The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I awaken to a piercing blue gaze, and the snotty, feminine voice of my mother saying, “I’m taking your car.”

I’m barely conscious, but I hear the pounding thuds of wetness on my window, and I know already that if she does, I’m damned to walking miles to school without the protection of my vehicle. “What? It’s raining!”

“Yeah, so?” she snips, tossing her long blonde hair with a scoff, and then she spins away—her curvy ass in front of my face like a big, red stop sign in a too-tight skirt—and she doesn’t listen to me as I begin to curse at her.

My mom always does this. Always puts me in an awkward predicament that benefits her but fucks me over. It’s not fair. I’m sick of being her punching bag ever since Dad left her for a younger woman. It almost feels as if she’s trying to punish me—for looking like him.

“What’s wrong with your car?” I yell after her.

“Flat tire!” she barks, as though it’s my fault. “Bye!”

I hear the front door slam before I can hop out of bed to follow her, and I’m left in the wake of sweet perfume and infuriating authority.

Fucking bitch, I think as I scramble to get dressed for school.

When I get outside, it’s not only raining, but dumping sheets of ice-cold water that soak me straight through despite my military grade jacket. I only bought the damn thing because she’s done this before—and because it’s always freaking raining in this awful town; I hate that we’ve moved north, from sunny California, to this constantly wet and grey place.

It takes thirty minutes to get to the large building that is my prison for the next few months. A group of girls laugh at me as I walk into school dripping wet and red-faced. It’s my senior year and I’ve tried to slip through it unnoticed, because I’ve never been popular (I’m not particularly handsome or smart or outgoing), but I’m starting to realize that people are definitely noticing me, and they definitely think I’m a freak. A freak of the poor, sad kind. I’m beginning to become their running joke: Look at Chris—what a loser!

Like they even know your name, my mind whirs as I ignore them and shuffle to put my shit into my locker.

I’m wet and uncomfortable the entire day, but when last period finally rolls around, I feel the tension start to leave my shoulders, especially when my computer science teacher says, “Hey Chris, can you stick around after class? I’ve got something to show you.”

Mr. Brenner is the only one in this hellish place that’s actually nice to me. I haven’t bothered to make any friends since transferring to this school nearly a year ago, and his class is the only one that excites me. It’s the only class that actually feels meaningful—and the only class that gives me hope for the future, since it turns out I’m pretty good at this programming stuff.

I nod at him and sit down in the front, at a computer, already eager for what he might have in store for me. Maybe he’ll even offer me a ride home. I’d never ask, of course, but the last few times he’d noticed me wet and disheveled, he’d actually cared enough to ask why, and so he knows about my touchy homelife (and although he’s never said anything, I think he dislikes my mother about as much as I do).

Class whizzes by and I only need to half-listen to Mr. Brenner’s explanations to complete my tasks. I submit my assignment before anyone else, and sit there daydreaming while the rest of the students raise their hands and ask him stupid questions.

“Did you already finish?” a breathy voice to my left asks me, and the smell of sour breath assaults my nose as I flinch away from the sound.

“Uh, yeah,” I answer, turning to look at the pudgy girl beside me.

Her name is Macy or Marcie or something, and she looks like she weighs about three times as much as me, with one eye that drifts to the side and teeth that are jagged and yellow. I’m not sure when she last had a shower—judging by the grease-slicked hair that hangs loosely around her fleshy face. And the smell of sweat wafting towards me.

“Me too.” She smiles at me and I try to politely smile back, fighting a wave of nausea as I really get a good look at those unbrushed teeth. Some of them look like they’re barely hanging on—brown and rotten around the edges. “Your name’s Chris, right?”

“Mm,” I hum in acknowledgement, not wanting to be a jerk but wishing that she’d stop paying attention to me.

I may not be a model, but I’m certainly not so low on the totem pole to have to entertain conversations with girls like her. God help me, I think, as I shift back in my seat. I can smell the tuna fish she ate for lunch today—or at least that’s what I hope I’m smelling.

“I finished, too!” she says breathily; it sounds like she’s struggling to make words and inhale and exhale properly. “Do you want to go over our assignment together?”

The color leaves my face as I try to figure out a way to decline without being rude. Thankfully, the bell rings and Mr. Brenner calls out, “That’s all folks! Have a great weekend. Chris?”

“I have to go,” I say with a feigned apologetic tone. “I’m sure we both did great.”

A wave of guilt washes over me as I rise to scurry away from her to join Mr. Brenner at the front of the classroom. He doesn’t seem to notice the situation—thankfully, because maybe I am kind of being a jerk—and then he’s ushering me into the back room, which serves as his office.

“I think I have the solution to all your problems, son,” he says with a bright smile.

I choke out a laugh. “Oh, yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” he says excitedly, sitting down at his computer. “Come look at this.”

I don’t understand what I’m seeing at first. It just looks like a jumble of code.

“This is my very special script,” he explains, not looking at me but at his computer screen. “I call it Family Ties.”

“Uh, okay.”

“See you edit the file to have specific commands,” he says, waving a hand in the air. “What’s your mother’s name?”

“Chrissy,” I mutter, hating that now I’ve made it obvious I was named after her—as narcissistic as she is.

He doesn’t comment, merely typing away into his file.

“And, you compile it and load it up like this….” He attaches the executable file into a blank email. “Does your mom have an email address?”

“Uh, sure….” I tell him her email address, confusion washing over me as I watch him enter it.

“Ping!” he shouts, laughing as he sends it.

I stare at the back of his balding head. “What?”

He spins around in his chair, staring at me with wide, bespectacled eyes that look huge under his thick lenses. “You won’t believe me until you see it for yourself, but I’ve just sent your mom an email that will fix all this nonsense with her putting you last.”

Hot anger hits me like a heat wave. “What the hell did you do?”

I don’t want my mom to know that I’ve been complaining about her to anyone—much less my teacher at school. This is going to blow up in my face, and I want to sock Mr. Brenner, even though I desperately like him. He’s the only person I like here, and the fact that he just betrayed me makes me want to vomit.

“Calm down,” he soothes, reaching out to pat my arm awkwardly. “This file rewires the brain a bit. I know, don’t look at me like that! It sounds crazy, yeah. But just wait and see. I’ve entered your details and hers, so it’s tailored to you. It essentially says, Chris is my blood kin, I love Chris, I will help Chris, I want the best for Chris, I will do whatever Chris needs with a smile.”

“You’re insane,” I whisper, my hands clenched into fists.

“I swear to you I’m not.” He doesn’t even sound flustered, still beaming up at me like I’ve just told him he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread. “You see, I too was plagued with a wife and daughter that were making my life a living hell. They always thought about what they wanted. A pony. A new corvette. A daddy that did all the chores while still being responsible for bringing home the bacon. You know a teacher doesn’t make horse or sport car money, right? It was insanity! I knew if I didn’t want to kill them and bury them in the backyard that something had to change . . . so I developed it.”

“What?” I can tell I look and sound stupid by the way he shakes his head at me, but I’m not following any of his gibberish, merely staring at the computer that just sent my mom an email that’s most definitely going to get me into a lot of trouble.

“I promise you, Chris. I’ll drop you off at home and you make sure your mom opens the email. She will, because it’s sent from me, your teacher—or at least, I hope she gives some shit about you, especially if someone from the school writes an ‘I’m concerned about your son’ email!”

Yeah, she’ll definitely open that one, I think to myself angrily.

“And all you have to do, my boy, is snap your fingers three times, like this….” He snaps his fingers quickly, snap-snap-snap, and then grins at me. “And she’ll be putty in your hands! You just have to ask her for something you need—and she’ll do it! Try it out. My wife is now cooking dinner for me every night. My daughter is now cleaning. Not only her own room, but the entire house! It’s fucking wonderful. And the best thing about it is they don’t realize you’re manipulating them to do it. During this time, they’re completely oblivious to what’s going on . . . and they enjoy helping out!”

My eyes glaze over as I take all of his word-vomit in. Can he really be serious? A computer code that mind-addles the viewer into doing nice things for someone? It all sounds so completely unreal that I can’t believe it. Even though I want to.

“So, you’re saying I could get her to stop stealing my car?”

“Yes! And so much more.” He thumps a finger to his mouth and then whispers, “But of course use it appropriately and wisely. Don’t make her do anything weird, yeah?”

It takes me a second to catch the gleaming look in his eye and then I flush pink. “Uh….”

“I’m kidding! I know you’re a good kid. This program’s just to make your life a little easier. I wouldn’t give it to anyone I thought would abuse it. On that note, it’ll only work on family members or spouses….”

“Okay,” I say, my tone clearly giving away that I still don’t quite believe him.

“I’m not offended,” he says cheerfully. “You’ll have to see it to believe it. Oh, I should tell you that you’ll need to use the safe word to bring them out of their helpful state. I chose ‘kumquat’ because it’s a funny word. Come on, let’s take you home.”

I’ve been home for nearly two hours when my mom finally pulls in the drive with my car. I can hear the tires sliding through the gravel, and I’m so nervous that I’ve sweated through my t-shirt (even though I’m freshly showered and deodorized). She’s definitely going to come in furious, screaming at me, because my stupid teacher sent her a weird email about being concerned about me . . . plus all that mumbo-jumbo ‘brainwashing text’ is really going to set her off.

The front door slams shut and I cower like a child in my bed, my legs folded into my chest. Forcefully, I reposition myself to a reclining position, and begin flipping through my phone like I’m preoccupied with something.

“Chris, your teacher emailed me!” She’s not quite shouting as she storms into my room, but she’s definitely not speaking pleasantly, either. “There’s some weird attachment. Should I open it?”

“I—” I pause, looking at her wide blue eyes and pink cheeks. If she wasn’t such a mean person, I’d almost think she looked pretty, but instead I just think that she looks like a harpy—hellbent on making other people miserable. “I don’t know,” I finish lamely.

“Well, I’m opening it!”

I watch as she does, her eyes stuck on her phone and then going strangely glazed over. “Oh,” she huffs.

“What is it?” I ask quietly.

I can feel the blood pulsing behind my eyes. I can feel my heartbeat trying to escape my chest. I can feel all the air in the room, narrowing to a point and driving sharply into my lungs with one shuddering breath.

She doesn’t answer.

“Mom?”

She blinks at her phone, seemingly confused, and then her blank eyes rest on mine.

“Mom, are you there?”

I snap my fingers once, just to try to get her to refocus, before I remember Mr. Brenner telling me to snap them three times.

No way in hell, my mind whispers, but my hand seems to have a mind of its own, and then I’m snapping quickly another two times.

“Yes, Chris?” my mom says blankly.

Oh—holy shit. Usually if I’d done something so aggressive and rude as snap at her, we’d have a huge, screaming, fight.

“Can you make me dinner?” I whisper.

My heart stops as she beams at me. Not just a smile, but a full-fledged beam—sunshine practically exploding from her perfectly straight, white teeth.

“Of course, son. What would you like?”

I gape at her, hardly believing that what’s happening is real.

“Chicken and mashed potatoes?”

I don’t even know if we have any of those ingredients in the kitchen. Usually, I just make myself a frozen pizza or burrito for dinner.

“Yes sir, I’ll go to the store!” She turns to leave, still smiling, and then pauses, “My car has a flat though.”

“You, uh, you can take mine,” I stammer.

This is really happening. Right before my very eyes. My mom is not only doing what I ask of her, but seemingly asking me for permission to use my car. Sort of, at least. Unless she’s only trying to get out of doing it….

But no, I realize with a wave of fresh surprise as she nods and says, “Thanks, Chris.”

Like I’m doing her a favor.

What is this world coming to?

“You’re welcome,” I whisper, nearly mutely, as she leaves.

What the fuck—what the fuck—what the fuck? my mind whirs in shock. Could Mr. Brenner really have developed a code that makes narcissistic mothers into doting, nice ones? Or is this some sort of trap that’s going to blow up in my face?

Dinner is phenomenal, but I’m barely tasting it as I keep my unbelieving eyes trained on my smiling mother, who scoops me a new portion of mashed potatoes, steamed vegetables, and baked chicken, every time I clean my plate.

“I can’t eat anymore,” I mutter, pushing my plate away from me.

“That’s okay!” she says cheerfully, instantly beginning to clear away our meal. “You can do the dishes.”

My mood sours. I thought Mr. Brenner said that she would be super helpful? I always have to do the dishes. But I suppose I shouldn’t be greedy. Even so, I tentatively say, “Or you could….”

“Hmm?”

I snap my fingers a few times, not really believing it will work. “You could do the dishes, to help me out.”

Her blue eyes go glossy for a second, staring off into nothing. “Of course,” she says a second later, “I love to help you out.”

Oh my God. It’s working. It’s really working, my brain buzzes in disbelief.

I sit at the table and watch as she Tupperware’s all the leftovers and then starts to soap up all the dishes, smiling and without complaint. The soapy water glistens up her toned arms—because she never skips a day with her personal trainer—and she scrubs while humming a little tune, like she’s enjoying every second of it.

Can this really be happening? What else can I make her do? I wonder to myself as I sit there in total awe.

My teacher’s gleaming eyes run through my mind, and his weird suggestion that I might make someone do something inappropriate flitters through me like a wayward butterfly. I try to swat the idea away, but for some reason it niggles. A gentle urging.

Just for kicks, I think stupidly.

I don’t know why the urge takes a hold of me, but it does, and maybe it’s only because I want to see what I can get away with, or maybe it’s because I want to demean my mother a little (because she’s such a bitch to me all the time). Or maybe it’s because I’m a little bit of a pervert—but I don’t like that last thought, so I ignore it as I whisper, “You should do the dishes topless. You’re getting your shirt wet.”

She pauses her scrubbing and looks at me. I nearly backpedal, instantly embarrassed that I spoke such horrible words to her, and for a brief moment I consider either running away or snapping my fingers and stating it again (just to see if I can make her) but then she tugs off her silky blouse—simply, like I’d told her to wave away a fly buzzing around her face.

I gape at her lacy white bra and exposed cleavage. Why did I not need to snap my fingers again? Is it because I made the command part of another one? I realize these are weird thoughts to have when I’m staring at my mother’s breasts, but I’m still so in shock over the whole ‘Chris has control’ thing that I don’t know what to think. Or what to feel.

“Wow,” I whisper.

“Wow what?” my mom asks, going back to scrubbing like nothing is out of the ordinary.

Does my teacher do this to his wife and daughter? my mind needles at me, and then I instantly feel ashamed, knowing that he’d told me not to do anything like this and that he’s probably actually a good person who doesn’t abuse his power (like I’m doing right now).

Oh well.

“You’re getting your bra dirty . . . take it off,” my mouth says all on its own, without me even thinking it through.

I’ve never seen tits in real life—because internet porn definitely doesn’t count. I’m not even sure if I actually want to see my mom’s tits, but because it’s easy, and because they are there, it seems like a large part of me has decided it’s a good idea.

She unhooks her bra with both soapy hands, not even looking at me as she obeys. She’s still smiling.

What—the—bloody—fuck.

Her large tits bounce as they flop free of her bra. The heavy flesh jiggles as it settles, and I’m staring at two beautifully pink nipples as they harden in the cool air of our kitchen, the milky-white globes of flesh just perfect and tear-dropped shaped and real—like real-real, my mind whirs excitedly.

It doesn’t matter that they belong to my mom, because these tits are gorgeous! And here they are, put on display, just hovering before me like my every fantasy of a pornstar just appearing in my room.

I want to touch them, I realize feverishly, sweat beading at my temples, under my armpits, and across my chest. My cock springs to life, bulging pathetically in my jeans as though a sexy girlfriend has just offered herself to me. But she’s not my girlfriend, I remind myself, it’s my mom.

I should feel really bad about that, I realize distantly.

This is the woman who raised me. The woman who left my dad because he’d been screwing around with a barely legal teen girl who he’d hired as his personal assistant. The woman who set out to make my life miserable because I look kind of like him.

Eh. None of that seems to matter right now. I still want to touch them—even though I shouldn’t. It’s not like she’ll remember if I do, according to Mr. Brenner.

Only for a second, I tell myself sternly. Just to see what tits feel like.

Awkwardly, I rise up from my place at the table and sidle up to her, practically waiting for her to scream at me: “Stop, Chris, this is wrong!”

But she doesn’t. She merely keeps on washing the dishes with a smile, and when I come up behind her—only a breath away—she doesn’t stop me, her hands still diligently scrubbing as though my body pressing near hers was not.

“Mom?” I breathe.

“Mm,” she hums, still scrubbing and washing.

I press a gentle hand to her hip, my palm sliding on the smooth, red fabric of her skirt, and I can’t help but flinch, halfway expecting her to react badly. But nothing. I can smell her high-end perfume, sharp and dizzying as it floods my brain. I can see her tan lines, around the edges of her large breasts and making thin white strips over her shoulders where her swim top usually lays. I can feel my pulse hammering in my throat, behind my eyes, in my cock….

Don’t do this, my brain warns, even as my hands reach out of their own accord to slide over her silky-smooth tits.

A pocket of heat surges between my legs and into my brain, short-circuiting all my thought as my cock twitches violently. Her tits feel amazing in my hands. So soft, so heavy. Like two warm water balloons—but even better. Alive and real.

She doesn’t even seem to notice, her mouth starting to hum a tune as she washes the dishes, and her body not stiff or reacting at all to my touch, merely going along with the task I’d given her—not at all focused on my violation of our boundaries.

This is fucking amazing, I think as I fondle her gently, pinching the delicate buds of her nipples between my fingertips and weighing her large breasts in my palms. Are these actually natural or are they enhanced?

They seem too perfect to be authentic, and I know when my dad left her that she’d went and got a bunch of work done. ‘Touched up’, she’d always told me, when she’d come home with bee-stung lips, ‘a woman must maintain her beauty….’ But I don’t really care either way because her tits are phenomenal. So warm and large, yet perky, with jutting pink nipples that point up like they want to be sucked on.

I wouldn’t dare do that though, would I? I grind my cock into her toned ass, lost in lustful sensation, and groan when she just keeps on humming and ignoring me. I could do anything I wanted to her. Play with her tits for hours. Slip my hand down-down-down, and then up her skirt and into her panties. Or pull off all of it and fuck her right here at the sink.

Too much, my mind warns, you really don’t know what she will or won’t remember.

I can’t stop grinding into her though, my cock so excited at getting to touch actual tits that it doesn’t care whose they are, only that it’s happening, and soon a dizzying rush of ecstasy rolls through me, and I’m cumming in my jeans, my hot breath buried into my mother’s neck as I arch desperately against her.

“Oh fuck,” I curse as I grip her warm tits and hold her tight against me, my cock spasming and shooting hot streams of cum all down my leg.

“Christopher?”

I freeze at the concern in her voice and immediately pull away. Hot shame floods through me and a nauseous fear roils in my gut; I expect her to start screaming, but she just keeps washing, my name hanging in the air.

“Am I not washing these right?” she asks, holding up a dish.

“You’re doing great, mom.” It comes out in a breathy gasp, my panicked heart slowing as I realize she’s only worried that I didn’t like how she’s doing the dishes. “Put your bra and shirt back on, please.”

She starts humming again, her tone happy and oblivious as she picks her clothes off the floor and redresses. I want to run away, but I force myself to stand there in my cum-soaked boxers and jeans until she finishes the dishes. Mr. Brenner’s voice echoes in my mind: I chose ‘kumquat’ because it’s a funny word . . . and then I whisper, “Kumquat”, before making a mad dash for the bathroom to have another long, hot shower.

What the fuck did I just do? I strip myself naked and get into the hot stream of water, feeling sick with guilt. I can’t believe that I just violated my mother and got off while doing it. Am I really that much of a degenerate? Will she remember anything? Or will Mr. Brenner’s code work as he told me it would—making the ‘helper’ completely oblivious to the ‘help’ they had given?

Long minutes later, a rough rapping on the door makes me flinch. “Chris, don’t use up all the hot water! I need to shower, too!”

I cringe a little at the harpy-like voice of my mother, but a sense of calm washes over me that it’s her normal, narcissistic tone—the one that lets everyone know that she thinks only of herself and her own desires. She just wants to wash up after work and get ready for her work-out with Muscle-Mike, I realize happily, finishing my shower quickly.

The happy thought fades as I dry off. I should still feel guilty for what just happened, shouldn’t I? But instead I kind of feel like she deserved it. Like she owed it to me, or something. Worse, I already kind of want to do it again . . . and maybe even explore her body a little more . . . just because it’s there, and it’s sexy, and I should get to, after all the shit she’s put me through.

That’s not really wrong, is it? Especially if she doesn’t remember . . . then it’s a completely victimless crime.

I wrap myself in a towel and gather my cum-sodden clothing, a new voice in my head telling me, ‘Don’t be insane!’

I have to steel myself to brush past my mother, my heart ratcheting behind my eyes and my stomach doing somersaults. Why will it feel so different to see her now? It’s not like she should remember anything. Right? I slowly open the bathroom door, but she’s not there, and then I realize stupidly that she probably went to use her own shower in her master bath—but just didn’t want me to use up all the hot water. Duh.

Get a grip, I tell myself as I go to hide out in my room. Whatever I decide to do with my newfound control over her, I’ll have to think it through, because it’s obvious the power has its own hold over me. How am I ever going to look Mr. Brenner in the face and lie to him about what I’ve done?

Very carefully, I think to myself sternly. Besides, it’s not really a big deal, right? I haven’t even done much of anything. (Yet, my mind whispers, a flash of my mother’s sweet smell and the warmth of her plush tits, squeezed in both my hands as I came, going through me.)

“Shut up,” I groan to myself, and then I flip on my computer to distract myself, determined not to think any more about it.