The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Title: Continuous/Updatable Neuropositive Therapy

Storycodes: mc ff in

Teaser: A mother and daughter work on their relationship

So go running for the shelter of a mother’s little helper…

(Jagger/Richards)
* * *

Does my mother have therapy because of her issues? Or does she have issues because of her therapy? I wasn’t surprised when Mom told me that she was seeing another therapist—again.

“Mom, it’s stupid. It’s the zillionth guru or therapist. Try to listen to me, once!” I yelled.

“This is different. This is working.” Mom yelled back. Yelling had been our primary form of communication for years. I had run from home immediately when I turned 18, just to escape the endless fights.

“You always say that. Why don’t you ever learn, fucking old tart!”

“You are always so negative, young bimbo!”

“As if you’ve ever been positive about me! Why would this silly treatment be any different from all the others?”

Mom stroked the back of her neck.

“Because I’ve got a mother’s little helper,“ she said calmly. “Now I have this implant which gives positive messages to me. It was implanted a week ago and I already feel the difference.”

“You did what? You are so damn gullible. Within a week or two, you’ll phone me crying that you’ve been swindled. How much was it!?”

“Why can’t you ever trust me? Get lost!”

I did.

* * *

I went to see my therapist. My life was fucked-up too, but at least I had been seeing the same therapist weekly for two years in a row. Mom had changed gurus and therapies at least fifteen times during that period.

I started complaining: “Mom started a new therapy, the dumb tart.”

“I see you are angry about that. Why?”

I started ranting: “Mom never learns. Everything she does is just plain stupid. All her decisions are just plain fuckups. Wrong husbands, wrong husbands-to-be, wrong boyfriends, wrong girlfriends, wrong employers, wrong business partners, wrong life!”

“We’ve been talking about this previously. Your mother is a bit dysfunctional.”

“Mom’s not a bit dysfunctional, she’s a walking fubar.”

“And why does that affect you so much?”

“She’s my fucking Mom, for fucks sake!”

“So she is still important to you?”

“She’s not just fubarring her own life; she made a mess of my life too!”

“Your mother is affecting you because you let her. And I think you let her, because deep down, you still care about her.”

“Why should I? I mean, why should I fucking care?”

“You just do,” my therapist said. “It is not a question of having to care. You believe your mother is the cause of your problems; likewise your mother believes that you are the cause of hers. But at the end of the day, if you like it or not, you have inherited many traits from her, you share many similarities with your mother.”

“You mean I care about Mom because I’m just as fucking dysfunctional as she is.”

My therapist didn’t answer but let the silence do its job.

* * *

Every change of therapist by Mom had resulted in emotional drama, where Mom would first call me to say that this time it would really be different, and two weeks later call me to complain that the new therapist did not understand her, or had ripped her off—sometimes for hundreds of dollars. I was therefore surprised when the call did not come. After a month, I called Mom, just to check if she was all right. She picked up the phone and sounded abnormally cheerful. I invited myself for a cup of coffee.

The real surprise was when I came to Mom’s home. Mom always looked worn-out, with hollow eyes and gray lifeless skin. Now she looked relaxed, glowing, and her eyes were radiant—a radiance I had never seen before.

“Mom, what fucking happened?” I asked.

“I improved myself,” she said confidently.

“How?”

“Remember the implant?” She stroked her neck again, inviting me to feel her neck too. It was the first time in ages that I touched her not out of anger or self defense. I felt a tiny lump.

“It’s all about positive reinforcement. This implant gives positive messages to me. I dunno how, and I don’t care—it works. Finally something is positive about me.”

“For much did this motherfucker rip you off?”

“You really should trust people more. It’s a new therapy from the University. No endless sessions, just one to get the implant. I can do the rest myself.”

Mom fetched her tablet. It displayed an on-screen message: ENTER NEW POSITIVE MESSAGE FOR TODAY. A prompt was blinking.

“Well, what about ‘I should not fall for fucking crap therapies’?”

“That doesn’t work. It will only accept positive messages. Yesterday’s message was ‘I act healthy’, and this morning I walked to the market to buy fresh fruit.”

I pondered, then said: “Why not try ‘I love my daughter’. You’ve never loved me, or if you did, I never noticed.”

Mom looked hurt, but she typed in the message. When she pushed enter, she looked me in the eye and said: “I love you.” I was astounded by the honesty in the voice.

* * *

I was at my therapist again, ranting about Mom’s latest fad.

“It doesn’t matter if you believe it or not,” my therapist said. “It’s working for your mother. That’s sufficient reason to go along with it.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said. “But I don’t buy it. It’s just a fucking complicated way to fool herself.”

“If it’s delusional, then for the time being the delusion that she loves you is preferable to the delusion that you are the cause of all her trouble. Right?”

“This ain’t fucking going nowhere.”

After the session, I wondered whether the two years with this fucking therapist were actually a waste. I was just fucking deluding myself too; this therapy was dragging on and on and the fucking therapist wasn’t free of charge either. I’d better try this fucking implant.

* * *

I browsed through the paperwork. Mom hadn’t read it either, she had said.

“To summarize what’s in there,” the white-coated woman said, “the Continuous Neuropositive Therapy implant or CNT is a sophisticated piece of nanotechnology. It will make contact with your spinal cord and provide it with a continuous flow of positive messages in the form of positive neural impulses and neurotransmitters. We’ve been using the CNT with depressed people, and the results are pretty amazing.

The first version just told people that they are good the way they are; this is a new version. It’s programmable so that the content of the messages can be updated. It will request that you provide an updated message daily, using a secure wifi link to your laptop or tablet, but if you don’t change it, it will randomly select one of the previous messages.”

“And it’s really this cheap?” I said.

The white-coated woman smiled. “Other therapists don’t like us. The CNT is proven safe and effective; in fact it’s much more effective than the current standard of care. Once people start to realize that the CNT is much better than endless sessions on the couch, it will force every other therapist out of business. But currently we are fighting an uphill battle against the establishment, and we need to get a share. So you are lucky; we are currently talking about quadrupling the price.”

“I’ll take it.”

* * *

My neck still hurt a bit; I had not been warned against that. After the injection of the CNT the woman had installed an app on my tablet and shown me how to program the CNT. It was easy enough. The app prompted for a new message daily, which would then be ‘told’ to me for 24 hours. The app would give default options, but I could enter any message for myself that I wanted. However, the app would only allow positive messages.

The white-coated woman showed me the result after she entered ‘I am not a jealous bitch’; it was rejected due to the words not, jealous, and bitch. AS starting message I choose a no-brainer from the defaults: ‘I am beautiful.’ I was a bit reluctant to really believe it all, but at least it would earn the approval of Mom.

* * *

The next day I wondered why I had been so stupid to spend this horrendous amount of money on this quackery. The tablet beeped; the CNT-app wanted input: ENTER NEW POSITIVE MESSAGE FOR TODAY. I briefly browsed through the options, then chose: ‘This CNT therapy is working.’ I felt ironic, because it obviously wasn’t. I quit the app and forgot about it.

* * *

I was working out in the gym, when one of the regulars came to me.

“You look beautiful, you know.”

I smiled: “I guess I am beautiful.”

“What’s your secret? I don’t mean to be rude, but you always looked tired, and you were losing the battle against your muffin top. It’s all gone—in just two weeks.”

I looked in the mirror, suddenly staring at myself. I was beautiful. I was a stunner. I was 5′9″, long blonde hair, and slightly tanned glowing skin.

“I dunno. I guess the regular workouts are finally paying off.”

But with sudden clarity, I knew. The CNT implant had done its job. I had not realized it consciously, but my subconscious knew that I was beautiful and my confidence about my beauty oozed out.

After showering I hurried to Mom.

“Mom, you stupid old bitch, why didn’t you tell me before about this magic CNT thing!” I yelled to her immediately when she opened the door.

“Because you never listen to me, my dearest daughter. You always used to say that I am a stupid old tart.”

I was speechless. Mom continued: “But you can use the implant to give yourself a positive message. It’s up to you.”

I hurried home, and told my implant: ‘I love my mother.’

* * *

The subsequent days I rotated the messages. I choose some suggestions from the list, and I wrote some of my own. I told my implant that I was fit and healthy, and that I loved to work out. I did not just feel fitter and healthier; it seemed I actually was fitter. I routinely jogged to my mother, especially after I repeated the message to myself that I loved my mother, and that I wanted to spend time with my mother. The endless silly arguments between us were somehow over. We had long talks about life, universe, and everything. And for the very time in my life, she was truly interested in me.

“Why do you like to work out?”

“You know, Mom, it‘s healthy.”

“I guess so. But it’s not the only reason.”

I blushed. “I think it makes me look good.”

“Well, toned bodies are attractive, right?”

I blushed even more. “Mom!”

“Don’t be ashamed for trying to look good. And by the way, if you are feeling awkward about it, then tell yourself otherwise.” Mom grabbed my tablet and started the CNT-app. “It’s time for an update anyway.”

She typed ‘Girls who workout are hot and sexy,’ and pressed enter. “Mom, what have you done!?”

“I’ve given you a positive message, sweetie.”

I was angry, but somehow could not really feel angry towards Mom. She saw my conflicted emotions.

“I’ll make it up with you. I gotta update my own message too.” She got her own tablet, and typed the same message: ‘Girls who workout are hot and sexy’.

* * *

I increased the frequency of gym visits. I used to have difficulties sticking to a weekly schedule, but now I was there every other day. I loved to work out, but I also caught myself looking at the other girls. They were hot and sexy, and so was I. I loved the contrast between my full chest (I had a proud C cup) and my flat belly. Spinning had improved my ass too; it was firm and round.

I showered after the workout. The private cabins were all occupied and I had to shower in the common room. One of the other girls entered and started to shower next to me. I looked away, out of shame again, and felt stupid. I tried to discretely look at her, but did not dare. I realized that I had never really seen a nude woman.

At home, I pondered this experience. If nudity bothered me so much, I could tell myself that it was acceptable. I picked up my tablet, and typed ‘nudity is acceptable’. Immediately a message appeared: ACCEPTABLE NOT AN ACCEPTABLE TERM. I grinned about the stupidity of the system. The HELP-button helped me out: ‘A number of terms (e.g. acceptable, tolerable) are not acceptable because it is not sufficiently positive, and suggest that suboptimal situations are good. Please choose a genuinely positive term.’ I hesitated, then typed: ‘I love nudity’ and pressed enter. I got up, removed my clothes and switched on the TV.

One of the sport’s channels was broadcasting a beach volleyball game. I watched the girls, admiring their toned bodies and feeling jealous when they hugged each other to celebrate winning a point.

During the commercial break I suddenly noticed that my finger was in my cunt. It was wet. I took my finger out and licked it, surprised by its salty taste. I slowly caressed my clit, my whole pussy was drenched. I imagined being one of the beach volleyball players, hugging my teammate, kissing her. I wondered what it would be like to shower together, to clean her with lots of soft showergel, to stroke her and finger her clit—what it would be like if someone would finger my clit, put a finger in my cunt.

I spasmed at the fantasy, cumming like I’d never cum before.

* * *

Mom phoned. “You know, I’ve never been to the gym, and I’m really interested in what’s it like, and to see why it’s important for you. There’s just one thing. I don’t have sport’s clothing. Can you lend me something?”

“Of course Mom. I guess we’re about the same height and size.”

We did some spinning and treadmilling. I was better, but Mom was good. One of the instructresses walked along and commented: “Hey, did you bring your sister today?”

“She ain’t my sister; she’s my Mom.”

“Wow, she’s a real milf then.”

“What’s a milf?” Mommy asked. The instructress blushed and moved on, mumbling something about checking the airco.

While we were showering, Mom asked: “What’s a milf.”

I lowered my eyes a bit: “Uhm, it’s an acronym for Mother I’d Like to Fuck.”

Mom burst out in laughter. “That’s the best compliment I’ve heard from anyone in years.”

* * *

We were still laughing our asses off when we got home.

“I still can’t believe the stupid bitch thought I was your sister. This deserves to be used,” Mom said. She fetched the tablet and started typing: ‘I am a milf.’

It immediately responded: UNKNOWN TERM: MILF and then: PLEASE RATE MILF: POSITIVE; VERY POSITIVE; EXTREMELY POSITIVE.

I burst out in laughter again. “Extremely positive. Duh.”

I got my own tablet and started typing too: ‘My mother is a milf,’ and confirmed that was ‘extremely positive’. The laughter brought tears to my eyes and we hugged. I had never felt this connected to Mom.

* * *

I couldn’t sleep that night. Fingering myself did not provide the release I needed; I realized what I was missing. I picked up the phone: “Mom, we need to talk.”

* * *

Mom came to my place.

“What’s so important sweetie, that you want me to come over at three o’clock in the morning?”

“Mom, I have to confess something. Something difficult”

“You are my daughter. You can tell me anything.”

“Promise you won’t get mad?”

“Promise.”

“I love you Mom.” I said solemnly.

“I love you too, sweetie.”

“No, you don’t understand Mom. I do not just love you.” I hesitated. “I wanna fuck you.”

Mom let this sink in. Then she looked me in the eye. “You are hot and sexy. Actually, you’re so damn hot that you forgot to put some clothing on before you called me.”

We laughed, it released the tension. We hugged. I felt Mom’s hands stroking my back, then my ass. My lips found hers. We kissed, deeply, passionately. My hands slid in Mom’s sweatpants; she wore no underwear.

“I didn’t have time to really dress myself either,” she whispered hoarsely.

“I’m glad you hurried to me.”

I led Mom to my bed. She went on top. I unzipped her track jacket and fondled her tits. Her nipples were hard. I licked them and they turned even harder. My hands pulled down the sweatpants; I felt her bare leg massaging my pussy. I moaned. Mom tickled my clit, then slid her finger in my cunt. It was soaking wet.

“You are a bad girl. I never knew my little girl was a naughty little bitch.”

She pushed my face in her pussy. “Lick my clit. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be fucked by a girl.”

Mom’s pussy was deliciously smooth and even wetter than mine. Her juices tasted wonderful. I licked her clit while fingering her cunt. She screamed when she came.

* * *

We sat on the couch, both nude. My head was in Mom’s lap; she stroked my tits and ass. The TV was on and the anchor announced:

“In other news today, CNT Inc. was shut down due to allegations of marketing unauthorized medical devices. The company sold thousands on its Continuous/Updatable Neuropositive Therapy devices, unauthorized version of its approved CNT implants. Sources familiar with the case state that these updatable devices cause behavioral disturbances. People who received these implants should report to the Authorities to evaluate whether deprogramming is necessary.”

“Mom, I don’t wanna be deprogrammed. We used to fight all the time. And now I love you.”

“Of course, my sweet little motherfucker. I love you too. This is soo much better. ”

She tickled me, and I jolted. “Mom! Don’t!”

Mom smiled mischievously. “Did I startle you? I’ll make it up. With an Australian kiss.”

“Mom! You dirty slut!”