The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

My Mom’s voice comes from the house, loud and bossy as usual.

“Jamie! Have you finished the pool yet? There’ a few more things I need you to do when you’ve finished the pool!”

“No, Mom. Not yet.”

I’m supposed to clean the freaking swimming pool all by myself! Then there’s more things my mother needs me to do?

The pool certainly needs cleaning. There’s a carpet of leaves floating on the surface never mind the leaves that have got water-logged and sunk to the bottom and stuck themselves to the tiles!

Mom comes out of the house in the shorts and sloppy T-shirt she always wears round the house, when she’s not trying to impress her divorcee friends. Shorts, sloppy T-shirt and five-inch heels! She’s got her phone in her hand, thumbing through her favorite shopping app as usual.

Mom’s phone’s never out of her hand. She’s forever scrolling for the next new thing she’s going to buy. The truth is, my mother’s a compulsive shopper. She’s never off Must/Have! The biggest on-line shopping app in America. ‘Must/Have!’ For All Your Shopping Needs!’. She’s addicted to the freaking site. Her shopping addiction is one of the reasons my mother’s a divorcee, like the rest of her friends. My Dad got sick of her spending all his money and he pissed off years ago with a less expensive bimbo.

She nods at the long pole with the leaf scoop on the end full of sodden leaves that I’m struggling to lift from the water.

“I want you to go and pick up the ice when you’ve finished that.”

“Ice? Isn’t there ice in the fridge?”

“Not enough. I’ve ordered another fifty kilo bag. I need to get the ice chest ready for the wine. The fridge is already full.”

“Mo-ooom!”

She’s having a pool party this afternoon with her ditzy friends, half a dozen middle aged women sitting round the pool drinking wine and gossiping about how lazy men are and how men are always letting you down. Mom’s never got over Dad dumping her for a younger woman, younger and more easy going.

I struggle the scoopful of leaves out of the water and deposit them on the poolside tiles.

“Not like that! Bag them up! Don’t just leaving them lying around like that! They smell! Can’t you do anything right?”

That’s what my Mom’s always throwing in my face: ‘Can’t you do anything right?’ ‘Do I have to do everything myself?’ When all she ever does is scroll through her phone looking for the next thing to buy on Must/Have! ‘Can’t you see how busy I am?’

I feel like throwing the pole in the water and telling her to clean the freaking pool herself, but I don’t. I just keep on scooping leaves out of the deep end.

I know I’m a wimp. Eighteen years old, and I haven’t even got a girlfriend. With Mom about, my chances of getting a girlfriend are zero. Mom undermines me. I’m tall but not very muscular and with my mother always nagging me and bossing me around my self-confidence is shot. I’m not cool or relaxed on social occasions, especially chatting to girls. I never get any practice chatting up girls with all the chores I have to do to keep Mom happy.

The real reason Mom’s down on me is because I take after my father. I even look a lot like him.

Mom’s never forgiven my Dad for dumping her for a cute bimbo with a sweet nature, and she takes it out on me. I clean pools and fetch ice and do the washing up after our takeaway meals and she’s still never happy. With all the stress I’m under, I’m at the bottom of my class at college too.

It’s not fair. My big sister, Ramona, takes after Dad the same as I do. She’s tall like me. But whereas I’m skinny, Ramona’s svelte. Whereas I’m weedy, my sister’s built like a supermodel. Where I’m at the bottom of my class, Ramona’s away in California, wowing the Economics Faculty at Berkley with her super intelligence.

I put the wet leaves in some plastic bags then fit the squeegee onto the end of the pole and lower it into the water and start scrubbing at the leaf stains wavering on the bottom. It’s going to be a hot day. The sweat’s already running down my forehead. My neck feels burned already.

We used to have a guy come and clean the pool for us, a professional, with all the right hoses and suction equipment, but he hasn’t shown up lately. He was well-built and had a tanned chest from working in the sun all day. His pool cleaning business was thriving. I’m not exactly sure what happened, but I think Mom might have come on to him a bit too hot. She’s always looking for a new husband, even though my Dad turned out to be such a failure in every way.

The click click click of her manicured nails on her screen starts doing my head in. She never stops scrolling through items on Must/Have! and typing messages to her mates about the things she’s just bought.

I know her so well I can tell exactly what she’s doing right now. She’s gazing almost hypnotized at some outfit on Must/Have! and typing in a friend’s number so her friend can bring up the same item too, and they can compare notes and prices.

“Oo! Jilly! Yes. I know it’s cute. But don’t you think it’s just a little OTT?”

Mom’s always buying new clothes for herself. In fact she buys more clothes than she can afford. She ends up sending half the outfits back. She wears them once or twice then returns them to Must/Have! and asks for a refund.

“I know it suits me, Jilly. But I’d never wear it!” She’d wear it alright. Mom’ll wear anything. “I don’t think I could get away with it, showing so much skin!”

Mom shows plenty of skin when she dresses up. She’s put on weight since she turned thirty. At thirty-seven she’s carrying a good few extra pounds, but she still likes to buy skimpy outfits, revealing tops and fuck-me skirts for the next guy who comes to clean the pool to have a look at.

“Oh! Alright! You’ve convinced me! I’m buying it!”

The skitter of fingernails. The scrabble of thumbs on her screen and she types in her latest order to Must/Have! ‘For All Your Shopping Needs!’

Three seconds after her she’s had her moment’s instant gratification she’s back on my case:

“Hurry up with that pool, Jamie! The ice needs to be here by twelve at the latest! I’m just popping round to Samantha’s for a second.”

She flaunts back into the house. The item she’s just bought hasn’t even been delivered yet—she only purchased it fifteen seconds ago—but she can’t wait, she has to go round to Samantha’s to show it to Samantha on her phone.

I get back to squeegee-ing the pool.

I’m eighteen. I could leave home if I wanted. I could move out if I really chose to, but somehow I never get round to it. I just never seem to have the energy. With Mom around, it’s easier just staying in my room and watching porn on the internet.

I finally finish the pool.

Christ! It’s quarter to twelve and I still haven’t got the ice!

I’m hungry, but there’s no time for lunch, even one of the instant readi-meals we live on.

I’m just locking up when there’s a ring at the front door bell.

I open the front door, preparing to say how I’ve no time to talk and I need to go and get some ice.

A big, friendly looking guy is standing on the doorstep. He says:

“Is Dolores Jenkins home?”

Dolores Jenkins. That’s my Mom.

I say: “No. She’s out.”

The guy frowns:

“Oh. I’m from Must/Have!”

“Must/Have!? The shopping app?”

“That’s right. There’s a few things I need to discuss with her.”

“Well… I don’t think she’ll be back for a while.”

The guy looks at me. He looks me up and down, sort of sizing me up

“Are you her son?”

“… Yes… yes I am…”

“My name’s George. George Jameson. Can I come in?”

I feel a moment’s panic. I’ve never shopped on Must/Have! I never shop period. Mom doesn’t give me a regular allowance— not even money for cleaning the pool and doing all her chores—but I’ve checked Must/Have! out on my phone a few times, just out of curiosity to see what her shopping habits are and they’ve tracked a second number browsing from this address! Browsing and not buying! Phishing! Spamming! For a second I’m scared I might have buggered up my mother’s with her major supplier. Mom’ll kill me if I’ve endangered her relationship with the biggest outlet in America.

The guy smiles. His smile’s sort of fatherly. Fatherly and understanding, like he can see at once what a wimp I am and how down-trodden my life is having a steamroller mother like mine…

… But…

… No… no, that’s impossible…

… He doesn’t know me from Adam. He repeats himself:

“Can I come in, Jamie?” He knows my name! “There’s a few things you n me need to discuss.” Him n me? “I might even be able to be of some help to you.”

Some help to me Does he think he’s my guardian angel or something? Why’s he suddenly more interested in me than he is in my spendthrift mother?

I should tell him to go away, but instead I mumble:

“… Yes… yes, sure… come in…”

In the living room he tells me why he’s here: my mother’s been buying crazy amounts of stuff on Must/Have! She’s wildly overspending. She’s stretched her to her credit limit and well beyond. Even worse, she’s really pissing Must/Have! off because she keeps buying clothes and then sending them back and demanding a refund.

“Worn, Jamie. Worn clothes. We can tell. Worn once then returned for a refund.”

“Yeah, well…”

Sometimes, if she really likes an item, my mother wears it five or six times before she sends it back.

George shakes his head.

“We don’t mind one or two refunds a month, Jamie. But the amount of stuff your mother’s purchasing, using and then returning is way out of order.”

It’s true. I’ve seen my mother sashaying around the house in expensive cocktail frocks which mysteriously vanish with her only ever having worn them to the shopping mall.

George rubs his eyes.

“It’s clothes we’re talking about, Jamie. Stuff that doesn’t sell well once it’s been used.”

He sounds pissed off. And he’s right to sound pissed My mother orders bras and lingerie and sports gear too, gym shorts and leotards, and they only ever stay in her wardrobe a day or two at the most.

“It’s an addiction, Jamie.”

“Yeah. I know.”

He looks at me. His eyes are suddenly serious and kind, the father I never had.

“Life’s hard around here ey, Jamie?”

“… Well… you know how it is, Mister, George…”

I know I shouldn’t talk about my mother behind her back with a total stranger but I feel so frustrated and Mister Jameson’s face looks so genuinely concerned, I say:

“… Yeah. Life’s pretty hard…”

I explain how Mom’s always bossing me about, making me do all the chores, never gives me enough allowance to buy some clothes for myself—he looks at my scruffy board shorts, my Nirvana T-shirt— let alone even dream of taking a girl out on a date.

“Well. In that case.” He glances round, checking we’re alone. “I might be able to help you out, son.”

He’s not my real father, but when he calls me ‘son’ I go all hot behind the eyes.

“Help me out?”

He glances around one more time, checks there’s no eavesdroppers or anybody else home.

“Yes. You see. One Must/Have!’s a pretty powerful app.”

“… Yeah… well… I can see that… the amount of shopping my Mom and her friends do on it…”

He leans in closer to me and lowers his voice.

“Have you noticed anything… erm… addictive about the way your Mom shops?”

Addictive? It’s the very word that describes my mother’s shopping habit.

“You bet! She’s never off Must/Have!”

“Well that’s because… erm… her brain’s on a loop…”

“A loop?”

“Yes. We gather all her retail patterns of behavior plus facial recognition and vocal prompts of course… your mother does use one of the latest phones, doesn’t she?”

“You bet she does. She’s never without the latest model.”

“Well…” Another glance around. “… I shouldn’t be telling you this, Jamie, but I’m head of technology at Must/Have! and this information is one hundred percent confidential… between you and me, alright?… but… we’ve programmed your mother’s brain…”

I feel my mouth fall open, my stomach drop through the floor.

“Programmed?”

“You heard me. There’s behavioral codes and subliminal messages, designed especially for her, written into the software, designed especially for a regular customer like your mother.” My mother’s not ‘regular’, she’s 24/7 permanent.

“… But… but. isn’t that illegal…?”

George shrugs.

“Of course it’s illegal. It’s how your Mom’s got to be such a problem for us.” George puts his arm around my shoulder. “And for you too, I guess.”

“You can say that again!”

He hugs me like he’s my guardian angel or something, like the father I never had.

“Look. I’m only telling you this because I can see exactly the situation you’re in, Jamie. I can tell how under your mother’s thumb you are. I used to be the same. My wife and daughter used to be the same as your mother and sister…” He knows about my sister too! “… They used to boss me around something terrible, made my life a complete misery. But now they’re completely under my thumb!”

He says the last bit with a relish that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Look. Jamie. I’m going to help you.” My heart’s thumping like crazy. He’s even better than the father I never had. “Give me your phone.”

I go and get my phone. I hand it to him.

He opens my phone and goes to Settings and my ip address and types in some long s.

“Okay. Now you’ve got permanent access to your mother’s phone.”

“What?”

I can’t believe my ears.

“I’ve just sent a message to her inbox. From Must/Have! About you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. When she opens it and reads the message the codes I’ve written into it will instantly alter her brain function. Your mother’s mind will be under your total control.”

For an instant I think George is pulling my leg. But his face is deadly serious. I mumble:

“… But… look… that’s not right…”

I feel scared. George shows me my phone and… there is the exact screen I’m dead certain Mom and Samantha are looking at over at Samantha’s house right now.

He shrugs.

“Who cares if it’s not right. Do you want to get out from under your mother’s thumb or not?”

“… Well… yes… of course I do…”

“Your mother hasn’t opened the message from Must/Have yet, but when she does and she reads it, you’ll have complete access to your mother’s brain.”

I swallow hard.

“Her brain?”

Mom’s ‘brain’ sounds a bit too close to home.

“Mm-mmm. You can make your mother think and do whatever you want.”

“Do? 24/7? You mean, all the time? Day and night?”

It’s too ghastly. It’s wrong. I don’t want think about. My mother’s a tyrant but she’s still my mother. Mom’s a total bully but that doesn’t mean I want to be in control of her mind.

“Hey!” George laughs. “No. Take it easy. When your mother opens the message from Must/Have!, two trigger words will get implanted in her deepest consciousness. One trigger word will open your control of her brain. The second trigger word will shut it down when you’re…” He grins. “… Satisfied with results.”

“Satisfied? No, Mister Jameson. No way! You don’t know my Mom.”

“Only you saying the trigger words will have the desired effect. Anyone else saying them, they’ll just be normal words.”

“Look. George. I don’t think this is a very good idea.”

He smiles.

“Trust me, Jamie. It’s a very good idea. When you want to switch on your power over your mother’s mind just say, or whisper, ‘shopping trolley’.”

“Shopping trolley?

“I’ve chosen a phrase that she knows well. A phrase that she loves…” He puts on a computer-y sort of voice. “‘… You have five items in your shopping trolley…’”

My head’s spinning.

“… Right…. ‘shopping trolley’…. ”

And when you want to switch off your control of your mother’s brain you just say ‘checkout’.”

“‘Checkout’?”

“A word your mother loves even more. I’ve implanted ‘checkout’ dead center in her cerebellum. As soon as you say ‘checkout’ her mind will return to its normal state of consciousness.”

I’m not so sure if I like George any more. I should never have let him in the house. His fatherly front was just a way of weaseling me into trusting him. There’s a mad energy about his instructions that I don’t like.

He stands up to go.

“Okay, Jamie. now. ‘Shopping trolley’ and ‘checkout’.” He looks at his watch. “Well. I’d best be running along.”

I take him to the front door. I let him out.

A feeling of relief washes over me, watching his bulky body amble down the front path.

‘Mad energy?’ ‘Fatherly face?’

The guy’s a nutjob. I’ve had a mentally ill person in the house for the last half an hour. Must/Have! has hired a door-to-door salesman with a screw loose.

‘Shopping trolley?’ ‘Checkout?’ I laugh out loud at my panic in the living room. The doomed feeling I had was ridiculous. My sense of dread vanishes in a flash. Thinking I was in some sort of danger was absurd. I decide to forget all about George and his stupid instructions Mom will be back soon shouting for that ice.

Sure enough, when I get back from the shop with the ice, Mom’s pacing up and down the living room wondering out loud what took me so long.

“Okay. Get that ice in the freezer. Then go out and finish the pool.”

“I finished the pool!”

“No you didn’t. There’s some leaf smears down the deep end you missed. You’ve got half an hour. My guests will be here in half an hour.”

“Mo-ooom!”

The smears she’s talking about, down the deep end, will never come off. They’re leaf-shaped superglue adhered to the tiles.

“… Now… let me see…” Mom struts up and down the living room, with her ‘busy’ frown on her forehead. “... Finger food…”

Fortunately she’s in charge of the catering for her party. She’ll be making the pineapple sticks and heating up the sausage rolls. She doesn’t trust me to do it. With my training in microwaving readi-meals I’m not the cordon bleu finger food chef she requires. She counts the menu off on her fingers:

“… Mm-mmm… celery sticks… cheese-y dip…”

As long as there’s plenty of wine Mom’s friends don’t really mind what they eat.

She paces up and down in her…

… Did I say shorts?

… The casual shorts she wears around the house?

They’re not shorts. There’s nothing the slightest bit casual about them. They’re short shorts. Short shorts cut high up her crack at the back! And…

… Sloppy T-shirt… ?

Her T-shirt’s white but it isn’t sloppy at all.

… It’s designer shrunk! Mom’s T-shirt’s been specially shrunk so it stretches tight across her large, full breasts. It doesn’t fully cover where her wobbly tits take off from the silky planes of her belly. It’s clear she isn’t wearing a bra. Her T-shirt’s shrunk so tight, her sumptuous nipples prong the white cotton.

My mother’s not just bossy. She’s scary.

Thirty-seven-years-old and putting on weight and she goes around in short shorts and a skimpy T-shirt and five inch heels!

That’s my mother all over. Middle-aged lines around her eyes, but with all the cream she uses I must it her suntan’s pretty silky.

Her jaw’s a bit poky from all the bossing around her mouth does, but in fact her chin’s still fairly cute.

My mother’s started dying her hair but the stylishly tangled pile of blonde curls still looks lustrous and healthy.

She’s put on weight, but mainly in all the right places I guess you’d have to say. It’s a pity she’s such a tyrant If she weren’t such a tyrant Mom’d find a man real easy.

“Jamie! The pool!”

I suddenly about George. George and Must/Have. George and the crazy things he did with my phone and the even crazier things he’d done to my mother’s brain.

I say: “Did you get a message from Must/Have!, Mom?”

She keeps on pacing up and down, her mind on hors d’oeuvres and which wine to open first.

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh nothing. I was just wondering. Did you open it?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Did you read it?”

“What are you on about, Jamie? Of course I did! It was just some stupid promotional thing. Why?”

“… Oh… nothing I was just wondering… what did the message say…?”

“It’s none of your business! Really Jamie! It was just some promotion or other. Stupid coupons. How do you even know I got a message?”

I nearly jump out of my skin.

“… Oh… oh… I don’t… I just…”

So she got George’s message. So she opened it. She read it. My mother reads every word when it’s from Must/Have!

She stamps her foot.

“Will you hurry up and finish the pool?! How many times do I have to ask you?”

I know that George’s mind control isn’t real. George himself hardly feels real any more. It’s all a stupid fantasy. Brain control’s for freaks, but I’m so wound up I blurt:

“Why don’t you finish the swimming pool Mom?”

She stops dead.

“Me? Clean the pool?” She puffs herself up. “That’s your job, Jamie!” Her nagging tone goes up an octave. “I’ve got so much else to do!”

Her shocked stare turns to a dark cloud of anger at my impertinence.

I’ve blown it. I’ve gone too far. George has tricked me. There’s no such thing as mind control, never mind controlling my mother when she gets angry. I’m about to get the telling off of my life. She stares at me so angrily I blurt:

“Shopping trolley!”

A smile switches on where a moment ago her lips were quivering. Her frown vanishes. She smooths her short shorts down over her hips.

“… Finish the pool… me…?… why… yes… yes, of course, Jamie… what a good idea… !”

She brushes at the taut nipples pronging her tank-top, as if she can’t work out why she’s wearing something so inappropriate.

“… Yes… I think I’ll finish cleaning the pool…”

She heads for the door, an innocent girl, eager to please.

Her bootylicious ass wobbles like succulent jelly where her short shorts are cut high up her rear cleft. She tugs at slashed denim, but the shorts are too tight to adjust to a modest level.

I experience a horrible feeling of desire for her, a tingle between my legs that’s more than just a loving son’s affection for his mother.

“No, Mom! I’ll do it! It’s my job. I’m sorry.”

“… No… no, Jamie… let me…”

Her high heels click on the wet tiles.

She’s not used to doing manual work. She bends awkwardly and picks up the long pole, the crotch of her short shorts tugging at her pussy, moist hairs adhering to the silky skin of her inner thighs.

She laughs:

“… Oh dear… I should have put on something more appropriate for pool cleaning…!”

“No, Mom. Please. I’ll do it!”

She staggers under the weight of the pole. He heels scrape and skitter. She totters towards the edge of the pool, the squeegee waving around high above her head.

“… Let’s see now…”

“That’s enough, Mom. It’s my job. I’ll do the rest!”

“… Oh dear… these heels are so awkward… God knows why I ever put them on…!”

My heart’s beating like crazy. I can’t believe this is happening. Mom’s embarrassed by her high heels and fuck-me outfit. Normally she flounces around the house flashing skin and it’s me who always feels awkward. Now she’s all eager and modest and innocent and I’m the one who’s packing wood!

I need this to stop. I have to say the trigger word. I’ve got to stop this madness.

The pole’s so long she’s holding her end between her legs, the squeegee waving around high above her head. There’s a massive splash. The pole gets away from her and nearly drags her into the pool after it.

“… Oh… oh dear… ”

She lunges the squeegee at the water and it nearly pulls her in.

“Careful, Mom. Careful!”

She starts rubbing at the leaf smears on the bottom, shoving the pole backwards and forwards through the water. Her T-shirt rides up. More of her sensational rear fullness wobbles into view. White strands of slashed denim stick to her ass-cheeks where her short shorts are riding up.

I feel like killing George. He told me the trigger word would give me control over my mother’s mind. He didn’t tell me it would get me throbbing for her body too.

There’s a hot, tightening sensation in my crotch. An ache in my swollen balls. The pulsing in my cock is putting on weight.

I’ve seen enough. I need to stop this straight away. It’s gone miles too far already. I may not have a girlfriend, but that doesn’t mean I ought to be feeling the things I’m feeling for the chunky woman in high heels struggling with the pole. Mom’s not even all that overweight. In fact, she’s put on weight in all the right places.

Actually, she’s quite good at cleaning the pool too. My mother’s stronger than she looks. When she gets the squeegee positioned right and pushes, putting all her weight into it, the stains start coming off the submerged tiles pretty good.

“That’ll do, Mom. That’s enough.”

She’s a lather of sweat. She’s not used to getting so much exercise. Her face flushes through her tan. Her hands are wet. Her nail polish is getting scratched. Her arms are all slippery. Beads of sweat are trickling out of her short shorts’ crotch and glistening on her inner thighs. I can’t stand it.

I say it a bit too loud:

“Checkout!”

She stops dead.

Her back straightens.

She brushes a strand of damp blonde hair from her eyes.

The pole crashes down on the tiles.

There’s a moment’s bafflement in her eyes. An instant’s uncertainty crosses her face, then she’s back to her usual assertive manner:

“Well? What are you looking at? Don’t just stand there gawping! Get that ice stowed!”

She stalks off in the direction of the kitchen.

Tipping the ice into the ice box I get shivers all over my body. Not just my hands go cold. My stomach. My chest. The backs of my legs. I can’t believe what’s just happened. For a stretch of time—ten or fifteen minutes—my mother changed into a completely different woman. She wasn’t the same person I’ve known all these years, growing up in her house. The change in her was instantaneous. It was stunning. I only snapped at her to finish the pool herself because I felt fed up. Any pleasure I got from being relieved of the chore was canceled out by the shock, like it was almost a different person in my mother’s body!

One thing’s for sure— it mustn’t happen again. The consequences are too ghastly to even consider. I never want to go through another experience like that again, ever in my whole life. My mother might be mean and bossy, but she’s still my mother I still love her. You can only love the person you know, not the person you don’t know. I prefer my mean, tyrannical Mom to the helpless creature I saw struggling with the squeegee pole.

Mom’s voice comes from the living room.

“Jamie! Have you changed yet! Get a move on, will you? The girls’ll be here soon.” The ‘girls’ are Mom’s mid-thirties-something friends. “I don’t want you letting me down in those sloppy old board shorts!”

‘Letting her down?’ As if her dumb friends care about how I look, or what I’m wearing. The ‘girls’ are so busy gossiping and complaining about men they don’t even know if I’m in the room or not. ‘Sloppy old board shorts’ is just another way for Mom to boss me around. Now I’ve finished my chores I’m supposed to dress up to impress her friends with what an obedient, well-brought-up, well-groomed little wimp I am. Well. Actually. I’m not all that little. I’m quite tall. But you can be six foot tall and still be a wimp.

“Hurry up! Get changed! The girls’ll be here any moment.”

She comes back out of the kitchen.

She hasn’t even got changed out of her shorts and T-shirt yet herself, and she’s standing right in front of me issuing orders about clothes!

“I’ll need you to run down to the shop for me and pick up another couple of coolers. I don’t want you going out in those old board shorts again!”

Sometimes my Mom just drives me crazy.

I how nice her big ass looked, with the perspiration trickling out of the crotch of her shorts and glistening on her upper thighs. Her nipples are pronging her T-shirt so noticeably, they have to be engorged.

I’ve still got the horn!

My penis is still erect from watching her clean the pool and struggle with the pole.

She snaps at me:

“Hurry up! Get changed!”

She’s driving me out of my mind.

I smile at her and say:

“Shopping trolley.”

“I’ll also need you to…”

Mom stops in mid sentence. There’s a moment’s baffled look in her eyes. Startled and uncertain. Her eyes search mine for instruction.

“What’s that, Jamie? What did you say?”

I’m standing right in front of her, about a foot from her hot, stacked body, the heat from her exertions cleaning the pool still coming out of her T-shirt and short shorts, mingled with a hot tang sweeter than any perspiration. I murmur:

“Touch my cock.”

Her eyes widen. She purrs:

“Why certainly, Jamie. But I still want you to change into something nicer.”

“Yeah. Okay. Just touch my cock.”

Warm fingertips brush my zip.

Manicured nails graze the front of my shorts. She says:

“Those nice tan chinos and that green golf shirt of yours.”

“Yeah. Okay. Feel how stiff I am?”

Her fingertips stray down to my balls. Her fingers cup my balls through my shorts then slide back up my full length.

“Yes. You’re certainly quite erect, Jamie.”

Her nails locate where my throbbing spear-head is packed in under the button of my shorts. Her fingertips squeeze through the cotton and feel all the hot desire throbbing in my swollen tip.

“That’s your fault, Mom. You got me packing.”

Her nails rake where the aching’s worst, flirt with the button.

“It certainly feels that way, Jamie. Or perhaps the blue polo short might look nicer.”

It’s time to stop. This isn’t right. I’ve proved my powers. I’ve got to put an end to this. Right now. I don’t want these powers. They’re too dangerous. She’s only touching me up. Just feeling my need. That’s all. Feeling my need through my shorts, it’s not too late to stop, except suddenly everything feels wrong.

I whisper: “Stroke it, Mom.”

Her palm presses gently against my throbbing cock. The heel of her hand planes my rock-hard need of her, hot and urgently through my shorts. Her fingers flex deliciously, her warm palm taking its pleasure of my throbbing stiffness. She reaches for my balls. Her fingertips close round my rocks. She weighs all the pulsing spunk I’m aching to give her.

I groan:

“I want to fuck you, Mom”

No I don’t! What a horrible thing to say!

She murmurs:

“Yes. I know you do, Jamie… ”

Everything goes black. My head starts to spin. If I want to fuck her, I can. She’s squeezing my balls like she wants me to fuck her. She pouts:

“… I’ll need you to bring the table out for lunch by the pool too. I don’t think it’s too hot to eat outside.”

I groan:

“Unzip me, Mom. Get it out.”

“Certainly, Jamie.” Her hand travels up to my waistband button. Her fingertips pop the button and find my zip. She pulls it down. “No. I don’t think it’s too hot to eat outside.”

She reaches into my shorts and frees my cock from where it’s trapped in my briefs.

“I hope you bagged those leaves up properly, Jamie. They smell if you leave them out in the sun.”

“Yeah. I know, Mom.”

Her hand slides up and down. She starts gently pumping my cock.

“Harder, Mom. Please. Do it harder.”

For a second her faraway look turns baffled. ‘Please’ is the wrong word. She doesn’t need ‘please’. ‘Please’ confuses her. She enjoys ramping my erect manhood, polite requests aren’t necessary. She groans:

“… Oh… oh…”

Her hand closes bareback round my stiff cock She gets my throbbing thickness full-on in her fist and starts pumping me hard and fast. Hot gristle burns under her palm. Luxurious tingling sensations quiver up my cock from under my mother’s hand. The throbbing turns full-on ecstatic.

“… Oh… oh… you’ve still got these scruffy old shorts on, Jamie…” My zip gapes open. My cock starts to jerk with a rhythm all of its own, riding in her hot fist. “… I thought I told you to get changed…”

I’ve gone too far. I’m going to fuck her. We’ve gone too far, both of us. She’s my mother. This isn’t right. I should never have let that George guy in the house. His Must/Have! magic’s starting to scare me.

“Mm-mmm, Mom Yes. Ye-eeeeeees. That’s just right.”

My cock jerks and leaps in her hand. There’s a hot, yearning look in my mother’s eyes, like she’s done this loads of times before. Only not with me. Not with this dreamy look in her eyes, knowing it’s her son’s manhood that she’s pumping, but not really caring!

Some pre-cum squeezes out of my drumming spear-head. The pressure’s getting too much. My aching tip’s leaking a warning shot of the hot load of throbbing spunk it’s going to shoot into my mother’s succulent pussy. She spreads it round with her palm, right where the aching’s growing unbearable. She’s lubing me up with my pre-cum… like she’s ing something… like she’s ing all the times she’s done this before… like she realizes what she’s doing!

She moans:

“… Oh… oh… oh fuck… I… I cleaned the pool, Jamie. Is there anything else you want me to do?”

“Yeah. I want you to fuck me, Mom.”

“… Okay…”

She holds my cock still. She stops my spear-head from twitching and jumping around and drizzles spittle out of her mouth onto my aching tip. She spreads it around some more with her palm.

Something terrible is happening. This isn’t right. It’s time for ‘checkout’. I’ve got to say it, yell it out loud. ‘Checkout!’

The word refuses to leave my lips.

She groans:

“… Yes… yes…”

She unzips her shorts. She pulls her shorts down one handed. She drags her thong aside. Her thick, black bush glistens. Hot juice sizzles in her lustrous pubes. I can see where her pussy’s melting. Strings of cream cat’s-cradle her moist lips. Her fingertip pushes through a mess of hot desire and starts churning her clit.

“… Yes… yes… oh God… yes… ye-eeeeeeeees…”

Part of me wants to kiss her. Part of me wants to batten my mouth on her mouth and plaster her lips in a long, voluptuous kiss. The other part of me says no. No way.

“… Oh… oh…” Her eyes go big and wide. She gazes at me. “You better put fresh towels out in the bathroom too, Jamie The girls are going to want to have a shower after their swim.”

“… Yeah… yeah… okay… oh fuck…”

She goes up on tiptoe. Helpless longing lifts her onto her toes. Her meaty split arches moistly. Her thighs part. Her pumping hand guides my throbbing spear-head towards where she needs me most. She wants me to fuck her standing up. I reach round and cup her voluptuous ass-cheeks in both hands.

She won’t stop moaning:

“… Yes… yes… please… ple-eeeeeeease…” My swollen tip grazes her succulent wetness. She’s guiding me in. “… You’re so lazy, Jamie. Do I have to do everything myself?”

The doorbell rings.

A hot jolt goes through me. A kick at the root of my cock like a bolt of lightning hitting me.

Mom stops dead:

“… The girls…!”

The doorbell rings again.

“… Quickly, Jamie. Fuck me! Fuck me quick!”

It’s too late. I’m not fucking her. I can’t. I’m pumping surge after surge of hot spunk up her belly. My warm cums fills her hand, squeezes between her knuckles.

“… Oh… oh… oh yes… ye-eeeeeees…” Her body jerks. She thrashes against me. Her tail-bone kicks. He back arches. She’s cumming. “… Ye-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees…!”

The doorbell rings again. A couple of blasts. More impatiently.

I get my cock back in my shorts as quick as I can. I zip myself up.

I groan: “Checkout.”

Mom’s head jerks back.

“… Oo… oh… oh my…”

She gets this sudden, distant look in her eyes.

“… Oh dear…”

She looks down at her belly.

“… I’m… all sticky…”

She stands there staring, wiping my cum off her belly, wondering what it is, where it all came from. She realizes her shorts are around her thighs. She looks at me:

“… What’s happening, Jamie…?”

I’m in luck. The trance has left her in a semi-conscious state. She thinks she’s dreaming, seeing things.

“Nothing, Mom. Nothing at all. You just… you just spilled some… some…” I search for the right words. “… Syrup…”

“Syrup?”

“… Glucose syrup… from the fondue… you spilled it all down your front…”

She surveys her stomach.

“So I see.”

“You better get cleaned up, Mom. The girls are here.”

“… Yes.. yes, you’re right…”

She heads for the bathroom. She glances back over her shoulder. Her old bossiness clicks back in:

“… Go on, Jamie! Answer the door. What’s the matter with you?”

I hurry to the front door. My knees are still trembling.

I can’t face it. I can’t face them. Not Mom’s friends. Not just now. They’ll see. They’ll know at once. They’ll smell my spunk. Mom’s juice. They’ll see everything. They’ll realize what’s just happened, what I’ve just done.

I pull the front door open.

A burst of voices and high spirits crashes in.

“Hi, Jamie!”

“Hi, Jamie!”

“Where’s your Mom?”

That’s it.

Just ‘Hi, Jamie’. No penetrating looks. No urgent inquiries. I’m just unpaid staff, the guy who opens the door. I hardly exist. It’s my Mom they’re here to see.

The girls!

There’s six of them. Five women, all in their mid to late thirties. In sunglasses and beach wraps and designer shorts, bottles of wine under their arms to add to the ones already in the ice box.

Meg and Meryl and Gracie and Jilly and Chloe and Samantha.

They flash bright, eager smiles at me, looking forward to a boozy afternoon by the pool.

Mom calls out from the bathroom above the noise of the shower:

“Hi, girls! Come in!”

Her pool party’s kicking off and there’s only one thing I know for sure. I know for sure I can’t face it.