Hypno Mask Mother
* * *“What in God’s name is this?”
I freeze as my mom turns around from my open closet door, holding up a silver mask that I’d completely forgotten about.
“Uh, er—” I stammer, knowing by her tone and expression that she already thinks the worst (because she always thinks I’m up to no good) and knowing that we’re both aware I’m the world’s crappiest liar. “A
superhero mask?”
“Brock, you have two seconds to tell me the truth.”
“Well, what else would it be?” I squeak.
“You know what else it would be!” Her pretty face reddens in anger, her big blue eyes welling up with tears. “It’s some weird BDSM thing, isn’t it? I told you that you were addicted to porn! I knew I couldn’t trust you—”
Honestly, I’m not sure if the BDSM theory would be any worse than what it really is. Or less embarrassing. I’d found the mask online when I’d been a little tipsy off stolen rum from mom’s usually locked liquor cabinet—and it’d been d as a ‘Hypno Mask’, where it supposedly makes your girlfriend or wife want to do whatever kinky desire you most want to do. I don’t even have a girlfriend, but I’d been kinda drunk and horny, so the idea that I might get some girl to wear it and do stuff with me had been too tempting to up.
I’d never thought my mom would find it. It’s too horrible and embarrassing to try to explain to her. Plus, I doubt the stupid thing even works.
(Secretly, I’d tried it on myself, with no results, but maybe it doesn’t work on lonely, virgin losers or something….)
“It’s not a BDSM thing,” I mumble, reaching for it.
She holds it out of reach, sniffling dramatically. “You’re too young to be into sleazy sex stuff, Brock. I know you’re eighteen, but you’re still living under my roof! And if you think for one moment that I’m going to allow—”
“It’s just some silly superhero mask, mom!” I interrupt her, tempted to grab her by her slender shoulders and shake her until she stops squawking at me.
Really, my mom’s always been overbearing and overprotective, but ever since I graduated high school, she’s been in my business nonstop. Some of it has been nice—like her insistence on making me three square meals a day, since she gets to work remotely from home—but some of it has been hell, like when she goes through all my stuff. Really, it’s amazing that she hasn’t found the mask until now. It’s been sitting at the bottom of my closet for months.
“I think there’s only one way you’ll learn that this stuff isn’t fun or sexy!”
“But it’s not what you think it is,” I plead, horrified when she lifts the mask towards her own face, adrenaline coursing through me as we both realize that she’s about to put it on. “Stop!”
It’s not that I think it’ll work, because I know it probably won’t, but I still feel really weird about my own mother putting on the kinky thing I bought while jerking off to ‘Brainwashed Bimbo-Blowies’.
“Mom, stop!” I nearly howl, cringing as I watch her take the shimmery, silver mask and affix it to her face.
For a moment we just stare at each other. Her blue eyes are big and wide. Mine are even wider. She looks very glam in it, and I nearly laugh at the absurdity of my prim and proper mother in a masquerade sex-mask, her plush lips slightly open in a stunned gape.
But why isn’t she moving?
“Mom? Are you happy now?” I nearly gripe that she’s successfully ruined the mask for me, but weirdly, she looks pretty hot in it.
I don’t know why she’s doing that sultry-shocked look with her face, and I hadn’t noticed how dolled up with mascara her eyes were, how bright they usually shine, until the mask was put on. Her lips look pinker and fuller too, and her skin more alive and glowy. I’m probably just not used to looking at her face this much, I realize, and I still don’t understand why she’s just standing there in her long, pencil skirt and office blouse, saying absolutely fuck-all.
“Are you having a stroke or something? Answer me!”
“Yes, Brock?” she murmurs, and I flinch back at how the words purr sexily from her pretty mouth.
What. The. Flying. Fuck?
“Why’re you acting weird?” I stammer, blinking at her.
But she falls silent again, her wide eyes strangely blank yet too bright, like the shimmery mask is illuminating them somehow.
“Mom?” I snap my fingers at her, then, when she doesn’t answer, I shout, “Mom!”
“Yes, Brock?”
Why is she only answering me when I yell at her? I wonder. What did those stupid instructions that came with the mask say again?
Realization hits me that it might be the mask making her act weird, and that I definitely should’ve read the pamphlet that came with the damn thing more thoroughly. I’d been embarrassed about spending the hundred bucks though (a gift card from my absent father, who only sends me money on birthdays and Christmas, but who I otherwise never hear from). I vaguely skimming over something about being assertive, before I’d torn the instructions to shreds and flushed the pieces down the toilet.
That was stupid of me.
“Mom, I think you should take off the mask.”
I blink at her when she doesn’t move, realizing that my voice is all shaky and that I sound like a scared, weak punk. Why am I being such a little bitch about this? Shouldn’t I be happy that I might be able to boss my mother around and make her leave me alone? It does feel pretty weird to consider trying to do that, though. My mom has always been the alpha in our relationship. It’s probably the reason I have a lot of resentment that I’d like to take out on her.
The prissy bitch….
It’s her fault I’m such a pushover and that I don’t have social skills or friends, since she’s always been so controlling and nosy.
With a big inhalation I puff myself up, gathering my courage before I say loudly and clearly, “Mom, finish cleaning my room.”
To my complete and utter shock, she replies with a demure, chirpy tone, “Yes, Brock.”
Oh. Holy. Shit.
I watch in stunned silence as she turns back towards my closet and bends over, waggling her curvy ass at me. I’d never noticed how full and round it looked in her skirts before, but maybe that was because I’d never thought of her in a lustful way. Really, I know she’s more attractive than most moms—but mostly because it’s no secret that my womanizing father picked her because she was naive and hot (asking her to ‘model’ for him)—and then immediately bounced to the next one after getting her knocked up at a young age. Well, and maybe for the fact that everyone gives her second and third glances when we go out together. It’s always been kinda disturbing, really.
What’s even more disturbing is how I feel staring at her ass as she seems to purposely shake and wiggle it as she cleans out the bottom of my closet.
Blood rushes to my face and groin, and I have to force myself to turn away, force myself to make my breathing right again.
(Does it turn you on that you have control for once? a sleezy, almost silvery, little thought asks me.)
But do I really have control? What happens when the mask comes off and she goes at me extra hard for bossing her around?
In a panic, I pull out my cellphone, quickly searching for the mask. Maybe the instructions are online somewhere. It takes longer than I want, and I find myself perched on the edge of my bed, trying to ignore my mom as she hums a little tune and wiggles around like she’s trying her damnedest to keep my attention. My horny thoughts tell me she looks kinda like a maid in her black and white office attire, her big breasts filling out her white, button-up blouse, her long legs in dark stockings under her black skirt. Her blonde hair is tied back in a neat, French braid down her back, and her slender arms are full of my old, outgrown clothes and a ratty baseball glove….
The ones I begged her not to get rid of last time, because they reminded me of happier times (when dad actually came by once in a while to throw around a ball with me). Now, I suddenly couldn’t care less about them.
‘HYPNO-MASK INSTRUCTIONS’, I finally find, my pulse skyrocketing as I quickly a file from a named Brainwash-Mind-Blank-3000 on a nearly abandoned mind control forum. God, I hope these are the right ones! To my relief there’s a picture of the silver mask on the first page, along with a simple, second page of brief instructions. They look handwritten by the —which worries me.
- Step One: Have Lover/Victim Put On Mask
- Step Two: Be Assertive (if you want your command to work)
- Step Three: ?????? *
- Step Four: Profit
- * Causes obliviousness
“What the hell is this shit?” I mumble, before blinking up at my mom, suddenly worried that she’s going to scold me for cursing.
But she doesn’t, merely stacking my old belongings in a box labelled ‘ATTIC’ and giving me a beaming smile when I make eye with her.
“Mom, your blouse is getting dirty,” I tell her absently, looking back down at the flimsy instructions; I don’t know why she decided to clean my room in white, but she’s going to throw a fit later when she notices dust-stains on her fancy, work clothes (and I don’t want to hear about how it’s my fault for being a grimy slob). “Change out of it.”
I’m surprised by the conviction in my tone, and I’m even more surprised when I look up to find her unbuttoning her blouse. Right in front of me.
“Mom!” I gasp, my eyes stuck on her slender fingers as they undo each button one by one.
I can’t look away as her creamy white cleavage is exposed to me, my breath catching in my throat as she uncovers her lacy, white bra. Holy shit, my mind spins, I shouldn’t be seeing her like this! But a weird part of me wants to keep looking, and a weirder part of me is suddenly concerned that her bra is going to get dirty, too. It looks expensive. And it would be rude to let her mess it up, right?
“I didn’t mean for you to undress right here,” I stammer, my nervousness taking hold of me. “You should go change in your room.”
An anxious laugh bubbles out of me as she just stands there, her blue eyes locked on mine. Of course she’s not listening you weak shit, my thoughts blare, you’re being such a pansy!
And do I even want her to go change in her room? Not really. I kind of want to see what’s under her bra, even though I know that probably makes me some kind of sick freak. But from what I can see, my mom does have amazing breasts, and it’s not like I’ve ever gotten the chance to see any tits in real life before. So, what will it hurt if I just take a quick peek?
I gulp down my hesitance, straightening up, pushing my booted feet firmly into the ground for strength. “Mom, take off your bra.”
Oh.
Oh!
My mouth drops open as she pulls off her bra in one quick movement, her milky-white tits springing free, bouncing up and down with the sudden release.
They’re perkier than they have any right to be, her nipples the perfect size and shade of pink, pointing upward in the cool air of the room. I’m so shocked to have such beautiful breasts staring me right in the face that I can’t breathe for a moment. My dick springs to life, straining against the zip of my jeans. Who knew my prissy, God-fearing, prude of a mother would have tits just made to be fucked?
What the hell is wrong with you?
I swallow but still can’t look away, my mind racing with the urge to touch them. Would it really be so wrong just to have a quick feel? It’s not like I’m ever going to get the chance to touch breasts as perfect as these ever again in my entire life—so would it really be so wrong to just do it once and get it over with?
“Course’ not,” I mutter, feeling nearly hypnotized myself.
It’s not like I put the mask on her, anyway, she did this to herself, I reason, right as I tell her, “Mom, come over here and kneel in front of me.”
Okay, maybe making her kneel in front of me is a little much, but I’m not thinking straight, the power coursing through me in heady rushes. It’s not every day a guy like me gets to have control over someone, especially someone this hot, with tits this amazing. I doubt anyone could blame me for having a little fun with it.
Plus, the directions did mention something about obliviousness. If Brainwash-Mind-Blank-3000 isn’t full of complete shit, I’m pretty sure that means that my mom will never what happened after she takes the mask off (which kind of makes sense, since maybe men who explore their darkest kinks with their hypnotized lovers don’t really want their girlfriends or wives to hold that stuff over them later)….
“Like this, son?”
I bite back a gasp when she drops to her knees before me, stunned when she lifts her breasts up in her delicate hands and places them on my knees. I didn’t ask her to do that, but a dark part of me deeply wanted it.
“Yeah, uh, good,” I stammer, feeling the heat of her skin lancing through my denim.
I know I need to get a grip and be more assertive, or that she’s not going to do jack-shit for me, but right now she’s doing more than I ever possibly imagined.
(And doesn’t this feel a whole hell of a lot better than imagining? a dark, silvery part of me needles.)
I reach out tentatively and stroke the silky skin of her cleavage, the softness and warmth making my cock twitch. God, her breasts are so big and plump, and the way they feel drives me absolutely wild. My dick leaks a dribble of excited precum as her nipples pebble against the inside of my palms, and the more I touch her, the harder they get.
“Jesus,” I mouth appreciatively, massaging them harder as she lets out a breathy little moan.
I nearly cum in my pants, my body lurching at the sexy sound. Did my mom really just make such a slutty, needy noise like that? Does she like getting her tits fondled as much as I’m enjoying groping them? Would they feel just as soft and warm against my cock?
That last thought makes my head spin. I really should put a stop to this now. It would be more than wrong to go any further. There’s a world of difference between making my mom be my maid and making my mom be my sex puppet—and it’s scary how good it sounds to blend the two together, to tell myself that it doesn’t really matter that much, that it’s okay because I deserve it….
(And it would just happen the once, something sleazy and compelling in my mind whispers, what’s wrong with just trying it once?)
She almost doesn’t look like my mom right now, anyway. Her face is glowing with heat, her bedroom eyes bright and filled with lust as she looks up at me.
The mask makes her look like a pornstar that’s trying to go incognito, all mysterious and sultry and sensual.
I know it’s wrong, but my entire body aches, my cock screaming for attention.
(Maybe if she gives you a quick tit-job, it won’t count, the sleazy, silvery part of my brain suggests. Yeah—YEAH, it wouldn’t really be sex.)
I hardly notice as I unzip my jeans, one hand still massaging my mom’s silky-smooth tits and trying to get her to make those breathy little sounds again and again, as my traitorous hand yanks my dick free.
“Mom, wrap your tits around my cock.”
A groan slips out of me when she obeys without hesitation, her breasts spilling over my hands as she presses her chest to my crotch. I know I’m not going to last long when the heated press of her silky skin shoots pleasure straight into my brain. Could anything feel more perfect than this? My legs shake as she scoops her beautiful tits in her hands and begins to massage up and down my shaft, her blue eyes never leaving my face.
“Shit,” I hiss, my head falling back.
I bite my lip and force myself not to buck up into her breasts, holding back a quick orgasm so that I can enjoy her warm, soft, perfect touch. It’d be a shame to rush it, even though every fiber of my being wants to spray her pretty throat with hot pearly-ropes of cum.
The thought makes me gasp and moan, and my mom leans in closer, some loose strands of her sweet-smelling hair tickling my thighs as her lips ghost over the tip of my dick.
My mind goes blank, time seems to stop.
Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD.
Is my mom actually going to blow me?
I look down and meet her pretty eyes, the mask gleaming in the afternoon light that’s coming through my window. She smiles and opens her mouth, and I watch in complete awe as she slowly licks my cockhead, her pink tongue dragging across the slit as she continues to move her breasts up and down, squeezing me tight, making shivery pleasure shoot through me.
This can’t be happening. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. And I’m cumming.
I’m cumming so fucking hard that my vision goes dark, everything tunneling to a narrow point, semen ripping from me in pulsing jets. When my sight comes back, I’m shocked to see my mother’s masked face coated in white trails of my sperm. Golden aftershocks ripple through me, and I keep dribbling cum all over her perfect breasts as she doesn’t stop rubbing my cock with them, her eyes bright and mindless, her obedient demeanor unchanged.
“I’m so sorry,” I stammer, the impulse to be a good son hardwired within me, even though I know we’re so far beyond that point it’s absurd.
She doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve made her face a sticky, cum-painting, but I suddenly feel guilty and awful, like I’ve done something very wrong.
Guess we’ll see how accurate that obliviousness part was, I tell myself, stripping off my t-shirt to clean off my mom’s pretty, cum-streaked face.
I do my best to wipe it all away, trying not to hate myself for being such a massive pervert. My mom’s tits are still resting on my legs, and I take my time cleaning them off, before I wad the shirt up and throw it towards my dirty laundry hamper.
“Mom, it’s time to do my laundry,” I tell her, determined to erase all the evidence of my wrong doing. “You need to finish cleaning up my room.”
My heart thunders as I watch her stand, her skirt swishing as she bends down to pick up her discarded bra and blouse.
I don’t know what the fuck just happened, but I can barely sit still. Everything feels like a fever dream. Did my mom really just give me the best orgasm of my entire life with her tits and mouth? Did I really just subject her to sexual servitude? Can we ever move past this?
For some of the questions, I know the answer is yes, and I know I need to grow a backbone and get over it to make sure the last answer is affirmative, too. I don’t watch her as she finishes cleaning up my room, instead disappearing into my bathroom to take a hot, steamy shower, while I try to pretend what just happened didn’t.
“I’ll throw the mask away,” I tell myself, scrubbing my skin nearly raw under the scorching stream of water. “I’ll never think about it again. Nothing too bad really happened anyway….”
But do I have the willpower to give up such an insane amount of control? Maybe I should just stick the mask up in the attic, and not make any rash decisions about it, especially because I couldn’t seem to find exactly where I’d purchased it from before—so I probably can’t get another one. Besides, it was a hundred bucks, and money doesn’t just grow on trees….
But what if my mom finds it later? If it’s not in my direct possession, it’s more likely to get thrown out . . . or thrown back in my face.
Okay, so I’ll keep it with me then, I decide, but only for a LITTLE while.
That seems fair. And very logical. It would be stupid to give up such a power when it might be used for good. I selectively seem to forget that its entire purpose is to fulfill kinky desires, thinking only of how I might need it to make my mom more reasonable when it comes to giving me my personal freedom (I am a goddamned adult now, after all, even if I do live in her house still!)….
Later, when I take the mask off of her, after she’s finished cleaning up and I’ve tugged a modest sweater over her head, it takes her a few minutes to start acting normally again. It feels like I’m watching a computer boot up, her blue eyes flashing weirdly, then refocusing, and her silence slowly wearing away.
“Did I put this on so that I wouldn’t get my blouse dirty?” she asks me suddenly, looking down at her green shirt. “It’s much too hot to wear this for cleaning. What was I thinking?”
I realize that she’s mostly talking to herself, and I follow her out to the kitchen, already knowing that she’s going to ask me to help her start preparing dinner by grabbing the chicken out of the freezer to defrost. It’s hard to act normal after our afternoon thing, but I’ve convinced myself that it’ll never happen again, and that it doesn’t really count if only I it, and that it’d be stupid to dwell.
My mom gripes about the neighbors and tells me she’s glad I’m not like that ‘awful, devil-worshipping boy’ that rides a motorcycle and takes a different girl home each night. She doesn’t seem to have any memory of the mask. She doesn’t even comment about how she’s glad that I let her put all my old stuff up into the attic without a fight this time.
It’s like what happened in my room really never happened at all.
I just have to make sure she never finds that mask again, and then I’ll have gotten away with everything scott-free! It’s easy to nod and smile at everything she says for the rest of the night, even agreeing to watch some dumb rom-com on TV with her because for some reason I kind of like the way she beams at me, kind of like the way she seems to notice what a good son I’m being, kind of appreciate how her tone becomes more affectionate, how her looks are so full of love.
If the mask brought us closer together, was there really anything wrong with it?
No, I decide happily, snuggling into the huge blanket I share with my mom while we sit on the couch and munch on popcorn. Everything is fine. Everything is perfect. Everything can stay just the same as it’s always been.
Right?