The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Foreboding soliloquy

Paul Simpson always had the prettiest mom at school.

She was a teacher there too—in fact, one of the best at the school.

Sincere, caring, intelligent, strong-willed and kind, Theresa Simpson was truly a treasure just to know.

The trouble is, as she paced in front of her upper classes, a crop of boners (*) tracked her every move, like dog heads tracking a squirrel through a glass door.

Something bad was just bound to happen ...

Now Paul is on his way home from university for Christmas break.

What awaits him there ... well, he’s utterly unprepared for what he’ll find.

And adapting to the new situation he does find there will strain him to his very limits.

What does not kill Paul makes him stronger. But WILL Paul survive this ... ?

And after what he finds there, will he even WANT to survive ... ?

Wednesday evening, on the bus ride home

Man, it will be good to get home, Paul thought as he sat in his bus seat, for Christmas! Miskatonic U. is a great school, but it will be good to see Mom and Dad again!

In fact, Mom’s the reason that I’m acing my classes at Miskatonic. She’s the smartest person I know, and she’s the one that taught me how to study, how to learn effectively.

She’s the reason that my classes are so easy.

She’s also treated me like my opinion mattered my whole life. That kind of thing helps a kid to know that he or she MATTERS.

Three Christmases ago, when her sister—my Aunt Susan—was getting ready to have heart surgery, to correct a congenital defect ...

Christmas season, three years ago

“Susan is coming to visit us for Christmas next week,” Mom said softly, “before the ... surgery. What do you think we ought to make for dinner her first night, Paul, to celebrate that she’s here with us, with family?”

I thought a second. “Well ... Aunt Susan always did like your turkey and dressing. Remember that time she visited for Thanksgiving?”

“Okay,” she nodded, “we’ll do that, then. Turkey and dressing it is. Thank you, sweetie.”

After a pause, she continued, “You ARE going to be here that day, won’t you? To have early Christmas dinner with us?”

“Absolutely,” I said without missing a beat. “I couldn’t miss Aunt Susan’s visit—especially not her first night here.”

“Thank you, Paul,” she said quietly. Sighed. “Thank—”

“Hey, like I said, NO WAY would I miss her first night. Aunt Susan used to help me build forts in the yard when I was little. We’re ‘battle buddies,’ her and I. I’ll be here to greet her with a BIG hug!”

Aunt Susan’s operation had a 98% chance of success. But still, Mom was worried about her sister.

When Mom started to idle down in a conversation lately, you just need to rev her up a little with a burst of cheerfulness.

I just needed to help her not worry too much beforehand, and she’d see that Aunt Susan would be fine.

“Hey, would it be okay if Debbie has Christmas dinner with us? We’d planned on spending Christmas Eve together this year.”

“Oh, Paul ... I don’t know ... Would you be too upset if I asked you not to? If—maybe we could keep it just family?”

“Sure, Mom. I understand.”

Debbie was my girlfriend at the time. I don’t think Mom ... ever really liked Debbie.

Actually, I don’t think Mom ever cared for ANY of my girlfriends.

But she was right about this—it was something for just family.

“Thank you, Paul,” Mom said very quietly, “for ... being here, for being here for Susan.”

“Susan’s going to be FINE, Mom,” I was confident enough for the both of us. “The surgery will go fine. And she’ll visit again next Christmas, and the Christmas after that, and we’ll laugh about how good a visit this year was, how warm it was when we all came together to be here for her, through the surgery.”

But ... Susan never came.

She would have done just fine with the surgery—I know this.

But she was in an auto accident while going to the grocery store four days before her Christmas trip to visit us.

Aunt Susan died there, in that car wreck, days before she would have come to visit us, to be with family before her heart surgery.

So, instead of being there for Aunt Susan ... we were there for each other.

“Mom,” I blurted as I hurried out into the kitchen, “Dad just told me. Are you okay?”

“Oh, Paul,” she stood and hugged me, crying into my shoulder.

“I am so sorry ...” I whispered.

I just stood there. And she just cried.

“I’m so sorry ...”

It took some months, but slowly, Susan’s death hurt a little less.

Her sister’s death hit Mom hard. But, like I said, Mom is a strong woman, and, one day, she was even able to smile again.

We did get through it.

And life, like it’s prone to do ... rolled on despite us.

Soon enough, I was applying to universities.

And that’s when Dad and I started butting heads.

Dad thought I should go to his old alma mater, Armitage University. And I wanted to go to Miskatonic University.

Man, we had some arguments over that!

“Armitage is a good university!” Dad talked at me, “It was good enough for me, and for my father too. I don’t see why you want to go to this weird university for—”

“Miskatonic is not weird, Dad!” I corrected him.

Okay, yeah, maybe Miskatonic is a LITTLE weird. But it was where I wanted to go.

Our arguments got so heated that Mom, at one point, took Dad aside, and they had a “discussion.”

That was the thing about Mom. On the little things, she let Dad think he ruled the house. But on the important things—the things that mattered—she made sure they worked out right.

Did I mention yet that Mom is the smartest person I’ve ever known? And ... one of the very best people I know ...

Present, on the bus ride home

Thanks to Mom, I’m attending Miskatonic. And I’m pretty sure I aced my finals today.

I stayed on campus over Thanksgiving—the girl I’m dating, Janet, did the same, since her parents were out of the country then. So I haven’t seen Mom or Dad since August, and I am MORE than ready to see them again!

Everything is going fine for them—at least as far as Mom has mentioned on the phone. Although ... Mom and I haven’t been having our weekly phone calls since Thanksgiving. It’s possible she may be a little irked that I didn’t come home for Turkey Day, but ... well, I’ll just have to make it up to her over Christmas!

One strange thing that DID happen, though ... Mom called me at 2:00 A.M., which is a weird time for Mom to call ...

Three nights ago, 2 A.M.

“Mneh? Whurrengh? Mibsblt?” I answered my cell phone. I don’t wake up real quickly ...

“Paul?”

“Mom?

“Mom, is that you?

“What time is it?”

“It’s late,” she sighed.

I glanced at the clock. “God, it’s 2 A.M. Is everything okay?!”

Nothing.

“Mom?”

Still no replay.

“Mom?!”

In a soft voice, barely audible, “Paul, maybe ... maybe you ... shouldn’t ... come home for Christmas ...”

“What? Why?” She ... COULDN’T be THAT mad about me missing Thanksgiving!

“I don’t know—things are ... different now ...”

“Different? How?”

“It’s just—” she started, then whispered quickly, harshly, “Oh crap! Sorry! I gotta go. Bye.” And she disconnected.

I tried to call her back, but just got bounced over to her voice mail. Same thing an hour later. And when I called a couple times the next morning.

It COULDN’T have been drunk dialing. Mom’s not a teetotaler, but I have NEVER seen her drunk.

I continued trying to dial, and just getting her voice mail.

Mom sounded odd. But she didn’t SOUND frightened, or TOO stressed or anything. So I was PRETTY SURE everything was just fine.

Still, I wanted to make sure that Mom and Dad weren’t getting a divorce, or anything like that ...

Present, on the bus ride home

Well, the bus was supposed to arrive at the station at midnight, but it was well after 1 A.M. that we finally got in. I took a taxi to the house, and it was just after 2 A.M. when I got there. Between studying for the exams, and the stress of taking the exams, and worrying about Mom and Dad possibly getting divorced, and the long bus ride home, I was just about dead on my feet, ready to fall into bed in a days-long sleep-coma ...

I smiled as I walked up to the door—Mom remembered to leave the light on for me. Things were going to be all right. I knocked.

Mom answered the door in—whoa! Lingerie?! What—the—?!

“Paul,” she sighed sadly, “you ... did come.”

“Are you in ... lingerie?!” I wasn’t sure my eyes were seeing right, or that my brain was thinking right, I was so tired.

“I’ll explain later. God, you look exhausted. How many hours have you been awake?”

“Uhm ... thousands>?” I took a guess.

“Yeah. Too long. C’mon, we’re getting you to bed. Right now.”

“But ... you’re all ... fleshful and all ...” I couldn’t wrap my mind around her being in lingerie. Again, if she was actually in lingerie. I was too tired to be certain.

“Yeah, I’ll tell you tomorrow. You’re going to need your wits about you.”

She led me back to my bedroom, where my bed was still as I left it. You hear from other students at university about them going home and finding out their parents have rented out their old room. Not Mom and Dad ... I had great parents.

“Get some sleep,” Mom told me, and I fell into bed, and was asleep before I could even remember to—

Thursday, noon

Well, I didn’t sleep 24 hours—just 10. I woke around noon, feeling a lot more coherent than last night.

And ... what was that about Mom in a skimpy outfit last night?! Was that some weird half-dream or something?

“Hey, Mom,” I called as I walked out to join her, “we’ll get a chuckle out of trying to psychoanalyze THIS dream. I dreamed that I staggered home half-asleep last night, and you were here, wearing this skimpy little lingerie number that barely—covered—” I’d stepped into the kitchen, and ... Mom was there in a skimpy bikini and what must’ve been three-inch heels. Sound just ... stopped coming out of my mouth.

After a minute, Mom broke the stunned silence, “(sigh) If you keep staring, you’re going to make my butt cheeks blush, Paul.”

“I—I’m sorry ... But—when did ‘bikini and heels’ become casual around-the-house wear?”

“Paul, quickly,” she interrupted me as I heard sounds of someone stirring in the other room, “things have changed. A lot. Don’t (heavy sigh) ... don’t think too badly of me ... please?”

“What—what’s changed—”

A male voice called from the other room, “Oh loooosey, I’m home ...”

I looked at Mom. “Who—?!”

A young man stepped into the kitchen, “Hi, baby!”

“Hi—” Mom stared at me, fidgeting uncomfortably before shrugging and moving her eyes from mine, “Hi, honey.”

Then she just ... let this guy—

She just let him ... KISS her. Like they were familiar with each other or something!

I heard my own voice coming out of my throat, stunned, “M—Mo—Mom?! MOM?! What—what—who’s THIS guy?!”

Their lips were still locked in kiss.

I waited.

Still locked in kiss.

I cleared my throat.

The kiss seemed deaf, dumb and blind, because it ignored me and just kept happening ...

It ended just as I opened my mouth to demand, what the hell?!

“Hi, I’m Brad,” the guy grinned at me. He looked familiar for some reason. “I’m your mother’s hot new sexual obsession and romantic enthrallment.” He chuckled, “She just can’t freakin’ get ENOUGH of me.

“You must be her son, Paul.”

My eyes traveled from him to her as I made the firm demand, “Mo—(voice cracking) Mom?!”

“Oh, has she not told you yet?” This Brad guy asked, and my eyes swung back to him. “There she goes ... thinking with her pussy again.”

You DON’T talk like that about moms, and about MY Mom in particular! “Mo-Mom?!” I firmly and clearly demanded explanation. Voice cracking shakily in the middle and everything.

But ... she wasn’t paying any attention to me. She was ... gazing into the guy’s eyes, acting half-dazed. “You’re right, Brad ... there I go ...” she said dreamily, “just thinking with my pussy again.”

Oh, come on! Guys don’t talk about moms that way. And moms MOST CERTAINLY don’t talk about THEMSELVES that way! “Mo—(voice cracking) Mom?!” I explained this to her.

“Well, tell you what,” this guy Brad said, “I’m going to give you two a few minutes to come up to speed on your mother’s RAMPANT LIBIDO, and her and my non-stop rocket-powered sex life.”

“Mo-mo-mo-mo-mo-mom?!” I asked for a rational explanation of all this.

“Between you and me,” Brad said with a gleam in his eye, “your mother is just one needy, hypercharged fuck machine!”

I would kill him later—maybe with a fork, to make it last longer. But first I needed to hear what the hell was happening from Mom. So I just stared at her ... staring at him.

“Ain’t that right, babe?” he prompted her. I glanced at him, and he still had that gleam in his eye.

“I ... I AM,” Mom sighed, “just one desperately needy ... hypercharged ...” I hoped she wouldn’t say it, I hoped she wouldn’t say it, and when she did, she let loose a sigh that was just despondent, “... fuck machine.”

I stared at Mom, and my mouth kept moving, but I couldn’t seem to break my voice out of its stupor.

“You bring the boy to me when he’s up to speed, babe, and we’ll start his orientation.”

“Yes, uhm,” she glanced guiltily at me, then looked away and said, barely above a whisper, “Daddy.”

He stepped out of the kitchen, and my voice snapped out of its stupor then, and started after Mom so hard that I almost had to pull it off. “MOM?! What—the—What the FUCKING FUCK, Mom?!” I demanded.

“Language, young man,” she snapped at me reflexively.

“Oh, I think we’re WAY beyond bad language,” I corrected her. “You’re—WHAT?! DOING that guy?! Getting DONE by him?!” I moved my hands futilely with no neck to wrench with them. “Jesus! Does DAD know?!”

It had dawned on me where I’d seen this guy before too! “I RECOGNIZE that guy! He’s one of your STUDENTS, isn’t he?! He used to be a CLASSMATE of mine until he FAILED A GRADE!

“You can’t have sex with your student, Mom! You KNOW that! Even if he IS 19 years old like I am! You still can’t DO him! Or let him do YOU! You just CAN’T! It’s INSANE!

“And he’s a hoodlum, Mom! A punk! I remember, he was a trouble-maker! He was probably in your class, BRAGGING about BAGGING you! And you just ... LET him!

“And DAD! Poor Dad! Are you guys—WHAT?! Divorcing?! Divorced by now?! When did all this HAPPEN?!”

I stood there, breathing heavily, having run out of words.

With an arched eyebrow and her lips pursed, Mom asked, “Finished now?”

I grunted.

“First,” she informed me, “yes, Brad and I are in an EXTREMELY sexual relationship.

“And yes, he is a student of mine. Or was. I haven’t been to work for a month.”

“Whungh?! You haven’t been to—”

“Hush!” she cut me off mid-sentence. “Yes, I have no doubt that he is bragging about ‘bagging his teacher!’ I ... simply have no reputation left! Even soiled tatters would be a better reputation than what I have remaining!”

“Then why—how—”

“Shhh!” she cut me off again. “You DEMANDED answers! Well, here they are, young man!

“And yes, your father does absolutely know that Brad and I are fucking.

“Are we divorcing?! Oh, HELL, no! Not a chance!”

“Dad is ... standing by you?” I couldn’t comprehend why—how—

“OH yeah! If you can call it ‘standing by me!’ Your father has called me ‘whore’ and ‘slut’ and every other filthy slur he can think of. But NONE OF THAT keeps him from whacking off to the video footage he shoots of me! While I’m ... doing ... ‘things.’”

“Dad—films—you?!”

“And whacks himself off! The little bitch masturbates himself sore, all while watching me GET FUCKED!”

“I—don’t understand ...” my voice trailed off in utter bewilderment.

Mom gave a bitter smile. “Now THAT is the first halfway intelligent thing you’ve said all morning, Paul! Hmm?

“You have no clue what’s been going on here. You have no business strolling in here and passing judgements!

“Now I am going to tell you everything that you need to know about this. And you are GOING TO TAKE MY ADVICE, young man!”

“I’m ... sorry. I don’t mean to ... be judgy.” I HAD just been an ass. And an ASSHOLE. “It’s just—this is all so ... insane.”

“Yeah! Tell me about it.

“Okay, we don’t have a lot of time,” Mom started. “I’m going to tell you quickly what I know.

“But DON’T YOU go off on some STUPID, blustery, ‘I’m gonna be a hero’ tangent!

“This is FAR too dangerous for BOTH of us for you to indulge idiocy like that!”

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay. (sigh) Here goes ...

“I used to think of Brad as a student; now I ... just CAN’T STOP THINKING about him. Ever.

“He is ALL that I can think about, ALL THE TIME.

“He is EVERYTHING! Everything that my world revolves around!

“Every minute, every second, of every day ... is about BRAD!

“I ... don’t. Want. It. To be. This way. It is SHEER. FUCKING. HELL.

“But I ... can’t ... change it.

“Everything I think about, everything I do, everything I am ... revolves around Brad Newirth now.”

A great sob glugged out of her throat then. I started toward her, but she held up a hand. “No. No, it’s okay. I’m just ... feeling sorry for myself.”

After a few seconds, she cleared her throat. “I apologize. My emotions are as ripped to pieces as my dignity and reputation and self-respect are.

“Sometimes a sob will ... boil up out of me before I can stop it these days.”

She took a deep breath. “That—is how bad this is, Paul.

“That is how IMPORTANT it is that you LISTEN to me about this! Our actual LIVES are on the line here!

“This—everything that has happened, that is happening—is simply unbearable. And yet ... there is no choice but to bear it.

“It’s sinister.

“And it’s DANGEROUS.

“Paul, I have been so HUMILIATED and so degraded, on every front, by this young man ... that I don’t even BOTHER to blush about ANYTHING anymore.

“There is no way left out of this for me. Or for your father. We are trapped in this.

“But you HAVE to not fall into this same trap, Paul!

“I can MAYBE bear some part of this if Brad does not destroy you like this too! I could not bear for that to happen. I—I could not bear any of this then.

“You HAVE to understand that!”

Another sob boiled out of her, but she held up her hand when I started to cross to her.

Visibly, she redoubled her effort to continue. “Okay, Brad is going to show you an ‘orientation’ video. We made it. I’m in it.

“Watch it. Be polite. Do NOT challenge Brad. On ANYTHING.

“You need to leave AS SOON AS YOU CAN get out, and DON’T COME BACK!

“EVER!”

That was—no, I couldn’t—“I—I couldn’t LEAVE you—and Dad—”

“PAUL!” she uttered through nearly clenched teeth, “Do NOT. Be. A hero!

“I’ve tried to stop this thing, to fight it—I CANNOT! It is TOO POWERFUL for me!

“Your father tried to be a hero, and now he is just a pathetic THING!

My mind balked at—“But—I HAVE to ... help—somehow! If I can. If I can—save you someh—”

“FOOLISH BOY!” she snapped “You weren’t LISTENING to me! I do. NOT. WANT. To be. Saved!

“Brad is my WHOLE WORLD now. If you try to take me away from that, I will FIGHT you! To the DEATH, Paul!

“I WILL hurt you1 I MIGHT kill you! To SURVIVE! With ... Brad ...”

We’d both run out of words. My mind had been stretched as far as it could stretch, and it still couldn’t fit around ... whatever this was ...

“I’m waiting patiently, people,” Brad’s voice came from the other room, “but there’s a limit to my patience! Get the kid up to speed, Terri, and let’s get on to the orientation.”

“We need to go,” Mom informed me curtly, but my mind snapped onto something.

“Waitaminute! You blushed!”

“What?” she scowled at me, irritated that I was dawdling.

“Earlier,” I explained, “when Paul made you say that you were nothing but a desperately needy fuck machine. You blushed!”

“Yeah, well,” she scowled again, darker this time, “forgive me if DEMEANING MYSELF in front of my son still gives me a qualm or two.”

“But you just said that there was no hope for you, that Brad had humiliated and demeaned you SO MUCH that you don’t even bother to blush anymore.”

“Paul—no—” she started to get the gist of where I was going.

“But you DID blush! There IS still hope for you!”

“No! Paul, don’t you DARE!”

I held a treasure in my insight! A treasure of HOPE! “There IS hope, Mom,” I gushed in a whisper, “There IS! For you! And maybe even for Dad!”

“GodDAMMit, Paul! No! Don’t—”

I had to commit—or she was going to physically throw me out of the house. “C’mon, Mom, Brad is getting impatient,” I rushed to the door.

“Goddammit!” Theresa muttered angrily, “Goddammit! Goddammit!”

You foolish, FOOLISH idiot bastard! This was exactly what I needed to prevent, she berated herself. There was only one course of action here, and she had laid it out for her son. And ... the IDIOT had to try to go be a hero.

Heroes get killed. Heroes get fates WORSE than death. And her son ...

Ohgodhelphim, she spontaneously prayed quickly. He doesn’t have a clue what’s involved here. If he did, he WOULD run as far and as fast as he could. God and heaven, please forgive him his foolishness, and PROTECT HIM! PLEASE!

And I will try to talk some SENSE into his little IDIOT ASS! she promised.

She sat there, clenched in anger and fear.

“Goddammit, Paul!” she thought, “My life is UNBEARABLE now! It CAN’T get any worse!

“Not unless ... YOU get trapped here too ...

“Or ... if you try to be a hero and forcibly take me away from here. And I ... kill you ... before I can stop myself ...”

A sob burst out of her, and tears squeezed out of her eyes, and Theresa allowed herself a moment more for a desperate prayer. “God help us! Please ... help us.”

Then she swallowed the sobs and wiped the tears from her eyes—Daddy didn’t like the way crying made her eyes red and puffy.