Hypno Mask Mother 2
* * *“Brock, I think it’s time we have a talk.”
Oh fuck, my mind whirs frantically, has she noticed that I can’t stop staring at her tits?
Even though I’d managed to convince myself that things would go back to normal after the incident a few days ago, I haven’t been able to get my mom’s perfect breasts off my mind.
(Or how amazing it felt to have her hot mouth against your cock, or how her silky-soft skin made your balls ache until you shot ropes of cum all over her slutty face.)
I shake my head, trying to get the dark, silvery thoughts out like a dog does water in its ears.
“W-what about?” I stammer, pausing my video game and clutching the controller tight to my lap.
I’ve given myself a boner thinking about things-I-promised-myself-I’d-never-think-about-again and that’s just fucking great with my mom standing grumpily in my doorway, frowning at me, and she’s probably about
to accuse me of something horrible….
Something I more than deserve to be accused of.
“Well, you can’t just spend all summer playing video games,” my mom nags, and instantly my shoulders sag in relief, realizing that we’re not about to have the world’s most uncomfortable conversation ever—even though I think I should totally get to spend the summer playing video games. “It’s not like I’m asking you to get a job or apply for college, but you shouldn’t just be faffing around. You should be being responsible, you know . . . all that man of the house stuff….”
There’s something soft and wistful in her tone that makes me look into her big blue eyes. Is my normally controlling mother being vulnerable with me? I know she’s probably scared that I’m about to fully grow up and leave her, and I know she’s probably been pretty lonely these last eighteen years raising me by herself—and never dating. While she’s never thrown the last part in my face, she hasn’t exactly made my life easy, expecting (or rather demanding) my help with everything from chores to errands to spending ‘quality’ time with her—meaning doing whatever she wants to do—so it feels pretty weird that she’s phrasing this talk as a request.
“Does the lawn need mowed again?” I ask in confusion.
She gives a big sigh, like I’m being difficult. For a moment she chews her plump lower lip, then she sighs again. “No….”
“Did I forget to take out the trash or something?”
“No.”
“The gutters then?”
“No.”
This time I give a big sigh. “So, you’re just bored and want my attention?”
“Brock!”
She looks offended, and I feel bad, but the last thing I want to do is spend the morning running errands with her, especially when the weather is so crappy (even though it’s summer) and I’ve got important time-limited missions to complete and character loot to grind.
My eyes catch on the water welling up in the corners of her eyes. Fuck. She always knows how to get to me. “Fine, just tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”
“I just wanted to talk with you, is all.”
God, she’s acting weird. I nod anyway, patting the spot beside me on the bed, before I ask, “Wanna talk in here or on the couch?”
“In here’s fine.”
She looks around, her eyes scanning my bedroom walls covered in gaming posters, the dirty laundry in my hamper, my slightly unmade bed. Really, I think I keep my room tidy enough, but I know she’s very picky, and it sets my teeth on edge when she sighs again and gingerly sits down beside me.
A wave of expensive perfume and flowery shampoo hits me, and I can feel her body heat and the weight of her on the bed beside me. It makes me remember how she knelt before me, the press of her large, soft tits against my knees, and the hot, wet swipe of her tongue swirling around my cockhead. I do my best to keep my erection in check, focusing on tensing and untensing my toes, and on how annoying I find her when she gets in these moods….
But somehow, I’m still giddy that she’s sitting so close to me.
(Like a deviant little pervert, a dark thought goads me.)
“Sometimes, it’s like you’re still the same little boy I’ve always known,” she says softly, tilting her head toward my yoked-out warrior on the TV screen. “But sometimes it feels like you’re a stranger.”
That’s dramatic, I want to tell her, but I say nothing, knowing that it’s better just to let her vent until she gets out all of her feelings. I’m used to her drama, even if it’s over-the-top sometimes.
“I know you’re growing up and that you need your privacy,” she continues, and the edge in her tone suddenly makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end—cause what the hell does THAT mean? My heart drops as she rushes out her next words, “But I installed a camera in your room and—”
“You what?” I gasp, standing up so fast that my controller goes flying into the wall.
Does that mean she saw what happened between us with the mask? That’s insane, right? Because what kind of psycho would be able to hide that for days?
Except me, a little voice in my head whispers guiltily.
“Well, I mean on your computer,” she says, stumbling over her words as I tower over her, trembling with anxious rage. “You’re going down a dark path, Brock. I just wanted to make sure—”
“How dare you!” I splutter, still outraged but also very confused. “You have no right to spy on me!”
“Oh, yes, I do!” she shouts back, standing up. “You live under my roof, young man! And I have a right to know what you’re getting up to!”
“So, what am I getting up to!?”
“That’s what I want to know!” She yanks something shiny out of her purse, holding it up to me, and I don’t even have to look at it to know exactly what it is.
It’s the goddamned mask.
How the fuck did she get it again?
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” I hiss, not caring when she stamps her foot with a scandalized hiss because I’ve used the Lord’s name in vain.
It suddenly feels like everything is falling apart. My mom is acting like a complete lunatic, and I have no clue what exactly she knows or how I can explain my way out of this—much less how to make sure the mask doesn’t keep falling into her hands again and again. It’s obvious there’s nowhere in my room I can hide it that she won’t find it. And I’m still completely confused on how the mask is linked to the camera she’s installed on my computer.
What EXACTLY has she seen?
“Listen, Brock, I know you’re a curious boy—”
“Just don’t,” I snarl, grabbing for the mask and scowling when she leaps away from me.
“But wearing this thing and pleasuring yourself is really deviant!”
I freeze. “Say what now?”
“I saw everything on the camera. I don’t want you becoming like that satanic boy next door….”
I blink at her, cold confusion gripping me. I’ve only put the mask on once, months and months ago, before I buried it in my closet. My mom’s the only other person who’s ever worn it, a few days ago, and I’m terrified she somehow knows about that, but I don’t think she’s a good enough liar to hide it for this long. So, what in the hell is she talking about?
“You saw me wearing that?” I ask slowly.
“Don’t play dumb with me! This isn’t funny.”
“It’s not funny,” I agree. “I don’t believe you.”
She huffs and strides over to the computer, clicking the mouse button so the screen comes on, and then typing in a command to pull up some parental screening bullshit that I hadn’t noticed.
I glare at the back of her blonde head. “When did you install that?”
“A few days ago.”
Before or after the incident? I wonder, feverish chills going through me as she pulls up a video.
To my surprise it shows me, sitting at the computer in the dead of night, wearing the brightly gleaming mask and feverishly stroking myself (although luckily most of my shame is covered as the camera only shows me from the chest up). I choke on my breath, hating that my mom and I are staring at me masturbating. There’re sounds coming through the speakers that no mother should hear from her son, but worse, the vision of me in the computer seems to be muttering strange, choppy, demonic sounding sentences.
“Mom. Mama. Mommy’s massive milkers.” I think I hear myself chanting strangely, and bile rolls around in my gut. “Maid,” I say a second later, with a low moan, and then, very strangely, I whisper, “Suck job slave. Video games.”
My mom clicks off the video, turning to me slowly. “Brock, I need you to be honest with me. Are you on drugs?”
“No!” I howl, ripping the mask out of her clenched hand and then darting away from her. “This thing is cursed! That’s what it is! This thing is fucking with me!”
She looks at me like I’m completely deranged, and truthfully, I think she’s right. What the hell is happening to me? Why was I wearing the mask? From the looks of the video, it did seem to be the nighttime right after the incident. But I only remember hiding the mask under my mattress, not digging it out and wearing it while pleasuring myself. Why would I do that? It didn’t do anything when I put it on the first time—I don’t think—so I don’t know what wearing it now would even mean.
Is it possible I’ve worn it between the time I bought it and the video? Is it possible it’s corrupted my brain somehow? Maybe I’ve even wanted my mom to find it . . . maybe somehow the mask knows my deepest desires . . . is bringing them out and making me fulfill them . . . with her.
“That’s fucking crazy,” I whisper to myself, my chest so tight that I feel on the verge of a heart attack.
Sweat runs down my face and I can see my mother standing rigid at my computer desk, just watching me in shock. It’s obvious she doesn’t believe that I’m not on drugs now. I would almost believe her if she insisted that I was, even though all I’ve ever done was drink a little bit of alcohol.
But you don’t remember wearing the mask, now do you? So maybe you don’t remember doing drugs either?
I can tell that at any moment all hell is going to break loose. She’s going to call the cops on me. I’m going to get locked up and forced into rehab or something. Maybe they’ll even shoot me for being all whacked out instead of just arresting me.
It’s with this dizzying fear that my brain makes a snap decision. I must stop my mom. I have to put the mask on her. Even though I promised I would never do it again, there’s no other choice!
I lunge at her. She’s so astonished that it’s laughable how she only flinches back, raising her arms up weakly to defend herself against me. I grab her by the forearms, yank her off balance, and with a precision I didn’t know that I possessed, I affix the mask to her wide-eyed face as we fall towards my bed.
I pin her underneath me on my mattress, staring at her gaped mouth, expecting her to scream, but instead she goes completely silent and limp. Did the mask really work again? Is it really going to be this easy to subdue her? But what about her memories of seeing me on the computer pleasuring myself—and accusing me of doing drugs—can I somehow ‘fix’ those, too?
“Mom, I want you to know that I’m a good son and that I don’t use drugs,” I say, breathing too hard, but remembering to be assertive.
I don’t expect her to answer. I don’t even expect my words to register. Warm surprise and gratitude rushes through me as she nods and says, “I know, son.”
I can’t believe that worked, but I am finally standing up for myself, I think proudly, and then a little giddily, I realize how good her curvy body feels pressed under mine, and how nice she smells, and how pretty she looks with her heat flushed face and bright eyes. It almost makes me want to kiss her.
What the hell?
I quickly roll away and go to my computer, determined to delete the spy program and resulting video. That’s the first step in erasing all the evidence of whatever’s happening to me. If the mask did corrupt me somehow, then I don’t want anyone to know about it, especially my neurotic mother. It’s pointless to dwell on anyway. Whatever happened has already happened. Whatever happens from here . . . well….
Don’t be a little bitch, a weird internal voice pipes up.
I block out the thought of what I’m going to do with my mother, who remains lying supine on my bed, her large chest rising and falling in her simple pink blouse, her legs slightly splayed in her grey office skirt, prim-black pumps covering her slender feet. She has sheer stockings on today, and little diamond earrings that she got from her company for 10 years of service.
I wonder if she should be getting back to her work computer soon or if she’ll even be missed. Truthfully, I don’t know much about what she does; she sure seems to have enough time to be constantly in my business (I think grudgingly as I delete all her spy files from my computer), so it seems she can work whatever hours she chooses, as long as she gets whatever project she’s doing done on time.
“Project spy-on-Brock terminated,” I joke to myself, rubbing at my sweaty face.
It really is bullshit that she thought she had the right to do that. I might live under her roof, but no mom should be watching their own son masturbate. Who cares what I wear while I do it or what I watch?
That shit should be only my business, and it’s just now that I realize how angry I should be with her for violating such a non-negotiable boundary.
“Maybe I should teach you a lesson about peeping,” I tell her. “How would you like it if I snooped on you, mom? What do your underwear look like?”
I don’t realize how firmly I ask the question until I glance at her and realize that she’s shifting. Lifting up her skirt. Oh shit. I hadn’t actually meant to follow through with that line of thought. I wasn’t really going to keep perving on her . . . but now that she’s showing me, her legs spread, her sheer stockings thigh-high and trimmed in white lace….
Oh. Wow.
My prim and proper mother is wearing a tiny white thong.
I nearly cum in my pants.
The fabric is barely anything, a narrow swatch of lace that disappears between the curves of her ass. I can see the outline of her pussy lips, and the swollen nub of her clit poking out, and a wave of intense arousal sweeps through me, knowing that her pleasure-hole is right there, barely covered, just a few feet away from me.
I shouldn’t be thinking about it.
I’m such an awful son.
But doesn’t she deserve this? Didn’t she see me doing obscene things, too?
(And it’s not like she’s even doing that much, dark, silvery thoughts whisper tauntingly at me. You should get even with her….)
“Mom, touch yourself.”
My cock strains against my zipper as she obeys, her delicate fingers slipping under the thin, white lace. Her eyes burn into mine, bright and blank. I can hear the wet squelch of her pussy when she thrusts her fingers inside, and I nearly lose it in my boxers when a thready moan escapes her, wrapping directly around my soul.
I can feel her desire.
I can smell her need.
It’s overwhelming.
Her eyelashes flutter in pleasure, and her hips roll up into her hand. Oh fuck, I have to sit down or I’m going to pass out. I’m already so close to cumming it’s insane. I’ve never felt so aroused by another person before, not even in my wildest fantasies. But this isn’t a fantasy. It’s my mom. Fingering herself. Fucking herself for me.
I collapse in my computer chair, fighting every urge to take out my cock and pleasure myself with her. No. Right now it’s about getting revenge, I try to convince myself. Right now, it’s about making her do stuff that she watched me do without my permission!
Because if it’s only that, then it’s not wrong, it’s totally fair.
Her sinful moans drive me to near insanity, and my toes curl in my boots as her legs begin to spasm, as she starts to work her hand faster and faster. I can’t believe my proper little church going mother knows how to pleasure herself like this! Maybe the mask is helping her along, but she certainly seems to know what she’s doing, massaging her clit with her palm as she plunges two fingers in and out of her dripping pussy.
And it is dripping. I can see the wetness gleaming across her inner thighs and leaking down to pool on my bedspread. Her little thong doesn’t cover much, and the pinkness of her insides sears into my brain as
I watch her spread herself out further and further, her hand becoming a blur as she fucks herself with wanton abandon.
She almost doesn’t look like my mom, not with her cheeks flushed, her golden hair fanning out behind her, the silver mask transforming her into a sex goddess, bright blue eyes full of mindless lust. Her ruddy lips part and her pretty mouth forms an O, and I’m completely mesmerized as her entire body stiffens, then shakes, a single, high-pitched whine lancing into my ears, wetness squirting out of her pussy and through her fingers.
The scent of sex hits me and my balls tighten, ready to explode. I can’t help it. Without thinking, I unzip my jeans and stumble over to her, crawling up beside her until I can jam my aching cock into her already open mouth.
Oh fuck, the heat of it.
It’s better than anything.
It’s everything.
I buck wildly, my fingers gripping her silky blonde hair, fucking her face and pushing my cock deep into her tight, wet, throat. She doesn’t even gag, becoming one, long, wet hole for me to thrust into, remaining still and motionless as bliss rips through me, not moving as I use her mouth as a cumdump, ejaculating hard and fast into her waiting belly.
“Swallow, mom,” I instruct her, suddenly terrified that she might drown in my sperm.
I pull out shakily, staring down at her in muted horror. What the fuck did I just do?
You didn’t even think about it—it just happened….
(But she deserved it, a silvery thought croons.)
She stares at the ceiling, gulping desperately, her eyes red and watering, and I realize that I might have been a little rough with her. What came over me to do something so reckless? Sure, I’ve had intense fantasies about throat-fucking chicks before . . . especially hypnotized bimbos who’re just made to be suck-toys, but I’d never want to treat my own mother so carelessly, like a pornstar, would I?
(You just did, a taunting little thought alerts me. And it was fun….)
Anxiety bubbles in my chest, and I grit my teeth as I stare down at the shimmery mask, seeing only the silver glint expanding in my pupils. It’s doing something to me. I can feel it. But as I stare at it, I realize that what happened doesn’t count if she doesn’t remember. That it’s all going to be okay. And it’s not like it’ll happen again.
Because now we’re more than even, I decide, and I’m definitely going to control my urges better. And my mom’s okay—maybe a little dazed and out of it, but that’s mostly the mask at work, I’m sure. I admire the flush on her cheeks and throat, knowing that she also got off, too, and I suddenly feel more than a little shellshocked and sated by the entire thing.
(The mask isn’t so bad, you know….)
“Fucking madness,” I murmur, and then I flinch as the doorbell rings.
What the hell? Who could that be?
I leave my mindless mother on my bed and skulk out into the hallway, towards the front door. What if it’s someone for her? What the hell am I going to say? I guess I could pretend that she’s not home, but her car is in the driveway—but maybe she went for a run?
My mind races as I peer out the peephole of the front door. There’s no one there. Slowly, I crack open the door and look out. A box sits on the front step, and I notice that it’s addressed to me. Which is fucking weird, because I haven’t ordered anything since the mask, months ago, and when my mom buys me stuff, she always makes me go in person to shop with her for hours.
I look around suspiciously, knowing I’m being overly paranoid but unable to help myself as I look for some sign of being pranked. There’s no one around that I can see—the neighbors all tucked away in their shuttered houses to avoid the gloomy weather, so I quickly grab the box and shut the door hard, locking it.
“What is this?” I mutter, taking the package to the kitchen and finding a knife.
I cut the tape and rip the unmarked box open hastily, my eyes widening when I see what looks like black frilly fabric. Is this a slutty maid’s uniform? What the flying fuck?
(The mask made you do it, a weird thought tells me. The mask wants a maid—and you got a maid, now don’t ya?)
I finger the soft, lacy fabric, my pulse skyrocketing. Am I really going to make my mom dress up in this? I don’t want to be a bad son. I don’t want to be a deviant pervert. But I do really want to see her in it….
I can’t deny it. The intense desire pulses through me like craving a drug.
So, what does it matter if she wears a silly little uniform? I console myself, clutching the silky fabric to my face.
It’s not like I haven’t already seen her breasts and pussy. And it’s not like I can take the mask off her yet, because I’m still not sure if she’s going to remember our fight; it would be good to give it some time anyway, since I don’t want her to ‘wake up’ with the taste of my cum in her mouth.
Maybe if I have her dress up just this once, then the weird desires will go away, and then everything will go back to normal. Maybe all it’ll take is a little time, a little planning on how to go about this. Maybe it would be best to have her clean and cook and serve me, like a good mother, to reenforce what our roles should be.
That makes perfect sense to my frazzled mind, and five minutes later I’m watching my mom strip off her office clothes to put on the uniform, feeling overly confident about my decision, and trusting that the only way out of this mess is through. I shut my eyes politely as she peels away her soaked thong last, telling myself that I won’t look again until she’s dressed.
“Wow,” I mouth as I open my eyes a handful of moments later.
The uniform is absolutely perfect on her, with a tight, lowcut, black blouse that shows off the rounded curves of her heaving tits, a white apron, and a short frilly skirt that barely covers her ass and pussy. I’m practically drooling as she slowly pulls on the tall, white stockings, one by one, over her slim, bare legs. It doesn’t seem possible that my uptight, prissy mother should look THIS sexy, but the outfit accentuates her MILF body perfectly, making her look like the world’s sexiest bang-maid.
(And that’s exactly what she is now, a silvery voice in the back of my mind tells me, and I find that I like the sound of it more than I should.)
“Stop,” I whisper to myself, shaking my head.
I’m just going to make her clean up our mess—all the dirty clothes and my dirty bedsheets—while I enjoy the day playing video games. Which is what I was trying to do in the first place.
It’s distracting as sin having her flit around, the swish of her skirt rising alluringly with each step as she cleans my room around me, humming a broken tune to herself. I die a lot more than I should in my gaming missions, and miss out on a lot of good loot, but my eyes keep looking at the real loot, which are her swinging tits and barely covered bubble butt.
Not to mention that she’s not wearing any underwear.
“This was a terrible idea,” I grouse, feeling nervous and horny again.
Even though it’s been less than an hour since I nutted down her throat, I really want to do it again, and the thought of making her kneel before me and suck me off in between mission rounds is becoming hard to resist.
“Don’t,” I whisper to myself, sweating pathetically as my mom bends over and the skirt rides up-up-up to expose her neatly trimmed cunt.
It’s so sexy and pink, the blonde hair there slightly darker than her head hair, slightly curled and alluringly sinful. My erection throbs eagerly, and I can’t help but wonder how warm and tight my mom’s forbidden cunt would feel wrapped around my cock. Would she moan like a banshee while I banged her? Or would she make those little whimpery breathless sounds?
“Stop it,” I hiss, shaking myself back to attention as my mom disappears to load up the washer with my soiled bedsheets.
I know she’s going to come right back in to make up my bed with a fresh set, and I know that if she does, I’m going to throw her down on the bare mattress and fuck the ever-loving shit out of her.
You can’t lose your virginity to your own mom, my mind races frantically; I jump up and stride out of my bedroom, through the front door, out into the empty streets, even though I have no jacket on and it’s raining.
The cool water pelts me and seems to clear my head. I let the rain soak through my hair, my t-shirt, my jeans—let my erection fade away as I focus only on the cool, summer air, inhaling it in greedy gulps.
“The mask is getting to me,” I mumble like a loon, “but I can’t let it have control. I have control.”
I’ve never had control in my entire life, always being my mother’s pet, always being a loser that lets things happen but never makes things happen. For the first time in my life, I’ve had a taste of power, and I’m not going to get scared by it, not going to let it slip away. But I do need to be careful.
What happened between mom and I can’t happen again, I think to myself firmly.
And it won’t happen again. Just because she’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a woman, and just because she’s dressed up like a sex-slave maid, doesn’t mean that I can’t resist her, right?