Chapter 1: My New Mother

Caution: This Mind Control Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, mt/ft, Ma/ft, Consensual, Romantic, Mind Control, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Shemale, Incest, Mother, Son, Oriental Female, First, Safe Sex, Petting, Exhibitionism, .

Desc: Mind Control Sex Story: Chapter 1: My New Mother - This is a rewritten version of another story that didn't go as I had expected. Danny, an 18 year old boy discovers a strange talent, but he realizes that it is dangerous - and strange, to say the least. His mother provides the solution - starting an airline...


Normally the fastest way to the airport would have been to use the Messeschnellweg and then a short stint on the Autobahn, but that logic doesn't apply when the summer holidays are on, so I was slogging through the congested city towards Hannover-Langenhagen. That gave me time to think about the upcoming reunion with my mother. Reunion is perhaps a bit of a big word, considering she'd only been in Switzerland for twelve weeks, but even though I was eighteen already, that was the longest I'd ever been separated from her.

I love my mum, no doubt about that, but don't think I've been sitting at home moping. Having the house to myself for three months? Puleeze, which young guy would not love that. Granted, most other guys would have had female companionship, or parties, probably constantly. I'm pretty sure I was the only virgin in our class, and I have my damn brains and my stepfather to thank for that.

The brainy guys don't get many girls, because teen girls are just as shallow as we menfolk. They want the muscle-bound prat, or the one with a big wallet. If there's a rich muscle-bound oaf he's practically constantly chased by the female contingent.

The scrawny, braniac is only noticed by bullies – but in this case, constantly. I stopped counting around age 12 how often I've been beaten up by guys twice my size, just because they could. Even now at eighteen I was still in therapy to deal with the aftermath of constantly being accosted by violent bullies.

It only stopped when I started working out at fifteen and was strong enough by the time I was seventeen. It is utterly ironic. All my life I've been beaten up by several well-known bullies and the teachers never did anything about it. When I hit back for the first time, I was immediately handed a three day suspension. He, who had thrown the first punch didn't even get a reprimand.

So as the result of that, there weren't any parties while mum was in Switzerland. You'd need friends for that and I have few of those. I had used the chance to go naked for all that time without my mother thinking I'm weird. It's my guilty pleasure – sue me.

Mum and I were born in East Germany. My father died in 1987 in a car accident. From today's perspective it's surprising that our family's Trabant had gone fast enough to have a crash in the first place, but the thing had no safety features beyond seat belts and the guilty party in this accident had been a drunk tram driver, who'd thought he had right of way because his vehicle weighed eighty tons.

I was only nine at the time, so the fall of the Berlin wall in 1989 and the reunification of Germany a year later are things that I didn't quite understand yet in their enormity. What I did understand was why we were suddenly moving to the west. Mum had worked in a kolkhoz, so that job went out of the window when the wall went down. She found work as a florist in Hannover and soon she met Gerd, the owner of the chain of flower shops she was working for. They got married in 1994 and I was actually quite happy, because at the time I thought my mum was too young to be without a husband and second, because Gerd was wealthy, I mean really wealthy.

But it soon turned out mum was little more than a Trophy wife. Not in the sense that my stepfather didn't love her, but, Jesus, he made the pope look like someone from Sodom and Gomorrah. I was too young to think about that at the time, but I bet she had never gotten any other sex than a quick missionary shag with the lights turned off, if even that. He loved mum, but he wasn't very expressive about it.

He had accepted me like his own son, and had given our principal a very unmistakable piece of his mind about the shenanigans in regards to my suspension. He wasn't a bad man. Not at all, but he had all the passion of a dead fish.

With no-one to admire her, mum stopped caring about her body. She wasn't badly groomed or anything, but while other women were working out to avoid getting bigger or keeping gravity from messing up their boobs, my mother barely made sure she was eating healthy. As a result, she had developed a noticeable pouch and gravity had dragged her small boobs down pretty badly. But who was there to notice but me?

Not that I made up for my stepfather's unwillingness to sate her desires. Incest is as illegal in Germany as it is elsewhere in the world. But seeing my mum naked wasn't a rare occurrence. Sometimes she would call from the bath, asking me to bring her a bathrobe or a towel or she would walk back from the bathroom to the bedroom topless – of course only when my stepfather wasn't home. He was so uptight he would have freaked at the thought of a son seeing his mother without clothes, which is ridiculous. If you want to make sure that your son doesn't start fantasizing about his naked mother, make sure that he grows up with seeing her naked occasionally so he'll learn that it is perfectly normal.

For me she had always been mum. That she was a woman was a biological fact, but I had never seen her as a sexual being. I can't remember having ever gotten as much as an erection seeing her. As harshly as it sounds, but I guess my mom's lack of motivation to do much about her ageing process may have had to do with it as well. By the time I was fourteen and started to look at female bodies with different eyes, she was thirty-two and she'd not aged well.

Half a year ago, not too long before my eighteenth birthday in 1997, after only three years of marriage, mum and my stepfather came to the conclusion that they had simply drifted apart and got divorced. It was a rather amicable split. We got to keep the estate and the big house and he even sold his business to mum for the symbolic price of one Deutschmark, which redefines the term generosity as it makes double digit numbers of millions every year. In compensation he got two thirds from the family's bank-account, but the remnants were still somewhere around twenty million. With this generous starting capital, he emigrated to America, where he was right at home with his prudish lifestyle. But as I said, it was an amicable split and they still call each other on their respective birthdays and he gives mum advice when she runs into a snag with the business, or if has a difficult decision to make. As I said, he isn't a bad man, he was just not the right one for my mother.

I finally arrived at the last roundabout and turned my concentration back to the road. The driveways into Hannover airport can be tricky and it's easy to end up at departures when you wanted to go to arrivals and vice-versa. Today it was arrivals and I parked the car right across from the exit of Terminal B. There was still some time before mom's flight from Zurich would arrive, so I could go up to the observation platform to watch the starting and landing planes, just the right thing for an aviation nut like me.

Mum had surprised me three months prior when she sat me down and explained that she wanted to change her life radically. She told me that at thirty-six she still had a few good years ahead and wanted to use them. It had been a talk that spanned most of the evening and involved the consumption of wine in generous amounts. I don't know if it was the alcohol or if she had planned to do so, but mum had been very straightforward that day and also admitted her sexual frustration of many years.

The details about mom's love-life or lack thereof had actually been a bit too graphic for my liking, but I was happy that she'd decided to book six weeks in a beauty farm in Switzerland. At least that had been the initial plan. Then the freakiest thing happened. On the way to the airport, stealing a look at her bra-less floppy boobs, I had thought that a mere beauty farm wouldn't be able to undo years of neglect. Cosmetic surgery was a better candidate to yield results – boom – just a minute later she announced she might change her plans. Now that was properly freaky.

Seeing that she'd paid more than she would have for staying in the ritziest hotel in town, just by looking at the weekly transfers from our account, I gathered that she had indeed gone to a clinic instead, or she was getting her own personal pool boy included who would take care of her sexual frustration.

Little did I know what awaited me when I saw the jet of Swiss Airlines sail down the glide path. Waiting until I could see that it had landed safely I left the observation deck and made my way towards Terminal B.

I started to wonder just how many people could have been fitted in that small Smurf-Jet, as an Avro 146 is called among aviation anoraks. One person after the next left through the gate and none of them was my mother. I took out my mobile, checking if I had perhaps missed a call or a message that she'd be on another flight, but there was nothing. When the next person stepped out I knew it was not mum, who walked out, but I didn't mind. For the moment I was distracted by that stunning creature. There was no pink-coloured Samsonite on her baggage trolley, so it couldn't be my mother. The only thing that bomb shell had in common with my missing parental unit was the hair – long pitch-black hair. Europe is pretty liberal in comparison to most parts of the world, but what that girl – perhaps twenty-five – was wearing bordered on the scandalous, even here.

Her jeans, if it were jeans, could just as well have been a body painting and I wasn't sure if that guess was so far off. They tightly hugged her long shapely legs and from what I could see from the distance, a pert little bum as well. But that was nothing in comparison to the tight blouse she was wearing, with a neck line almost down to the navel and a cleavage that redefined the meaning of 'ample'. Her knockers were very substantial to say the least. Don't ask me about the face, I wouldn't have noticed it if she'd worn a horse-mask. My eyes were glued to the most amazing boobs I'd ever seen.

She sauntered past me and winked at me, making me gasp. Women of that level of hotness NEVER winked at me, I turned around to look a little longer and she slowed down, looking back at me as well.

"Should I go home without you, Danny?" she asked with a giggle.

If you find a dent in the floor of Hannover airport's Terminal B – that's where my jaw hit it, dropping all the way down.

I looked at her and then it dawned on me. That was my mother. She wasn't anything like I remembered her and quite obviously she had not only lain in a tub full of mud, her face plastered with cucumber slices for twelve weeks. Her nose looked different, the wrinkles were gone, but there was still the little mole right next to her nose that had always been her running gag, claiming she was Cindy Crawford's lost twin. And, fuck me sideways, now she was definitely looking the part. Scratch that, Cindy Crawford was now almost as beautiful as my mum.

I hugged her, more on instinct than anything else. Hell if that girl was an imposter, good old virgin me had at least gotten a hug from a chick that was even hotter than the weather outside. I tried not to be too obvious, when I put my hand in my pocket, trying to re-arrange my hard-on to a less visible position, which is not easy when you're cursed with a rather large appendage.

That's right, it's a curse. You may be a guy wishing to have a bigger one – unless it's really tiny, don't. Nothing is as humiliating as a girl offering to take you to bed and then she starts to cry and runs off because she's scared of what you've just unpacked. Happened to me. That's why I was still a virgin.

We walked to the car in silence and mum was smiling all the time. What really horrified me was that she'd seen the bulge in my pants and tried to steal secret glances at it.

"Want me to answer the obvious question you're too polite to ask?" she inquired as I pulled out of the parking lot. Surprised by her directness I managed a very dignified answer of 'uh huh'.

Mum just giggled. "Okay, the obvious one is the boob job. I wanted something smaller but then they would have sagged from the start. Then, liposuction to get rid of my tummy, firm up my bum and to make my thighs look like something you don't find on an elephant. The nose job to get rid of that ugly honker in my phizog and a bit of lifting, but not too much. Just enough so I don't look like Winnetou's tobacco bag any more."

"I like your nose, it looks cute," I blurted out, but mum surprised me again, when she snorted.

"Daniel Matthias Fechtner, I just walked out there with boobs that make me look like a melon smuggler. Are you really trying to tell me you've noticed my nose first?"

"Well, I tried to be polite," I admitted with a blush and a shrug, trying to concentrate on the road. "It's not easy to admit that you get turned on by your own mother. It's just wrong."

She only giggled again and let me continue the drive home. I was completely shocked. My own mother, who had neglected her body for years, was looking like an utter bombshell. I'm a bit of a medium-sized boob-man, normally not interested in big knockers, but even without having seen them in their full glory, that sorry excuse for a blouse left little doubt that whoever had sculpted mom's new Bristols definitely knew what he or she was doing.

I offered mum to stop at a restaurant, but she declined, saying that she had eaten before the short flight from Switzerland. Once home, I carried her luggage to her bedroom, but she asked me to leave it there still in the bags as, in her words, there would be ample time to unpack. Instead she went down to the wine cellar and came back with two bottles of the most expensive French wine we had. There were people who lived a whole month on what one bottle cost. Putting down two glasses, mum assumed a lotus position on the couch, facing me.

All my brain capacity was below my waistline as she had undone one more button on her skimpy blouse and it became obvious that she was not wearing a bra. She showed even more of that massive cleavage. It was strange seeing mum so youthful. She truly looked more like twenty-five, especially since the plastic surgery wasn't as obvious as with some of the celebrities you see on TV or in magazines. She didn't have her lips bloated for instance, in fact they were the same thin lips she'd always had and I think it looked good on her. And she still had more than two different face expressions as she had obviously not fallen into the trap of using Botox injections. There was no other way to say it, mum was mind-bogglingly beautiful – and sexy as hell. My eyes were practically glued to the bits of her mammary flesh showing.

Bloody Norah, I would sell a kidney to get a look at these babies

I hadn't even finished fighting the gasp of horror about having such thoughts when mum smiled and unbuttoned the shirt completely. Oh. My. God.

"Like them, honey?" she asked, still giving me that beautiful smile.

"They are utterly gorgeous and quite big if I may say so," I stammered and ogled mum's new rack like the resident village idiot. She giggled and let me look as long as I liked. They looked ready to burst, I thought, but considering how modestly sized the originals had been, it wasn't exactly surprising.

"They'll look a little less bloated when the implants have settled properly," she said as if reading my mind again.

Close the shirt again, mum I though and looked her in the eyes, but she just continued being amused about my mouth hanging open.

Then I realised something. This wasn't the first time something like that has happened. There was our gorgeous Geography teacher, who'd not checked our homework on a day I had forgotten to do them, and the cute cashier in the supermarket, who'd forgotten to scan two items the moment I realized I had forgotten my wallet and the spare change in my pocket was exactly one Deutschmark short.

All these cases, mum, my teacher and the cute cashier had two things in common. They were women and I had been staring at their boobs at the time. What can I say? I like boobs, a lot.

It was worth a test. I stared back at mum's rack.

Just how big are these babies?

"In case you wonder, 75D is the new number. Beforehand I had 32B."

Oh. My. God.

"Be right back mum. I need to go to the loo," I said and walked off. She giggled behind me, probably thinking I was going to whack off over what I'd just seen. Frankly, the idea had some appeal.

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