The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The phone call was like a kick in the groin.

In the middle of his first semester at college . . . shortly before his Psych mid-term, as a matter of fact, his mother had called.

The conversation was brief, but brutally to the point. She’d only spoken ten words.

“James, honey?”

“Mom? Is that you? Look, I’d love to talk, but—”

“Dad’s dead. Maybe you ought to come home.”

Click

He stared at the receiver in mute disbelief. His dad was . . . dead?

It was only on the plane back home, reliving the weird call, that he how odd his mom’s voice had sounded. Not sad. Not even a flat monotone of denial. Just her usual tone, as if she’d been talking about grocery shopping.

“Maybe you ought to come home . . .” What a goddamn strange thing to say.

He arrived home early the next morning, worn out with the all-night flight, jet-lag, and grief. Wearily, James shuffled up the front steps, suitcase hanging loosely on limp fingers and pressed the doorbell. He didn’t have the energy to try the door.

As he stood there, James could have sworn that he heard a dull, throbbing thump emanating from the house. It was rather rythmic, sort of like dance music. He put it down to the migrane that had his skull in a rather vicious vice-grip, and waited.

When the door swung inward, James was more than a little surprised to discover that the throb did, indeed, accompany a track of dance music, pulsating in some kind of unpleasant beat that completely failed to please the ears.

“Honey, welcome back!”

Something warm, paradoxically firm and soft, as well as sweet smelling swept into his arms with a flurry of auburn curls.

“Mom?” He protested weakly. She stepped back.

Amber Kieley had never been an plain woman. In fact, before he’d left, James’ mother had been one of the prettiest on the block. Thirty-eight years of life, however, had been catching up with her, and he recalled a woman with cellulite-packed thighs, largish breasts that had begun to sag, and a not terribly attractive ass.

Wearing a pair of lycra workout shorts, a cut-off t-shirt that was soaked with sweat, and a pair of the trendiest of aerobic footwear, James could see that to say that some drastic improvements had been made would be something of an understatement.

The lycra was, of course, skintight and clung to every curve of her slim hips. He couldn’t help but stare at her toned thighs, lean bronzed legs . . . his eye detected a thin line of sweat that had collected between those thighs, and he felt a slight twinge, despite the fact that she was his mom.

The t-shirt served double duty, showing off Amber’s sexy navel, as well as revealing her other . . . assets. James couldn’t help but stare. Had she had them done? He didn’t realize that he was looking intently at his mother’s tits until a slivery thread of saliva actually escaped his mouth.

He didn’t notice her quiet smile.

“James,” she put her arm around her son, enveloping her boy in her moist warmth, “perhaps you should go to bed, darling. You look positively whipped. You’ll feel better after a good nap.”

“Euh,” he mumbled. “G’d ‘dea.” Head spinning, he shuffled towards his room, trying to make sense of everything he’d seen thus far.

Amber watched her handsome son go, wearing an almost predatory look on her face.

Some time later, James woke up, feeling much better, if still a little muzzy headed. It was good to be home, he reflected, even if the reason was . . .

Sighing, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, suddenly realizing something. Well, two things, actually. First, he was naked. Second, he had a huge hard-on.

Running a hand through his sandy hair, James tried to remember whether or not he’d removed his clothing . . . what a stupid idea—of course he’d taken off his clothes. Who else would have done it?

As for the hard on, he could vaguely recall a dream he’d had. No details, but trying to dredge up the memory only made his cock strain a little more.

With a sigh and a stretch, James stood and slowly began to dress.

When he was done, he noticed that there was an unsightly bulge in the front of his jeans. For a moment James considered jerking off to get it down, but that seemed a touch distasteful at the moment. Shrugging into a long, loose shirt he shambled out of his room, heading for the kitchen.

There, he found his mother, softly purring to herself and preparing lunch. She was wearing a tight white tank-top with spaghetti-thin straps that looked to be strained to about their limit. Again, he didn’t see her cat-like smile, as his attention was a little diverted.

“Did you sleep well, hon?” Amber inquired in her best “motherly” voice.

“Uh, yeah.” A little flushed, James tore his eyes away from his mother and sat down at the kitchen table, eyes firmly fixed on the formica top.

“That’s nice,” she said, and went back to making lunch.

“Er, mom?” James started, stumbling a bit. “What—what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

He looked up at her, shock evident on his features. “To—to . . . you know . . . dad.”

“Oh, that.” Her voice was dismissive, almost as if it was something distasteful, like dog shit on the lawn or a dead bird in the back yard. “Well, dear,” she reached over his head, giving him quite a view of the side of one large firm breast, and turned on the stereo lying on the counter. Cheesy dance music blared out from the speakers. It sounded remarkably like the stuff that had greeted him at the front door that morning. Well, maybe a bit better. A bit easier to listen to . . .

“I’m afraid that the poor man had something of an accident,” she told him, speaking through the music. “A very sad incident, but the important thing is that you’re home, of course.”

That was apalling! Her own husband! They’d been married twenty years. Good years, too, by all accounts. She didn’t even seem . . . but, you know, there was no point in being overdramatic. Yes, he was dead, and that was very sad, but there wasn’t anything that tears were going to do about it. And it was good to be home.

Amber laid a fairly huge sandwich down in front of her son, giving him a clear shot down the front of her shirt, into the cavernous cleavage contained therein.

Very good to be home, he thought.

“The funeral’s in a day or two,” she told him as he eagerly tore into the food. He mumbled something in response.

A long-nailed finger idly played with one of her stiff nipples clearly evident through the fabric of the shirt as she turned back to make her own lunch.

James found his eyes inadvertantly drawn to the motions of her round little behind as it moved within the confines of a pair of extremely tight jeans, only tearing his eyes away after an akward minute or two.

The following day, James awoke to the dull thump that he’d quickly learned to associate with his mother’s new preference in music. Sitting up, he wearily rubbed his skull, trying to clear the light fog that seemed to have settled there.

Once more, he found himself wearing nothing but a steel-hard cock, but didn’t take any especial notice of it . . . he’d gone to bed late last night, after an evening talking with his mom. Actually, she’d done most of the talking . . . he’d just sat there, into the early hours, nodding and trying to fight back the mental haze he’d acquired over the course of the evening. Tried to fight it . . . but it was so much easier to listen . . .

As a matter of fact, now that he thought about it, James couldn’t even clearly recall having gone to bed last night at all.

The dull throb of the music permeated the house like the beating of a huge heart, not easy to listen to, but certainly not unpleasant.

James shrugged, and slowly started to get dressed. Again, his erection, gently pushed down the left leg of his jeans was fairly obvious, but this time around, hiding it didn’t seem quite so important.

Walking out into the living room with the shuffling gait of the newly-awakened, James was met with the very much not unpleasant sight of his mother exercising, not with some program on the TV, but along with HER music, blasting out of the entertainment centre that dominated one wall.

James stopped. His cock, throbbing almost in time to the beat, strained eagerly against his pants leg.

Shit!

James realized he hadn’t put on any underwear this morning. How the fuck had he missed that?

A bit embarrassed, he still watched his mother’s lithe body, covered with a thin sheen of sweat, writhe and pulse to the music. It almost didn’t seem like aerobics so much as some kind of wild, hedonistic tribal dance.

Bending over, Amber looked at her son from between sculpted thighs, watching him stare as the thong of her leotard inched its way up the crack of her ass. She stayed that way for a moment, letting him get a good long look.

“Are you going to watch, or are you going to join in?” She asked mischeviously.

“Er . . . n-no,” James stammered. “J-just passing through,”

“Are you sure?” Amber straightened, and turned around. She saw his eyes dart to the pronounced swells of her generous tits. “Well?”

“No!” James fairly ran to the kitchen.

“Your loss,” she went back to her workout, pausing only to turn up the volume on the stereo.

Later on that afternoon, as James lazed on the couch, watching TV in a half-conscious state, his mother walked into the room, announcing herself with a: “Jimmy, honey? Can you do mommy a favour?”

He immediately sat bolt upright, suddenly very eager. Looking at his mother, he was instantly doubly so.

She was wearing a floor-length grey dress made out of some kind of clingy material that revealed every single curve and hollow of her luscious body. In her arms she carried a laundry basket.

“I’ve got some errands to do this afternoon, and I was hoping that you could do the laundry for mommy. You will, won’t you?” She pouted.

James agreed without hesitation, and Amber’s face broke out in a sunny smile. She gave a little giggle of joy, causing the bodice of the dress to jiggle attractively. Thanking her “Jimmy,” she turned and headed for the front door. Watching her ass all the way, James couldn’t help but notice the absence of a panty-line beneath the fabric.

Laundry. Why the hell had he agreed to do the laundry, James wondered, dropping the basket onto the washing machine. He never did his own laundry at school, for Christ’s sake.

Scowling, he threw the lid of the washer open. To top it off, it wasn’t even his fucking dirty clothes. He couldn’t believe that his mother had roped him into doing her washing. And what the hell was with that “Jimmy” stuff? Nobody’d called him Jimmy since he was twelve.

“Of all the stupid, goddamn, fucking,” he turned to face the basket, “I can’t believe I have to paw through mom’s dirty . . . fucking . . . laundry . . .”

Lying atop the pile was a scrap of pink silk. James’ voice faltered, then petered out.

Before he knew what he was doing, it was in his hands. “It” turned out to be a pair of string-bikini panties. Even though he was just holding it, James could detect a heady aroma coming from the sliken goodies. His dick was hard instantly, and without thinking James had plunged his face into the cloth, deeply inhaling. Tasting.

He had to masturbate. Now.

But what about the laundry? A faint, yet commanding voice queried. She asked you to do the laundry. Do it, and then you can jerk off.

James was more than a little confused. Do the laundry? And THEN he could jerk? Where was this . . . he inhaled again. Blood rushed in his ears, and Jimmy could hear his own pulse, beating loudly. Beating rhythmically. An entrancing little tattoo.

LAUNDRY NOW!

Seldom had clothing been separated, pre-washed, washed, and dried in such a speedy fashion. Especially with a pair of panties covering the washer’s face.

When Amber returned that evening, she found her clothing washed, dried, and neatly stacked in a pile on her bed. Jimmy’s door was closed, locked, and she could detect the soft squeak of bedsprings.

“Almost . . .” she muttered. Strutting out into the living room, Amber turned on the stereo, and moved the volume knob to “10.”

Wearing a smile and swaying her hips in time to the music, she walked into her room to decide what to wear to the funeral tomorrow. Something tasteful yet. . . trashy.

The morning of his father’s funeral, Jimmy awoke, not to the pleasant pulse that had filled his dreams the night before, but the sharp rap of knuckles on his bedroom door. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Lying naked in his bed, Jimmy found himself in the same position that he recalled falling asleep in the previous night—one hand wrapped around his semen-covered cock and with his mother’s panties covering his face. Groggily, he sat up, and the pink treasure fell to the floor.

With his hand still grasping his hard-on, Jimmy shuffled to the door, and turned the knob.

“Jimmy!” Amber gasped, more in surprise than shock. She’d been expecting this, of course, but not quite so soon. She ran her eyes over Jimmy’s body, coming to rest upon his stiff cock. Things were progressing a little too quickly, but she saw no reason to take advantage of the situation.

“Er . . .” Jimmy responded slowly. He didn’t seem too sure as to what was happpening.

“Jimmy,” Amber said again. “What on earth have you been doing!?”

“Um, er . . .” Jimmy’s mind rolled over; he knew something was happening. He just needed to be told what . . .

Jimmy’s mother deliberately looked over his shoulder, into the room.

“And with my panties, too!” She looked into Jimmy’s unfocused eyes. “We simply can’t allow that! Follow me, young man!” With that, Amber grabbed hold of her son by his erection and lead him into the living room.

“I’m really very flattered Jimmy,” she told him as they walked, her strong legs setting a pace Jimmy’s confused body couldn’t really keep up with. His feet tangled and he fell in a heap upon the carpeted floor, at his mother’s feet.

She tut-tutted.

“Really, Jimmy. Are you really too stupid to walk?” Before he could give anything more articulate than a moan for an answer, Amber kept on going. “You must be, Jimmy-boy, but then again, you never were that bright, were you? No, you weren’t. Poor stupid little Jimmy. But don’t worry, hon. Mommy’s here. Mommy’s always here. She’ll take care of you.” Jimmy curled up into the fetal position. “But I’m afraid that if you’re going to come back here to stay, Jimmy, we’re going to have to institute a little discipline.” She prodded him with the toe of a high-heeled sandal.

“Now lie straight, young man, and look at me when I talk to you!”

Jimmy complied, rolling over onto his back, hard-on pointing at the cieling. It twitched as he took in his mother.

Wrapped around her dainty feet were a pair of 5″—heeled black sandals, as well as a pair of black stockings that flowed up her long, long legs underneath a nearly indecently short skirt that, especially in Jimmy’s position, did nothing to hide the garters at the top. Her shirt was made from some kind of black, stretchy material that was almost as transparent as her stockings, and made no effort to hide the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

“Poor little Jimmy,” Amber cooed, and began rubbing the toe of her foot along the underside of his dick. Jimmy writhed on the floor.

“So hard for his mommy,” she continued, “would you like mommy to make it all better? Would you, Jimmy? Would you like for mommy to do that?” He nodded weakly. “Of course you do, Jimmy. But mommies and sons can’t do such things, Jimmy. They just can’t,” Jimmy groaned. “But I hate to see you in pain, Jimmy. If I weren’t your mommy, then I could do something . . . if I were, say, your mistress, I could help you, Jimmy, but I can’t. I’m just your mommy.”

Jimmy mumbled something inarticulate, and thrust his pelvis into his mother’s silky toes.

“What was that, Jimmy? I’m afraid I can’t hear you.”

“Msssstrssss. . .” Jimmy half-groaned, half-hissed.

“Now, don’t say anything you don’t mean, Jimmy.” She increased the pressure on his dick. “Do you want me to do that for you, Jimmy? Do you want to give yourself to me, Jimmy, so I can help you?”

“Mis . . . mistress mommy,” Jimmy said, now thrusting hard against Amber’s foot.

“Good,” she cooed. “Now you may come, Jimmy.” With a piercing cry, the boy arched his back high, face contorted into a look halfway between excruciating pain and ecstacy. Semen spurted high into the air, landing in thick ropes on his stomach and Amber’s stockinged foot.

She tut-tutted. “What a bad boy. Now clean up your mess, Jimmy . . .”

The phone’s shrill ring was an unwelcome call back to reality.

Amber fumbled for the phone, nearly throwing it to the floor.

“Mmm, hello?”

“Oh! Barbara.” Barbara was her sister in law. Amber’s hand crept down to play with one jiggling tit. “Hm? What? Oh . . . mm . . . yes, the—ah!—funeral. I . . . um . . . sorry. It’s just . . . oh . . . that, it was . . . ummm . . . too, y’know, HARD?” She giggled, and let her hand slide down her toned body to the tuft of red hair at her crotch, and the thatch of brown hair close by. “Oh, Jimmy? He . . . ah . . . he’s here. Staying with . . . ohhh . . . me. Yess . . . I’m glad he’s home. He’s . . . ah! He’s helping . . . yes . . . helping his poor . . . oh . . . bereaved . . . mmmmm . . . mother. Thanks, Barbara.”

As she put the phone back on its cradle, Amber wrapped her thighs about Jimmy’s head, riding his face through yet another orgasm.