The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The morning after I took my mother for the first time, I found her in the kitchen, doing the dishes. She was clothed, but not in anything dowdy—apparently she’d learned her lesson from the night before.

But still. Clothed.

I didn’t like that.

I walked up behind her without saying a word, put one hand on her neck, and force my mother to bend over. Her token resistance felt like a challenge, of sorts…and I intended to show her exactly how token it was.

At first Mom just froze, but after twenty seconds—to my utter delight—she resumed washing the dishes.

Apparently that’s how she was dealing with the situation: denial. Her mind couldn’t yet accept that her son was raping her, that her son was going to rape her every chance he got.

And so she just stood, silently doing the dishes.

My mother was wearing a short skirt, a pair of panties (not a thong; probably the first time she’d worn non-thong underwear in months) and a crop top with no bra. She looked spectacular—I mean, she always looked spectacular—and even if I hadn’t been just about to take her, I’m sure I would’ve been hard.

Of course, if I wasn’t, Cynthia would’ve been more than happy to drop to her knees until I was.

My sister was watching from the doorway. She had a look on her face, like a soldier’s wife when he returned from war. Euphoria, that’s what it was. Pure, unadulterated bliss and pride.

And she was naked, of course. Sometimes I considered making Cynthia wear clothes as a punishment: it was hard to think of anything that she’d enjoy less. But really, I’d just be punishing myself.

As I reached down and moved Mom’s panties to the side, I could hear her sob. She just kept mindlessly washing one dish as my cock made its way between her legs. As I started firmly pushing forward.

It had been less than twenty-four hours since I’d raped my mother for the first time, but I’d already forgotten how amazing it felt. Her cunt was like a vice around my cock as she pressed her thighs together, doing anything she could to stop my assault.

“Fuck,” I groaned, grabbing the nape of my mother’s hair as I slowly forced myself inside her. “You’re such a wet slut, Mom.”

She didn’t say anything in response, and I moved my head to the side and forced hers around until she was facing me.

“You’re my slut,” I growled, before leaning forward and taking her mouth with my own. She tried to keep her lips shut, but I clamped my other hand around her jaw and held it open.

I pushed my tongue deep into her mouth, and as she kissed me back, I heard a moan escape Mom’s throat. I began thrusting in and out of her, driven on by her response. By her resistance. Pulling back, I let her face the sink. I couldn’t help but smile as she continued instinctively washing that one single dish.

“Take this cock, you dirty little bitch,” I hissed. “Oh yeah, that’s right. Take it, Mom. Feel your son’s cock inside you.”

Mom didn’t say a word, silently taking my cock—and my abuse—as she ensured that we had one perfectly clean dish. The water in the sink grew cold as I continued to fuck her, my hands grasping her hips as I pummeled her.

“I bet you like the way that feels, huh?” I asked. “Your son’s cock stretching out your tight little cunt. You love being a whore, don’t you?”

Mom didn’t say anything, but I saw her shake her head as I raped her.

“You like it so much, Mom. The fact that your son is using you like this. The thought of him fucking you. The knowledge that he’s going to cum deep inside you.”

Again, Mom shook her head, but I knew she wanted to scream.

“Let me hear it,” I said. “Tell me how much you want it. Tell me what you want from me. Beg me to cum inside you. Beg me to fuck you harder.”

Mom refused. She kept silent, her gaze locked forward as I continued to fuck her.

“Come on, Mom,” I groaned, giving her skirt-clad ass a rough SLAP. “Say something! Anything!”

I grabbed her hair and pulled her towards me, forcing her to look into my eyes as I plunged my cock into her again and again.

“Say something,” I ordered, but Mom’s lips just trembled in response. “You dirty fucking whore.”

And then she came. I could see it, feel it. The muscles in her cunt tightened around my cock as her body shuddered uncontrollably.

“Ahh!” she shrieked, pausing only to suck in a deep breath. She was still cumming, her body shaking as she made tiny noises of pleasure and pain. “Aieeee...”

I couldn’t believe how hot it was to watch Mom cum. It had been amazing when I spanked her, when I fingered her, when I watched Cynthia go down on her...but nothing could compare to how it felt with my dick inside her.

As I raped her.

When her orgasm subsided, I pulled out of her. I heard Cynthia groan in disappointment from the doorway, but I was amused to hear a soft sound of dismay come from Mom as well.

As much as she hated me fucking her, it was clear that her body loved it. Her body was built to take cock.

My cock.

“Beg me,” I ordered, and Mom looked up at me, her eyes watery.

“W-what?”

“Beg me to rape you.”

“D-D-Daniel, I...I...”

I slapped her, harder than I’d ever slapped her before. Just like she had the previous night, she fell to the ground, sobbing.

“Beg me,” I growled. “Or you’ll leave this room with a black eye.”

“This isn’t you,” she pleaded, and I balled my hand into a fist and pulled it back. From the doorway, I could hear Cynthia moan—it hadn’t been my intent to give her a fetish for abuse, but the cocktail of perverted urges I’d installed had resulted in her finding her brother’s violence completely irresistible.

“P-please,” Mom begged, dropping her face, her voice breaking.

“Please what?”

“Please don’t hit me,” she said, and I reached down and grabbed her hair, pulling her up slowly.

“Wrong answer,” I said, wrapping one hand around her throat.

I’d choked my sister and my mother before, of course. Sometimes as part of a punishment, sometimes as foreplay, and sometimes just because Mom liked it.

But this was different. When I’d been choking them for play, I’d put most of the pressure on the sides of their neck—they could feel it, intensely, but it ran no risk of cutting off their airway.

As I choked Mom, I made sure to cut off her windpipe.

She couldn’t breathe.

Cynthia moaned again, louder this time. If I’d actually killed Mom, she probably would’ve cum on the spot.

Mom’s eyes were bulging out, her face turning red. She stared at me, genuine fear in her eyes. Cynthia would tell me later that I was grinning like a maniac, like I really wanted to kill her.

I squeezed tighter, and she winced.

“Beg,” I said, and released Mom’s throat. Again, she fell to the floor, grabbing her throat, sucking in as much air as she could. “Beg me to rape you.”

She nodded quickly, looking up at me with wide, terrified eyes. When she spoke, her voice was raspy, quaking with fear as she spoke.

“Please, Daniel,” she said. “Please. Son. R-rape me. Rape your mother.”

“Again.”

Mom tried to speak, but she couldn’t get the words out. Her face was a mess of tears and snot as she stared at me, trembling.

“Again!” I shouted, pointing at my naked sister. “Or this time, I choke her. And if you don’t say it fast enough, I won’t stop.”

Mom’s eyes flicked to Cynthia, and I wondered what was going through her head. Did she still see her daughter as a rival, or as a threat? Or would her maternal instincts win out?

What would she do to protect her daughter?

“R-r-rape me,” she gasped. “I...I deserve it.”

“Yes,” I said, leaning down and grabbing my mother’s top. “Yes you do.”

She came four times as I took her, bent over the kitchen table we’d grown up eating meals around. I don’t know if it was the fear, or the adrenaline, or even just the pain, but she was wetter than she’d ever been. She cried and whimpered as I raped her, her hands gripping the kitchen table for dear life. She was shaking, trembling with fear and exhaustion, and orgasm after orgasm until I finally came inside her.

I didn’t stop there. I ordered Cynthia to get me hard again (I could’ve had Mom do it, but the combination of my sister’s skilled mouth and my mother’s pain and suffering was the perfect aphrodisiac) then pulled Mom’s skirt up and fucked her ass, my fingers digging into her shoulders. Just like the previous night, she didn’t cum from my cock in her ass, just cried, her tears splashing onto the tablecloth.

When I was done, I had Cynthia clean me off. Mom returned to the dishes, walking bowlegged, trembling as she did.

Everything changed after that.

Not surprisingly. Mom was broken. She couldn’t go to the police without exposing her own role in what happened, and there was no one else. Nowhere else.

She had no one and nothing. After Dad died, her world had shrunk to me and Cynthia. She had two people in the world: me and her daughter.

Over the past few months we’d become closer than any family ever should be. And now, we’d turned on her. I’d gone from her trainer, her lover, her master...to her rapist. And Cynthia had gone from ally to rival to her tormentor’s accomplice.

I didn’t hypnotize her any more. I didn’t need to. My mother was a shell of a woman, completely bent to my will. She knew exactly where she stood; at long last, I’d done it.

My mother was my sex slave. She was my crying, whimpering victim. I could do whatever I wanted to her, whenever I wanted. Even if she fought back, I’d still take her. Any resistance she put up would just mean that I would have to hurt her some more before I raped her.

God I loved it when she put up a fight.

But after a while, she didn’t even do that. My mother would let me do whatever I wanted to her. She’d stare into space, hopeless, helpless, as I came into her holes. She didn’t resist. She didn’t fight back. She had nowhere else left to turn.

She had no choice.

I’d thought my life was perfect before. Every day, getting sucked off by my mother and sister. Every day, watching them torture each other for my pleasure. But nothing—nothing—could compete with how good it felt to see my mother, completely broken.

She’d wince when I entered the room. She’d avoid eye- at all costs. She would try to make herself small, to avoid my notice. Because she knew that if I noticed her, I’d take her.

And whenever I took her, she’d cum.

I don’t want to say that was the hottest part—every part of it was the hottest part, each element equally perfect in its own way—but I got such a thrill from feeling Mom involuntarily cumming around my cock. If I was fucking her pussy, she’d grow wetter and wetter until she came, groaning and trembling around my cock.

And, just as erotically—when I took her ass, she wouldn’t. When I raped my mother’s ass, she wouldn’t cum. She’d just suffer, every moment of my assault nothing but pain. Hell, pure hell, from start to finish.

Both ways were hotter than the other. Both of them were everything I’d dreamed of, and more.

Mom kept on working out. At first out of habit, but eventually I think it became an escape. When she was running, she knew I couldn’t take her. When she was doing sit-ups, she was safe.

Unfortunately for Mom, it was easy enough for me to change her routine. I had Cynthia buy and install a treill, so that I could take Mom even when she was halfway through a ten-mile jog. I had her start doing situps and pushups blindfolded, so she’d never know when I was going to strike.

She’d always done some light weight-lifting, but when I noticed her trying to increase her reps, I banned them from the house. I didn’t want her feeling stronger.

I wanted her feeling weak. Vulnerable.

Constantly.

Over the next month, I found myself using Cynthia less and less. Not just using—thinking about her, even. When I stopped putting Mom under, I even did the same with my sister. She was completely obedient, she’d do anything I asked: what was the point? The main reason I put her under was to fuck her, and...well, with Mom available to me, I didn’t really see the appeal in fucking my unconscious sister.

When I raped Mom, I got everything. The feeling of her soft cunt around my cock, the knowledge that she was truly, truly suffering. And, y’know…the pleasure of an orgasm. I got to cum.

With how much I enjoyed Mom’s pain, that was almost a side benefit.

At first I’d use Cynthia’s mouth, sometimes her hand. Like if we were watching a movie, I didn’t want to put in the effort of fucking my mother—I just wanted some nice, ive pleasure. And, like that time in the kitchen, I’d sometimes use Cynthia to clean me off.

She loved it. Nothing turned my sister on more than being used, than bringing me pleasure. And she was so powerfully turned on by watching me rape Mom; even if she hadn’t been hypnotized to obey my every command, I feel like she would’ve done so anyway.

I had a direct line into my sister and mother’s minds, but not my own, so it took me a while to work out why I didn’t enjoy using Cynthia any more.

Because my sister loved it. She loved obeying me, she loved sucking my cock. She loved jerking me off. In that first week or two I was still cumming on her tits, and she’d furiously edge while I did. That was the problem: she loved it.

Once upon a time, I’d found that so hot. My sister, who wouldn’t have thrown me a sexual glance under normal circumstances, was turned on by pleasing me. By pleasuring me. By feeling my hot cum land on my skin.

But now I’d found something even hotter: someone pleasing me and hating it. Fucking someone who didn’t want to be fucked. Forcing someone to submit to my pleasure against their will.

Let me tell you, the blowjob feels just as good whether they’re having a good time or not.

So yeah—after I broke Mom, I started having her take over from Cynthia. It was perfect: my sister’s competitive streak was still strong, so she would sit there and glower at Mom as she blew me during a movie...but Mom had been completely broken out of our little incest love nest, and so she hated it.

Mom hated it.

My mother hated giving me head. She hated her daughter watching. She hated what her life had become.

But she’d do it anyway.

Because she knew what would happen if she disobeyed.

I’d thought that the peak of sexual pleasure was watching my sister’s eyes as she lovingly, enthusiastically slobber on my dick, then take it as far down her throat as she could. I’d thought that nothing could feel better than fucking her while she tried not to cum—and failed. I’d thought that watching her hand wrap around my cock and stroke me until I blew a load on her chest was the best that sex could be.

But it didn’t even compare to Mom.

When Mom sucked me off, she looked straight at me. But her eyes weren’t clouded with lust; they were filled with fear. She was laser-focused on my reaction, because she knew that if she got anything wrong, she’d suffer for it.

Mom had enthusiastically sucked my cock a hundred times over the last few months, but I never came as hard as the first time she did it unwillingly. When I ordered her to, telling her that if she didn’t, I’d hurt her. That if she didn’t, I’d not only rape her—I’d rape Cynthia as well.

An empty threat, of course. I couldn’t rape Cynthia: she wanted it too much. My sister wanted nothing more than to feel my cock inside her, to feel me pound into her until it pulsed up and I came. And so I got a double benefit from it: my Mom, afraid that our sickness would spread to my sister (I mean, more than it had already)...and Cynthia, getting her hopes up for just a moment, then cruelly dashing them as Mom obeyed.

And Mom always obeyed.

When she jerked me off, Mom’s body never stopped shaking. She trembled and whimpered as she stroked me, staring up at me with wide, fearful eyes as she sucked me off, and when I unloaded onto her chest, I came so hard that I almost blacked out.

You know that default text that appears when you make a text box in Photoshop? “Lorem ipsum”? I looked it up once: it’s like some ancient philosophy about avoiding pain and seeking pleasure.

I don’t know if any ancient philosophers were into BDSM, but I can tell you...I’ve never had as much pleasure as when I started seeking my mother’s pain.

And so yeah, without a purpose, Cynthia sort of started...fading into the background. If you’d told me that when I first started hypnotizing her, I would’ve told you that was impossible. I’ve always thought Mom was hot, don’t get me wrong, but Cynthia is perfect.

But Mom had lost so much weight, gotten so fit, and—through a set of circumstances that sometimes made me wonder if God was secretly on my side—become the perfect rape-doll, it was hard to see Cynthia as anything but a distant second place.

Don’t get me wrong, my sister was still stunning. Her face was younger, her tits were larger, and (even before I started hypnotizing her) she kept her pubic hair immaculately shaved. But it’s like comparing Scarlett Johansen to Christina Hendricks...except that you can rape Christina Hendricks all day every day.

It’s just not a fair comparison.

And so my sister was sort of mostly just...I dunno, there. She’d do what she was told, obeying with a skip in her step...but Mom would obey with a fearful gaze, like a house elf working for Bellatrix Lestrange.

I love my sister. I wanted my sister. But…well, maybe I didn’t, because I could’ve had her at any time.

But I didn’t.

I could’ve done anything to my sister that I wanted, any minute of the day. And when I considered it, it was because of how much Mom would hate it. I considered raping her, just to make my mother suffer. But the pleasure my sister would’ve gotten from the experience would’ve vastly outweighed any pain I caused my mother, and so…I dunno, it just didn’t seem worth it.

After a month ed, my sister clearly noticed. And, god bless her, she tried. She saw how much it turned me on to watch Mom suffer, to watch her tremble and quake whenever I entered the room. Cynthia tried to emulate it, but it was just too obvious. I mean, even if I couldn’t have entered her subconscious to see exactly what she was doing, I could see exactly what she was doing.

She tried to keep the punishments going, but even that tapered off after a while. She’d won. What’s that Bible quote? “Jesus wept, because he had no more lands left to conquer.”

My sister had won the competition, but…well, when you win a competition, that ends it. She would never be able to find a punishment that even compared to me raping Mom. Nothing else would ever came close.

And so she started to withdraw. She’d still be around in case I needed anything, but increasingly I’d just have her go do chores out of sight. Yardwork, or grocery shopping. If I needed anything urgently, I’d have Mom do it. Her obedience was just so much hotter—it came from fear, not love. My mother was a nervous wreck, knowing that I could have her at any time. I could rape her, at any time. She could never relax. Her life was a living hell, and I was the devil.

Cynthia continued punishing herself, but when her efforts failed to gain my attention, she stopped even that. After a while, she didnt’ even watch me rape Mom any more—I could’ve made her, I knew how much pain it caused her to see Mom get everything she wanted—but honestly…I just didn’t care enough.

It was like I’d moved on from my first crush. My attention had been shifted from a girl to a woman. From Rosaline to Juliet. From Knives to Ramona.

Cynthia had been replaced. I still planned to keep her around—a fawning, devoted slave isn’t something you want to waste—but...well, like my sister in the punishment contest, I’d done too well. I’d made her want me too much, and it turned out that’s not what I was into. I wanted someone who didn’t want me at all.

But if there’s one thing I’d learned again and again, it was to never underestimate my sister.