The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was on the drive home from another session with Dr. Williamson that I put my finger on it.

God he’s good. He’s just so helpful—you’d think that someone as old as Dr. Williamson (he must be like, 80) wouldn’t know anything about being a teenager, but somehow he just gets it.

I’m so glad Mom and me found him. We really needed it.

Anyway, it was after another one of his sessions that I worked out what had been stressing me out lately. I mean, my life is pretty stress-free; when I’m not laying around in my bra and panties, I’m taking selfies for Instagram or going to the mall with my besties.

We do a lot of shopping. Mom lets me borrow her credit card (well, she doesn’t yell at me too much when I steal it out of her purse, anyway) and so sometimes I buy clothes for my friends as well. I’m so glad I met them.

Anyway, so the fact that I was stressed at all was pretty weird. I’m more used to being bored than worried, y’know?

But on the way home, I worked out what had me all frazzled:

Mom.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t exactly sit around all day stressing about my mother’s well-being. God, how lame do you think I am? But the fact is, I knew she wasn’t supes happy, and I think I’d worked out why.

She was lonely.

Now, this isn’t Clueless—I wasn’t about to go around setting up every middle-aged sad-sack I knew. But it was my mother, and so I couldn’t help but wonder if there was anything I could do to help.

I was literally in the middle of asking myself exactly that when Mom spoke up, and…I mean, it was almost weird. Like she could read my mind or something.

“Tiff,” she said hesitantly, without taking her eyes off the road for a second. “How would you feel about giving me a makeover?”

I bit back the sarcastic retort that I normally would have relied with, and replied softly.

“Sure thing, Mom. We’re going to get you totally babeing.”

I may have been a bit generous with that response. I mean, my mother is a billion years old—how babeing can you really get, when there were literally dinosaurs around at your birth?

I’m exaggerating, but not by much.

By the time we were done, I was starting to regret volunteering so enthusiastically. I mean, I did what I could—I used more than half a dozen different makeup colors—but what looks rocking on someone my age doesn’t necessarily work on an…older woman.

The end result looked like exactly what it was—a middle-aged woman trying desperately to recapture the youth she could barely remember.

I turned to Mom to apologize, but to my surprise, she was beaming.

“Wow,” she said, her eyes aglow. “Tiff…this looks amazing. You’ll have to show me how you did all this.”

“Mostly from tutorials on Youtube,” I mumbled, blushing slightly. I mean, I thought she looked more like Amy Pohler from Mean Girls than anything, but hey—as long as she was happy, right?

“Now,” she said with a saucy grin. “How about you lend me some of those clothes I’ve been paying for?”

“Uh…”

“No time for gawping, young lady. Lead the way!”

The next hour and a half were the most awkward and embarrassing moments of my life. No, scratch that—the most awkward and embarrassing ninety minutes of anyone’s life, ever.

I just sat there, cheeks burning red, desperately wishing I could just melt through the floor or be teleported to another planet or—ideally—learn that I was adopted, while Mom tried on every outfit I’d bought over the last few weeks.

Here’s the thing: if an old fat guy wears a dress, no matter how nice the dress is, it’s not going to look good on him, right?

And so all the clothes that me and the girls had carefully picked out to suit me…on Mom, they just made her look like a desperate tramp.

A desperate, slutty, trying-WAY-too-hard older woman.

But worst of all, I couldn’t say anything.

“Looks great,” I said through the most forced grin you’ve EVER seen.

I mean, what was I supposed to do? Tell her she looked awful? She would have been crushed. And so for almost two hours, I sat there and nodded awkwardly through the worst fashion show you’ve ever seen.

I dunno what was wrong with Mom—it was almost like the more slutty the outfit made her look, the happier she was with it. She put on this pink tank top thing I have—it cuts off just below my tits, and shows off my midriff.

On me, it looks awesome. I’ve worn it out a few times, and I’ll tell you, the guys who stare at me while I wear it are H-O-double-T hott.

When my Mom wore it…ew. I guess her tits are bigger than mine, but that’s not always a good thing, y’know? It looked like she was trying to find herself a second husband, but with absolutely no standards.

And when she paired it with a pair of dark purple gym shorts that even I would think twice about wearing out of the house, I wanted to be sick.

But Mom? Mom was thrilled.

And so I smiled and nodded through awful outfit after awful outfit, and when she made a small pile to “borrow”, I didn’t have the energy to object.

My mother walked out of my room with a pile of clothes meant for teenagers with hot, young bodies—like mine.

If that’s what she was going to be wearing on her dates, I dreaded to see the kind of man she’d attract.