that they exist—because it seems like something out of a bad science fiction novel—so I don’t feel too guilty when I go looking for evidence, convincing myself that I just want to find out the truth of the matter.
It doesn’t take long to find a shady website that sells pills that I think sound similar to the ones my dad bought. They are even priced cheaply, at $5 a pop—which is fortunately something I can afford (even on my mowing-the-grass-for-neighbors money) and even though I don’t quite believe that they’re real….
Flashy script claims: New and improved formula! Get the ultimate girlfriend experience. These pills make the girl (or girls!) of your dreams fall in lustful love with you! No jealousy. No reservations. Minimal mindlessness. An all-natural feel! Note: works best on family and friends.
Okay, whatever, I think, trying not to be too hopeful (or think too much about what I’m doing) as I order two of them.
It says I can send cash in the mail, which is a blessing because I don’t have any sort of card or check and I’m not brave enough to steal one of my mom’s.
For a moment, I think about what will happen if the pills work (and if I’ll even be able to manage getting my mom and sister to take them). Images of my mom’s toned body flash through my mind, her small, perky tits unblemished by age due to her healthy and active lifestyle—her sensually sweet face open and inviting to kiss. I’ve never kissed a girl before, having never been exposed to many, and the thought of pulling my mom in for a kiss thrills me . . . smelling her heady perfume, that citrusy-spice that always seems to linger on her sweat after she’s gone for a run, the gentle curves of her body fitting just right in my hands as I grope and hold her. Marielle’s bitchy face flashes before my eyes next, but instead of disgust I see heat rise in her pale cheeks, her blue irises expanding with lust, her heavy tits and curvy hips overwhelming me as she strips bare and begs me, “Please Aaron, please….”
God, you’re sick, I tell myself as Marielle huffs loudly from her bunk down below (almost as though she can hear my pervy thoughts), but it still doesn’t stop me from placing the order and scurrying out to the kitchen to find a stamp, envelope, and paper to send my payment in the post.
It’s a nightmare waiting for them to arrive. Every morning I wake up before anybody else and scurry to the front window to watch for the mailman (who comes around 6 AM) and every morning I work myself up into a nervous sweat as I know my mom goes for a run at about 6:30. She can’t see me up this early or she’d be incredibly suspicious.
She’s always suspicious, I bitch to myself internally. Doesn’t trust me as far as she can throw me….
Not that I really deserve her trust right now when I’m plotting to potentially drug her, but still. I’ve never done anything crazy before! My mind runs through all the incredibly mediocre things I’ve done for her as a son—such as carry in the groceries every time she shops to clumsily achieving my GED after she’d lovingly homeschooled me—and I think that all of that shows how diligent and good I’ve been as a son.
Everyone’s allowed to fuck up once in a while, I console myself as I dip behind the couch at the sound of my mom’s approaching footsteps.
The fucking mail man is LATE and my mom is EARLY. I hold my breath as she pauses by the door; it’s almost like she knows I’m crouching just out of sight. She mumbles something to herself, and takes a step towards where I’m hiding. Fuck, fuck, fuck, my mind whirs. But then I hear the jingle of her keys and a relieved, “Oh, okay”, before the front door opens and then she’s shut it behind her.
I cringe as I hear the wheezy-grind of the decrepit mail truck. Not the mailman now!
I pop my head up to peek out the window, watching in horror as my mom jogs towards the old, white truck and the older man inside it.
“No!” I growl, my fists tightening as Hank beckons to her.
She’s going to be handed that box—MY BOX, I think in slow-mo terror as he holds it up and smiles.
There’s a wild second where I imagine bursting through the front door and screaming my head off about something. A fire. A heart attack. Marielle’s nut allergy. But I can’t do anything but watch, my stomach rolling, and a nervous sweat breaking over my face as my mom’s hand reaches out and….
Waves.
Oh, my fucking God, she’s running away, I think dizzily, clutching the windowsill so that I don’t collapse.
Hank waves back with the box in his hand, watching her jog off, and then puts the small box inside our mailbox, along with a handful of letters.
My heart soars as he drives away, not waiting another millisecond before I dash out to the mailbox, my head whipping around for any sight of my mom. I grab just the box. I’m smart enough to at least leave the rest of the junk for my mom to find when she comes back. I’m also smart enough not to run into the room I share with Marielle, and instead grab a knife from the kitchen and then rush into the bathroom.
The box is mangled after I’ve feverishly gouged it open, but I can only stare in wide-eyed wonder at the two, plain white pills in their little blister packages. There’s a note that mentions the dosage is one pill and that it takes full effect within 48 hours. I flush that note down the toilet, and then I cut and stab the box into the tiniest pieces I can, and slowly (and anxiously) flush those down one by one, too.
A knock on the door startles me. “Are you sick or something?” Marielle whines, “cause I have to pee!”
I stuff the pill packet into my sweats’ pocket, and open the door with a scowl, “My stomach is upset so hold your breath.”
“Gross!” she wails, but we push by each other and for a second I feel the brief, warm press of her right breast against my arm.
I have to catch myself from pausing or looking at her weirdly, my cock stirring, but then she’s inside the bathroom and I’m outside of it, and she’s shutting the door behind her.
Maybe I should drug her first, I consider carefully, my fingers skimming the comforting ridges of the blister packet in my pocket.
But that doesn’t really make sense to do, does it? I war with myself as I return to bed, knowing I’m not going to be able to fall back asleep with all my guilty excitement. If I drug Marielle first, then mom might get really suspicious if we’re suddenly nice to each other. And what if it’s even more than that? What if Marielle suddenly starts hugging or kissing on me?
Those thoughts make my half-wood turn into a full-on erection, my face flushing with heat. I wonder if I have time to take care of it, but then my yawning sister comes stumbling back into the bedroom, her old nightgown suddenly sexy to me by the way I can see her nipples poking through it, and how her huge breasts look so round and free under the soft, thin silk.
“Smelled like something died in there,” she grumbles (and as always, lies!), “you really should get that checked out….”
I roll over, ignoring her, and try to pretend to fall back asleep. The slight shift of the bottom bunk under me has me imagining her body under mine, and I can suddenly smell her sweet, cotton-candy, teenaged scent….
It’d feel so good to bury my face in that long blonde mane, I think to myself feverishly as I slowly grope my cock through my sweats.
I hear her sigh softly, and know that she’s just dozing away, but the sound goes straight into my brain like a lance. Is that how she would sound if I kissed her neck and slid my hands over her sensual, curvy body? What would her huge tits feel like—soft and squishy? Or firm and round? I begin to stroke myself faster as I try to envision the shape and color of her nipples . . . and the sounds she might make if I pinched or pulled them.
I stiffen as I hear the front door slam. What’s going on? Usually, mom’s quiet when she comes home from a run, so I know something’s wrong, especially when she calls out, “Aaron! Marielle!”
Fuck, what now? I think, my erection flagging.
“Moommm,” Marielle whines, “I’m trying to sleep!”
“Well, that’s too damn bad,” my mom chides, appearing sweaty, but not out of breath, in our doorway. I blink at her in pretend grogginess, groaning before she says, “There was a box. It’s missing. Who took it?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Marielle grumbles.
I say nothing, the pills burning red-hot in my pocket.
“In the mail! There was a small box—I saw the postman with it. When I got back, there was only junk mail and the box is missing!”
“Huh?” I try dumbly.
She narrows her pretty eyes, blowing out her mouth in a huff. “I think there’s a thief in our midst.”
“Why are you bothering us about it?” Marielle huffs back. “Aaron has been shitting his brains out in the bathroom and probably needs a doctor. I had to pee while holding my—”
“What?” my mom exclaims in alarm.
“I’m fine,” I reassure her, thankful for the change of subject, but also irritated that Marielle had to choose to worry my already anxious mother about an ailment that doesn’t exist; she’s already so worried about one of us getting sick and dying, this certainly isn’t the greatest track to be on. “She’s overexaggerating as always. I just had the scoots a little and now it’s better….”
“Hmm, okay. Well . . . do you two want breakfast? Maybe we can find out who the box-bandit is together….”
Marielle curses softly, then covers it with more whiny words, “Ugh, no. I just wanna sleep, mommy—please!”
“Aaron?” my mom asks hopefully.
I can’t resist her pleading hazel eyes, or the way her face lights up when she’s asking something of me. “Okay, ma. Be out in a minute.”
“Thanks, son.”
I smirk as Marielle curses again, and can hear her judgmental thoughts even though she doesn’t voice them (“Fucking suck up….”). I don’t really care what she thinks of me—especially because soon she probably won’t be able to think anything bad of me . . . but maybe drugging my mother first would be best. Marielle probably wouldn’t get suspicious if mom was nice or loving to me—because our mom is actually a very sweet person under her anxiety, and she dotes on us whenever she can.
I linger in bed a little longer, waiting until I smell frying bacon to hop up, and try not to feel nervous about the not-plan I currently have. How the hell am I going to get my mom to ingest one of these pills? What if she accuses me of being the box thief and I stumble over my lies and then she finds out the entire truth?
I realize I’m spiraling in my own anxiety (…thanks mom for that, I think bitterly, knowing that she’s likely the reason I inherited a nervous disposition), and try just to focus on my grumbling stomach and how good the bacon smells. It’ll be better not to think up a plan, I convince myself. It’ll be better just to wing it.
I’m not very helpful as I stumble my way around the kitchen and get in the way of my poor mother, who only politely smiles and laughs at me as I repeatedly bump into her and then drop a clean plate. “Listen Aaron,” she finally says, “I can manage. Just sit down, okay?”
“Okay,” I mumble, wondering if she can tell how weird I’m acting—or if she can tell how sweaty I feel.
“Are you sure you’re feeling better?” she asks worriedly, pouring me a large glass of orange juice before she quickly plates up my eggs, bacon, and waffles. “You look flushed.”
I give her a pained smile as she lifts a hand to my feverish forehead. “Maybe a little off, still—but I swear mom,” I say hurriedly as her pretty eyes widen, “it’s just a little stomach bug, it’s really nothing, I swear….”
I can tell she wants to believe that, even though her own spiraling fears are telling her that I might be actively dying. “Okay,” she agrees, plating herself up next. “Which neighbor do you think is most likely to steal from us?”
“Uhm,” I consider carefully, then choose the cheap-bastard who lives down the street, since last time I mowed his lawn, he stiffed me. “Maybe Gerold.”
My mom’s pretty face lights up in conversational conspiracy. “Mmm, I can definitely see that.”
We chit-chat about how stingy and mean Gerold is for a while, eating our breakfast slowly and enjoying each other’s company. Mom’s really fun sometimes, I think to myself affectionately, watching her animated eyes and admiring her bright smile, and then chuckling at the way she waves her toned arms around when she gets excited about one of our made-up theories.
She looks so young and carefree when she’s laughing and passionate about something (even if that something is a made-up thief, since the real one is sitting right across from her with a dopey smile on his face). I really, really love her, and that’s exactly what I tell myself as she gets up to grab us more orange juice, and I sneakily pop open a blister pack in my pocket . . . and then, without much thought, plunk one pill straight into her half-filled cup.
That was really fucking stupid, I scream internally as I watch the pill bob up and down, floating and fizzing on the liquidy-orange top.
“Could I have more bacon?” I ask frantically.
Mom laughs as she turns around with the juice pitcher, and I hold up my hands in a silent prayer, acting like I’m begging her, when really I’m just trying to keep her eyes off the traitorous glass of O.J.
“This is why Marielle complains about your appetite,” she teases, but thank-the-fucking-stars she doesn’t seem to notice the fizzing and popping that I can hear like it’s World-War-Three in her goddamned glass; she turns to grab more bacon from the fridge, and like a madman, I take my unused butter knife and give her juice a quick, frantic stir.
Maybe I should knock it over, my mind whirs. Maybe I should abort this stupid scheme….
But I don’t. The juice stops fizzing and settles, looking blessedly just like plain O.J. and my mom seems none the wiser, cheerfully frying me up more bacon (that I don’t actually want) and humming to herself.
“Do you remember how I always used to sing this one to you when you got an owie?” she asks, her toned back to me, her rounded ass flexing as she slowly bounces from heel to heel in her tight, black running leggings.
“Yeah, sure.” I try to sound soft and calm, but my heart is hammering away in my throat, and all I can think about is what the hell is going to happen when she takes a drink of her juice.
Is the pill going to make it taste weird? Will she instantly know something’s wrong? And why does she have to ask me about childhood memories in a moment like this? It’s almost like she’s trying to make me feel guilty or something!
I don’t even hear her as she continues to babble away about some shared moments of our past, just trying not to hyperventilate as she serves me up enough bacon to make me hurl, and refills both of our juice cups….
“Aren’t you going to eat it?”
I hear that and blink at her. “Yeah, sorry—stomach is gurgling weird again. Just gonna give it a second to settle….”
Her cheerful expression turns instantly worried, and so I take a long sip of my juice and then say, “Ah, think this is helping. Thanks mom. What was the name of that tune you were humming again?”
It’s a question only meant to distract her, and it works, as she turns smiley again and explains that it doesn’t have a real name (but that she calls it ‘Aaron’s-Owie-Song’), and that she made it up one morning when I’d scraped my knee after falling off my bike. My eyes widen as she lifts her glass to her lips, pausing to laugh about how grandma and her argued over whether to bandage me up or let the wound air-dry, and then (with my heart hammering inside my skull like a pneumatic drill) she takes a quick swallow of her juice.
Her expression shifts for a brief second, and I nearly have a full-blown panic attack, until she says, “Mmm, sweet!” and takes a longer drink.
Did the pill make her say that? I wonder blindly, my tunnel-vision pulsing white.
Normally she doesn’t like overly sugary things, as she’s always worried about her health and figure. I watch in fascinated awe as she starts to chug the juice, almost like whatever’s in it is addictive….
“You’re a good son,” she says sweetly, wiping her glistening lips with the back of her hand. “I know I don’t tell you that enough.”
I swallow hard. “Thanks, mom.”
“I really love you, Aaron,” she continues, her eyes glazing over (or is that only my imagination!?, I wonder). “I’m so thankful to have a son like you.”
“T-thanks,” I stammer, my stomach clenching nauseously; this all must be the start of the pill taking effect, and I wonder exactly what’s going to happen to her over the next hour . . . over the next day!
She’s definitely acting weird enough that Marielle might question her about what the hell she’s on….
“I’m thankful to have a mom like you, too,” I whisper.
“Are you really not feeling well enough to eat that?” she asks, her gaze dropping to my plate. When she looks up at me again, I swallow hard, noticing heat flushing her cheeks, heat lighting up her eyes, heat lacing her next words, “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”
“I’ll just save it for later, thanks. Did you want to take a shower? I can clean up.”
She beams at me, her pretty, white teeth giving her a megawatt smile. “You’re so thoughtful!”
If you only knew, I think guiltily, blushing as she stands to pull me into a tight hug. “Love you, mom.”
I can practically feel every muscle and slight curve of her body with how tightly she’s pressing against me, and the smell of her sweet-citrus-spice makes me feel all cozy and horny at once. She doesn’t even flinch when I stiffen and feel my erection pop up and dig into her flat, washboard stomach.
“Love you more, son,” she purrs, squeezing me even tighter.
I nearly whimper as the press of her body and the heat of her embrace seems to caress me all over. My cock aches, throbbing pitifully between us, and I wonder over and over: should I push her away? should I get us out of this before it’s weird and too late?
But I don’t do jackshit as she squeezes me tighter and tighter, letting her rub up against me, almost like it’s purposeful, almost like she wants to feel me just as badly as I want to feel her. Slowly I push back into her, first with my entire body, and then just with gentle movements of my hips, shocked and scared and out of my mind aroused as she doesn’t pull away from me or say a damned thing.
It feels so fucking good to hold her in my arms like this, her face pressed against my shoulder, her warm, perky tits crushed between us, her ass suddenly in my hands as they drop from her lower back shakily.
Oh fuck, I think as I grip her thinly clad buttcheeks and pull her even tighter against me. Gonna cum….
It’s sweet ecstasy as I topple over the edge, grinding into her as we squeeze each other desperately. I coat my boxers with sticky ropes of sperm, choking on a moan as my mom sighs sweetly in my crushing embrace.
“Love you so much,” she moan-purrs, shivering against me.
And then it’s over and she’s pulling away from me like nothing happened, as the golden aftershocks of orgasm flood through me, and I’m left shaking and sweaty and glistening wet.
Now I need a shower, I think dumbly as I watch her walk away.
I almost wonder if she’d let me join her, but then my brain unclouds and I realize what a fucking ridiculous thought that is.
What the fuck did I just do? I wonder in stunned shock, mutely throwing the dirty dishes into the sink, and packaging up the leftover bacon in plastic-wrap for later. Did I really just get off from my own mother hugging me?
But it was much more than a hug, wasn’t it? It was something sensual and erotic . . . it was heaven . . . and I definitely want it to happen again (maybe next time without any clothes on).
Don’t get ahead of yourself, my anxious thoughts chide. You have no idea how this is all going to play out….
But the pill’s promises were fulfilled already, right? My mom seemed to really, really love me—and in a natural, carefree way, like a girlfriend would. But would we be able to keep this all a secret from Marielle? Or would mom say or do something stupid to give the game away?
The second pill in my pocket curbs my worries, giving me a sense of power—a safety net slash spider’s web. Everything will be okay, I tell myself, because if Marielle freaks out, I can always hold her down and then shove it down her throat. Hopefully it won’t come to that . . . but if it does, I’ll do what I must….