The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I try to be patient. I really do. But ever since my mom called me perverted and gay, I find my temper on a hair-trigger, snapping at any sign of her bitchy-meanness like I have PTSD. Sure, she might not take my car anymore (although her car has been perfectly fine, so that’s not saying much), and she might not insinuate that I’m a homosexual virgin, but she still seems to be a mostly cruel and selfish individual. It doesn’t seem to matter that a couple of weeks have slipped by; I’ve not noticed any real, lasting changes with her, and I’m forced to continuously mind addle her into submission when I can’t take her personality anymore.

A big part of me knows that I shouldn’t use her as human furniture, although I enjoy it so much that I keep doing it, resting my tired feet on her back while I watch TV, after a long day at school—and I can’t help that it turns me on so much, with her curvy ass in the air and her tits hanging under her like sexy udders. An even bigger part of me knows I shouldn’t use her as a cum rag—but I keep doing that too, because I’ve already used her fun-bags to get me off enough that whenever I see her cleavage I can’t help it; the need springs to life, so I give in and fuck her tits. Sometimes I make her lick my cum off of them. Most of the time I let her wash it off in the shower. I think that shows a lot of restraint, really.

And it’s not like I’ve taken it any further than that….

I feel like that weird frog in the parable—languishing in a pot of water that’s being slowly heated, until I’m so used to the temperature that I don’t jump out in time and am damned to boil to death.

Altogether I don’t really want to use her incorrectly (as Mr. Brenner warned against). I do just want her to be a nice and loving person. But she makes me so furious that I keep slipping up and staining her tits and her face with my cum.

I haven’t actually slipped past my moral threshold though, because I’ve not made her blow or fuck me. Using her mouth very slightly doesn’t count, and for that I’m proud—but every day it gets a little harder. Especially today, because I’ve just come home after failing a math test (and I’m good at math, but maybe a little distracted and tired lately) and I ran over some fucking glass or a nail or something, so now I have a flat to deal with.

Then, without so much as a ‘hello, son’ my mom springs news on me that I’m not ready for; as soon as I walk through the front door, she has the nerve to call out, “Your sister wants to come back home for a while.”

I groan. I can’t believe this shit is happening on an already shitty day. “What the fuck, mom.”

It’s not really a question, more a furious statement, and she hisses at me, “Language, Chris!”

Her blue eyes narrow into glinting points as I storm through the hall to corner her in the kitchen. She’s making us dinner. It appears to be some kind of salad.

Fucking hell. This day just keeps getting worse and worse.

A scowl takes over my face. “Her big plans of finding a sugar daddy fail or something?”

I know it’s a petty thing to say, but it comes out of me before I can stop it, and my mom’s shrill, “Chris!”, just makes my thoughts get meaner.

My nineteen-year-old sister has been attending an expensive college in southern California, on my dad’s dime, and she must have pissed him off or something if she’s running back home to us (which means she’s probably a worthless party slut who flunked out). Not to mention that I’m occupying what used to be her room—since she’d moved to Oregon with us for a few months before fleeing back to California. The big room. My old room is small and cramped and full of mom’s old exercise equipment, random boxes of crap, and is a catch-all for useless junk.

It’d be the perfect spot for my lazy sister, but I know she’s going to come home expecting me to move back into it . . . and that’s not fucking happening.

“Tell her to go live with dad! I don’t want her here!”

My mom huffs, her delicate hands flying to her curvy hips. “She’s family—it’s not up to you!”

“I should get a vote!” I yell at her.

“Well, you don’t!” she snips back. “Fuck off with your attitude, Chris!”

The hell with that! I think wildly, snapping my fingers at her. Three times.

“Text her she can’t come. Now.”

I watch in relief as she woodenly grabs her phone, her eyes glassy and blank, and types something to my sister.

But then my phone blings.

There’s a text message that reads: I know you put her up to this. I’m coming whether you both like it or not.

“Fuck,” I groan, slamming my phone down onto the kitchen counter. “Mom, she can’t have my room! She barely even lived here before. It’s not fucking fair that she can just show up whenever! If she can’t stay in her stupid dorm, she should go live with dad!”

“Of course, son,” my mom says obediently, but she doesn’t do anything to let me know she’s listening. She just smiles, in a way I find more patronizing than agreeable.

“Christina can’t have my room!” I yell.

We usually call her Tina, because with a Chris and Chrissy, it’s far too many Chris-cloned names to deal with, but I’m so pissed that I don’t care. I don’t want my sister to move in with me and mom. I don’t want her mucking everything up with her constant drama and bullshit. And I definitely don’t want her anywhere near my fucking room.

“Tina can’t have your room,” she repeats.

“If she doesn’t want the junk room, she has to sleep on the couch!”

“Yes, the couch.”

But I know that none of that is actually going to happen unless I have my mom under my spell, and I obviously can’t have my mom hypnotized when my sister is here, watching over us. The whole thing is fucked.

“And I don’t want to eat salad, for fuck’s sake!” I cry out, smacking the big, plastic bowl of greens she was working on; it clatters across the kitchen floor, spewing leafy crap all across the tiles. “Clean this shit up!”

I’m breathing so hard that I’m nearly hyperventilating. My mind races at a million miles per hour: what-if-Tina-finds-out-what-I’ve-been-doing-with-mom? . . . what-if-I-can’t-do-it-anymore-because-she’s-in-the-way?

That fearful thought should startle me, because it’s obvious I’ve become addicted to the power of controlling my mom and addicted to using her body for my pleasure, but I’m so frustrated that I just think: I’ll figure out how to get rid of Tina. I’ll make her life a living hell.

I watch my mom get down on her hands and knees in her little white skirt and red blouse. Her tits bulge out the front of the frilly V-neck as she uses paper towels to clean up the mess I’ve made, scooping the ruined salad back into the orange bowl. Her lips are painted the same bright red as her shirt. I notice that she also has a little more make-up on than usual, fancy, red stiletto heels, and golden jewelry that adorns her neck, wrists, and ears.

Who the fuck did she get all dolled up for? an internal question snarls at me. Was this all for her boss?

Anger turns to jealousy as I think of her grey-haired, pudgy, but rich boss making the moves on her. Would she let him smack her ass or grope her big tits if he just . . . did it? Would a part of her even enjoy the attention? (And would it all be my fault, for making her into kind of a ditzy bimbo, sometimes?)

“Mom, I hope you don’t let other men touch you.”

I should be horrified that I said ‘other’ men, instead of just ‘men’, but I’m so focused on her dolled-up face and swaying tits that I just need us to reach an immediate understanding. Especially because things seem to be slipping out of my control. She’s my mom. I’m the man of the house. It’s within my right, and no one else’s!

“I don’t, son,” she says, and for a moment pure relief goes through me before she whispers, “Only you.”

Fuck. Fuck me. Obviously on some level she’s registered what I’ve done to her. Hopefully only in her trancelike states though, and not anytime she’s ‘normal’. A part of me wonders if she ever gets a sudden flash of insight at random times, or if she might dream about me using her….

A stab of guilt goes through me just as my phone blings.

I pick it up, staring down at the new text from my older sister: I’ll be there in a few days, idiot. You better be cleared out of MY room.

“Oh, fuck no,” I whisper.

Fresh rage pulses through me like hot lava, and I see red as I slam my phone back down on the counter. I’m not even hungry for dinner now. Instead, I grab my mom by her high, classy ponytail, pulling at her before she’s finished cleaning up all the salad. “Crawl! To the kitchen table, now.”

She does, her hips sashaying and her tits practically popping out of her low-cut blouse as I lead her by the blonde leash of her hair. I need to rest my feet and think a minute, I decide, as I roughly guide her under the table. I scoot the chair back so I can see her under there, with her short skirt tight around the globes of her jiggly ass and her tits now falling out of her shirt.

“Lips on the floor,” I tell her, my cock twitching in interest. “Kiss it until I instruct otherwise.”

Bossing her around always seems to calm me a bit. With so much of my life out of my control (like my dad starting a new family with someone barely older than I am, and my mom moving me away from my childhood friends) I feel like I’ve latched onto this new power. I need it now, and I’m not sure how I ever got by without it.

I can’t let Tina get in the way. I can’t let her arrival be one more thing that I have no control over. It’s not fair to me, and I just won’t allow her to take this from me.

But what can I really do about it? It’s hard to think with all the irritation and adrenaline still coursing through me. Arousal takes over as my mom’s red lips obediently press into the white tile of the kitchen slash dining room floor. A little kiss mark will be left there, and part of me is tempted to tell her not to scrub it away when she mops the floors next, just so that I have a trophy of some sort to look at. Her fun-bags are also kissing the floor, her red blouse and white bra stretched uselessly under them, and her pink nipples are hardened points, crushed against the tile.

She looks really hot and whorish, and I squeeze my erection through my jeans, wishing it would calm down as I take a seat and then prop my booted feet on my mom’s slender back. Now’s the time for thinking up solutions, not getting distracted, I scold myself.

My boner pulses, leaving a wet spot against the blue denim, as though it disagrees with me. Mom’s body feels nice and sturdy under my feet; her thick, toned thighs holding up her delicious ass, which looks absolutely amazing in her tight, white skirt. The curve of her buttcheeks peek out from the hem, and once again I think that it’s weird she wore such a short skirt today, even if my boner really likes it. (I bet her stupid boss likes it, too . . . Is that part of the ‘promotion’ deal she got?) I tilt my head to trail my eyes down her long, tan legs, tracing the delicate bones of her ankles, and then I admire her pretty feet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear those red, strappy stilettos before. They are gold on the bottom, and the heel has to be a good four or so inches tall. Seems much too slutty to wear to work, and my mood darkens at the thought of her boss sucking on her perfectly manicured toes (which are painted an alluring red, but that’s pretty typical.)

I glance at her smoky, overly done-up eyes, which are half-open and glassy, staring patiently through the ground as she waits for my next command. It makes my cock grow harder, just seeing her so submissive to my every whim, all while she serves as my footstool like a good, sexy, mom-slave.

Honestly, every time I do this it gets more and more difficult not to use her for her true purpose. A truly helpful slave would take care of my erection for me, and swallow all my cum down without me needing to do anything but sit and enjoy the experience. I shouldn’t have to tease myself to climax with her tits, and then make her lick or wash the result off.

(I bet she does it all for her boss; I bet he doesn’t even have to ask….)

Stop thinking like this, you’re supposed to be thinking up solutions, a harsh internal thought pops up.

But it’s really too late for that, I know, when I’m already so amped up that I can’t think of anything but the warm, pliant body holding up my feet, or the soft pucker of her lips (that lead to a warm, wet mouth) pressed obediently against the floor.

Really, I’ve been a saint for holding out for so long—and now that my older sister’s going to be showing up in a few days, wouldn’t it be best to get it over with and out of my system?

Yes, I decide, because Tina’s about to crash my world and ruin everything; I might never get this chance again. Shakily, I undo the fly of my jeans and pull out my aching cock. It’s been longing to feel more than just my mom’s soft tits and teasing tongue. It’s been dying to sink deep into her mouth and be pleasured by the tight, hot confines of her throat.

“Mom, look at me now,” I whisper, my breath catching as she lifts her face and her lipstick smears across her chin and the floor. “It would help me if you took care of this….” I shake my erection at her and watch as her pupils blow wide.

It almost looks like she wants it. It almost looks like she’s eager to do this for me.

“With these?” she asks, using her delicate hands to lift up her heavy breasts.

“Not this time,” I say. “This time I want you to use just your mouth….”

Part of me wonders if my mom has actually given a dude a real blowy before (even though the jealous part of me is always making up scenarios in my mind . . . about Mike . . . about her aging boss . . . about some rando that might not even exist). The other part of me knows that she must have at some point; I mean, she obviously isn’t some naïve virgin, being in her late thirties and having two kids and all—but has she ever deepthroated before?

I’m not exactly King Kong downstairs, but the thought of choking her with my cock makes my head deliriously swimmy.

She shuffles over to me on her knees, her juicy tits bouncing with her awkward movements, and then she gives me a beaming smile. “I would love to help you, son.”

“Good,” I tell her, hoping my tone isn’t as shaky as I feel. “Get sucking.”

I can’t believe I’m really going to go through with this. I can’t believe it’s actually happening. I can’t believe I’m letting myself get boiled alive in my lust.

I groan as her hot breath ghosts my cock while she positions herself close to me. Her tits are heavy in my lap, and her eyes look heated and hungry. Really, I know that I should stop this and keep our strange boundaries intact, but I’m too far gone now to try. It’s not like I didn’t make this woman show me her pussy weeks ago. It’s not like I didn’t use her spit-soaked tits as my cocksleeve. It’s not like I didn’t already shoot my load into her mouth a time or two, even if she wasn’t sucking me off . . . like she’s about to now.

Pleasure rips through me as her red lips drag against my shaft, just teasing me for a moment before she sucks me in.

“Fuck,” I moan, my head lolling back as I fight not to touch her.

This time I want it to be all her doing; I want to feel as though I’m the passive victim (or rather, worshipped hero) along for the ride.

Her breasts press warmly into my upper thighs as she leans over me and begins to bob up and down. As instructed, she doesn’t touch me with her hands, just using her hot, wet mouth to pleasure my cockhead and shaft. I force myself to sit still, just bathing in the pleasure, as I close my eyes and envision her soft, pink pussy lips, and the way her blonde pubes curled delicately between her legs.

I wonder if inside her cunt feels just as blissful as what she’s doing to me now.

“Deeper,” I grunt, opening my eyes to watch her. “Take me all the way in.”

Her smoky blue eyes latch onto mine and heat lances into my brain. She’s so fucking sexy with her red lips stretched around my cock, her cheeks hollowing out as she slowly sucks me down-down-down. She doesn’t even gag as she buries me to the hilt, humming softly so that the reverberation flows all through me like a vibrating wave.

“Ah!” I gasp, my head spinning in ecstasy.

Maybe my mom really is a pro at this, or maybe the hypnosis is making her into one. I find I don’t really care in the moment, the pleasure tightening up my balls as my vision goes glassy with lust. It’s all so perfect: my bitchy mom on her knees making amends to me in the best way possible.

“Faster,” I demand softly, lifting my hips to encourage her.

It’s not going to take much more, with the hot, wet suction driving me wild as she takes me deep. I hear the sweet gluck-gluck-gluck sounds of her quickly deepthroating me, see her lipstick smearing all over my cock, and feel the pleasure build and build, teetering me towards some sharp, blissful cliff.

“Swallow,” I choke out, a hoarse whine escaping me as something snaps and everything becomes a deep throbbing; I moan at the sensation, lost in the warm press of her breasts, mouth, and tongue, as my cock spasms and shoots steady gushes of hot cum down her throat.

She gags, her blank eyes widening, but she gulps it down obediently, just as her phone begins to trill an obnoxious tune.

Someone is calling. Someone is trying to reach my mother as I jizz into her willing and eager mouth.

“Good girl,” I whisper, because she keeps sucking lightly until my bliss ebbs into the dreamy, golden glow of orgasmic aftershocks, and my body twitches in the surreal bliss of it all.

I just made my mom into my mouthslut, and I’ve never felt more alive or powerful in all of my life.

I absolutely can’t let Tina take this away from me.

The phone keeps blaring loudly as I gently tell my mom, “Pull up your bra and blouse.”

Obviously, someone really wants to talk to her, and I’m suddenly worried that if I don’t have her answer the call that there might be consequences to pay. In a daze, I clean up the rest of the salad and throw it all away. I scan my mother quickly, deciding that she looks mostly put together except for the slightly smeared make-up, and then I busy myself with making freezer food as I mutter, “Kumquat.”

I don’t look at her, but I hear her breath sharpen as she comes to, and then she says, “What the hell? Chris, I was making a salad—where is it?”

“Dunno,” I say, as casually as I can. “I just got here.”

“Ugh!” She grabs the still blaring phone—I hear her nails clatter irritatingly across the marble counter—and then she says loudly, “Hello?”

I listen with a hammering heart, realizing that it’s my sister when she says, “Yeah, I know you’re coming this Saturday. Yeah, Chris knows you want the big room—” and I stop listening as the microwave dings and I have my excuse to grab my food and bail.

I can’t believe I just dared to un-hypnotize my mom right after I made her suck me off. She must still taste me on her tongue. Her knees and body must be a little sore from being used like a blowjob giving footrest. She has to have some inkling that something’s completely off. Am I insane?

I shouldn’t have been so ballsy or got so caught up in the moment that I lost sight of common sense.

And I still have my sister to deal with—or rather, my plan of action for her arrival.

I hide in my room with my microwaved burrito and begin to plot. Truthfully, I don’t think that I can scare my annoying sister away from living with us. She’s definitely going to infiltrate the house and bully her way into pushing me out of my room. She’s definitely going to notice if mom’s acting weird and call me out on it. She’s definitely going to get in the way of everything—unless I can hypnotize her too.

“Shit,” I mutter, nearly choking on the icy-hot bite of the poorly heated burrito.

Why didn’t I think of that before? I could totally use the script against my bitchy sister and make her into my obedient slave, too. But Mr. Brenner’s Family Ties version doesn’t seem to work all that well (and it’s definitely not changing my mom for the better, that much anyway)—or at least as well and as fast as I’d like.

But what if I got it from him . . . and then altered it?

It feels like a lightning bolt has filled up my brain. I’m suddenly giddy, swarmed by the heat of new possibilities. I could probably make it work better if I analyzed what he actually wrote and then rescripted it myself. I could tailor it to fit my needs better, instead of being a generic mess of instructing my family members be vaguely helpful.

But would he give it over to me if I asked?

Probably not, I think, because he’d have too many questions that I would fumble over the answers to.

I scarf down my substandard burrito (although it’s still better than eating fucking salad) and listen to my mom’s high voice get loud as she gabbers away with my sister. The two of them together will be an absolute nightmare unless I put a stop to it. I can already envision the both of them, with their shrill demands: Chris, do this for me—Chris, your room and car are mine now because I need it—Chris you are a gay loser who needs to get a job—Chris, Chris, CHRIS!

I really need Mr. Brenner’s script, and pronto, so that I can tinker with it before Tina arrives.

You could steal it, another voice in my mind whispers.

That would be horribly uncool and potentially get me kicked out of school—but I have to, don’t I?

Well, unless you want your entire life ruined by narcissistic, bitchy cunts….

Which means I need to somehow get into Mr. Brenner’s office and take it from his computer by tomorrow. That will leave me with Thursday evening and all of Friday to fiddle with it . . . and then Tina will be here sometime on Saturday.

But do I really have the balls to steal from my favorite teacher? I can imagine him catching me in the act—can imagine the hurt and disappointed look on his face. And the questions….

There’s no choice, just do it, my mind whirls as I hear my mother’s annoying laugh and imagine my sister laughing right along with her. Otherwise, they are going to be ordering me around . . . and laughing all the while.