The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Finley ran towards the fearful shrieks and angry barking.

It was stupid. He didn’t know how to deal with a pack of feral mutts beyond possibly getting chewed on, but something in those dismal cries dragged his feet into an all-out sprint, book bag jouncing awkwardly at his side.

“Idiot, all you had to do was get on the damn bus.” The scrawny youth berated himself, rounding a corner and nearly tripping over a toppled garbage can. “Downtown isn’t safe after dusk, and look at you now, acting like a fat-headed fool.”

Another scream, more baying, and the sounds of cruel laughter echoed from the grimy alleyway cutting between a shuttered pawn shop and a boarded-up storefront. He slowed to catch a breath and cast about for help. The darkening street was empty of traffic, and the lamps flickered fitfully above in a foreboding fashion.

The south side of Madison was unappealing enough during daylight hours; after sunset, it became a crime-infested hellhole. Finley knew all about seedy bars, unlicensed alchemists, and illicit flesh peddlers who nested like rats in the shady part of town.

The ounce of Devil’s Lettuce in his bag was a testament to their entrepreneurial spirit.

Now, his hare-brained plans to earn some extra dough by selling chop to clueless college kids were going to get him mauled.

“Stupid Fae whore. You’re gonna regret waltzing onto our turf, flashing your disgusting tits and ass at our men.” Spat a voice that doubtless smoked a pack a day.

“Please… I-I’m lost and didn’t realize this was claimed territory. Call off your hounds; let me pass in peace, and I shall depart your holdings forthwith.”

The oddly archaic patois of the panicked feminine reply captured Finley’s attention enough to risk a peek into the shadows. Two dumpy middle-aged women dressed alike in denim on denim had… something cornered against a chain link fence. They clutched taut leashes as three snarling dogs leaped and snapped at their terrified prey.

Were those fucking Pomeranians?

The ill-tempered fuzzballs yipped and nipped at a shivering pile of dirty rags wedged between the fence and a rusty dumpster while the menacing pair cackled.

“I don’t think we will, girl. You fairy bitches should all go back to where you came from, not bewitching our husbands and sons with your foul magic, luring them into depravity. Well, you’re going to learn this is a good, god-fearing neighborhood, and your kind ain’t welcome around here.”

Finley had heard enough.

Anti-Fae sentiment wasn’t uncommon in the decades since the Celestial Conjunction, but he wasn’t about to stand by while poorly attired bigots armed with toy dogs threatened an innocent. He had about enough backbone to face down those odds.

That, and a handy length of splintered wood, looking like a broken table leg, stuck out amongst the trash scattered across the sidewalk. He scooped it up with clammy fingers.

“Hey, you leave her alone!” He waved the improvised bludgeon, trying to project a commanding tone. “She said she would leave. This doesn’t have to get ugly.”

Two cold, flinty glares turned on Finley. Creased brows pinched in irritation. They muttered curses in low voices but yanked on the leashes, dragging their yapping pooches as they exited the dirty alleyway, shouldering roughly past him as they left.

“Goddamn fairy fucker.” The chain smoker griped, letting her furry pup snap at Finley’s ankle. He hopped away with a yelp. “Best watch yourself around these parts, boy. We’ll not soon forget this.”

A spike of anxiety lanced his thudding heart until they were gone, and Finley rushed to the trembling heap of tattered cloth curled into a ball beside the dumpster.

“Are you okay, Miss?”

Enchanting sapphire eyes peered back at him. Bright as a cloudless summer sky and wide with relief. Hair like molten gold spilled from beneath a threadbare blanket that shrouded the crouching form, and just a hint of supple, bronzed flesh could be seen under the many layers of raggedy cloth.

The sweet scent of tropical flowers quickly overpowered the reek of stinking refuse in the close confines of the alley, making Finley’s mind swim with the dizzying aroma.

“You... you rescued me.” A breathy voice like the wind rustling autumn leaves whispered in awe. “A knight errant has come to the aid of this forest maiden and saved me from harm. The stories of mortal heroes are true. After so many long years, I have finally found my valiant defender.”

Delicate hands lifted to push back the ratty covering like a wedding veil. The face beneath was streaked with dirt but undeniably alluring. Lips as red and juicy as ripe summer berries quirked into a shy, nervous smile. A wilted flower crown adorned a mass of tangled honey locks.

Even as Finley stared into her captivating eyes, the blossoms opened, and a puff of golden pollen dusted the cracked cement around her bare feet.

“What… who are you?” He stammered, adrenaline still riding his veins.

“I am Aurelia, dear hero.” The gorgeous Fae allowed the stained fabric to slide off her slim shoulders, revealing the deep slopes of her tanned cleavage. “The fates and stars have seen fit to bless this wandering woodland spirit by bringing us together in this strange land. You saved me from those wicked crones and their nasty creatures, for which I shall be forever in your debt.”

“Ah… don’t mention it. Look, we should probably hightail it out of here before they come back with company. There’s a bus stop one block over. Where are you staying?”

“With you, of course, Sir Knight. Destiny has bonded us this eve.” Aurelia said demurely, fluttering luxurious lashes at Finley. Her brilliant sapphire gaze fixated on him. “Where you go, I follow, lending what little aid I can on our journeys together. May I know my handsome savior’s name?”

“I don’t know about any of that other stuff, but you can call me Finley.” He reached down to help the bedraggled beauty to her feet. “I live in student accommodation on campus. Strictly no Fae allowed, but we’ll see about getting you cleaned up at least. I’m guessing you don’t have a few bucks for bus fare either?”

“Sadly, I have not witnessed any stags since leaving my homeland.” She sighed, rising and pressing her firm body into his skinny frame. The tropical aroma enveloped him entirely, and sprinkles of glistening pollen drifted around them. “I dearly miss their mating calls and the clashes of the bulls in the fall. So lively and primal in their passions.”

“Yeah. Okay. Great. I’ll take that as a no.” Finley muttered, looking up at her. Aurelia had over five inches on him. Long, tall, graceful inches, which his hardening crotch didn’t mind a bit. “It’ll be fine. It’s only one night, then we’ll find someone who can get you home or wherever you are headed.”

“Thank you, my bold protector.” She crooned, draping slender arms around his neck before leaning in for a brief but fierce kiss.

That was over a month ago.

Carl jingled his keys conspicuously as he locked the front door.

“Mom, are you home yet?” He called into the cozy living space.

Silence greeted the dark-haired sophomore. With a grin, he cast his ball cap onto a coat hook and hurried to the kitchen to unpack the prize smuggled in his backpack.

The previous evening at his part-time job was beyond crazy.

As the only son of Puerto Rican immigrants without a lick of athletic prowess, it was drilled into Carl from a young age that he would be earning his way through college—and no, getting a college education was not up for debate.

Clarita and Mateo Burgos, his mother and father, had not sailed to the Land of the Free—practically swam the distance to hear them recount it—to raise a lazy flojo or freeloader. They worked themselves to the bone at thankless jobs to provide for their beloved Carlos, and he was expected to do no less in return.

That was fine, even if juggling nighttime employment, study, and sleep while maintaining a passable GPA was a burden. Carl honestly appreciated the sacrifices his parents made to grant him the opportunity, and their tireless work ethic was apparently genetic.

Sure, the evening catering gig was far from glamorous. Still, every dime went towards tuition, and he held out hope that his experiences serving canapes to the more moneyed set could be wrangled into a laudable tell-all essay somewhere in his sociology degree.

Because, all too often, people forgot that the faceless Latino wearing a monkey suit and pouring overpriced champagne had ears, and sometimes, very rarely, Carl got to see some truly outrageous shit.

“Ah, there you are.” He smiled, sliding the styrofoam box from his bag and gently resting it on the laminate countertop. “My golden ticket to the night of my life.”

Employment and study were all well and good, Carl considered, but he was still a red-blooded male at college. He craved the excitement and range of experiences his fellow students so freely enjoyed. Moreso given that he was enrolled at none other than Madison University; the flagship campus that admitted the beautiful and mysterious Fae into their hallowed halls.

The global turmoil sparked by the Celestial Conjunction and the return of magic to the mortal realm last century had eventually reduced to a manageable simmer. The Folk were back along with all the arcane bullshittery that came with them.

Satyrs, leprechauns, sprites, dryads, and every other variety of mythical beastie could be found carving their nook into modern earth life. Goblins and gnomes, in particular, had taken to the manufacturing industries in a big way, and the average height of an employee in Amazon’s distribution hubs was under four feet tall.

Several earth elementals had settled in Yellowstone National Park, disappointing Volcanologists and doomsday preppers with the subsequent drop in seismic activity.

The new postcards featuring gigantic women formed from living lava relaxing naked in bubbling tar pits with their fiery geolithic knockers out were pretty great though. They were an effective hook to draw tourism back to revel in the wonders of the natural world.

The Fae were everywhere, insinuating themselves into human culture at every level. Carl had dropped into the local 7-Eleven last week to purchase a stick of gum, only to find a hulking, cow-horned minotress with udders and biceps larger than his skull squeezed into a uniform apron behind the register.

She had a bashful smile and dewy doe eyes as she rang up his purchase, toying coyly with the brass ring in her bovine nose, asking him if there was anything else—anything at all—she could assist him with.

The Folk were all like that—enticingly exotic, primarily female, and randier than a caravan of stoats. Apparently, it had something to do with a declining male population in their home realm, but all Carl knew for certain was that a lot of them were flocking to the more… adult industries.

In many cases, on actual wings.

Opening the box with slow reverence, he grinned at the baked tidbits within. They glimmered with golden flecks, half a dozen bite-sized quiches procured from the frat mixer last night.

The school was already abuzz with sordid rumors of the party—unbelievable tales of wild sex and unquenchable lust fueled by magics unknown.

Unknown to most others, that was. Carl had been there, hidden in plain sight by virtue of his waiter’s garb and a serving tray, blending into the kitchen’s background when the senior brothers of Beta Theta Fi started dusting entire platters of appetizers like fields of corn.

They had been excited about a new party drug, and its effects did not disappoint.

The outright orgy that had followed was the stuff of campus legends. Carl had watched with fascination as young coeds literally busted out of their suddenly inadequate tops and slinky club dresses. Breasts expanding, tummies shrinking, legs lengthening, and butts growing thicker.

He had threaded through the gyrating party-goers, pushing glittery food into hungry hands and viewing acts of depravity that would give a dead man a hard-on. Not that stiff dicks had been in short supply. Even the most modestly endowed males in attendance were sporting eye-gouging boners.

Guys and girls fucked like pornstars. Their altered physiques supercharged to the point of horny madness. It was like a cathouse on crack, reckless and steamy with sticky heat. Nobody cared about risks or consequences, only concerned with getting off in every way imaginable.

It had all been very hot and extremely irresponsible, in Carl’s opinion.

Like any good Spanish catholic, he was leery of witchcraft. Fae magic may have featured in Madison U’s current curriculum, but he kept to the strictly human sciences. As a cautious, type-A personality, Carl didn’t go in for surprises unless they were thoroughly researched and proven, beyond a doubt, to be safe.

That was why he had absconded with his styrofoam container of sparkling treats, waiting patiently to hear the eventual outcome or ultimate fallout from the evening’s festivities rather than joining like an impetuous knucklehead.

Apparently, the physical changes were only temporary. Campus security had swooped in and scooped up the worst cases for holding in their magically warded overnight lockup. By lunchtime the next day, most offenders were released with a stern warning, sheepish grins, and appropriately proportioned college student bodies.

At least those whose reputations hadn’t taken a beating. A few key members of the famously stuck-up Delta Xi Gamma sorority had come away with egg—or something of a similar viscosity—on their snobby faces.

With any lingering concerns put to rest, Carl was ready to expand his horizons with a cute coed or two. A few names and faces came to mind—freewheeling hotties who weren’t averse to a good time or his flirtatious overtures. Adding a pinch of gold dust would seal the deal on a spectacular night of magically enhanced boning.

Opening the fridge, he secreted the pastries away behind a brown paper bag of cheese quesitos on the bottom shelf. A yawn creaked his jaw, and the idea of a quick nap before tackling the day’s reading material was very appealing.

“I’ll be back for you later.” He whispered before shutting the door.

“They’ve extended your contract? How much longer?” Clarita held the phone between shoulder and ear, draping her coat across the back of a chair. “Another week? I will miss you, corazón, but I understand.”

The call ended too soon. As an offshore worker, Mateo labored for back-breaking hours and could only use his cell phone during between shifts. They were fortunate to have service at all. Only a few oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico had signal boosters; most relied on satellite communication or spotty wi-fi to maintain contact with the mainland.

She sighed. Her husband was a good man who slaved endlessly to provide for his family, but she missed his presence dearly. Sleeping alone in their marital bed for weeks at a time was not the dream she had envisioned upon immigrating to the United States.

They hadn’t been blind to the hardships laid out before them when making that life-changing decision. The journey had been expensive, and the visas were costly, but in the end, they had made it as legitimate green card holders, prepared to do whatever it took to build a new life as a family.

Sweat and sacrifice paid for the humble tract house in a low-income suburb of Madison. A neatly kept plaster and tile construction that abutted the neighbors on both sides. Clarita could extend her arm out a window and touch the untreated timber fence that divided them, and the backyard was barely a strip of dying weeds with a small herb garden cultivated against the rear wall.

She was proud of the home regardless. She and Mateo had earned it together. Endless hours at the aged care facility as a nursing assistant kept her away more than she would have liked, so she could only imagine her husband’s frustration at his prolonged absences.

She prayed nightly for his safe return.

The soft beats of lofi music hummed down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Clarita smiled fondly at the familiar sound; her precious Carlos was home and studying diligently as always. He was growing into a fine young man—earnest and hardworking—inheriting his father’s tall, swarthy frame and charming smile with her dark hair and piercing hazel eyes.

As a mother, she knew she was biased but didn’t miss assessing glances the local chikas sent his way.

Gracias a Dios her son wasn’t like the other skirt chasers swaggering around the streets like adolescent peacocks, Clarita thought, stepping out of her white flats and wiggling her toes. He was going to get a proper college education and make something of himself. The Burgos family name wouldn’t be remanded to the ranks of those struggling from paycheck to paycheck forever.

They would be more than another overlooked statistic in the soul-grinding system of bureaucracy.

Wandering into the kitchen on stockinged feet, she stretched and groaned as several tired muscles protested in complaint. Her stomach growled too. The corporate-run care facility kitchen charged staff and residents alike for meals, an expense Clarita couldn’t justify on a strict budget.

Home cooking was simply more frugal.

Opening the refrigerator, she spotted her lunch, forgotten in the pre-dawn rush to catch the early bus—a brown paper bag with grease stains at the bottom. The quesitos would be fine after a minute in the toaster oven, something to tide her over until she prepared a hearty dinner of asopao de pollo.

Setting the bag aside, she checked to ensure she had the ingredients. Chicken thighs, celery, corn, onion, and peppers were all there. Clarita was hunting for the cilantro when a small styrofoam container stuffed in the back caught her attention.

With a delighted smile, she straightened and inspected the contents. Six fancy little egg tarts sparkled up at her.

Her Carlos was such a considerate boy. Bringing home little treats like these when he could, swearing they didn’t match her empanadas in taste and sharing them with his aging mother.

“Oh, my sweet Cariño.”

The baby cannoli last week had been lovely, crunchy pastry powdered with sugar and filled with creamy ricotta. These quiches shimmered expensively with confectioner’s gold, and Clarita’s stomach grumbled.

Popping one between her lips, she chewed, then moaned in pleasure. The delicate flavor was divine, even if the crust was a bit stale. Dumping the bag of quesitos back on the bottom shelf, she turned her thoughts to a relaxing shower before dinner.

And maybe another tiny quiche to quell her hunger. They were incredibly moreish.

Clarita frowned at her naked self in the bathroom mirror as she waited for the shower to warm.

She hated to waste water, but the pilot light in their dinky gas heater had a bad habit of extinguishing itself without warning, and an unexpectedly cold shower wasn’t pleasant at the end of an arduous day.

Shaking out her strict bun of raven hair, Clarita tried to ignore the hints of gray as she combed out the tangles with her fingers. They seemed premature. Too distinguished for a woman in only her fourth decade. But life would take its due, and at least she didn’t have the extra padding many others gained in the inevitable march toward their more venerable years.

Twelve-hour days of lifting, fetching, and pushing around the senile in uncooperative wheelchairs was better than any gym membership. Not eating as well as she could also contributed to maintaining her lean, sinewy figure. Stress, too, possibly gifted Clarita with the wiry frame of a scrappy bantamweight fighter rather than the willowy beauty of her youth.

The shine was definitely fading from that apple, and no amount of exercise, intentional or circumstantial, could combat The Dreaded Sag.

The days of dressing in sprayed-on leather pants and cute, wispy tops for Mateo were in the past. Now, her wardrobe heavily featured durable jeans, hard-wearing knee-length dresses that covered the varicose veins on her skinny thighs, and a lot of comfy flannel—nearly all of which was purchased at thrift stores.

A sense of existential angst tugged at her tummy, and Clarita munched on another glittering pastry to settle it.

Bringing food into the bathroom wasn’t exactly sanitary. But she kept a clean home and hadn’t realized she was still carrying the takeout container until the door was already sealed and securely locked.

Nothing else for it then, she decided, wiping the crumbs from the corners of her lips.

Steam enveloped Clarita when she stepped into the tub. The hot flow massaged her skin, delivering a mildly scalding tingle and warming her to the bone. She preferred her showers to be nearly unbearably hot. The heat scoured away tension and grime, reddening her coppery flesh like a boiled crayfish.

Reaching for the body wash—a no-name discount brand purchased with coupons at the grocery club—she quickly lathered up her arms and legs, then paused after the first pass of the sudsy cloth across her chest.

Something was different. The business-like act of cleaning herself had taken on an odd sensation. Perky brown nipples stood at attention, sending tantalizing sparks through her nerves as soap dripped from stiff tips.

Curious, she experimentally brushed gentle fingers over an engorged peak…

“Oh! Mmmmmm~...”

The sounds that escaped Clarita weren’t particularly motherly, but neither was the rush of desire that spiked her stomach. A second stroke produced the same result, thrilling flutters that reminded her how far away Mateo was.

Her husband was a passionate lover, fierce and possessive in their love-making. Clarita thoroughly enjoyed welcoming him home, especially with their son away most evenings, but she rarely did much for herself in his absence.

There was always too much to do. Too many concerns and pressures sapping her energy. A decent night’s sleep was more important.

Only the needless lists of tasks and worries were melting away, dissolving under the steamy spray and the coalescing thrum of need clutching at her core. Sleep was the furthest thing from Clarita’s mind at the moment.

Circling the washcloth around her modest breasts pulled gasps and sultry moans from the Latina housewife’s lips. She tried to clamp down on them, biting her tongue, aware of her child in the bedroom across the hall.

Her grown child—practically a man now.

So tall and handsome like his father with that fire of youth she sorely missed. Driven to succeed, yet dutiful and conscientious of those important to him.

Her sweet Cariño.

“Aah! Dios mío… Oommph!”

Lines of soap trickled down Clarita’s belly. Iridescent bubbles slid over tensed muscles, seeking the bushy valley between her clenching thighs. She could feel them like the stroke of a feather, teasing toward parts untended for far too long.

Her tits were slathered with foam. Her hands squeezed and kneaded frantically at the tender sunkissed mounds. Raven hair plastered her blushing face and bunched shoulders, running with searing water like a conduit across her glistening wet skin.

Every rub and pinch was electrifying. Rising in amplitude as the temperature became stifling. She wheezed in short breaths, almost unraveling from the jolts of rapture her hyper-sensitive nips delivered. The moisture gathering in her loins was not from the shower, plump and aching, but she didn’t dare explore that prurient possibility.

“Gah! Ooooh… por favor, it’s too much! Hnnnh~...”

Clarita was a warhead primed to detonate, audibly and messily, with her son only a few thin sheets of plaster wall away.

Her darling Carlos was studious and striking with his masculine charms. Selfless and giving, never balking a chore or request. Humble. Apparently unaware of his rugged good looks and oblivious to the lingering stares chikas sent his way.

She loved him utterly. Adored the man he had grown into. It felt appalling to fixate upon her perfect, strapping boy at a time like this, while teetering on a highwire above a bottomless crevasse of sinful gratification…

Then the trail of slippery lather cascaded over her juicy nether lips, washing away the thatch of coarse hair and triggering a thermonuclear response.

“No… Oooh! Cariño—Mmmmff!”

The bitter, metallic taste of lye pervaded Clarita’s taste buds when she shoved the soapy washcloth into her mouth to muzzle a euphoric wail. Gigawatts of high-voltage bliss wracked her nervous system, lighting up her dizzy brain like a Christmas tree and paralyzing her with orgasmic convulsions.

When reality finally swam back into focus, she was curled into a tight ball in the tub, cold water bathing her body, with a deep glow of satisfaction radiating from her center.

Dragging herself up on shaky legs, Clarita nearly stumbled when she saw herself in the foggy bathroom mirror.

She looked… rejuvenated, as though the brief but tempestuous climax in the shower were the equivalent of a full spa day. Even soggy with water and fuzzy afterglow, her skin looked firmer and healthier, hair of the darkest obsidian shining wet on her shoulders. Wrinkles and the droop of time’s passage wiped away like chalk off a slate.

Clarita’s appearance was touched up, shored up, and the niggling pain in her hip was gone.

With the agility and balance of a woman half her age, she skipped out of the tub and spun into a fluffy robe. She felt giddy from that single release. Daring. It had been terribly naughty, thinking of her beloved Carlos when she came.

Giggling at the thought, she slipped another glimmering tart into her mouth.

A slight sense of wrongness threatened to sour Clarita’s ebullient mood as she ransacked her wardrobe.

When had she become so drab?

All of the outfits were ancient. Faded and worn like she had been feeling more and more lately.

Much of it was strewn across her bed and carpet as though she were a child playing dress-up with her Mama’s clothing. Totally bland and depressing dresses, pants, and shirts were discarded by the armload. Yanked off cheap wire hangers and tossed aside in disgust.

She used to be fun. Flirty. Desirable. Mateo would take her salsa dancing, dressed to kill in short skirts and low-cut tops and heels—Dios, the disastrously high heels she would wear as they moved to the rhythm, pressed close together. Where were they now?

Awful flats and orthopedic horrors clattered about her ankles as Clarita dug through the neat rows of shoes with rising apprehension.

Searching for a lingering scrap of the young, vivacious beauty she once was and desperately yearned to recapture.

Would that be so bad? An infinitesimally small part of her balked at the idea of going backward. Regressing… was that the term the talking heads used? Mutton dressed as lamb, her Mama would have said. But Clarita didn’t feel old or look it, for that matter.

She kept glancing at the standing mirror in the corner. The terry cloth robe had fallen open in her manic hunt. Taut olive flesh spilled out, rich and round—fuller than she remembered, to be honest. Her younger self had been lithe and graceful, rocking skinny jeans and leather hotpants that showed off her long legs and lissome figure.

Who was this woman with flashes of scarlet in her glossy mane of midnight tresses and inexplicably bigger bust?

Then her questing hand closed over something slim and sharp. Fingers tracing the shape of a stiletto. Thin, pliable straps of leather tangled in her grasp.

A lost treasure unearthed from her distant past.

Slowly. Gently. Clarita withdrew the shoe and cradled it reverently against her swollen chest. A crimson spike heel so tall it could snap an ankle on a whim.

Her poor, neglected pussy juiced at the discovery, and she lowered the pointed toe between her slickening thighs. It coasted along her budding pearl with zero resistance, drawing forth an ecstatic shudder.

The dulled, blood-red leather took on a fresh shine as Clarita polished it with her womanly nectar, sliding through her cleft and producing wondrous friction.

“Fu-fuck… hyaaa~... so hot.” She stammered, hips widening a fraction with each needy gyration.

Her free hand swept about the clutter, seeking the second shoe. Soon, she had the matching pair, licking one while grinding on the other. Her lapping tongue ran up the four-inch, narrow heel as though she could absorb the sex appeal by sucking it into her puckered lips.

That felt good, perfectly natural, having something long and stiff in her mouth, if on a small scale. She sucked and slurped on it anyway, luscious lashes fluttering as scintillating embers ignited, both above and below. The edge of the insole dredged sopping folds, making her thighs quiver at the rush of sensation.

“Mmmhmmm!”

Then, the soft music from across the hallway stopped, and Clarita’s heavy-lidded eyes shot open.

Had she moaned too loud? Was Carlos—her big, studmuffin son—alert and listening for strange noises now? Would he be stepping through the bedroom door to check on her—like the considerate and caring man he had become—to discover his practically naked mother in a state of biblical sin?

No, no, no, no, no!

Her teeth chomped down on the stiletto heel like a bite stick as the scenario sprung to life in Clarita’s imagination….

Carlos’ muscular silhouette darkening the doorway, handsome face in shadow, looking down in stern disapproval at his mewling Mama. Her, begging for his forgiveness, cumming hard and vocally from humping some totally hot, sexy-time footwear like a shameful, perverted puta.

What would happen next? Would her sweet Cariño turn away in revulsion, or maybe—just maybe—he’d lurch forward to seize and punish her wickedness with his manly strength? To bend his depraved mother over a knee and spank some repentance out of her.

“Pleease… Dios! Yes, Carlos, please!”

Clarita’s ripening body thundered with gut-curdling passion, nearly breaking apart when she was flung into the throes of a forbidden fantasy that burrowed down through her bliss-addled psyche to etch itself onto her soul.

A silent scream, bereft of air, departed her straining lungs. Bone-shaking spasms of carnal elation shook her like a feather in a gale. The crashing pleasure was twisted. Improper. Vulgar. She wallowed in it like a drowning swimmer, sinking in an ocean of illicit desires.

She remained locked in that position, hunched in shivering climax, not daring to breathe, until the distant music resumed playing, and she eventually relaxed.

When Clarita’s head rose from where it was tucked against her increasingly pillowy chest, her hazel eyes fell upon something hanging forgotten in the far rear of her closet.

It wasn’t new; she recognized the outfit from her younger years, but it wasn’t boring or drab either. The fabric shone, buckles gleamed, and hints of intricate lace peeked back at her.

Her smile was wide and relieved when she rose to stand on unsteady feet. It was exactly what Clarita had been searching for.

She simply hadn’t known it until now.

Back in the bathroom, Clarita sat on the side of the tub, drying her nails.

They had grown from worn-down stubs to proper talons, and as much as that should have worried her, she adored the way the fairy floss pink varnish caught the light.

Her wrists tinkled with several silvery bangles as she fastened large golden hoop earrings and swiveled her head to admire them in the mirror, brushing back a dense curtain of silky hair to do so.

Deep, henna-red hair, from root to butt-sweeping end. That was different too, but wasn’t that a good thing? Clarita was beautiful, desirable, and longed to stand out again. To turn heads while sashaying down the street as she had in her prime. One head in particular kept leaping to mind.

“Ooh, my Cariño…”

A microtremor of pleasure vibrated through her at the thought. The recurring mental picture of her strong, dashing son—that easy smile and kind, intelligent eyes, his powerful jaw and expressive brow…

She gnawed on her plump bottom lip, biting back a gasp, letting a delicate finger slide under her skirt to tickle her dewy bud.

“Hmmmph!”

The shock of ecstasy was immediate and moist. Not earthshaking like earlier, nothing as debilitating or ear-catching.

Just enough to keep riding the edge, maintaining her slick pussy at a slow boil. Dizzy little cummies looping through her core on repeat.

The mini skirt was a blessed find—a real blast from her past, hanging forgotten behind decades of irksome fashion compromises. Fake black leather hugged her substantial hips like a covetous lover, ending a meager inch below her dripping sex, slippery juices lending extra shine to the polymer plastic.

It sat high on her waist—which had narrowed to a skinny teen size—and displayed a salacious amount of supple, bronzed thighs, miraculously lacking unsightly hair or angry blue veins.

Clarita moaned, eyes closed as she licked the offending finger clean. The wrongness was still there. A distant feature in the landscape of her brain, eroding away under a constant deluge of feel-good hormones pouring from her gassed-up hypothalamus.

An unwelcome distraction. Unimportant.

What was important were her tits.

Two copper-skinned whoppers billowed from her burgundy bustier like inflating weather balloons. They jutted out above the belts and corsetry cinching her tiny torso, overflowing the embroidered satin cups to form a firm shelf of sensitive tit-flesh right below her sagging chin with tight, burrowing nipples.

She’d never been so large in her youth and didn’t own a bra that would contain their humongous heft, but that didn’t appear to be a problem. They sat high and proud on her chest in defiance of gravity like ripe melons waiting to be squeezed.

So she did, with knee-weakening results.

“Mmmmff~… yes, baby.”

Wet splotches darkened the sheer fabric covering Clarita’s pointing nips as she whimpered. Breast milk staining the satin and leaking down her groping fingers in white rivulets.

It was amazing, sending warm waves of pleasure through the soft mammalian tissue.

It was motherly. A gift from god reaffirming her primary purpose in life: to nurture and nourish her family.

It was womanly, sexy, and exhilarating—awakening feelings and sensations entombed beneath a mountain of maternal duty and responsibility that suddenly seemed silly. She didn’t have to choose between being one or the other.

Clarita was a modern lady and could wear more than one proverbial hat.

Por qué no los dos?

Clasping a lacy red choker around her neck, she glanced at the two remaining morsels glittering in their styrofoam container with a small stab of guilt.

Carlos would undoubtedly forgive her gluttony. He was such a darling boy. Still, she should save him a taste, a sample of the scrumptious treat he had generously shared with his loving Mama.

Cramming the second-to-last pastry into her mouth, Clarita shuddered and gasped in bliss. Her empty loins pulsed with an aching need as hot honey splattered her thickening thighs.

“Aaah, Cariño!”

Carl dozed fitfully, dreams of the previous night’s party dancing through his sleeping head.

Busty coeds going buck wild on their male counterpart’s stiff pricks plagued his restless slumber. He was back in that crowded frat house again, naked this time except for a pair of gray boxers and a serving tray holding a shimmering heap of golden dust.

It was difficult to navigate the press of sweaty, rutting bodies without spilling the precarious pile. It shifted like the finest sand at every jostle, precious particulate drifting through the air like dandelion fluff to settle on naked nubile flesh.

“Pardon me. Coming through.” He apologized, sidestepping two ebony-skinned nymphets sporting obscenely huge knockers alternating between making out with and jacking off a brutishly built athlete. “Mind where you point that thing, please.”

All around Carl were college students grown to pornographic proportions and playing the role. Torn clothing hung in rags from their lewdly transformed bodies, baring straining muscles, expanded bosoms, and succulent butts as they fucked, fondled, and sucked each other to hedonistic new heights.

Each time the golden powder alighted on perspiring skin, it was immediately licked up, the lucky beneficiary groaning in pleasure and climaxing explosively. Copious expulsions from various sexes slickened the floor beneath his unshod feet.

Why was he carrying a tray of magical dust again? Where was he taking it?

Carl didn’t know. It was imperative not to lose any. Something about his job, or maybe his own vague future plans?

The nail-hammering hardness in his boxers made it difficult to remember.

A splash of wetness struck his face, making him wince. Hopefully, that was from a feminine source, though it was just as likely male ejaculate spouted with fountainous force.

Steading his footing, Carl continued to weave. The moisture on his cheeks dribbled past his mouth. He didn’t mean to taste it, but the consistency was not that of his own gooey releases, which was heartening. Fragrant and mildly sweet. nothing offensive or man-ish as he had feared.

More spray peppered his nose and chin, nearly causing him to upend the serving tray and its priceless cargo. Warm and pungent. Slightly spicy. It bathed his parched lips.

Then a disembodied voice whispered in his ear, loving and sensual, cutting through the raucous din of orgasmic cries and thudding music.

“Carlos… my Cariño… wake up. Mama needs you…”

Abruptly, his jaw was levered open by invisible hands, and something dry and flakey was stuffed down his throat.

Choking, Carl awoke in alarm. The dream dissipated instantly, but the obstruction in his airway remained. He tried to sit upright, to hack out the blockage, but a weight pinned his shoulders, and small hands covered his mouth.

“You must chew. Chew and swallow, Cariño” The voice instructed from above. “Mama is sorry, but she couldn’t resist temptation any longer.”

Spluttering out crumbs, he coughed and gulped, working his tongue until the suffocating lump moved down the correct passage. Oxygen restored, panic receding, Carl stared at his assailant.

…and copped an eyeful of glistening pink pussy.

“What… who?” He rasped, cut short by a drizzle of womanly wetness across his face. “Let me go!”

Spread knees rested on his shoulders, pressing them into the bed. Smooth, bronzed thighs loomed on either side of his skull, joining at the hairless pelvis shrouded by a teensy black mini skirt that concealed exactly nothing.

Only by craning his neck could Carl catch a glimpse of a massive rack spilling from a burgundy corset blocking his view and a swath of loose crimson locks floating diaphanously around a lush, mature figure.

“I want to, Cariño. I really do!” The pleading voice was familiar. “But Mama needs her big, strong boy. Your Papa has been absent too long, and I am consumed with urges. Terrible desires that burn me from within, scorching my heart, and only a good man—a diligent and caring man—can bank the flames.”

“Mom?!”

A few pieces clicked into place but didn’t entirely account for his circumstances.

“Yes, baby. It’s me. Please… forgive your poor mother.” Clarita’s words were a husky moan. “She is simply a weak woman driven by her fiery passions.”

Carl might have objected—formed some manner of protest—but before he could, she stretched languidly, covering his prone form like a voluptuous blanket, and wrapped gentle fingers around the tumescent outline in his boxers.

The contact was as electric as it was unexpected. Carl was still at full mast from the dream and almost bucked Clarita off him in shock. She wasn’t heavy, and he had sufficient strength, but a sense of erotic gravitas kept them trapped together.

The redheaded sexpot with the voice of his mother cooed appreciatively while she stroked him, slow and lovingly, through the worn-thin underwear.

“You’re so thick and hard, Cariño. Does it hurt? Let Mama comfort you. Let her perform her motherly duties.”

You—you mustn’t… stop, Mom.” He had meant to say it as two distinct rejections of her advances, but the words blurred together in the confusion of taboo touch and a sleep-addled mind.

With a throaty purr, Clarita relaxed atop him, her moist cunt settling an inch short of his parted lips, fogging him in the perfume of her arousal. Her smooth, teasing motions built in confidence to a firm, heavenly pumping rhythm.

“Don’t worry, baby. Mama won’t stop until you feel better. It’s so large and girthy. I’m jealous of your future wife.” She whispered, tugging down Carl’s waistband to unbridle his engorged length. “This will be her property someday, but tonight, it belongs to your Mama.”

An exhalation of warm air tickled his stiffness; then Clarita’s tongue painted a line of wet heat up the sensitive underside from balls to twitching tip. It dragged a moan from him, resonating with her own satisfied noises as if she had tasted divinity.

“Mom, please… we can’t!” He babbled into her snatch. The dribble of her juices had graduated to a steady flow across his stubbly chin. “It’s wrong and—”

Then, something hit Carl’s stomach with all the volatility of a detonated depth charge. Blood surged through his restrained body, infusing muscle and ligaments with ferocious vigor. His cock lurched, and his balls rumbled like two diesel engines roaring to action.

“—AAAAGH!! Fuck!” He cried, his mother quivering above him.

“Ooh, Cariño! Your words… your hot breath feels incredible on Mama’s pussy.” She whimpered, smearing her drenched crotch over his mouth and cheeks. “Please, keep talking… Mmmhmm~! Comfort your poor Mama too.”

“Hmmnph!”

Clarita attacked him again, buttery soft hands and clever tongue lavishing his shaft in forbidden affection. The full, supple curves of her hourglass figure melted into him. Heavy, bulging tits pressed flat against his naked abs. The squirming of her flaring hips and generously rump caused the miniature leather skirt to ride up to her tinyfied waist, exposing aches of round olive flesh.

Her slightly sweet, mildly spicy flavor flipped a switch in Carl’s souped-up libido. He clamped powerful arms over her thick thighs and dove in tongue first. Lapping and slurping, hunting voraciously for more of the tangy nectar.

“Aaah, Dios mío! Your tongue is inside me! My hunky boy is so kind to his poor Mama.” Clarita crooned between adoring kisses and gentle sucks on his turgid crown. “So large and… Haaa! M-meaty… I think it’s growing bigger! My fingers won’t wrap all the way around anymore.”

Carl could sense it too. Through some manner of penile proprioception, he could feel the dense tissue swelling and lengthening in her stroking grasp. As though the rush of blood southward was adding extra capacity to accommodate the sudden migration.

His fingers sank into her abundant asscheeks, spreading them apart and opening her further for his lingual explorations. She wailed and tremored in raptures when he savaged her budding clit and soaked slit.

“Yes, baby, YES! Right there. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. You’re going to make Mama cum so hard... Hyaaaaa~!”

Bronzed thighs squeezed Carl’s skull like a vise as Clarita doused him in orgasmic honey. Her luscious body spasmed and seized, crimson curls flailing as she rode her son’s handsome face to sinful fruition, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.

Quaking with blissful aftershocks, she giggled drunkenly, bending forward to inhale a healthy glob of pearly precum gathering on his bulbous tip. She groaned at the scent of his masculine musk, vacuuming it down and smacking her pillowy lips.

“Goodness, Cariño. You treat your old Mama too well. Look at you. Still so huge and stiff. I will attend to you properly now as a loving mother should.”

Spinning to face him, Clarita smiled proudly at her boy—now a man in truth. Sitting astride his lap, she slowly unfastened the hooks of her burgundy corset and let it fall away. Her enormous coppery breasts fell free, hardly dropping at all, capped with pronounced cappuccino peaks beaded with creamy lactate.

“Oh fuck, Mom. You’re gorgeous.” Carl growled, his greedy hazel eyes consuming her like a smorgasbord of sexual wonderment. His throbbing manpole, nestled in her jiggling butt cleavage, spurted a sticky wad up her arching spine. “I want more than a taste of you.”

“Hush, baby. I know. Mama is going to take good care of you. She cannot resist any longer.” Clarita husked, gripping him by the root and rising on her knees to notch him at her sopping entrance. “Now lay back. Relax. Mama will do all the work, okay?”

She leaned down and ran her moist tongue along his muscular chest, lashing around a tight nipple on the journey to his nectar-slathered lips. They kissed passionately, drinking deep of each other for a timeless moment before she lowered herself down onto him with torturous slowness.

“There’s no need to worry. Cum whenever you like, my darling son.” She gasped as Carl’s massive cock breached her hungry hole. He groaned in horny harmony, thrusting desperately upwards. “Ah, Carlos! You’re splitting your poor Mama apart on your giant dick!”

“Jesus, Mom… you’re hotter and tighter than hell!”

“You’re entering me… aaah! That amazing cock will ruin Mama’s pussy forever!” Clarita sobbed with unfettered desire, filled to bursting with his ginormous manhood. “I’ve been dreaming of this. It’s stirring up my insides. You feel too good… hrnnnh~! You’re rubbing against Mama’s womb!”

Carl’s hands latched onto her huge new tits as she rocked and bounced atop him. His fingers sank into the cushiony flesh, his titanium-hard rod spearing into her smooth belly. They grunted and groaned like feral beasts, driven half-mad with illicit lust, their overheated bodies crashing violently together.

“I can feel it… Aaah! Incredible. So hot and good inside me! Ha-harder… Pound Mama harder, baby!” Clarita begged, swiveling her broad hips and grinding on his base. “She wants every solid inch of you!”

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

Carl didn’t know how much more he could take of the sex-crazed nympho spewing out filth in his mother’s voice. Her silky pussy walls squeezed and pulled each time he buried himself in her clingy depths as though to trap him there. Her spectacular rack jiggled heavily in his palms, stiff nipples leaking white fluid down his forearms.

“Christ, you’re leaking milk?” He exclaimed, pinching a puckered teet to coax out a cream squirt. It splattered across his chest. “You are! You’re leaking actual goddamn milk!”

“I know, Cariño, I know. Haaah! Mama can’t wait to nurse you again. Feeding her strong, virile boy makes Mama feel… Mmhmmm~... so naughty!”

If his plunging cock weren’t already at critical levels of stiffness, the sight of the obviously fertile, cum-starved goddess riding him like a demented pogo stick would have launched Carl into orbit.

Her gorgeous face was contorted with agonized arousal. Puffy, gold-flecked lips fixed in a rictus grin of carnal need as she smashed her child-bearing hips and spankable rear down on him with bruising force.

“Deeper, baby, deeper! Oooh… Mama wants you to erupt straight into her womb.” Clarita panted, brushing long, crimson curls out of her bloodshot eyes. “You can do that for me, can’t you? Paint Mama’s empty womb with your molten, manly seed!”

She planted her fists on his shoulders, pushing down with all her considerable heft, massaging and milking Carl’s rigidity in her slick, pumping channel, smothering him with her massive lactating tits.

“Hnnph…”

That was the final straw. With a muffled cry, his hyperactive balls clenched, then unleashed a river of sizzling spunk into the buxom sex-kitten. It poured into her like a busted fire hydrant, and a torrent of her slippery juices gushed in response.

”CAAARINNOOO!!” Clarita wailed, her pretty head lolled, drooling tongue dangling loose. “Thank you, baby! Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”

Carl couldn’t speak, buried in soft, creamy goodness. Muscles went limp as he shot rope after sticky rope of potent jizz inside his mother. Darkness encroached at the edges of his vision, offering the young man an escape from the insanity of his present reality.

He cast it away with a vigorous shake of his swimming skull.

“Mmmm, that was just what Mama needed.” Clarita sighed, shifting herself backward to nuzzle affectionately into the crook of Carl’s neck. Somehow she managed to keep his stubborn stiffness nestled in her overstuffed snatch despite the change in position. “You’re such a kind and attentive son, Carlos. Comforting your lonely Mama and fucking her so full with your wonderful monster dick.”

He pulsated inside her, despite the fatigue leadening his prone form.

”Dios mío, you’re still hard after all that?” She covered her mouth in shock and looked away, blushing shyly. “I suppose we could go again… if you can forgive your poor Mama’s sinful desires.”

Clarita nibbled on his collarbone as her lush hips started to shift, gyrating in small ecstatic circles. Carl growled out a wordless reply, sucking a fat nipple into his mouth to quench a sudden thirst.

Carl lay on his side with his mother in his arms. A heavy teet between his lips and hips thrusting lethargically as they indulged in a slow cuddle-fuck.

“That’s right, baby. Drink as much as you wish. Your Mama will always have more to feed her hunky boy.”

The evening had turned into night as they went at each other like bunnies hopped up on Ritalin. Only after fucking his mother raw in the shower—soapy bodies slapping together under the spray and steam—had he spotted the empty takeout container.

By then, Carl was too lost in an animal frenzy of reckless rutting to care or stop. A distant part of him knew, come morning, there would be music to face and a piper to pay. But that seemed an age away, and right now, there was a beautiful insatiable angel in his arms, lavishing him with love, affection, and no small amount of her titty cream.

The long, smooth leg hooked over his waist tugged him all the way in as Clarita shuddered through another soulful climax, bathing the sodden bedsheets with another dose of spicy nectar. The mattress beneath them squelched like a soaked sponge as they coupled.

“Mmmm, Cariño. You make Mama feel so good.” She sighed, clutching him close. Her squirting snatch convulsed around his throbbing girth. “Like a real woman again. Not a lonely, dried-up husk of my younger self struggling to get by. You have breathed new life into this old lady.”

Disengaging from her breast, Carl met his mother’s adoring stare. Her brilliant crimson hair shrouded their entwined bodies like a cloak of the softest silk, and her bright hazel eyes showed nothing but a heady blend of pride and desire for him.

A corkscrew of guilt twisted his gut.

“It’s not real, Mom.” The confession tumbled out unbidden. “The leftovers I brought home, those you ate, were laced with magic from the party I waitered last night. That is why you look and feel so different.”

“A bruja curse?” Clarita frowned but didn’t pull away, locking his hardness firmly inside her quivering quim. “You wouldn’t—”

“No, no. I think it’s Fae… sex magic? It’s difficult to explain. But the effects are temporary. We’ll be our regular selves again tomorrow. I’m very sorry. You were never meant to eat them.”

Carl watched as comprehension settled in before concern, and then an unreadable expression worked across his mother’s stunning face. She reached out a finger to rest upon his chin, wiping away a stray droplet of milk.

“My love for you has always been real, baby. No magic could replicate that.” She said sternly, then leaned in to kiss his forehead. “These changes and the feelings though—the fierce passion and energy—Mama would be lying if she said she wouldn’t miss them. It has been lonely with your father away so often, and tonight was a reminder of the wilder days of my youth.”

Clarita slipped the milky digit between her pouting lips and moaned when his cock lurched within her. A playful giggle eased the tension.

“Really? You’re not upset?” Carl gaped as she began to rock her hips and put his grumbling balls on notice. “Mom… Mama, if you keep doing that, I’m gonna—”

“Shhh, Cariño. Relax and let Mama spoil her big, strapping boy.” She purred, pussy coiling around his steely length. “Morning is still hours away, and I crave more of your manly touch. Love me, comfort me, ravish me, and trust in heaven to handle tomorrow.”

“Oh shit.” Carl gripped her waist and started hammering into his mother’s welcoming wetness. “Mama, I fucking love you!”

She cooed in delight and pressed her mouth to his ear with a teasing whisper…

“Your Papa won’t return for another week. Hmmm, perhaps you can find more magical treats for us to share?”

God help him; only a single thought flashed through Carl’s lust-drunk mind before he filled her with another boiling eruption of incestuous seed.

What was the name of the frat douche’s dealer again?

“Apparently, he calls himself Fin. The physical description they gave is short, skinny, and…” Captain James Sterling paused to quote verbatim from the printed report. It barely covered half a page, double-spaced. “...kinda nerdy. That’s all we could get before the Beta Theta Fi lawyers arrived.”

Dean Chaumers glowered at him from behind his expansive mahogany desk; hands steepled in front of a hawkish beak of a nose, cold iron rings gleaming dully on several pudgy fingers.

The dean’s office exuded authority and professionalism. Situated in the heart of the university, it was a monument to the man’s intellectual vanity and academic ambition. The entrance, marked by polished wooden doors, led to a modest yet distinguished space. The desk commanded the room, its surface adorned with neat stacks of papers and a gleaming nameplate. Behind him, shelves lined the wood-paneled walls, housing volumes of scholarly works and journals.

A pair of leather armchairs faced the desk, but James hadn’t been invited to sit.

“And how, pray tell, does that help us narrow the field of suspects, Captain?” The Head of School snarled. “Have you toured our esteemed campus recently? Other than the dubious moniker, you’ve maybe identified thirty percent of our male enrollees. Very helpful.”

The dripping sarcasm cut at James sharper than any knife. He wasn’t a detective, simply the head of a team of glorified mall cops. The rank of Captain was a job title, not an actual honorific. Nobody would be pinning medals on his chest for escorting drunken coeds back to their dorms in a golf cart.

“This could be a matter better suited for the local PD, sir.” He hazarded, standing at parade ground rest. Feet apart with hands clasped behind his back. “Drug offenses fall squarely within their jurisdiction. Magical or otherwise.”

“No police.” Chaumers sputtered, clambering to his feet. “Madison University pays you and your… minions to handle these problems discreetly. The last thing we need is our academic reputation dragged through the mud because you couldn’t keep a lid on a small drug scandal. Do your damn job and find the culprit spreading this… this…”

“Do-Me Dust, sir.” James provided helpfully when the Dean floundered.

“Ugh, how vulgar. Bring me the culprit, Captain, or I will be forced to replace you with someone who can. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir. Loud and clear.”