The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of fiction and any resemblance between characters in this work and actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. This work contains scenes of explicit sex between adults and is intended for the entertainment of adults only. If you are offended by depictions of adult intercourse or if you are less than the age of majority in your jurisdiction please do not read or download this file. Because this is a fantasy, characters in this work engage in unprotected sex in a universe where AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases do not exist. In reality sex without protection is unwise and nothing in this work should be taken as condoning such activity, or any of the other activities depicted herein.


Many thanks to Cowgirl for her enjoyable story “Dripping Oil”. I liked it so much that I, uhm, “borrowed” the idea for this story. Comments always welcome:

-Downing Street

Amanda stepped into the walk-in closet and regarded her new wardrobe with dismay. There must be something there she could wear. It was a weekend, so the rules became rather more restrictive. At least during the week she could dress properly, as befitted a corporate executive, albeit lately a rather sexy one. But on the weekends, Simon said she had to be a lot more revealing.

Simon said....

Well, she didn’t have to do everything her step-son said. It wasn’t like he had threatened force, or had anything to hold over her. She reached tentatively for a long, comfortable dress in blue cotton. She fingered it for a moment. She let it go. Simon said she couldn’t wear that kind of dress any more.

Simon said.....

Ever since he had returned from the trip to India and the Middle East, Simon had been different somehow. Amanda had been concerned, almost panicked, when his letters stopped, but when she picked him up at the airport he acted like nothing exceptional had happened. When pressed, he admitted that he had abandoned the packaged tour after a few days, and fallen in with a rag-tag group of pilgrims looking for some sort of enlightenment. He spoke of wandering the desert for weeks, of getting lost and sick in the monsoonal jungles, of losing track of time and place, and finally, high on a mountain top somewhere in the Himalayas, meeting an old, drug-addled man who claimed to be able to see into the depths of the human spirit.

He told her all this over the next few days in response to her relentless questions. How could he just disappear for more than six months? He had lost track of time; it didn’t seem important in the desert. Why hadn’t he written to her, or called or something? Didn’t he realize how worried she had been? A shrug. He had been sick. Did he see a doctor? Get medical attention? Another shrug. He claimed not to need doctors any more.

Eventually, Amanda gave up trying to pump more information out of him. She figured he would come around on his own time, once he got his strength back. He had lost a great deal of weight, and now seemed wan and thin. Over the next few weeks he spoke little, but spent a long time each day sitting in his room repeating strange chants in a foreign language. Amanda decided not to push it. Whatever happened to him over there had obviously affected him deeply. Besides, she was a busy executive with lots of other things to occupy her mind.

And then one morning, out of the blue, he told her she was wearing the wrong suit. She looked at him. He was dressed in his usual style since the trip, black jeans and a black T-shirt. The clothes made his thin frame seem insubstantial, like a collection of shadows. The dark goatee he now wore only enhanced his gaunt, vaguely sinister look. “What’s wrong with it?” she asked, looking down. It was the suit she liked to wear for meetings, a crisp, tailored brown pantsuit that looked both flattering and professional.

“Pants are all wrong,” he said decisively. “Not you at all, Mom. Try something with a skirt.”

Amanda opened her mouth to say something, then stopped. What was he talking about? Since when did he care what she wore to work? And when did a twenty-year-old university drop-out become an expert on office fashion? This suit would do just fine.


After a moment’s hesitation she turned and trotted back up to the bedroom.

She emerged a few minutes later in a dark blue wool suit with a calf-length skirt. She felt a little silly for indulging Simon’s whim. She told herself it was a good sign that he was interested in what was going on around him. He had been very distant lately.

“OK, how’s this?” she said cheerfully, bustling into the livingroom.

Her step-son regarded her appraisingly. “It will do,” he pronounced, unsmiling. “For now.”

Amanda’s cheerful mood wilted. She started to say something, to reproach him for his ill manners, but Simon had already turned away and was staring blankly out the window. It was as if he saw something else there than the green lawn and neatly trimmed shrubbery of their suburban yard. After a long moment Amanda turned and marched out the door. Discussion could wait. She was late for work.

They never did discuss the incident. Simon remained withdrawn and uncommunicative and Amanda could never find the right moment to bring it up. The next morning, however, Simon again objected to her clothing. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Simon, what’s wrong with this one?” Amanda cried. She was wearing a white blouse and navy blue slacks with a matching blue blazer.

“It’s like I told you, Mom. Pants are all wrong for you. Wear a dress. You look much better in a dress.”

“Simon, don’t be ridiculous,” Amanda replied. “I can’t wear—” She stopped, momentarily confused. She liked slacks, wore them almost every day, knew they looked professional, stylish, and comfortable. So why, suddenly, did it seem so, odd to be wearing them today? Why did a dress seem so powerfully, undeniably right as soon as Simon suggested it?

She knew she didn’t want to wear a dress. She certainly wasn’t about to change clothes twice in two days just because her stressed-out step-son told her too. Yet....

There was something else too, another feeling that Amanda found most distracting. She ignored it resolutely.

“Simon, I—” she began again. “I, uhm.... do you really think...” She couldn’t understand why she was so hesitant.

Simon spoke firmly. “Yes, Mother, I do. Those pants aren’t attractive. Go put on a dress.” It was more like an order this time.

“All right, Simon. Just this once.” She turned and headed back upstairs to the bedroom. The feeling in her belly was getting stronger.

By the time Amanda climbed into her BMW a few minutes later, sporting a conservative black-and-white dress and low black pumps, she had identified the unexpected feeling in her gut.


It was preposterous, yet somehow her step-son was turning her on. No, not quite. It was obeying her son that was turning her on. As soon as she agreed to change her clothes she felt a delicious pulse of sexual excitement that lingered still. She squeezed her thighs together and felt the moisture in her panties.

What was going on here?

On the third morning, when Simon again instructed her to change her clothes, Amanda rebelled. “Look, young man,” she pronounced, glowering at him. “You back off and remember your station. I don’t know what little game you’re playing and I don’t care. I will wear what I feel like wearing, and you will keep your opinions to yourself! Unless you would like to add living on the streets to your list of travel adventures. Do you understand me, Simon?”

Her step-son looked taken aback by the outburst. He started to say something but Amanda cut him off. “Not another word out of you!” she shouted. “Not another word. We’ll discuss this further when I get home. Right now get out of my way, I have to go to work.” And with that she stormed out the door, slamming it behind her.

There, that was better. A good temper tantrum to put an end to this foolishness. Adopted or not, Simon was still her son, and he’d better remember to act accordingly.

As the day wore on, Amanda found she couldn’t put the incident out of her mind. She kept looking at her slacks and feeling the inexplicable wrongness of them. Were people looking at her funny? Every time one of her co-workers smiled she wondered if they were secretly laughing at her slacks. They were perfectly good pants, she told herself a dozen times. Heaven knows they cost enough. I wear these all the time. But Simon said....

By noon she couldn’t stand it any longer. Growling at her secretary she marched out of the office and went shopping, something she never did during the workday. The feeling of sexual excitement returned as she walked into one of her favourite, upscale shops, and grew stronger when she slipped into the expensive floral-on-black outfit she finally bought.

Simon noticed the change of clothing when she arrived home from work that evening, and he smiled for the first time in weeks. Amanda never asked what he did during the day, but he seemed to have regained the aloof composure he had temporarily lost during their setto that morning. While making supper, she found something weird in the garbage, a mixture of kitchen scraps and animal bones. Simon said he had already eaten.

“Simon, we have to talk,” Amanda said, later that evening. “About this morning.”

“We certainly do,” Simon said. “For one thing, I think you owe me an apology.”

Amanda exploded again. ”I owe you an apology! Just what makes you think—”

“You spoke sharply to me this morning. I didn’t like that. Apologize.” He looked at her calmly.

For a moment Amanda stood unmoving, too shocked to speak. Then, to her astonishment, she heard herself say: “Simon, I, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you this morning. It was wrong; it was cruel and unfeeling and I’m very, very sorry.” Was she really sorry? Why was she saying this? And why did it feel so incredibly good to say it?

“And you were wrong to object to my suggestions about your clothes.”

She gulped. “Yes. Yes, Simon. I was w-wrong to object when you, uh, suggested that I, um, choose a different outfit. I, uh, I apologize to you for that too.” Her face felt flushed.

Simon smiled again. “Good,” he said. “Excellent. Listen Mom, to save time, don’t bother wearing slacks to work any more, OK? Stick to skirts and dresses, and we’ll work from there. Got that?”

“Yes, Simon,” Amanda said contritely. “Will you excuse me, for a m-moment!” She bolted from the room and hurried upstairs to the privacy of her bedroom. Barely pausing to close the door behind her, she shucked off her clothes and collapsed on the bed. Her pussy was wet, ready and eager to receive her stroking fingers. Her first orgasm overwhelmed her in minutes. The second and third took a little longer.

So, the next morning, and every workday morning after that, Amanda got dressed in a dress or a skirted suit and presented herself for Simon’s inspection before she left for work. Sometimes he was up already, but if not, he insisted that she come into his bedroom and pose for him by his bedside. Quite often he sent her back for a change, always to something shorter, or brighter or less staid. Amanda complied, telling herself that she didn’t have to do the things that Simon said. It was simply the easiest way to keep peace in the house. Her panties were generally wet by the time she got to the office.

Now, standing in her overflowing closet in just her stockings and high-high heels, Amanda contemplated just how much her wardrobe had changed. She glanced at her Mickey Mouse watch, the only watch Simon would let her wear. Almost nine. Simon would be impatient for breakfast soon.

She walked down the rows of sexy clothing, managing her dramatic platform heels with practised ease. Soon after he began vetting her wardrobe, Simon announced that he had a bit of a thing for high heels, and therefore Amanda should wear them as high as possible, as often as possible. She had been in her bedroom, changing after a long day at work, and Simon had just walked right in.

“What are you doing here?” Amanda blazed. “What do you mean by barging into my room like this? Now you just turn around and walk right back—”

“Mother, be quiet,” Simon said, and Amanda lapsed into glowering silence.

He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “High heels are the most attractive shoes any woman can wear, always have been. They change appearance in some very basic way, you know. I think it sends signals right to the base of a man’s brain. See these”—he held up the pair of functional, low-heeled shoes Amanda had worn to work that day—“these are boring. They’re for tight-assed old spinsters that work in the library and scowl all the time.” He tossed them contemptuously in the direction of a trash bin.

Amanda demurred, “But those shoes cost almost—”

“Then you’ve been wasting money, Mom,” Simon said, interrupting her again. “Man, look at all these dullsville shoes. You have got like a serious image problem, Mother. I think it is time for a major closet purge.” He tossed another pair of shoes, Italian imports that she had bought just last month, into the waste bin.

“Simon, stop that!” Amanda cried. “What are you doing? You c-can’t just throw away my shoes.” She shook her head in confusion. Simon was spouting nonsense, she knew that, but somehow it just seemed so sensible. As soon as he said so.

He turned to face her squarely. “Look, Mother, here is how it is going to be. Since you are obviously too dim to know how a woman should dress, I will have to help you. To start with, I don’t want to see you in any shoes with less than four inches of heel, got that? You can count to four, can’t you?”

Amanda felt the insults like a slap in the face. Her step-son had never spoken to her so rudely before, not even after his return from overseas. She struggled to respond, to shout at him angrily that he couldn’t talk to her that way. Unexpectedly, the feeling of sexual arousal had returned, and stronger than ever. She suppressed a moan as shimmers of pleasure lanced through her. “Simon, please, I—” she stammered.

“Get my approval for any new shoes you buy. Don’t waste your time on anything but hey-heys. Right now, go through this pile of shit and get rid of all the old-fart shoes.”

“But, but I don’t have...”

“Yeah, I know, you have to wear something. Look, for now you can keep the medium heels, just until you get something better.”

“Simon, no,” Amanda said weakly. She didn’t have to do what he said.

“Don’t come down to make supper until the job is finished.” He turned and left the room.

Dejectedly, Amanda surveyed the neat rows of shoes lining the rack in her closet. She didn’t have to do what Simon told her, she decided, setting her jaw. But she was so horny.....

Twenty minutes later Amanda was sprawled across her king-size bed, her dress in a heap on the floor. She was panting and groaning in naked lust as she played with herself, one hand thrusting inside her wet panties, the other tweaking and fondling her hard-nippled breasts. Shoes and sandals filled the wastebasket in one corner, spilling over into a big, multicolored heap on the floor. “Oh god oh god oh god,” Amanda blathered, pumping her fingers desperately, “I’ll buy some more tomorrow!” And that delirious thought was enough to push her over the edge to another blinding orgasm.

Amanda came downstairs eventually. She walked uneasily in the only pair of four-inch heels she owned, simple black pumps she had purchased impulsively one day, but seldom wore.

That changed soon enough. Under Simon’s abusive guidance her nearly empty shoe rack soon filled up again, and then overflowed, with sexy, gaudy, towering heels. Inspecting her footwear became part of Simon’s morning ritual, and he send her tottering off to work each day in a different pair of leg-shaping spikes.

Wearing the new shoes to work wasn’t all that bad, once she got used to them. At least when she was sitting at her desk she could slip them off and enjoy the feel of stocking feet. But evenings were another matter.

“What the hell are you doing?” Simon demanded angrily one afternoon. It was just the second day after the incident in Amanda’s bedroom, and she was breaking in a pair of patent black pumps she had bought the day before.

Amanda looked up at him dully. It had been a long day and her feet hurt. “I, I’m just taking off my shoes. I have to get changed and make din—”

“Mother, you can be unbelievably stupid sometimes,” Simon interrupted her. “Look, airhead, why are you wearing high heels?”

Amanda fumed in anger. How dare he talk to her like that! But with every insult a tidal wave of arousal broke over her, and her concentration wavered. Dear god, abuse from her step-son was such a turn-on!

“Because, because,” she sputtered, “You told me to. I mean, I thought you liked—”

“Exactly, Mother. Because I like them. I like to see you in them. So put your shoes back on, get your lard-ass butt in gear and start working on dinner.”

Amanda groaned. “Yes, yes Simon,” she said quietly. She slipped the high heels back on and made her way upstairs to get out of her work clothes. She would have to change her panties again, too.

Simon insisted that Amanda wear heels all the time, even in the morning when she was getting dressed. He ordered her to buy wobbly, high-heeled mules in place of house slippers—she had half a dozen pairs now—and to put them on the moment she rolled out of bed. She wore them every minute she was in the house, only momentarily slipping them off for a bath or shower.

Well, she didn’t have to wear them, she reminded herself endlessly. She could take them off any time. Really. But the heels somehow seemed appropriate now, and the sexy wiggle in her walk reminded her that she was obeying Simon, which kept her in a near-constant state of arousal.

Now, as she wandered through her closet trying to find some outfit that would comply with Simon’s elaborate rules and still preserve a shred of modesty, Amanda wondered why she had found four-inch heels so difficult. Nowadays, four-inchers were the ones she wore to relax. The open-toed, liquid red slings she was wearing that morning had heels a full inch higher.

She caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the many full-length mirrors that surrounded her bedroom. She was still surprised at the figure that looked back at her: the long blonde hair carefully combed, the sleek, slender figure that could have belonged to a teenager instead of a woman well into the third decade of life. Her nipples were erect, as they usually were. Amanda was proud of her figure, she had to admit. She finally had the fit, toned body she had always dreamed of. Of course, there was a price for keeping it that way; she spent every spare minute at the gymnasium.

It started when Simon started insisting that she show a little more leg. “What is with you and these mud-dragging dresses?” he asked sarcastically one morning. “You look like a fucking nun. Go put on something that doesn’t sweep the floor, all right?”

Amanda looked down at the sharp red skirt, that ended an inch or so above the knee. “This, uh, this is the shortest skirt I have...” she said meekly.

“Unbe-fucking-lievable,” Simon said. “Look, you brainless prude, when will you learn that a woman’s job is to show off her body, not cover it up.” He walked up to her with such energy that for a moment Amanda thought he was going to hit her. Instead, he reached down and roughly grabbed the hem of her skirt. He hiked it up several inches. “Look, this is considered a fashionable skirt length, even by uptight twits like you.” He yanked it higher. “This is a respectable length for work or shopping. And this is the length you should be wearing if you’re proud of your body. It’s the length I like.”

Amanda grabbed a stair rail to keep her balance. “I can’t wear my skirts that short!” she gasped.

“Why not?”

“Because, because, for god’s sake I’m thirty-five years old. I’m an executive. And besides....” her voice trailed off in confusion.

“Besides what, Mother?”

She spoke in a small voice, amazed at her own shyness. “I, I haven’t got the legs for it. M-My thighs are too heavy.” Why did she suddenly feel so inadequate?

Simon smiled without mirth. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. “Well, we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?”

Amanda joined the health club that very afternoon, and spent a good hour getting to know the various exercise machines. She returned home late and exhausted. Simon heaped abuse on her for making him wait for dinner. Later, Amanda collapsed in bed, barely managing to get her clothes off, and fell asleep with her fingers still in her creaming pussy.

Amanda exercised relentlessly now, every single day, and weekends too. Amanda spent so much time at the gym that some of the regulars assumed she worked there. After a while she joined a second health club just to cover her embarrassment in spending so much time working out. Eventually she bought a bunch of home gym equipment. She found herself using it too with the fanatical devotion that Simon demanded.

There were rules of course. Simon had a fit when he saw Amanda in her track suit and made her throw the whole thing away right then and there. He ordered her to get herself some “proper” exercise clothes, bra tops and short shorts and tights and leotards, not just a few but a suitcase full, so she could wear a different skimpy outfit every day. Top of the line shoes too, always carefully color-matched to whatever shape-defining outfit she was wearing that day. She kept her high heels nearby. Simon said she had to put them back on again the instant she finished, even just to walk the few steps to the bathroom for a shower.

Aerobics pretty much pushed aside any other hobbies and interests Amanda had. Even reading the newspaper. She had enjoyed fussing about in the garden for years, but when she mentioned it Simon just laughed and said she could hardly dig up weeds in a miniskirt and high heels, could she. So a professional gardening service did the yard now. The young men gawked in the windows to try to catch a glimpse of Amanda. Simon said she must never close the curtains.

Simon said that only miniskirts were suitable attire, but he relented somewhat and allowed her to wear them only four inches above the knee to the office. At home, however, he insisted on breathtaking brevity, especially as the relentless exercise toned up Amanda’s muscles and slimmed her thighs. Simon liked bright, tight, feminine clothing. Amanda found her shopping expeditions broadening to include trendy, youth-oriented shops she had never frequented before. She had to pack away more and more of her old clothes to make room for her ever-expanding wardrobe. It was costing more than a little, but nothing Amanda’s salary couldn’t handle.

Amanda attempted from time to time to come to grips with her situation. She still couldn’t figure out why she kept doing what Simon told her. The thickening fog of sexual arousal that enveloped her made rational thought increasingly difficult. The workday was tolerable, so long as she remembered to keep a supply of fresh panties in the office. She began masturbating in the washroom a couple of times each day. Weekends, on the other hand, were spent in a kind of horny, stupefied daze. Amanda tried desperately to retain some fragment of her dignity and self-control while Simon ordered her about or heaped scorn on her back.

Amanda regarded her svelte figure in the mirror and resisted, with some difficulty, the urge to play with herself. She was wearing thigh-high stay-ups, her usual legwear these days. The stockings were shiny white, with a red seam up the back that matched her high-heeled sandals. Simon said she had to wear stockings, no bare legs, and pantyhose were just too much of a nuisance when she spent so much time with her fingers under her skirts. She had to buy the stay-ups hip-high, or risk flashing her stocking tops every time she bent over.

Still watching her reflection, Amanda pursed her full lips, red with lipstick, shaping her mouth into a protruding oval. She sucked on one finger for a moment. She knew what she really needed.

Amanda’s new style had not gone unnoticed at the office, and many an approving look was cast her way as she strode down the hallways in her brief, clinging suits and sky-high heels. The male attention only raised Amanda’s sexual thermostat a little further. She still managed to get her work done, but the irresistible arousal from obeying Simon’s commands guaranteed that sex was always on her mind. More than once Amanda found herself responding warmly, even flirting, with male co-workers that eyed her so thirstily. She knew she must be radiating sexual signals like a bitch in heat.

But nobody turned her on quite as much as her own step-son.

She was in particularly rough shape that Friday afternoon as she stepped off the bus a few blocks from home. She took the bus to work now. Her BMW was reserved for Simon’s use. It was still Amanda’s job to wash it every day and to wax it every weekend. She wore a bikini and high heels while she worked on the car.

Amanda’s heels clicked against the sidewalk. She was wearing a sleeveless white minidress, more suited to a night at the club than the executive boardroom. The shiny white pumps with the ankle straps and five-inch heels accentuated her shapely, nylon-gilt legs. She wore a raspberry red bolero jacket with the dress, drawn closed with three gold chains. The jacket added a bare touch of modesty to the low-scooped neckline of her dress. Simon had sent her back to her room to put on a push-up bra. I don’t have to do that, she told herself, even as she tottered back upstairs.

She had been horny by the time she left the house that morning, and it seemed like men had been staring at her all day long. To make matters worse, she had had to make a presentation that day. Though her data were impeccable, it was obvious that the men in the room were far more interested in her legs than her sales projections. By the time she stepped gingerly off the bus, ignoring the bus driver’s happy stare, she was beside herself. Though she had changed them more than once, her panties were wet again.

Simon was waiting for her when she got in the door. “About time you got here, you little tart,” he pronounced. “Why so late? Been out showing off on the streets?”

As usual, Simon’s abuse hit her like a drug. “Ohhhhhh. N-No, please, Simon, nothing like that. I, I just missed my first bus, that’s all. Spent too long at the gym.” She dropped her briefcase and white purse on the floor.

“I bet,” he sneered. “Mom you are such a little bimbo. A sugar tart, that’s you. Look at that dress. I bet you enjoyed giving the guys an eyeful all day. Is that how you keep your job? Doesn’t seem to me you have the brains for it.”

Electric bolts of sexual need shot through Amanda. Groaning, she collapsed against the wall, losing her balance on her tall heels. “Please, Simon, honey, stop this. I, I’m oh god I’m so hot!” She ran her hands down her tight dress, clinging weakly to self-control.

“Just how do you keep your job, Mother? It’s got to be with that bod of yours, isn’t it. Little airhead sexpot like you can’t possibly be executive material. Shit, I even have to tell you what to wear in the morning. Even then you barely get it right.”

“Simmmonnnn, Please, stop it.” Amanda wailed, her face flushed. She was clenching her fists and grinding her thighs together.

“Face it Mother, you’re just a sex machine. A dick receptacle. Do you give good blow jobs, Mom? Is that how you keep your job? I bet you suck cock like a vacuum cleaner.”

“Simon, No, no n-ooh, ooooh” Amanda groaned, helpless with desire. She felt like her body was on fire. Her eyes rolled backwards and she slid down the wall, collapsing in a quivering heap at her step-son’s feet.

“Jezuz, Mom,” he said, “You are the most over-sexed, cock-hungry bimbo I’ve ever met. Hey, you’re so hungry for a dick to suck, why don’t you come here and suck on mine.” He took a step forward and stopped in front of her, spreading his legs into a domineering stance. He unzipped his black jeans and fished out his semi-erect penis, dangling it before his dazed step-mother like a lure.

Amanda looked up at him, drunk with desire. “Simon, oh, Simon no, I, I can’t,” she whimpered. Still, she stared at his exposed dick, her vision blurry, and felt herself moving. She climbed up onto her knees and half fell toward him, bracing herself on his legs. She felt insane with need, ready to suck off the boy she had raised since he was five years old. “Oh god Simon!” she gasped.

Her step-son smiled down on her. “Go ahead Mom. You know you want it.”

Amanda made a tiny sound deep in her throat. She took his cock tenderly in one hand, raising it toward her waiting lips. “Uhmmmmmmm,” she murmured as she sucked him deep into her mouth.

She sucked him earnestly, bobbing her head up and down on his rapidly hardening shaft, using one or sometimes both hands to caress and hold him. Blissful waves of pleasure washed over her, brushing aside guilt and shame and righteousness like so many dead leaves. She forgot everything else except the exquisite feel of her step-son’s member in her mouth. She used her tongue, her lips, her hands. She poured herself over him, grunting and slurping noisily.

Simon was so pleased with his step-mother’s efforts he almost forgot to insult her. “Yes, Mother, yes, like that! God, that is great, suck me you little airhead sexpot whore! Suck me. Yesss! Harder. Harder, you sex-crazy tramp!” The litany of imprecations only stimulated Amanda further, and a few moments later she felt Simon stiffen, and he came jerkily into her mouth, while Amanda sucked and swallowed and writhed in unbridled ecstasy.

Blow-jobs became a regular part of the household routine then. Amanda generally gave him a quickie before she left for work in the morning and another when she came home at night. On weekends she blew him three or four times every day. His appetite seemed insatiable, and after the first time Amanda forgot to even try to resist. When they were home together, Simon would walk up to her any time and simply open his zipper. Whatever she was doing, Amanda would stop and give him head right then and there, even if she was on the telephone or cooking dinner.

The blowjobs left Amanda panting, exhausted, and wanting more. Simon didn’t use his step-mother for ordinary sex, however, though he surely knew she would let him fuck her in any way imaginable. That task fell to a growing line of beautiful, obedient girlfriends that fawned all over Simon and marvelled when his step-mother served them breakfast in bed.

Standing in the bulging walk-in closet of her bedroom, Amanda turned her mind away from the memories. If she didn’t keep her thoughts focused she would never get dressed in time. At length she chose a tight-fitting red tube top and a tiny silver miniskirt, a bright, wrap-around thing barely more than a foot long. She seldom wore a bra on weekends. She stepped out of her dressing shoes, and after careful consideration decided on the lace-up red boots with the superthick white soles.

She didn’t have to dress this way, she reminded herself, as she tightened up the slick, high-heeled boots. But Simon said he liked platform boots, the gaudier the better, and.... oh god. Amanda moaned with lust as she stumbled out of the closet into her bedroom. She caught sight of herself in the half dozen full length mirrors Simon had insisted she hang around her room. She looked delectable; she could easily pass for ten years younger than her actual age. She was dressed the way Simon said, showing lots and lots of leg and advertising her tits; her make-up was done the way Simon said to do it; her hair was growing long the way Simon said to wear it. Everything was just the way Simon said, and the sexual heat Amanda felt was too much to bear.

Standing in the deeply carpeted room, surrounded by mirrors, she pulled up her micro-skirt, pulled down her damp panties and began to finger herself furiously. Thrills of delight pulsed through her. “Oh god oh god oh god, I’m so fucking HOT!” she cried, breathing hard. Her body trembled. Beads of perspiration formed on her perfect brow. “Uhh! Uhh! Uhh!” she grunted, her hand a blur beneath her panties.

But yet she could not come. Not quite. Not yet. She needed something more, one more stimulus to push her over the edge into the abyss of pleasure.

“Hey, Mom!” came Simon’s voice from downstairs. “Get your lazy sexpot wiggle-ass down here and make breakfast! I haven’t got all day you fucked-up, brainless, cock-sucking bimbo!”

“I’m coming dear!” Amanda shouted. “I’m COMMMMMMING!”

She collapsed, weak-kneed, on the plush carpet as her climax consumed her.