Disclaimer: This is a work of erotic mind control fiction with elements of coerced sexual activity; all characters are 18+
**HYPNOTIZED CHRISTMAS MOTHER**
“Mom, I’m not a little kid anymore!” I grouse.
She smiles at me in that horribly patronizing way she always does, lifting a delicate hand to ruffle my hair.
“It’ll be fun, Robbie,” she says with a giggle, her blue eyes twinkling at me. “Besides, we’ve done a picture with Santa every year!”
“Yeah, so?” I spit back. “The last ten years have been fucking horrible and awkward! Do you think a grown man in a suit wants a teenager on his lap—a male teenager?”
Not to mention I haven’t believed in Santa since I was five, but I’ve gone out of my way to make her happy—because that’s what’s always been expected of me. I don’t think I should have to do it anymore. I regret holding my silence for this long, really.
She taps me on the lips. “Language. I don’t understand why you’re throwing a tantrum about it now. Everyone expects our family Christmas photos to be with Santa. They think it’s cute and funny when we both sit on his lap together. You don’t want to deprive everyone of that do you? Have some holiday spirit!”
I don’t say anything to that, knowing that even though I’m eighteen now and officially an adult, that my opinion means jack shit to my mother. She doesn’t care about making me uncomfortable as long as I conform to her whims and plans. She doesn’t care that I’m no longer her little boy to dress up and play with like a doll. She doesn’t care anything about me (is how I feel on the daily), only enjoying the title of mother because it means showing me off to her friends and family like some trophy that she’s won, without really knowing who I am as a person. If I could afford to bail on living in her household, I totally would, but I’m still finishing up high school and it’ll be months before I can move into a college dorm.
She purses her plush lips at me as I fume silently. “I’ll buy you whatever you want, okay?”
“Of course you will,” I mutter. “Anything to get your way.”
“Robert, I don’t appreciate the sass!” she hisses, slamming on the breaks so that I jolt forward sharply, my seatbelt cutting into my chest.
“Ow! What the fuck—”
“You’ll be nice to me today or else!” Her scheming eyes well up with crocodile tears; one even leaks down her model pretty face (which I’ve always been convinced is why she acts like a complete nightmare, because being beautiful her entire life has made her used to having all her demands followed without complaint). “This is probably our last Christmas photo together, Robert Michael.”
*Oh no, she’s pulling out the big guns,* I think to myself as I hear her use my full first and middle name. *Here we go….*
“I can’t believe you don’t have the decency to think of your poor mother during the holidays,” she wails. “The only woman who has ever given you the time of day. The only woman who would die for you. The only woman—”
“Okay mom! Okay!” I snap. “I’ll take the fucking picture. You don’t have to buy me anything! Jesus, please just stop!”
Her tears dry up immediately, a small smirk taking over her painted red lips. “Thank you,” she whispers with satisfaction.
It’s a wonder I haven’t strangled her yet, but I think all the years of living with her has taught me something about being married. My dad died before I was old enough to realize I even had one, and so my mom has been the only constant in my life, and she’s always lorded her sacrifice of having to raise me alone over my head like a guillotine. ‘If mother’s not happy, nobodies happy’, has always been the motto that played out between us—and she’s definitely given me a lot of perspective on what women expect from men (which is mostly that they expect the entire world to be handed to them just because they want it and are delicate and pretty).
“You’ll also still help me shop for grandma and grandpa, my brothers, and all the little cousins, right?”
I sigh deeply. “Yeah.”
“I’ll still buy you a pretzel. I know how much you love those.”
I roll my eyes, not bothering to tell her that it’s her that loves the doughy, fried things that taste like greasy butter and salt. She only insists on me liking them because eating half of mine ‘doesn’t count’ towards her caloric intake or something. Not that she really needs to worry about that with as much as she visits the gym. If I had to say one nice thing about my mom, it’s that she keeps herself in tip-top shape. Her waist is tapered and her stomach is flat—even more so than a lot of the girls I go to school with. She also does something to her skin that keeps it glowing and youthful.
“Santa might even bring you that puppy you always wanted—”
“Mom, no!” I shake my head, horrified that she’s bringing up a dog when I’m set to move out by the end of the year. “I wanted a puppy when I was ten. I don’t have time for one now.”
She pouts, parking the car. “You could make time—and that wasn’t so long ago….”
There’s no arguing with this woman, so I decide to change the subject.
“Let’s go pick out presents and get this over with, please.”
We spend the next few hours going up and down the tiled strips of mall, with me following my mother like a lost puppy. Her curvy ass in a tight, red skirt is sometimes the only way I have of finding her (like a bright flag or stop sign), since she frequently flits about in manic excitement, jabbering away, “Oh look at that, Robbie!”, at everything from shoes, to purses, to make-up, to anything else overpriced and girly.
It’s only when I remind her that we are supposed to be shopping for other people that she quiets down.
“What do you think of this for pa-pa?” she asks me, holding up a silky, blue tie.
I’ve never seen my grandpa wear a tie in his life (the old man can hardly be bothered to put on a real pair of pants (there’s been countless times I had to ignore him scuddling about in old, greying underwear), but I know better than to tell my mom so.
“Perfect,” I say tonelessly.
“And how about these for gram-gram?” She beams at me magnanimously, holding up a fluffy, pink robe.
It’s no secret that her mother holds a disdain for all things *”that common, frumpy housewives would wear”;* that woman is even snootier and more pent up than her daughter (the daughter that has unfortunately raised me). A brief flash of amusement lances through me at imagining grandma’s face as she takes it out of the box, although I actually really like her, since she frequently sends me money and always talks highly of me.
“Maybe gram would like a gift card instead,” I suggest.
My mom sniffs, looking betrayed. “Ew, nonsense. I think I know my own parents better than you, Robbie.”
I sigh again, silently thinking, *I tried grandma. It’s really your fault for raising a narcissistic bitch anyway.*
“Let’s go pick out toys for your baby cousins.”
“Uh, I think they’re all about my age. I’m pretty sure Jenny is twenty,” I mutter.
“That can’t be right! Just the other day she was nine—”
*And just the other day you were thirty,* my mind snarls, blocking out her tirade about how she used to babysit us all together.
We shop for another hour, with my legs so tired that my knees feel loose and watery. I’m actually more than happy to sink down on a hard plastic bench and sit at a sticky food court table, scarfing down my entire hot pretzel while my mom jabbers away about how I need to smile “big and bright” in our Christmas photo this year.
“I didn’t pay for your braces for nothing,” she scolds me.
*Grandma paid for those,* I want to remind her, but I say nothing, grinning instead when she notices that there’s no pretzel left.
She glares, then drums her manicured, red nails on the edge of the table. “Do you want a second one?”
“Nah, let’s go get that picture.”
I should know better than to leave my mother irritated and hungry, but with as annoying as she’s been all day, I can’t help myself.
“Fine,” she huffs, gingerly rising from her seat.
I catch a glimpse of her inner thigh as she stretches one, long leg awkwardly out to escape the bench.
*Christ, that skirt is short*, my mind blares as she stands and my eyes latch onto the way the hem rides up on her curvy buttcheeks. The lower rounded part peeks out, all firm and rounded. *Is she even wearing underwear?*
My face turns red as she yanks her skirt down hastily, looking around me to see if anyone else noticed. There’s a pimply faced dude who winks at me from behind the *EZ-TWIST* pretzel stand and my blush deepens as I realize that he must think that she’s my slutty girlfriend or something.
*Or he just wants to bang your mom,* a taunting thought corrects.
“Come on,” I tell her, jumping up and taking her arm. “I’m getting tired of being here.”
“I’m in heels!” she exclaims with a whine, as though she hasn’t been flitting around like a deranged bee all day.
I drag her towards the bright Christmas display and loud jingling music anyway, gritting my teeth as I hear, “But the fire is so delightful!” and don’t even have to wait a breath to hear my mom hum out, “Let it snow—let it snow—let it snow!”
She always sings along to these stupid holiday tunes, even when she’s stressed or angry. It would be kind of cute if she weren’t so obnoxious. Maybe it would even be one of the things I appreciated about her if she were a nicer person.
“Mom, the line is really long.” I don’t even really need to tell her that as we approach the absolute sea of people waiting to talk to ‘Santa’ (who I’ve known since forever was just an aging, sad man in a red suit who probably has trouble paying his bills). There’s too many squalling children and tired women with bags under their eyes to count, and only a few dead eyed men who look like they regret becoming fathers. “Do you really want to do this? Maybe we can come back another time….”
“Christmas Eve is tomorrow, Robbie!” My mom yanks her arm out of my grip. “Stop being so negative. It’ll only take a bit.”
It takes another two hours, and by the time it’s nearly our turn (with one slow family before us, sitting each of their six children on Santa’s lap one by one) I’ve completely had it with the mall, Christmas, and my mother. She’s done nothing but complain and make snide remarks about everyone around us—as though this was my idea instead of hers. Most of the dudes in line openly stared at her tits, which made me realize that they’re nearly on full display in her low cut, frilly white blouse. The saint who didn’t was too busy being tugged on by multiple toddlers, with the mother insulting his parenting skills the whole time.
“Why are you so dressed up?” I know I shouldn’t ask, and definitely not in the tone I’m using, but I’m tired and irritable. “You don’t normally dress like this for a family photo.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” My mom pouts at me sulkily.
“You look like you’re going to a club or something….”
“Well forgive me,” she practically howls, “for wanting to look young and youthful when my baby boy has decided that he’s all grown up!”
Several people stare at us. Heat rushes to my face and I stare at the ground, my heart thundering in embarrassment. I hate when my mom has public outbursts, and I should have known better than to provoke her.
“You look great,” I concede.
It’s not even a lie. My mom does look amazing, even though I wish she wasn’t trying to show off her sexy body to the entire world due to some weird tantrum about me getting older. Her tits are still youthful and perky, despite her being in her late thirties—although I suspect that’s partly because she never breastfed me and partly because they aren’t super huge.
“You’re up,” a flustered elf calls to us; he’s a very short fellow with too much makeup on his face and hilariously fake, pointy ears (and I almost feel sorrier for him than I do for myself).
“Thanks,” I say, ignoring my mom’s fake sniffling.
Usually compliments work right away on her, but since she’s hungry and tired, she’s being even more immature than usual.
“I should ask Santa for a nicer son,” she whispers, pushing me forwards.
*I should ask Santa for a nicer mom,* my mind fires back, but I’m not an idiot—so I’m not going to say it out loud; we’re almost done and out of here, and I’m looking forward to going home, where I can hide out in my room now that my duties of babysitting her are almost over.
“Oh ho ho,” the fake Santa says, pulling on his long, white beard. “Where are your little ones?”
“This is my baby,” my mom gushes, squeezing the confused man’s knee.
“Oh—oh. He’s a bit too big—”
But my mom doesn’t listen (because different Santas have been saying that for *years*), yanking at my arm so hard that I’m forced to awkwardly sit on the fake Santa’s bony knee. She delicately perches on the other one as he stiffens, his wide eyes bleary and darting towards his helper, who shrugs. The poor suited man generously pats us both on the back, smiling merrily, although a thin sheen of irritation sweat breaks across his forehead.
“And what would you both like for Christmas, then?” he asks generously.
“A lovely Christmas photo is all I ask for,” my mom simpers, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.
His face softens at that and I hold back a gag as his chubby cheeks redden.
“I think that can be done. Everyone smile!”
I pull back my lips, showing my teeth in what I hope is a convincing smile, but wishing that I could die right here and now. It’s humiliating seeing all the bewildered people waiting for their turn watching us, *watching me*. Do they think I’m mentally handicapped or an imbecile or something? Why else would a grown woman make her teenaged son do this? The helper elf takes a picture and jerks his thumb up to indicate he’s done.
“And what do you want, little boy?” Santa asks jokingly as I stand.
I wait until my mom is distracted by the elf showing her our photo before I snidely say, “A mother that doesn’t manipulate me and treat me like a baby.”
“That can be arranged,” Santa whispers in a conspirational tone. “Use this out back.”
He slips me a golden coin, winking, then jerks his head back to indicate a hallway I hadn’t noticed before. It’s dingy and small, but appears to be lined with vending machines.
“Uh, thanks.”
*Buying me off with candy, like I’m a child—typical,* my mind whirs as I pocket the coin.
“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!” he exclaims, motioning for the next family to approach him.
I know when I’ve been dismissed, so I go to grab my mom (who is still nitpicking our photo with the poor elf helper), and tell her that we need to go.
“But I want to take a new one!” she insists.
“Well, we can’t,” I snap, dragging her away. “Santa gave me a coin for Christmas and the elf obviously thinks our picture is good enough.”
“A coin?”
“Yeah, think it’s for those vending machines over there.”
She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Candy isn’t good for you, Robbie.”
But as we approach the machines, we both notice that some of them are full of intricate Christmas ornaments, which my mom likes so much that she squeals out, “Give me the coin! I get to choose!”
“Fine, but after this we’re leaving.”
She glares at me, but when I hide my hands (and the coin) behind my back she says. “Okay, sure.”
I give her the coin. It doesn’t seem like any kind of real sacrifice, nor do I think of Santa’s weird agreement that offering it to my mother will make her any nicer or more loving. I watch as she dilly-dallies over choosing a machine, rolling my eyes as she explains each choice she has (“Well, we could choose a snow globe looking ornament but it might be too heavy for the tree….”) and wait until she settles on a glass, snowflake ornament that is sparkly and bright.
“This one is perfect,” she whispers, inserting the coin into the machine.
The machine begins to shake. It hums weirdly, bright light flaring out from it for an instant, and I watch my mother’s rapturous face go slack and blank as it spits forth the ornament she chose.
“Mom?” I ask, a cold dread going over me as she stands in front of the machine unmoving.
Is she having some sort of stroke or something?
Her pretty face turns to me, but her gaze seems distant. “Yes, darling?”
“It gave it to you….” I motion towards the machine. “The ornament?”
“Oh.”
When she doesn’t move to take it, I do, instantly irritated. Why is she acting so weird? Is this all some stupid plot to stay in this mall hellscape even longer? The Christmas music is starting to make me sick.
“What the—” I gasp, pulling out a scrap of paper instead of the ornament she chose.
I unroll it slowly, cursing to myself that we’ve been scammed.
*Snap your fingers twice*, it reads.
I stare hard at the paper, not knowing what to think of it, before I turn it over to read: *Troublesome mother begone.*
“Are you shitting me?” I murmur, my eyes sliding to my mother’s languid frame.
She’s still just standing there as though she’s been drugged, staring at nothing, with her long, toned, legs a little too relaxed in her overly high heels (making her look like she might topple over at any second).
“Mom!” I call out.
“Yes, darling?” she asks again.
“We’re leaving.”
“Oh,” she says again.
There’s something about the way she says it that freaks me out and gives me déjà vu. I stare at her, my mouth dropping open, before I snap my fingers twice.
Her face comes alive and her eyes burn with heat; she seems to stand straighter and taller in her red heels. “Robert, my love, what is it?”
*Holy shit,* my mind blares. *What’s happening?* It almost seems like she’s pranking me, but my mom isn’t the joking type.
“I want to leave.”
“Yes. Let’s go.”
I try to shake off the feeling that something is very wrong, and it’s not super difficult when she’s agreeing with me and leading the way out to the car.
“I liked the picture,” I try, as we buckle ourselves into our seatbelts in the car.
She replies tonelessly, “Yes, I liked it, too. Thank you for taking it with me.”
*Okay, that’s definitely weird. She hated that picture and wanted a retake,* my brain buzzes.
“I don’t want to take any more of those, though,” I whisper, hesitantly. “Ever again.”
“Then we won’t. Sorry for making you, darling.”
What’s with all this love and darling stuff? She calls me ‘Robbie’, mostly, and when she’s pissed at me it’s always ‘Robert’.
“Are you okay?”
She flashes me a megawatt smile, her bright, white teeth gleaming. “Of course! I’d do anything for you, my love!”
I frown at her, even though a strange warmth hums all through me. It’s really nice having her act this way, but it seems alien, like something is all wrong and someone else has taken over my mother.
“Can we get some fast food on the way home?”
Normally I know asking about getting French fries and hamburgers would send her into a spiel about healthy eating, but she doesn’t even balk, nodding at me enthusiastically.
“Anything you want, darling.”
*Holy shit, was Santa telling the truth?* my mind whirs. *What else can I make her do?*
“I need some money to go shopping, mom,” I say tentatively, knowing that I’m pushing my luck.
My mom never gives me money. It’s always grandma who sends me cash so that I can get the stuff I want. My mom will buy me things she’s approved of (which isn’t much)—but she’ll never hand me cash, *ever*.
“How much do you need, darling?”
I gape at her. “Two-hundred….”
“Check my purse, love.”
By the time we get home, I’m so amped up (having both consumed mass amounts of fast food and lined my pockets with cash) that I can hardly contain myself. It’s like I have a whole new mother that I’ve always wanted, and it almost feels like I’m having a fever dream.
I know I shouldn’t, but I’m still feeling bitter about the way she dressed herself up to go to the mall, so I decide to pick at her as we gather our things from the car.
“Why did you dress up so slutty?” I ask.
Her glassy eyes lock onto mine. “I wanted to be sexy. I wanted people to notice me.”
“Well, I noticed you—and that’s not so great, is it?”
“I want you to notice me,” she whispers. “My love.”
I huff at her in shock. “Well, I did notice you. I noticed that everyone was looking at you. It made me uncomfortable.”
“I’m sorry, son.”
It’s so weird that she’s apologizing to me that I can barely breathe.
We go into the house without further words exchanged, but my heart keeps hammering in my chest. I’m still completely in shock at how she’s behaving. It doesn’t seem real—but I can’t help but to keep testing it.
“I still don’t get why you dressed up like a tart.”
It’s wild that I’m actually voicing my innermost thoughts to her. Here she is, standing before me, in her high heels, a short skirt, and an overly tight blouse—and I’m criticizing her like I’ve always wanted to do but never done before. Like I never dared to do.
Her voice is soft and toneless as she says, “I wanted to be sexy. You’re getting older . . . and I’m getting old….”
“You’re not old, mom.”
But part of me is humming with satisfaction that this woman is feeling insecure about herself. She’s never felt insecure (as far as I can tell), always lording her feminine charms over me and everyone else. So, part of me wants her to feel bad—and part of me wants her to suffer—especially after all she’s put me through. I’m just so used to consoling her that it’s hard not to tell her everything’s okay, even when she doesn’t deserve it….
“So, you really think I look good?” she asks.
I roll my eyes. This is typical of her and makes me think that maybe things aren’t so out of the ordinary. She’s still fishing for compliments, as usual….
*Of course.*
I huff out, “Didn’t you notice how many men in the mall were staring at you?”
“But did *you* think I looked good? Do *you* think I look sexy?”
My breath catches as she lowers the top of her blouse, showing off her lacy, white bra and full cleavage. This is completely foreign; her wanting my approval in this blatant, sexual way.
“Mom?”
“Do you like what you see?”
*What the fuck is going on?* my mind whirs, but I also can’t help but to stare at her jiggly tits, mesmerized by the way the full flesh pushes out. *She’s definitely calling my bluff now.*
“Sure, yeah,” I gulp.
“Would you like to see more?”
I stare at her dumbfounded. I’ve never seen real tits before (because porn videos don’t count, and I’ve never had a girlfriend). It’s weird that I do want to see my mom’s tits, right? Even if it’s just out of curiosity? She seems to read my face, smiling softly as she pulls off her top and then undoes her bra, letting them fall to the floor as her milky, white tits are exposed, the pinks of her nipples hardening in the cool air of the hallway.
*Jesus, they’re glorious*, I think to myself as my mouth goes dry.
They look just as fit, perky and youthful as she’s kept her body and face—and I can’t help but stare at them, my cock lunging forward in my jeans in appreciation.
*This is so wrong,* my brain warns—but I don’t even care as she smiles coyly at me and whispers, “Do you want to touch them, darling?”
I know I shouldn’t, but I lunge forward, palming them with shaky hands. They feel soft and warm and wonderful. They feel round and heavy against my palms. They feel like everything dreams are made of. The fact that these amazing tits belong to my narcissistic mom, instead of just some random girl, makes it somehow all the hotter and more sensual—like something completely intimate I’m sharing with someone special. Like a secret between old friends. Even though my mom has *never* been my friend, she’s still always been with me. So it’s more like a long awaited apology.
“I like it when they’re squeezed and slapped,” she says in a sultry tone.
Disgust and anger flares into my brain. I don’t want to hear how my mom gets off with other dudes. The special feeling wears off in an instant, and I’m left feeling resentful (like normal) where I just want to punish her for being so awful to me. So, I slap them, as hard as I can, feeling the sting of her flesh against my own. I hope it hurts.
“Oh!” she moans, sluttily.
The sound lances into my brain. Normal thought clicks off, (and so does my disgust and anger), my cock dribbling excitedly and hot lust filling my entire being. I want to hear her moan again. I want to know that I’m making her *feel* something. I smack her tits again, groaning as she gives off another slutty moan, and then all hell breaks loose.
“I want you to fuck me!” she cries out.
I’m so shocked that I shake my head at her, horrified for a moment before she turns around and lifts up her short skirt.
*She’s not wearing any panties—just like you thought,* my mind blares, taking in the smooth, round curves of her ass and the bareness of her pussy.
I can’t believe that I’m staring into the glistening pinkness of my mom’s wet fuckhole—all waxed and bare, the tiny opening winking at me. This entire situation feels unbelievable, like I’ve lost my mind. Her juices leak down her legs, eager and beckoning, as though her entire body is screaming for my cock. Worse, I really want to give it to her.
But I can’t really fuck her—right? That would be taking this madness too far.
“Robbie, please!” she whines.
Her demand courses through me like a tendrilled claw, and I find I can’t help myself. She’s always known just how to get her way (and very distantly, I realize that she’s really pushing me to do what I secretly desire most—almost like there’s some power inside her turning her into just what I need). I step forward, almost unthinking, and unzip my pants, freeing my aching erection.
A distant part of me knows I shouldn’t want to fuck my own mother, but yet I totally want to sink my prick into that tantalizing, sopping wet, hole. Especially with all the shit she’s put me through. She owes me some pleasure—some immeasurable sense of bliss. It’s only what she’s been asking from me, in different ways, over the years.
“Lay on the floor,” I tell her. “On your back.”
I can’t believe that she listens to my demand. It seems degrading and mean to make her sprawl out on the living room floor like a complete whore, but it excites me beyond reason. She looks so good with her red skirt rucked up around her curvy hips, her bare pussy on full display, with her perky tits jiggling freely. I gaze at her with appreciation, thinking she looks like a fallen angel with her blonde hair haloed out around her head—or maybe like a succubus from hell.
“You really want me to fuck you?” I ask, almost balking because this still seems so unreal.
“Yes! Yes!” she cries out, moving one of her delicate hands to play with herself frantically.
The sight turns me on so much, watching her slim fingers massage her wet cunt, that I can’t help but sink down on top of her, mouthing her breasts for a few moments before I position myself to pump into her.
“Jesus!” I groan, feeling the heated slide of her flesh engulf mine as my cock pierces into her.
Hot pleasure rolls through me as I sink myself ball’s deep, the Christmas lights from our tree sparkling in my eyes, and I can’t help but to thrust into her manically, loving the sloppy sound of her soaked cunt taking me in as I pound her.
“Oh! *Ohhhh*!” she moans, gripping me to her. “Punish my tits! Punish me!”
I squeeze her tits with one hand and grip the back of her neck with the other, pummeling her with hard thrusts until she can’t form words any longer. It’s all I can do to keep from cumming in her immediately, but I hold back, making her whimper wordlessly and cry out. When I feel the spastic squeeze of her pussy orgasming around me, and see her eyes roll back in her head, I can’t take it anymore. My world narrows into a bright point, the dazzling Christmas lights blurring and spreading out into eternity, and I flood her cunt with gushes of my hot sperm.
She howls in pleasure, wrapping her long legs around me and humping me back.
“Mom,” I gasp, rocking into her until I drain my balls dry.
We both fall silent other than our shaky breathing. I suddenly expect her to curse me. I suddenly expect her to be mad. I suddenly expect her to turn into the fiery witch she usually is—angry and mean and accusatory.
“Thank you, Robbie,” she breathes.
I’m so shocked that I slump into her bonelessly, just feeling her warm weight underneath me. It feels so embracing and comforting and nice that I can scarcely believe it, like a mother’s hug—like something she’s not given to me for years.
“I love you,” she whispers.
“Do you?” I ask, pulling away. She hasn’t told me those words since I was very young, and for some reason they kind of sting now. “Clean yourself up.”
I watch as she gets off the floor and rights herself, putting her bra and shirt back on, before going into the bathroom. Anxiety flares through me as I sit on the couch and contemplate what I’ve done. Will this change everything between us? Will she kick me out now? Will she call the police, even?
But she comes out of the bathroom awhile later, with a wide smile, batting her eyelashes at me. “I love you, Robbie. Anything you ask of me, I will do. Forever.”
I snap my fingers twice, knowing I should free her from whatever spell the vending machine put her under. Santa couldn’t have meant for me to keep her like this (if he even had any idea what I would *do* with a loving mother….)!
“Yes, son?” she asks politely.
*Oh shit, did that not work?* I wonder*. Is she really going to be my loving mother forever?*
“You still want to serve me?” I ask tentatively.
Her bright blue eyes flare with heat. “Yes! Please!”
I stare at her in wonder, amazed that such a beautiful woman is now mine to do whatever I want with.
“My cock is still wet with your juices, clean me off,” I tell her meekly, barely believing the power I hold.
She kneels before me, pressing her slim body between my knees as she takes my half-hard erection out of my jeans. “As you wish, master.”
Heady power thrums through me like a warm drum. I pet her hair appreciatively as her hot, wet, mouth engulfs my cock, knowing that I’m about to have the second most powerful orgasm of my life as she sucks her juices off of me.
*Thank you, Santa,* is all I can think when not long later I douse her throat with another load of hot cum.
He granted my deepest darkest wish and everything I ever truly wanted. He gave me a mother that truly cares about my needs. He made it so that I’m going to have the best Christmas of my life—one full of white, hot orgasms and ploughing all of my mom’s forbidden holes.
—————-
Thanks for reading! If you enjoy narcissistic mothers getting what they deserve, you’ll love the other books in this Holiday series (5 books in total, over 25k words) [you can find them here :)](https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/73745?ref=WinwoodErotica)
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/zvw4sb/hypnotized_christmas_mother_mf_incest_momson_mind
!updateme
Subscribeme!