15 comments/  44458 views/  100 favorites

That Voodoo You Do so Well

By: g00db0i



My first incest story! Inspired by a reader. Another long-read: includes femdom, incest, mind control, and magic.. Read at own risk. 

*****

"Barb, he's got to grow up sometime." 

"Jesus Christ, Philip. I'm not an idiot. Of course he's got to grow up." Barbara de Wynter sat at her vanity, scrubbing away the day's makeup with a moist wipe. Tossing the used towelette into a nearby garbage bin, she scowled at her reflection. Twenty-two years of parenthood had taken their toll, no matter how good the material she'd started with had been. She smoothed out the crow's feet around her eyes with irritated fingers, and made a face. "But that doesn't mean he has to get *married*. He's not even finished college yet." 

"Barb, he says he loves her." Phillip closed his book, and laid it on the nightstand on his side of the bed. "What am I supposed to do? Snap my fingers and magically change his feelings?"

His wife snapped her hair back into a loose bun atop her head. Leaning close to the mirror, she inspected her scalp. The grey in her roots was beginning to show; it'd soon be time to visit the salon again to get her honeyed blonde back. 

"You're a lawyer, aren't you?" She pushed her chair back from the vanity and stood up. Phillip eyed his wife in her floor-length silk nightie as it skimmed over the slight pooch in her belly and the distended droop of her breasts. "Convince him." 

"Convince me," he said with a leer, and pulled back the bedcovers, revealing the stiff tent in his pajamas. 

"Don't be gross, Philip." Barbara closed her dressing gown and tied it. "We're talking about his *future*. He'll marry this wo-, this *girl*, and at best, he'll be divorced by 25, or at worst, he'll be trapped with her for the rest of his life after she tricks him into knocking her up." 

"Or," said her husband with a sigh. "They live happily ever after and we have some beautiful grandkids before we're too old to appreciate them." He pulled the covers back over, and picked up his book. 

"You are being *so* naive right now, I can't even-"

"Honey, I'm a defense lawyer. I get paid disgustingly large sums of money to be hopelessly optimistic about people's futures, but I am definitely not naive." Finding his page again, he started reading. "I'm sorry, hon. I love you, but I don't think this is a fight you can win. He's an adult. James gets to make his own decisions now. If he wants to marry her that badly, nothing I say is going to stop him, and it'll only drive him to fly to Vegas or some damn thing to elope. He's stubborn. Like his mother."

Barbara made a dissatisfied noise as she climbed into the bed. 

Her husband kept his eyes squarely on the page, then asked, "did you want me to set the alarm?"

"Alarm?"

"You told James you'd go with them to that craft thing in the park tomorrow morning." Phillip covered the smile creeping across his face with this book. 

"Ugh. What was I thinking? I suppose it's too late now to gin up an excuse?" He couldn't see his wife's pained look, but he could hear it in her voice and knew it well. 

"You had a brief moment of clarity, I guess? Anyway, it's never too late for excuses" he said, mildly. "But as your counsel I'd advise against it."

"Oh really?" 

"He's not dumb," Phillip explained. "He knows you don't like her. And even if it's *iron clad*, James will suspect you made up an excuse anyway and you'll have wasted all that effort only to make him resent you." 

"So you think I should just *go*, then?"

"Of course." He said. "Who knows? Maybe you'll like it. Either way, it wouldn't hurt to show our son that you can spend an hour with his fiancee without trying to murder the girl. It'll create some plausible deniability down the line when her body shows up in a ditch." 

Barbara hit him with a pillow, laughing despite herself. "Fine, *fine*. I know when I'm beaten. Set the alarm for nine, I guess."

"Disgusting." It was Phillip's turn to make a face. "Who wants to be up at that hour? I can see why you hate her so much."

"Shut up and set your alarm, counsellor." she threw an arm over his chest and pressed close into him. "It's time for bed."

--

"That Craft Thing" turned out to be a concatenation of every stripe of hippie, New Age aficionado and so-called spiritualist in town, gathered under a number of repurposed buffet tents in the park to hawk wares, services and food. Throngs of young people wandered from table to table, chatting and buying and eating and generally having a good time. 

Barbara tugged the wide brim of her floppy straw hat as she surveyed the crowd through oversized sunglasses.. She wasn't *likely* to see anybody she knew here, but you never knew. Her wide-legged linen trousers swished through the grass as they approached; a long, loose cardigan over a muted grey t-shirt, and a pair of black Toms completed her ensemble. 

"See Mrs. de Wynter? It's just, like, a market. It'll be great!" Beside her, James' fiancee grabbed Barbara by the elbow and began to pull her into the crowd. A full head shorter than Barbara's own 5'8, Janie Graves was a plump, energetic little squab of a girl. Although she was pleasant enough to look at - regular features, easy smile, tanned a deep nut-brown - Mrs. de Wynter was sure that her son would never have given her a second glance had it not been for the girl's propensity towards garish prints, embarrassingly short skirts and deep-cut tops. Even now, Janie's young breasts threatened to wobble free of the abbreviated sundress whose hem swirled around her thick thighs, and not a few young men glanced her way as they threaded through the crowd, James trailing a few steps behind them. 

"Easy now babe, we don't want to culture shock my mom." He said with a chuckle. A tall, reedy man with dirty blonde dreadlocks veered towards them, juggling a trio of battered bowling pins. Janie ooh'ed like a child, waved, then wound around him to approach a table where three Native Americans were assembling dreamcatchers while a handful of college girls watched. Another young man came up from behind, and asked Janie if she wanted her palm read; shortly after James stepped in to ward him off, an older man carrying a tray full of crystals around his neck inquired as to the girl's astrological sign. 

For the first time in her life, Barbara felt not only unimportant, but unregarded. Invisible. For a moment, she wondered if she should have dressed differently, worn shorts or a dress or something to show off the gams that had captured Phillip in the first place. 

"Ha," she laughed under her breath at her own foolishness, wandering away from the couple. Let the girl enjoy her moment in the sun before that taut skin began to sag under the weight of the tightly-held puppy fat beneath it. It would be over soon enough, she knew, thinking of the cellulite on the backs of her thighs, the purplish veins that were beginning to show through her skin. 

She drifted through the crowd, moving outward, towards the periphery of the market where the hucksters were thinner, quieter, less obnoxious. If James and Janie (ugh) noticed, they didn't immediately follow. Out here, the tables appeared to be more crafts than services or food; rickety banquet tables, the odd card-table shimmed up on a two-by-four, and a few quilts, were laid out with an assortment of knick knacks, gewgaws, and bricabrac with little immediately obvious purpose, though they all undoubtedly had some spiritual significance to somebody. 

Barbara let her hand skim over the wares as she passed, brushing past grotesqueries, gliding over crystals, ruffling ceremonial flags, various statuary and-

"Ow! Damn, what?" She snatched her hand back and stuck her index finger in her mouth; sucking on it a moment, she pulled it out and inspected the tip, where a single pinhead of blood welled out, then dropped. Barbara watched it fall, then splatter across the silvered, splintery surface of the vaguely feminine figure that had poked her finger in the first place. The liquid quickly vanished into the thirsty wood, leaving scarcely a stain. 

"Oooh she picked you!" Barbara looked up into the mismatched eyes of the woman on the other side of the table. Buried under a collection of wildly-clashing prints, the proprietress excitedly waved her wizened hands at Mrs. de Wynter. "The weir-momma picked you!"

"She bit me, you mean." Barbara held up her index finger accusingly. 

"Of course she bit you! How else she gonna bond with you?" A nest of unkempt grey curls shivered as the other woman shook her head. 

"I'm not sure what you're trying to run here, but I am *not* paying for-"

"Pay?" The woman raised her palm. "Who said anything about paying? Very bad luck, making you pay after you been picked! She thinks you need her and I ain't dumb enough to argue with her." Before Barbara could protest further, the old crone scooped the figurine up off the table and pressed it into her palm. It was small, only four or five inches long, rough-hewn from some ancient piece of wood that had long since weathered to a silvery grey. Stubby arms and legs extended from a trunk that acknowledged femininity only in the slight sinuous curve from shoulder to hip and a prominent bulge at the front which Barbara supposed were breasts. It reminded her of a less-exaggerated Willendorf Venus. The wood was warm against her skin; probably from sitting in the sun. 

She gingerly ran a finger across the surface of the figurine, following the woodgrain; tiny grey curls came away under the friction, revealing a smoother layer of wood underneath. Despite herself, Barbara smiled. 

"I guess I'll take it," she said, looking up into the older woman's smiling, heterochromatic gaze. Barbara turned her head. James was shouting for her somewhere. 

"Wait!" Another figure was pressed into her hand. "If you take the momma, you gotta take the weir-boy too. They gotta stay together." 

"What?" The weir-boy was clearly masculine, another crude figure with a straightline trunk that appeared to be chopped directly out of the tree, the thick brown bark that covered it was broken by a couple of knots where branches had been cut away, revealing bright gold underneath. It felt colder than the other.

"Mom!" James pushed through the crowd, Janie in tow. His mother clenched her fist around both figures, and stuffed it in the deep pocket of her pants. 

"Jeez mom," he said, as he approached. "I thought we lost you."

"I'm fine," Barbara laughed. "Just wandered away to have a look around."

"Did you see anything cool, Mrs. de Wynter?" Janie piped up, gawking at the table and its wares. 

"No no. It's not really my, um, thing I guess." She said, fingering the wooden dolls in her pocket. Looking up the old woman on the other side of the table gave her a wink. 

"Well, let's get some breakfast or something. I think I saw a guy selling waffles over there," James pointed.

Barbara toyed with the figurines in her pocket for the rest of the morning, all through their visit to the park and lunch afterwards, barely hearing Janie's inanities or even her son's professions of love. She followed along a step or two behind them, a gentle warmth suffusing through her limbs as her fingertips worked, fascinated by the persistent difference in temperatures. No matter what she did, how she worked it, the male doll remained cool to the touch, even if she agitated it with her fist for ten full minutes. 

Distracted and perhaps a little too warm in the sunshine, Barbara drifted along with her son and his girlfriend 'til they dropped her off again at the house before going on to do whatever it was that young people do on a sunny weekend afternoon. Humming tunelessly to herself, she wandered down the stairs to the little studio space she kept in the basement, and among the scattered paints and half-started pottery projects, she pulled the figurines out of her pocket. 

A scattering of tiny grey curls came tumbling down to the dark parquet floors. Curious, she laid the male figure down on a side table and inspected the "weir-momma"; apparently, in her distraction, she'd worn the legs of the female figure completely, utterly smooth. They were silky grey and touchable like old driftwood, and a smile crept over her features as she let her fingertips drift over them before laying the figure down on the lip of an easel, among some long-forgotten pastels.

As she climbed the stairs again, Barbara noted a tingle and an ache and a low heat in her calves, as if they were waking up from numbness. 

"We must have walked more than I thought," she said, to nobody in particular. "I really ought to start working out if my legs are tired already." Reaching the top of the stairs, she slid out of her Toms, and relished the relative coolness of the kitchen tiling on her bare feet, which felt warmer still now that she was upstairs. 

Barbara puttered around the kitchen for a while, adjusting this, getting that out, putting the dishes away, and soon found herself sweating; her wide-legged pants, especially, felt far too warm. She could feel the sweat trickling down the back of her leg as she strode over to the AC control, which read a steady 68 degrees. 

"This had better not be 'the change,'" Barbara muttered as she headed into her bedroom to change into something cooler. 

Pulling a pair of fairly sedate shorts out of her dresser, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her linen pants and yanked them down. 

"Helllloooo, Legs." In the doorway, Philip whistled. "Looking good, honey." 

"Very funny," she said, shooting him a look.

"I'm not being funny." He walked into the room and ran a hand up the back of her thigh. She was suddenly very aware of the granny panties she'd put on that morning. "They look really good today. Better than usual. Have you been hitting the gym while I wasn't looking?" 

Barbara glanced at the full-length mirror in the corner. Her legs, bare and pale, *did* look particularly good today, better than they had in years. She turned one ankle, watching her calf bunch and stand out, as her thigh did likewise; there was no sign of the nascent varicose veins that she'd spotted yesterday in the shower, or the cellulite that had been slowly developing for years. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd properly shaved them, but there wasn't even any sign of stubble; in fact, they appeared freshly waxed and silky smooth. Her fingers slid down the taut skin, marvelling at how they felt. Even her feet looked better than before, she noted, as her squatty little toes pressed into the bedroom carpet. 

"It's just..." she couldn't come up with a reason for the transformation. "A good leg day?"

"You always have good leg days," Phil murmured, behind her. "Let's celebrate." His hand slid around between her thighs, where she was surprisingly damp. 

"Sure," Barbara said, somewhat dazed. 

Sex with Phillip was okay for everybody involved, if a little perfunctory. After a couple of decades together, there were certainly no new tricks left in his particular bag, and the ones he had she'd taught him in the first place. If anything, it was nice and comfortable and didn't require a heck of a lot of effort on anybody's part. 

Afterwards, Barbara lay in the bed, slowly cycling her legs through the sheets, relishing the sensation of her skin on the high-threadcount cotton while he dozed in a post-coital half-sleep. Though her legs and feet felt extra-sensitive, everything from her butt upwards appeared to be unchanged, she noted as she slid her left sole up the shin of the other leg. She felt delicious, like she hadn't in *years*, though she couldn't for the life of her sort out why. It was almost enough to make her want to touch herself and- 

"What was that, dear?" Phillip was saying something.

"I said, 'how was the craft fair? Did you buy anything?'"

"Oh, that. It was about what one would expect." She shrugged, slightly annoyed at being pulled out of her reverie. "I didn't really pick up anything just-" her mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. "Just some waffles with James."

"...and Janie." Phillip prompted.

"Yes, yes. Her too." Barbara rolled her eyes, annoyed again. "Phillip, I'm going to head down to the kitchen to start supper." She sat up, and picked her loose shirt up off the floor where he'd thrown it. 

"Sure thing, Legs," he leered as she pulled another pair of shorts out of the dresser; these were considerably shorter than the previous pair, having been retired some years before due to the way they cut uncomfortably into her waist. 

They still did, but she wanted to leave her legs as bare as possible. 

Padding along the hall, she pretended not to notice that James' door was closed, or hear the muffled sounds coming from the other side of it. Heading downstairs, she passed through the kitchen (the steaks were still thawing in a bowl of water in the sink), quietly slipped down into the basement, and into the studio. Flicking the light on, she closed the door and locked it. 

"Now, where did I-" Barbara cast about her. Wherever the figures were, they weren't immediately obvious, or where she'd thought she'd left them. She rifled through the gessoed canvasses on the side table: nothing. She poked through the box of pastels next to the big easel: nothing. Frowning, she began turning over and generally tossing the place, growing increasingly frustrated. 

"What the fuck is going on here?" She said to herself. She knew she'd taken them home, brought them down, had hardly kept from touching them all damn morning long and now they'd what? Walked away? 

Forehead furrowed, she yanked a drawer open in the desk and crowed in triumph. Both figurines were tucked away in the back, behind a set of watercolours, the female atop the male. Barbara scratched her head, confused. She didn't remember tucking them back there, but it's not like James would have come down here, *or* Philip. Maybe that chubby little bitch had invaded her *personal space* and gone through her things. Barbara's fingers curled tightly around the figures as she drew them out, knuckles white with repressed anger. 

She took a deep, calming breath, then unclenched her fist and more closely inspected the "weir-momma" doll. Its legs were slender and silky smooth, just as she'd remembered them, though the rest of the body was rough and slightly flaky and had only the vaguest concessions to feminine features. 

Barbara slid her thumb up one of the figure's legs. Was this what being crazy was like? Was she seriously considering the possibility that a piece of wood had somehow melted away a decade's worth of curdled cellulite? A grey curl parted from the weir-momma's behind and tumbled to the floor. 

"Am I really going to do this?" She rubbed her thighs together, skin sliding on skin. Glancing at the door to make sure it was locked, Barbara turned to the weir-momma. "I guess there's not much to lose. Either I'm crazy and it won't work, or I'm not crazy and it will." She laughed, and if it sounded slightly hysterical, at least there was nobody else there to hear. 

Gingerly, she slid her thumb across the back of the figure, starting where the legs joined the trunk and up towards the shoulders. Several grey curls fell to the floor, and Barbara held her breath, waiting. 

Nothing happened. 

She did it again, thumb circling around one small patch for a couple of minutes, inviting a rain of curls. 

Nothing happened. 

With a somewhat relieved sigh, Barbara put the weir-momma back on the easel and stood. As she did, her left buttock began to tingle, as though the nerve endings there were beginning to wake up. She froze for a moment, waiting for the sensation to either subside or intensify, as a patch of sleeping skin should. It did neither, but it persisted for five full minutes. 

Barbara picked up the figurine. It was warm, almost body temperature, against all reason in the coolness of the basement. 


That Voodoo You Do so Well



"Okay," she said, a nervous laugh escaping her throat. "Okay. Maybe I am nuts. Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe correlation isn't causation." She sat down again, and sucked her teeth for a moment. "Well, if you're going to do this, at least do it right. Or well." Getting up again, she poked around the room, eventually coming up with a couple of swatches of very fine sandpaper and an x-acto knife that might have been older than James, and was definitely old enough to drive. 

"Well. Let's rub some butt." She said, trying not to think too hard about what she was doing. Soon, the studio was filled with the rasp of the sandpaper as she set about started filing away the top layer of wood, shaping and nipping in the blocky features of the figurine, freeing curves from the material as she did. It was surprisingly delicate work, given how small the weir-momma was, and her desire not to file the butt of the thing into oblivion. 

Within moments of beginning the work, the tingling sensation spread throughout her behind, and a joyful warmth filtered through her limbs. It was mostly sandpaper work, filing away the thick middle of the thing into a gently tapered waistline front and back, while a couple of quick flicks with the knife cleaved the behind of the thing into a pair of pert, round globes. Barbara's toes curled with excitement as the sawdust sprinkled over her bare thighs, her pulse racing as she felt the pressure of the shorts cutting into her stomach gradually lessen, then disappear altogether. 

"Holy shit," she said in wonderment. "Holy shit it works." Hands shaking, Barbara put down her tools and stood. The waistband of her shorts hung loose in front, caught only by the swell of her buttocks in the back; in short order they fell off altogether, along with her granny panties, leaving her bare from the waist down. 

"Oh my god," Barbara breathed, looking down at the pale, flat expanse that stretched from her navel to her crotch, broken only by the fulsome dark-blonde bush that had replaced the salt-and-pepper pubes between her toned thighs. Twisting, she reached back to grab a handful of ass, only to find her fingers full of taut, muscular flesh. "Oh my god," she said again, feeling the stirrings of arousal. Barbara ran her fingers through the kinky curls of her pubic hair, down towards the moist centre of-

"Mom? Are you in there?" James knocked on the door. "Hello?" 

Shit. "Just a sec, honey!" Panicked, Barbara kicked her shorts and panties to the side, and pulled a dusty smock from the back of the chair. She yanked it on and, holding it closed in the back with a free hand, opened the door a crack. 

"Jeez, Mom are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine! Great!" 

"You look all flushed." 

"I'm fine, honey. Fine." Licking her lips and trying to will the blood out of her cheeks, she smiled up at her son. "I'm just working on something. What did you need?" 

"Dad wanted to know when supper will be and if we needed anything." 

"Tell him we could use a case of beer and one of those caesar salads from the deli that he likes so much," Barbara straightened herself a little, using her best 'mom voice'. "I'm going to put the steaks on around," she glanced at the clock on the wall. "Six?"

"Sounds great!" James enthused. 

"I'll be up in a minute okay?" Her son nodded, then thumped his way up the stairs. Barbara breathed a sigh of relief, and glanced back at the easel tray, where the weir-momma lay. "Later," she promised herself, tying the smock securely closed before slipping out and up the stairs.

--

The first and most obvious thing on tomorrow's to-do list, Barbara realized later, would be to take her credit card shopping for clothes. Nothing fit. Not a pair of pants, nor a skirt, nor underwear, and if she continued working away at the figurine, she'd be in dire need of bras soon. She felt a little naughty, as she slipped into a coral-pink maxidress without putting panties on first, but she didn't really see that she had any choice. Despite the looseness of the thin cotton, she couldn't keep the dress from sliding in between her new buttocks, showing off her pert, firm curves. 

She didn't know *what* she was going to tell Philip when he noticed. Maybe she'd get lucky and he'd get hit by a meteor. A twinge of doubt twisted her stomach, until she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Although the billowy front disguised the elimination of her soft pooch, there was no mistaking the new sweep of her waist and hips; she did a little half-turn, and the ensellure at the base of her tailbone, that hyperbolic slope where her back met the pronounced jut of her buttocks was even more obvious. Giggling like a teenage girl, Mrs. de Wynter lifted her skirts a little, inspecting her silky supermodel legs for the umpteenth time. 

No, Phillip be damned. There was no way she was going to pass this up. Chin set and head held high, Barbara strode out and down the stairs to start supper. 

As it turned out, she didn't have to worry very much about her husband noticing anything at dinner; Janie's ceaseless prattle somehow held not only James' attention but also Phillip's. It was the sort of behaviour she expected from her son - it was his girlfriend, after all - but she hoped for more from a grown man. It was just as well, however: Barbara spent too much time thinking about when she'd be able to sneak back into the basement to keep up her end of the conversation. 

Which is not to say that Barbara wasn't aware that Janie just. Did not. Stop. Talking. It was a constant buzz in her ear, continually drawing her up out of her reverie. 

*If only I had a doll for you,* she thought. *I'd scrape the mouth right from your face.*

Then it was time for dessert, and she didn't follow that train of thought again until she was tucked away in the basement, quietly working away at the weir-momma. She was staring at the face of the thing, slightly trepidatious about sanding the surface away, wondering if she was about to remove her facial features. 

Barbara turned it over in her fingers, nimble and smooth and devoid of premature aging spot or blemish. 

"In for a penny in for a pound," she said with a shrug, and began to work at the head of the thing, uttering a silent prayer. 

"It's too bad I don't have a doll for that silly little bitch," she muttered as sawdust fell to the lap of her maxi dress. "I could- I could kill that bird, too, with a slightly different stone."

Barbara rolled the thought around in her head while she worked, feeling the now-familiar tingle set in around her cheeks and mouth. Of course, there *was* a second figure, wasn't there?

Looking over at the desk, she saw the weir-boy standing atop a pile of books. Had she put him there? She couldn't remember. Decidedly male, he almost looked as if he were watching her work. 

"Of course you're concerned," she said. "A good boy should take care of his mother." Barbara snorted, then blew on the weir-momma's face, clearing away the sawdust. "If only James was- if only James-" She bit her lip, wheels turning in her head. If whatever magic tied her to the weir-momma could literally re-shape her entire body, then surely she could use the male figure to- to- well, she wasn't really sure what she wanted to do with it, but surely she could solve the Janie problem somehow. She ran her fingertips over the weir-momma's smooth, blank face, and a wave of warmth spread through her. 

Standing, she brushed the sawdust away and crossed the studio to take up the male figure. Barbara looked at it, the rugged, cold, surface, the obviously male frame, the enormous golden knots - one over the left chest, the other between its legs - and sucked her teeth. There were no obvious faults, nothing to work with. It wasn't as if James had any external flaws to shave away. College rugby had done wonders to turn her little boy into a strapping young man. 

"Alright," she said. "Now what?" There was a sudden, sharp pain in the index finger of her left hand. Unclenching her fist, Barbara looked down at the weir-momma, where a pinprick's worth of blood was rapidly fading into the bone-smooth wood. James had to bond with the thing, just as she had! That was the first step, obviously. 

With a crow of triumph, she wedged both figures into one hand - where they fit together like hand in glove - and slipped out into the darkened house. It was later than she'd expected; working with the weir-momma was easy but she'd taken her time, trying to get things right, making sure everything was even. Luckily for her, Phillip had had a couple more beers than usual and turned in for the evening, and the young couple couldn't retire to someplace more private fast enough. 

Padding up the stairs, Barbara still wasn't entirely sure what she was going to do. Obviously she couldn't stab her son; maybe bodily fluid wouldn't be necessary? Maybe some other kind of personal item, a tooth or a hair or a fingernail? 

On her way towards the bedrooms, Barbara entered the main bathroom. She and Phillip shared an en-suite off their own room, so James more or less had this one to himself. Maybe there'd be something in there? 

Bare feet sticking slightly to the cool tile in the bathroom, Barbara cast about. It was surprisingly clean in here; James had only been home a couple of days, but she still expected *some*thing. The counter, replete with his deodorant and hair gel and other assorted boy things, was nonetheless clean. Not a hair to be found in the brush. Nothing around the drain, either.

Frowning, she looked looked into the wastepaper basket tucked in next to the toilet. It was empty, except for what looked like a bright pink plastic wrapper slung over the side. Barbara bent for a closer look. 

It was a condom! Nose wrinkled with disgust, she pinched the open end with her fingernails and picked it up. A *used* condom, she noted, as liquid swirled in the reservoir at the tip. *James'* used condom, a little voice reminded her. It had to be. Phillip hadn't worn a rubber since they'd gotten him snipped. 

Barbara stared at the fluid, suddenly apprehensive. On the one hand, obviously she shouldn't even be touching this thing, never mind considering what she was considering. On the other... here was an available source of bodily fluid, ready for the taking. Biting her lip, she hesitated. There was a pulse of warmth from her fist. 

"Right, of course." She said, quietly. "What was I thinking?" The answer was obvious. 

Gently, Barbara laid both figurines on the toilet lid, side-by-side, and knelt on the floor. Fully aware of where this condom had likely been, she did her best to touch as little of it as possible as she lowered the open end towards the male figurine, the tip of the rubber held gingerly between her fingernails. Cautiously, slowly, not daring to breathe, she raised the tip of it, watching her son's cream start to slide. It raced to the opening. 

Outside, in the hall, a door cracked. With a shocked, terrified gasp, Barbara jumped. There was a soft *glop* sound and a slash of semen splashed across not only the weir-boy, but the momma as well. She watched, horrified, as the weir-momma greedily drank down the cum, as she had Barbara's blood. A puddle of it soaked into the knots of the 'boy. 

"Hello? Who's there?" James! Barbara snatched up the figures in her fist, still slightly greasy with his semen, and leapt to her feet. "Mom? Is that you?"

She whirled around to see him standing in the doorway, idly scratching his bare chest. For the first time, Barbara noticed how fit her son had become, his frame filled out with lean, hard muscle; a vaguely delta-shape, she couldn't help but let her gaze drift over his laddered abdominal muscles and the solid meat of his pecs. His nipples were taut in the cool air. A pair of loose boxers was slung dangerously low over his hips, revealing the deep V of muscle leading downwards into-

"Young man, I thought we raised you better than this!" Barbara recovered herself, and whipped out the used condom, where it dangled accusingly from her outstretched fingers. 

"Oh shit oh God mom I'm so sorry!" He blushed a pretty pink under his tan, and grabbed the used rubber from his mother to duck behind her and toss it into the toilet. "Oh my God I'm so sorry you had to see that. It definitely won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," she said, brushing past him on her way out the door. Her face was on fire. Both figurines in her hand were warm now. 

The thrill of the danger, of almost getting caught, turned out to be *very* arousing. Phillip was impossible to arouse once he'd fallen asleep, so she had to take care of herself while he snored. As usual.

--

When she woke up the next morning, Philip was already gone, probably to the office (on a Sunday, no less!). It was just as well, Barbara reflected. It would give her more time to construct a reason for her new appearance. 

She sat at the vanity, where she had cast a critical eye over herself not two days ago, and goggled. In the full light of day, the changes were astounding. It was as if some airbrush artist had gone over her features, smoothing away any imperfections she'd ever had cause to complain over: the crow's feet, the wrinkles around her lips, the worry lines in her brow. For the first time in longer than she cared to admit, all signs of tiredness had been lifted, and she couldn't keep herself from smiling no matter how hard she tried. Her eyes, a deep crystal blue, were sparkling clear and alive like she'd never seen. A honey-blonde mane, shimmering and thick and flowing like she'd just walked out of a shampoo commercial, tumbled down over her shoulders. 

Barbara pursed her lips, which looked fuller than she'd ever seen them, and palmed one heavy breast. Contrary to her expectations, sanding the bust of the weir-momma hadn't reduced their actual size, but the musculature underneath was significantly firmer, lifting them out of the droop of age, and giving the strawberry-pink nipples a slight uptilt; they'd still need a bra, but at they were certainly no longer halfway to her knees. Her fingertips sank deeply into the soft, mature flesh, and Barbara cooed, watching her naked reflection. 

The improvements bestowed by the little voodoo doll hadn't given back her youth - she was still obviously a woman, a mom in the flower of her maturity - which was just as well, as it meant she wouldn't have to get an entire set of new photo id's. Instead she'd been...edited, almost, recreated in the image of her most physically ideal self, the self that somehow ended up a Hollywood sex symbol, an Angie Everheart or Elizabeth Hurley, only without any sign of Botox. 

Barbara flicked her nipple and gasped. They were so sensitive now! A flush rose in her face as she flicked it again, feeling the juiced beginning to flow again between her thighs. It was *all* so sensitive now, she corrected, as though her nerve endings were a little closer to the surface. 

It had taken a while before she had stopped exploring her new self long enough to get out of bed, particularly after last night's fevered dreams, which had left her sopping wet and needy upon waking. Barbara couldn't really recall what the dreams had been about, only that they prominently featured the chiselled body of a much younger man whose touch left her aching for more. 

"Someone a little more my speed," the movie-star in the mirror smirked as she spoke. "Oh well. Can't diddle myself all day." Reluctantly, Barbara stood, feeling a bead of moisture running down the inside of her leg. Breasts swaying gently, she crossed the room to pull open the drawer in the bedside table; inside, the dolls lay nestled together, female atop the male.

She lifted them out, vaguely surprised that they weren't glued together by dried semen, and wondered if it had taken, if James and the weir-boy were bonded. 

"What's this?" The 'boy had developed a small green bud in the very centre of the knot between its legs, as though a new shoot were growing there. Brow furrowed, she touched it gingerly with a fingertip; the 'boy was warm, warmer than the weir-momma, but this new digit was even warmer, and it's temperature rose as she agitated it. "Isn't that interesting?" She dragged her thumb up; it felt good, like stroking fine hairs. She stroked it that way a while, relishing the sensation, feeling the warmth rising. 

Curious, Barbara stroked it once the other way. That wasn't so nice, much like rubbing a cat the wrong way, and she could feel the heat rapidly dwindling away from the figurine as she did. She frowned, and ran her thumb in the other direction; the heat came roaring back. 

She'd have to figure it out later. Right now, the mall beckoned. 

Although none of her clothes would fit quite right, Barbara managed to find a pair of black leggings that wouldn't come sliding off, over which she threw a blue chambray shirt that had grown too small for Phillip. Sliding into a pair of flip-flops, she looked down at her soft, bare feet and wiggled her toes. Maybe she'd get a pedicure while she was out; not that they needed the pampering, but they could use some polish, and it was just as well to treat herself while she was out; on her way out of the room, she glanced at the mirror, and decided against makeup. It seemed a shame to cover up what the weir-momma had wrought. 

Heading down the hallway, she noticed that James' door was slightly ajar. 

"I can't, Jamie, I can't!" Janie's was protesting something. Curious, Barbara crept up to the crack, and her breath caught in her throat as she looked inside. 

"Baby, I need to!" James was standing with his back to the door, and his mother could see the whole naked length of him, from his broad, muscled shoulders, to his rounded, clenched buttocks, to the ankle socks he was wearing. "I'm sorry, Janie, I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me." 

"You can't just jump to fucking, James. You've gotta warm me up, first!" The chubby young bitch was bent over his bed as he whimpered and tried to control the thrust of his hips. 

"Baby I'm so sorry, I don't know what's going on! I just...woke up like this." He stifled a needy whimper, fingers digging into his girlfriend's hips. 

"Ungh!" The girl grunted. "I've never seen you so- ow! Hard, honey. But you've got to slow down." 

"I'm sorry baby." Barbara watched, fascinated, then started groping at the breast pocket of her shirt, drawing out the weir-boy. The bud had grown even hotter. Curious, she started stroking the little green nubbin. Moments later, James' knees began to visibly tremble. 

"Oh god oh god!" He shouted.

"Honey you're not even inside me," Janie protested. "At least let me grab some lube."

With a sly grin, Barbara gave the little green nub an experimental stroke the wrong way. 

"Shit! Agh!" 

"What happened?"

"Fuck! Fuck I dunno, it's like it just...went away?" Barbara stroked it down again as he pulled back from his girlfriend, cock rapidly deflating. Even as it softened, James' cock appeared to be a sizeable slab of meat, a respectable seven inches or so. 

Chuckling silently, she pulled back from the door before she was spotted, and carried on down the hall. Now wasn't *that* interesting? 

If there had been anybody there to watch, they would have noticed Barbara's step now included an exaggerated, confident strut. 

--

She was still strutting, hours later, as she came back into the house, laden down with bags. James and Janie were sitting in the living room, watching a movie from the couch. Barbara poked her head in. 

"Honey, can you go out and get the rest of the stuff in the car?" She said.

"Sure mom," James replied, not looking up.

"Bring it up to the bedroom," Barbara instructed, slipping back around the corner. 

The bags *flumphed* onto the bed. She circled around and gently laid the figurines on the table. If she didn't know any better, she might have said that the little green nubbin between the male doll's legs was a little bigger. Somehow she'd resisted the urge to play with it for most of the day, knowing what it was connected to, knowing that she was indirectly teasing her own son's cock. But the naughty thrill sent an electric tingle through her body, particularly when she wondered what it looked like as the doll's nub heated up, when James' prodigious cock was fully swollen; during her pedicure, there had been very little else for her to do, besides try not to be obvious about grinding her ass into the seat in the salon. 




That Voodoo You Do so Well



At one point it had grown so hot she thought it would burn her thumb. In response, she had seriously considered dunking the little doll in her complimentary drink, and watching the ice cubes *dink*dink* against the little nubbin, but had serious reservations on the effect that might have on her son. Instead, she simply stroked it the other way until the heat was utterly gone out of it. 

The sense of power that the little figurine had given her over her son was almost overwhelming. She could just picture it in her mind, James frantically thrusting into his girlfriend, fucking her for all he was worth, and then - nothing. A limp, cold, dick, and both of them frustrated and wanting. It was a perfect plan, really. The more frustrated they got, the faster they'd break up. Young people had needs, after all. Young men, especially, with their rampant cocks and swollen balls, constantly aching for release, needing more sex than any inexperienced young pussy could give them; what a young man *really* needed was an experienced woman, in the full flower of her sexuality, with a sexual hunger that matched his own. 

Barbara caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her face was flushed and bright pink. What had she been thinking? 

"Where did you want thes- Jesus!" James strode in through the open door and froze in the doorframe.

"Language," Barbara admonished, without thinking. 

"Sorry mom," he said, looking downcast. "It's just- I mean, did you leave anything *at* the mall?" 

"My wardrobe needed updating," she said, turning away from him. Barbara began unbuttoning her shirt. "I've, um, lost a little weight and I haven't bought any new clothes in *ages*, so I thought I would just-" She shrugged, and Phillip's old shirt fell to her shoulders. Her son made a small choking noise, deep in his throat. 

Her gaze flicked to the full-length mirror.

There he stood, her strapping young son, biceps standing out against the weight of the bags in either arm, staring, mouth slightly agape. It caused her a moment's confusion - surely he'd seen her changing before. Then Barbara realized, he'd never quite seen her like *this*, had never seen the smooth, sinuous curves of her bare back, or the little dimples just above the jutting mounds of her newly pert little ass, swathed in the skin-tight black cotton of her leggings. She wasn't even wearing a bra; he could probably see the outside curves of her breasts from his position in the doorway. 

The shirt slid to the floor, and Barbara reached out to touch the weir-boy. The little digit was hot again, without her having manipulated it. Fresh wetness flooded between her legs. He was watching *her*! He was getting hard for his own *mother*. 

"Um, where-" James said, helplessly, waving the bags. Barbara covered her nipples with one arm and half-turned to face him, watching his gaze crawl all over the swollen breastflesh oozing over her forearm. There was sweat on his brow. 

"Oh, wherever." She said, fingertip agitating the little nubbin as it grew hotter, rewarding his wandering eye with intense pleasure. The blood rose in his face as her son took a step inside and dropped the bags unceremoniously on the floor. He quickly turned to go, and even got a half-step towards the door when she called him back. "James, can you get something for me please?" He paused. 

"Sure, mom." He said, voice a little shaky. 

"In that little pink bag there by your foot, there should be a bra, a black one. Can you get it for me?" 

"The-" he looked down. "The Victoria's Secret bag?" 

"Oh good, you *can* read." She said. "Yes, that one."

"I, uh-" she pressed a little harder, and he made a slightly strangled noise as pure pleasure rocketed up through him. "Sure." Bending, he fished the bra out by the strap. Holding it up, it dangled from a hooked finger. He inspected the scalloped lace. "This one?"

"That's it," she said. Obviously in a hurry, James tossed it in her direction, where it caromed off one of the bags on the bed, then slid to the floor. 

"James Michael de Wynter!" Barbara thundered. "Did I raise you in a barn? Come over here, and hand it to me like a civilized human being." She could see the thick tube of his cock, jammed down the leg of his khaki pants as he stepped over her shopping. Her fingertip kept circling the weir-boy's little digit, feeling the heat ramp up. Was that a damp spot growing on the fabric? 

As he bent to pick up the bra, she stepped on it. Her toenails, painted a bright baby-blue, shone in the light of the room. Barbara wiggled them in his direction as he took hold of the bra, never ceasing to manipulate the doll. 

"Now apologize," she said. "For your rudeness." 

"I'm sorry, mom." James didn't look up from the floor, staring at Barbara's soft little foot, pudgy toes wriggling so close to his face. "I'm sorry I was rude. It won't happen again." 

"Good boy," Barbara said, stepping back. He straightened up, and put the bra in her outstretched hand. "You can go back to whatever it was you were doing." Waving at her son dismissively. "Unless you want to watch me getting dressed, that is." 

James licked his lips, hesitated, then left; his mother closed the door behind him. Listening to him thudding down the stairs, she grabbed the little male figure, and began to firmly downstroke its member, ignoring the discomfort in her own thumb. The heat in the little green nubbin dissipated almost immediately. 

Feeling like a queen, she strut back into the bedroom and snapped the bra into place. Laying the damp figure down next to its momma, she bent low over the pair. What was that? Picking up the doll that had done so much for her, Barbara noticed that there was a tiny flash of pink between its legs. Raising it close to her face, she saw that it was an insignificantly small flower bud, bright pink against the worn grey wood. 

It took a long time for her to compose herself once her fingers were finished with her pussy. 

--

When Barbara walked into the living room, James and Janie were sitting far from each other on the sectional couch, not really watching the movie on the television. The air was heavy with unspoken tension.

She walked around them, and slid into the short arm of the big l-shape, near her son. Her hands were tucked deep inside the pocket of a body-skimming running hoodie in bright turquoise; seating herself, Barbara laid back and swung her legs up onto the overstuffed ottoman in the centre of the room; her tiny black yoga shorts revealed yards of smooth, bare flesh, right down to her toes.

"What are we watching?" Barbara said, breaking the silence. 

"I dunno," James said, trying not to look at his mother's legs, and not succeeding very well. 

"Just some garbage," was Janie's contribution. It was the least Barbara had ever heard her say in a stretch. 

"James honey, I'm sorry I was a little short with you earlier," his eyes flicked over to her, taking the opportunity to get a good long look at her legs. In the dim light of the room, he couldn't see her hand working in the big pocket of the sweater.

"No- no problem, mom." He shifted uncomfortably as the buzzing pleasure from the weir-boy started up in him, then looked at the TV. 

"Sweetheart," she began. "Would you mind doing your mom one last favour?" 

James mulled the question over for a moment, then: "sure mom, what is it?" 

"Well," Barbara swivelled her hips, and suddenly her feet were laid on the edge of the couch, next to him. "I've been on my feet *all* day long. Would you mind giving them a little rub?" She wiggled her toes at him. Her hand worked inside the pocket. 

"Uhhhh," he said. 

"You never rub *my* feet," Janie pointed out, sulky. 

"Well," Barbara argued, "you're not his mother, are you, honey?" Suddenly, James stiffened, then relaxed. She turned to her son. "Sweetie? Just rub mommy's feet for a couple of minutes, okay?" 

"Yeah," his voice was far away. "Yeah, yeah sure mom." 

"Good boy," she said. Her son stiffened again, relaxed. His hands were large and dry and his fingers warm as he picked up her left foot and held the heel in his palm. 

"I've never, uh-" he ran an inexpert thumb across the ball of her foot. 

"It's okay, babybear. I'll tell you how." Barbara crossed her free leg across the knee. "Just listen to me. 'Mother knows best,' after all." She winked. Janie rolled her eyes again. "This is for your benefit too, dear." She said to the girl. "Once I've shown him what to do, he'll rub yours someday. Probably." 

"Now James," she turned to her son. "Just rub your thumb up, from the heel to the ball of my big toe." He ground the pad of his thumb deep into her outstretched foot, and she groaned appreciatively. "That's it, honey. Now just dig in deep, just under the toe like- ah! Ahhh yes, like that. Now circle around, and go back down to the heel. Ooohhh James, that's good. You're a natural!" Barbara splayed her toes wide and wriggled in her son's grasp. "That's it, sweetheart, stroke it up and down...uuuuup and down." Deep in her pocket, her thumb followed the selfsame instructions, translating her touch straight to his pleasure centre. 

"I can't even hear the movie anymore you guys," Janie complained, curling her plump legs under herself. 

"I'm so sorry, dear but James is just- ah! Making his mom- oooohhh! Feel nnnnghhh! Soo good!" Barbara arched her back and pressed her foot hard into James' hand. He was breathing raggedly now, fingers exploring the soft pink flesh of her sole. "Now use both hands, honey, press both thumbs into the heel and oooohhhhh!" Barbara bit her lip, her thumb frantically working the searing-hot little nubbin in her pocket. "Now work my toes, honey. Get in real close, bend over them...yessss just like that and work mommy's toes." James' breath was hot on her skin as his fingers began to pull on her pudgy little digits, his mouth dangerously close to her foot. 

"Jamie, this is getting really weir-"

"Ooooh honey your hands are magic! Yessss, just like that!" His mother enthused, drowning out the girl in guttural groans. James' hands were beginning to shake, the fingers of his left scratching idly up her calf while the right dove in between her toes. She uncrossed her leg, planting her other foot on his leg, toes kneading his thigh while he worked, his face a mask of intense concentration. "Oh sweetheart, you're making my feet feel so good! Your father never does this for me anymore." Barbara ground her foot into his flesh. 

"Okay, I'm out of here." Janie stood up off the couch and strode to the door, then turned, waiting expectantly. "Jamie?" 

"He's-" Barbara gasped. "He's busy, dear. Don't worry, I'll send him to bed once he's done." 

Janie gaped, shocked, then stomped out, feet pounding on the stairs. 

"Your chubby little slut just left," she hissed to her son while he worked away at her foot. 

"What?" He said, looking up from his work, eyes unfocused by the pleasure his mother was sending him through the weir-boy.

"Nothing, baby. Nothing at all. Dig *harder*. Get in there. Good boy!" She enthused, biting back a wet moan. "Ohhh sweetie, mommy's feet are so happy, mommy's toes are so happy." Her elbow worked in and out of her pocket at a frantic pace. He was panting wetly over her feet. "Kiss them." She commanded.

"What? Kiss them? What? That's-" James sounded drunk; his face was slightly blank, brain made muzzy by the teasing sensations Barbara's thumb was bringing his cock. 

"Ooohhh, honey it's only fair." Barbara wriggled her adorable little blue-painted nails in his face. "They're soooo happy, baby. Just give mommy's toes a little kiss. Little kisses. That's all." If he could have seen it, her thumb would have been a blur as it worked the weir-boy's little nubbin. "It's okay to kiss your mommy."

"I- I- sure." He was too far gone to think clearly, and bent even closer to Barbara's feet. Gently, lovingly, he planted a kiss against the warm, soft skin of her little toe. He was trembling as he worked his way up, until he reached her big toe; it only took a little push on her part to slide it past his lips, into the heated wetness of his slack mouth. The tremble in James' body suddenly became a pronounced tremor as she brought him closer to the edge. His hands gripped her sole tight, knuckles white as his whole body went rigid. He manfully tried to suppress every sign that he was cumming hard, spurting every last goddamn drop of hot young cum into his pants, and stayed there for a long minute, body locked in place, choking back the cries that tried to escape his throat. 

Suddenly, he fell back, panting. Sitting back on the couch, he ran both hands through his hair, and wiped the saliva from his mouth.

"What- what's going on? Mom, what happened to Janie?" 

"Oh, she got bored and went upstairs, I think." His mother's voice was bland, but she couldn't hide the grin that was plastered across her face anymore than he could hide the wide wet stain creeping across his thigh through the light tan fabric. 

"Oh," he said, distantly, as he caught his breath. "I think, I think I should go." James' voice was vague. 

"You don't have to," Barbara said, sliding legs against one another. "You haven't done my other foot yet." 

"No," he said. "No, I shouldn't. I already ca- I mean, it's already too late and Janie's not here and I should go." Unsteadily, he got to his feet, seemingly unaware of the cum all over his leg. 

"Well, you know your body best," Barbara waved him on. "Go on up. I think she's waiting for you anyway." 

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I should go." 

As his back retreated out of the room, she pulled the doll out of her pocket. Its appendage was rapidly cooling, but it looked slightly bigger now; there was a hint of white at the base, as if there were a stalk there. Wet, too, but she supposed it was her own sweat. 

Raising the figure to her face, she kissed it, pushing the little nubbin into her mouth. It was salty.

Her shorts made a wet *squish* as she drew her legs up. She couldn't remember when she'd ever been so horny. There was something about having such obscene power over her own son that was a powerful, addictive aphrodisiac. Idly, she toyed with her sopping wet pussy through her shorts, seriously considering diddling herself for the- what? Fourth? Fifth time today? 

But James had looked *so* cute when he was trying so desperately not to let her know he was cumming. Barbara wondered what he looked like when he meant it, what that finely sculpted body looked like when it was rigid with ecstasy, what that fat cock looked like when it was erect and in person. 

She stretched her legs out again, spreading her thighs as she dipped her fingers beneath the waistband of her yoga shorts. As her fingers found the slick, bare lips of her outer labia, and slid in between, she thought back to the memory of his hardbody, bent over his bed, his perfect young cock so achingly hard and desperate for pleasure. That silly little bitch couldn't even take him when he was like that, but then, no inexperienced little *girl* could without significant aid. No, what James needed was a mature, flowered, thick-lipped and voluptuous pussy, a *woman*'s cunt, a mother's-

The front door opened and closed. Snarling, Barbara ripped her fingers from her pussy and sat straight up. 

Philip walked in. "Hey, movie night!" He said, laying down his briefcase. "What are we watching?"

"I don't know," she said, shortly. "Some garbage." 

"Oh." She watched as her husband mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. Had he always been so sweaty? And so bloated? Had she really deigned to fuck him only yesterday? "Where are the kids?"

"They retired early." 

"Oooooh." Phillip waggled his eyebrows knowingly. "I see." He checked her out, eyes crawling up and down her legs. "Hellooooo, Legs. What say we do a little 'retiring' ourselves?"

"Don't be disgusting, Philip." Barbara stood, and strode past him, out the door. 

"What?" He watched her go, eyes rocketing in on the sashay of her pert little behind, those firm, jutting buttocks a little more than a handful each. "What'd I say?" 

In the living room, the TV blared to itself. 

"What'd I say?"

--

What followed was a very simple program of conditioning: tease his cock as much as possible with the doll, keep him on the edge with the irresistible pleasure brought by the voodoo doll, and make sure he didn't achieve orgasm with his girlfriend. This, of course, entailed spending a great deal of time with the young couple, watching and waiting for her time to drain the enthusiasm out of her son's cock with a stroke or three.

At the same time, James was becoming much more attentive to his mother, and Barbara certainly wasn't about to complain about that; in fact, she rewarded such behaviour by doubling down on her attentions to the weir-boy, buzzing the pleasure centre of his brain with her thumb. As the week passed, he became more obedient, more docile, more willing to accede to her demands, no matter what weird faces his girlfriend pulled. 

For example, on Wednesday morning, as they all sat around the breakfast table, she asked him to make her pancakes. He did so happily and with a will, as she watched him tie the apron around his waist, whipping up batter and frying them in just the right amount of butter as she teased the doll. James delivered a tall stack of golden pancakes in short order, reaching around her to lay the steaming plate on the table; if he took a long, lingering look down the deep vee of her shirt, she didn't say anything, but rewarded him with a flick of her thumb.

"What about me?" The girl had complained. "Don't I get any?" 

"Oh shit," he'd said, suddenly embarrassed. "I didn't- I mean, I only made enough for mom." 

Barbara had to squeeze her thighs together as the heat built between them. Moments later, she dropped her fork. 

"James, get that for me please," she'd said, mildly. Suddenly he was under the table. Barbara scissored her legs back and forth, giving him a long hard look at their long, silky perfection. He stayed down there a while before he found it, underneath his mother's foot. 

His reward for that had made him shaky and pale with ecstasy, though he didn't know why. 

Meanwhile, the dolls continued to change. The weir-boy's green shoot became thicker and longer, day by day until it resembled nothing less than an inch-long mushroom. The momma's tiny pink bud grew, too, swelling outward from her crotch, occasionally releasing a single bead of nectar. If she left them alone in a room for any length of time whatsoever, Barbara knew she'd soon find them together in some secluded corner, the momma atop the 'boy, fat green mushroom now pressing up against her tiny grey tits. 

She didn't like to intrude when she found them like that, but she had bigger fish to fry. 

And the frying was good. Hanging around outside James' bedroom, she was witness to a great many hushed but tense conversations, at least one shouting match, and a number of young female crying jags. She occasionally felt a pang of guilt, but then, Janie *had* tried to insinuate herself where she didn't belong and James- James was being richly rewarded for correct behaviour. 

In truth, the power was addictive and arousing and more than once she fucked herself outside her son's door, knowing she was sabotaging his relationship. For his own good, of course. 

Philip, for his part, was more or less oblivious to the goings-on in his own house. He left for the office early in the morning and often returned after dark, good only for a lewd comment to his somehow shockingly-attractive wife, who was in turn, utterly uninterested in his advances. Barbara was too busy paying attention to more important matters. 

Of course, it couldn't last forever. The kids were flying out at the end of the week to head back and start the school year, somehow still together. 




That Voodoo You Do so Well



Barbara knew she'd have to turn up the heat if she was going to succeed. 

--

On Friday evening, the three of them sat around the dinner table. Silence lay heavy over the room. Philip was still at the office, but he promised he'd be back sometime tonight. 

"So," Barbara said, breaking the silence. "You're certain you're going to head back." 

"Of course he's certain," Janie responded before her son could open his mouth. "It's senior year, we're going to go back to our lives and everything will be-" she groped for the word, "like, normal. What else would he do?"

The older woman ignored the girl, and addressed her son. 

"You could stay here. Finish at City U." She reached over, soft fingers lying atop his hand. "You don't need to go back." 

"He's going back," Janie said, firmly. "He'd be, like, crazy not to. Right? Jamie?" 

James didn't answer for a moment. "Right," he said. "I gotta go back, mom. I gotta finish up, and besides we've got a line on a good apartment close to campus; the rent is better than rez, and the landlord is supposed to be okay and-"

"I see." Said his mother, daubing at the corners of her mouth with her handkerchief. She let it fall to the table. "Then I guess your mind is made up." Barbara's fingers toyed with the tight pearl choker around her neck; her hair was swept high off her neck and piled into a thick, honey-blonde bun. Her other hand was under the table. 

"I think I'm done eating," James and his girlfriend watched her stand, and stride out of the room. 

"Oh my god I cannot *wait* to go back," Janie said, suddenly energized by the departure of the older woman. 

"Yeah it'll be good to get back to uh- to normal." He shifted in his chair.

"No kidding," Janie rolled her eyes. "I'll tell you something else, we're never-"

"James," Barbara's voice rolled into the dining room. "Can you come here for a moment, please? I need your help with something."

"Of course she does," Janie said. "How does she even *breathe* when you're not here?" 

"Babe, she's my *mother*, I can't just-" He half-rose from the table. 

"James?" 

He looked at his girlfriend. Janie refilled her wine glass, scowling. "Go on," she said. "I'll just be here. By myself." 

"I"ll be right back, okay?" He left. She drank. 

Barbara was standing at the foot of the stairs, waiting for him. His mother looked like she strolled out of a magazine spread, some People tour of some Hollywood home. She was wearing a high-necked sleeveless pencil dress in a large blue floral print. It was stretched tight over her body, flowing through the new curves of her waist and uplifted breasts, a flower-print study in ideal female form. Low-denier pantyhose showed off the muscular definition of her calves as she tapped one glossy black high heel against the hardwood floor impatiently. One hand rested on the rail. The other was clenched around something in her hand.

"In my room," she said, simply, going upstairs. James followed, three or four steps behind, a perfect vantage point to watch the tightly-packed twin globes of her buttocks swing back and forth as she strode down the hall and into her bedroom. She came to a stop in the middle of the room, her back to him; one long-fingered hand reached back and tapped her shoulder. 

"Unclip it, please." She said. It was a command, not a request. James' fingers brushed against the nape of her neck as he fiddled with the clasp there. "Thank you, honey." She said softly, and felt a slight tremor run through him as she hit his reward button, sending his first thrill of the day through him. Suddenly it sprang free. "Unzip." Shaky fingers took hold of the zipper and slowly drew it down, revealing a long slice of her back, down to her tailbone; shiny black microfibre peeped out from the bottom of the zip. Barbara looked back at him and smiled. "You're such a good boy, honey." She cooed. "Thank you." He bit his lip. 

She shrugged, and the dress fell outwards, to her shoulders. The clasp of her bra looked so insignificant, as if a breath would pop it. 

"James," Barbara said, turning around. "Tell me the truth. Do you really want to go?"

"Mom," a pained expression crossed her son's face. "It's complicated." 

"No it really isn't," she said. "Do you want to go? Do you want to leave or do you want to stay?"

"Of course I *want* to stay," he gestured, helplessly. "But I can't just bail on my senior year, can I? You and dad always wanted me to-"

Barbara let the dress slide off her shoulders, and James caught his breath as more creamy, smooth skin came into view. 

"Nevermind what your father wants," she said. "He's not here. Neither is that little girl downstairs. Answer me. Do you want to stay?" 

James quivered. "Yes, alright!? I want to stay. I don't want to leave. Whenever I come home I think about not leaving, okay?" A visible tremor ran through his body. Barbara eyed him, his taut young body filling out his white polo and tan pants nicely, his face flushed with the sexual sensations his mother was translating to him through the doll. "But I can't just stay. I've got a life back there. I've got Janie, I've got-"

"Don't worry about that," she cooed. "Tell them your mom needed you; that she *told* you to stay." The dress slid lower, revealing the upper slopes of her tits, fulsome and welling out of the lacy cups of her bra. "She'll believe that, anyway. After all, I've been telling you what to do all week, and you've been enjoying it, haven't you?" 

"What? Mom, I-"

"Don't lie to me," Barbara said. "I'm not stupid, James. I've been watching you all week and pushing you around; you're a mommy's boy, honey. You *like* it when I tell you what to do." 

"That is *not* true," he protested, blushing hotly. 

"No?" She arched an eyebrow. "You were quick to bail on your girlfriend, weren't you? I snapped my fingers and you came running, didn't you?" 

"No, I just-"

"Look me in the eye, James. Look me in the eye and tell me you don't like it when your mother tells you what to do." 

He tried to hold her electric blue gaze, but looked away before he could get a word out.. 

"See?" She said. "You can't, can you? Now tell me the truth. You like doing what I tell you, don't you?"

He nodded, shaggy blonde hair bouncing.

"No," Brenda admonished. "Tell me. Say it." 

"Yes," her son said in a low voice. "I like doing what you tell me." A small gasp escaped from his lips as he said it and felt the thrill it brought. 

"Good boy," she cooed. "See, isn't it much better to admit it? Now," Barbara straightened herself. "This is me telling you not to go back."

"Mom," he said, a protest beginning to rise in his throat, "what about-" 

There was a slithering sound as Barbara's dress slid from her body, pooling on the floor around her feet. James stared. Almost every inch of his mother's finely-tuned body was on display, and the sex goddess image before him took his breath away. She watched him intently, eyes locked on his as he took her in: the straps of her bra dug slightly into the soft, silky flesh of her shoulders as the filmy black cups tried their best to hold the sheer volume of her mature breasts in check, her bright pink nipples raging through the fabric. Her navel was a tiny divot in the otherwise unmarred expanse of her abdomen, a kissable little indent that marked the narrowest point in her waist before her hips swept outward again. Black microfibre panties arced across the span of her hips, slung low below her navel, a brief scrap of fabric that did the bare minimum in covering her. The wide, lacy bands of her stay-up stockings stretched almost all the way up to the legband of her panties, translucent, dusky sheaths for her slim, toned, mile-long legs. 

Barbara stepped out of the dress, kicking it away an inch with the toe of one mirror-black stiletto. 

"Pick it up," she commanded, watching him impassively. 

"Mom," he began.

"Do we have to do this again?" She tapped her foot impatiently. "Pick it up, put it on the chair there next to my vanity." The fingers of her clenched fist worked on something. Swiftly, body suddenly humming with pleasure, he stepped forward and scooped up the dress before laying it gently on the back of the chair. When James turned back, his mother was seated on the edge of the bed, legs crossed. One black heel dangled precariously from her toe. He watched it bounce, up and down. Barbara's thumb worked in time. 

"Now, was that really so hard?" She asked, pointedly. 

"N-no, but listen I should really-" 

"Come here." Barbara snapped. Readily, he complied. Her foot continued to bob, up and down, up and down. "I've been wearing these damn heels all night. Take them off, please. And place them neatly by the bed." 

Bending the knee, James removed her shoes, treating her feet so gently and reverently they might have been made of glass. Dark, cobwebby stockings stretched tightly around her toes as she wriggled them, relishing their newfound freedom. 

"Thank you, sweetheart."

"Mom, I should really-"

"Honey, so long as you're being such a *good boy*," her thumb worked significantly, "I think it's okay for you to call me 'mommy'." 

"Mom- mommy," his voice pitched upward as the last syllable dropped from his lips. "I need to-" 

"Mommy's toes are *so* pretty, aren't they?" Barbra said, raising one foot towards his face and looking down, as if inspecting them. 

"Ye-" he gasped. "Yes! They are." 

"I know you think so," she said with a laugh. "I remember how you kissed them after you rubbed my foot." On the floor, James grunted. "But you didn't give *this* foot any love. They're a little jealous, honey. I think you should kiss mommy's toes, and make it up to them." Barbara did something with her thumb, and her son almost doubled over. "Well?" She said, wiggling them. 

James took the proffered foot in his hands, and began to kiss her toes, tasting the nylon and the tang of her sweat. Once more, he worked his way up to his mother's big toe, and each kiss brought a reward that made his body shudder and shake, prompting a series of tiny grunts that grew in volume as he kissed her; each kiss grew progressively longer as he went, and with them his rewards grew more intense. By the time he reached Barbara's big toe, James was practically giving it a tongue bath, letting it dip deeply into his mouth while he lashed and suckled at it. She jerked her foot back, and it popped out of his mouth, leaving him panting.

"Thank you James," Barbara said. "You're such a good boy for mommy. Janie doesn't have such pretty toes, does she?" His mother wiggled her toes again, shimmering with spit in their nylon casing. 

"No," he said, earnestly, without a moment's thought. The thrill of pleasure that rocketed through his body made him sit up straight and ramrod rigid. 

"Oh, sweetheart it makes mommy so happy to hear you say that." Her dry foot slid into his lap, gently rubbing his thigh. "What about my legs, honey? Are Janie's legs as pretty as mommy's legs?" 

"No god no," he was breathless. One of his hands was sliding reverently up his mother's silky calf. He had to bite his lip to restrain the groan that tried to escape his throat. 

"Flatterer," Barbara laughed. "Hm. Your little girlfriend's not coming out too well here." She pursed her lips and pretended to think. "What about mommy's ass, honey? I know you had a look at it yesterday, you dirty little scamp! Does Janie have an ass like mine?" James had "accidentally" walked in on his mother the day before as she was changing, wearing only a red t-shirt that skimmed just above her buttocks and a pair of boyshorts that molded themselves lovingly around her sculpted, muscular behind. Janie's butt was nothing but flab, she knew, held taut only by youth. 

"Mom,"

"Mommy," she corrected.

"Mommy," he started again, "your butt is- your ass is-"

"Yes? Yes?" Her thumb punctuated each question on the doll. 

"It's divine, alright!? I've never seen anything like your ass." If he was going to say anything after that, it was lost in a long shuddering gasp. 

"Mmmmm," she cooed. "You're not just trying to butter me up, are you? You're not just being a little buttkisser, are you honey?"

"What? No." James shook his head emphatically. "Why would I-"

"You'll have to prove that," Barbara said, suddenly rolling over on the bed, extending her legs. The prominent globes of her ass jutted straight out above the lacy bands of the stockings as the jet-black briefs dipped dangerously in between her cheeks. A slice of firm flesh poured out from either side of the legband. "Kiss it. Kiss my ass and tell me it's better than Janie's." She looked back at him over her shoulder, arms crossed under her head, fingers working faster. 

Slowly, hesitantly, James stood and put one knee on the mattress. Barbara watched as her son leaned close to her body, the heat of him scorching her skin. 

"Come on," she said, wiggling her hips. The tiny quakes generated in the firm meat of her booty looked delicious, and James licked his lips. "Kiss it." He shivered, then bent low over her. James's lips met his mother's left cheek and then it was her turn to shiver and quake. He lingered there a moment, fingers kneading her flesh. "Now tell me," she said in a husky voice. "Say it!" 

"Your ass is so-" he kissed her again, "so much better than Janie's, mommy."

"Good boy," she breathed. Barbara raised herself up on all fours, pressing her pert little butt right into his face, smothering the moan she pulled out of him with her thumb. "In fact," she said, "I'm better than Janie in every way, aren't I? I'm prettier than she is, sexier than she is, more experienced than she is, more dominant than she is." James, apparently unwilling to part his face from her behind, grunted and whimpered as she reinforced each item on the list with a stroke and a press on the weir-boy. "Say it!" She insisted.

He broke away from her for a moment, eyes heavy-lidded and gasping for breath. "Yes! Alright, yes. You're better than she is in *every* way. She doesn't fucking compare to you, mommy!" 

"Then, it only stands to reason," Barbara said, "that if I'm better than she is in *every* way, I deserve you more than she does, don't I?" James shuddered. 

"What?" He said, her words slowly percolating through his pleasure-fogged brain. 

"You heard me, honey." Barbara's voice was calm and measured. "If I'm better than she is, I deserve you more than she does, don't I?" She turned her head away, and James would have heard her licking something if his attention weren't elsewhere. 

"Yes!" He gasped. "Yes! YESYESYES." She looked back to see her son's eyes rolling back into his head. The weir-boy's little green mushroom had swollen to prodigious size, easily half as long as the doll itself, and it pulsated angrily. She leaned down and lapped away at it, teasing the flared tip as her son gyrated behind her. 

"Good boy," she cooed. "You make mommy so happy, honey." Barbara chewed her lip, flush with her own pleasure and more than a little drunk on power. "If you're going to stay, you should seal your promise with a kiss, darling." 

"A kiss? I, uh, sure, mom." He mumbled, voice vague and distant. He planted his lips on her buttcheek again. 

"No, sweetie bear. A *real* kiss. Pull down mommy's panties." His trembling hands slid beneath her waistband and yanked them down around her thighs. "Good boooooy." Her pink, wrinkled starfish winked up at him. "Now, kiss mommy's little asshole, honey. A *real* kiss." Pulled forward by the pleasure that thrilled through his entire body, James had no choice. Willingly, eagerly, he buried his handsome features between his mother's pert little buttcheeks and planted his lips on her asshole. His tongue, long and slippery, slid out and around her little starfish, washing it and sliding inside the pouty little orifice. 

"Yesssss!" Barbara grunted, hunching back against his face. "That's it honey! Kiss mommy's ass! Get that tongue right! Up! In! There!" She ground her hips around, mashing his face against her sphincter. "Now, stop!" As if yanked by a chain, James rocketed away from her asshole, licking his lips eagerly. 

"Wasn't that nice, honey?" Barbara chuckled. "Wasn't kissing mommy's asshole good? Better than Janie's mouth?" 

"God yessss," he slurred, running his hands through his shaggy hair. Kneeling behind his mother, she could see his entire delta-shaped torso and the thick protuberance that threatened to rip through the cotton twill of his pants. 

"Strip," she said. "Get naked for mommy." Standing, James peeled off his shirt while his mother rolled over onto her back, watching eagerly as her fingers stroked between her legs. He was sculpted like a greek god, all golden skin and rock-hard musculature. He fumbled with his belt while she spread her labia with one hand, flicking at the angry little pink clit with the other. Eventually, the buckle sprang open; the button of his pants popped off in his haste to get them off, spanking as it ricocheted off a nearby lamp. James tugged his briefs down, and Barbara's breath caught in her throat. His cock was magnificent, even more so than she could have hoped; a thick slab of veiny meat, at least nine inches of steely flesh with a thick purple head that oozed a steady stream of precum. Idly, she wondered if she had created that, then chuckled to herself at the irony of the very question.

"Look at mommy," Barbara said, quietly. James watched as his mother hooked her panties down one leg, spreading her thighs wide. Between the dark frame of her stockings, her mature pussy blossomed, thick inner labia unfolding from between her thick, pouty outer lips while cunt cream sluiced down into the comforter. She pulled one fat breast from its confines, teasing and pulling on the nipple. "This is what a real pussy looks like," Barbara said. "A woman's pussy. Mommy's pussy is a perfect pussy, isn't it?" The weir-boy lay under her pillow, momentarily forgotten. 

"Yesss," he husked.

"Touch yourself," she said. "Touch yourself while you look at mommy's perfect pussy." Barbara's index finger flickered across her clitoris as James took hold of his rampant cock, slowly fisting it. "You've never seen anything sexier than mommy's pussy, have you?" She asked. 

"No," James' voice came from faraway as he stared straight into the core of her. 

"Good boy," she purred, and a tremor ran through her son's cock as she did. 

"You can see mommy's perfect pussy every day if you stay," she whispered, strumming her bud. "You can worship mommy's superior body every day if you stay. You can stay here and obey my every whim if you stay. Doesn't that sound good?" 

"Yesss," he said, pumping his meat faster, milking out a thick gout of precum as he did. 

"Good boy," she said. "Now come here and lie on the bed next to mommy." Without another word, he scrambled up on the bed and lay on his back. Up close James' member was even more impressive, a towering spire of cockflesh in his fist. Precum dribbled over his knuckles. "Is that for me? Did mommy do that to you?"

"Yessss," James' eyes were glassy, now. 

"Good boy," she whispered in his ear, eliciting a needy whimper. "In fact, this is *just* for mommy, isn't it? You've never been so hard, so swollen in your life. Mommy did this." Barbara reached over, delicate fingers idly sliding up the velvety skin stretched so tautly over his cock. "Mommy *made* this. This cock is *mommy's* cock." She grabbed it tightly around the base, or tried to. The shaft was too thick for her to get her fingers around. "Say it!" 

"Ngh," James grunted. "Oh god mom, mommy. Yes it's yours. It's mommy's cock. My cock is mommy's cock!" 

"Good boy," she hissed, and he hunched upwards into her hand. His precum had drooled all the way down to her fingers, where it pooled around the incomplete ring they made at the base. "If this is mommy's cock, then mommy gets to say when it cums, doesn't she?" His affirmation was a ragged, incoherent moan. "And mommy *definitely* gets to say who it cums *for*, doesn't she?" Her lips brushed against his earlobe. "No more young cunts for you, honey. Mommy's cock was made for mature pussy, *real* pussy." She hesitated, then fell over the brink, pushed by the insistence of the power and pleasure thrilling through her. "Mommy's pussy. Mommy's cock is only for mommy's pussy. Say it!" 




That Voodoo You Do so Well



"Only...only your pussy! Mommy's cock is only for mommy's pussy!" He practically shouted, cock pulsating. 

"Not Janie's cunt."

"No, fuck! No, not Janie's oooohhhh cunt."

"Good boy." Barbara swung one long, stockinged leg across his body, positioning herself above him. Her luxurious pussy lips enveloped the head of his cock, drooling all over it. Leaning on one arm, she looked down at her son, his face flushed, sweaty, eyes glassy with the burning need in his balls. A green glow escaped from underneath the pillow next to him. 

"Mommy," he groaned as she began to sink down, both of them gasping as his thick plum head pushed past her clasping hole. 

"Oh god, honey! Mommy's good boy is *so* big!" Working her hips, she slowly fed his supernaturally thickened meat into her needy pussy. 

Deep inside the bedside table, the bud between the legs of the weir-momma began to blossom, unfolding in a persistent pink glow. 

"Mom- mommy!" James grunted. "Oh god it's so good!" His cock sank inexorably deeper inside of her, wrapping his sensitive meat in slippery, velvety heat. 

Barbara ground her hips in a gentle circle as she fed her son's cock deeper into her molten core, until her thighs met his. She let out a long, treble sigh and shivered, relishing the fullness. His cock *was* perfect, a perfect fit for her luxurious mommy-cunt. 

She rolled her hips, letting the head of his cock grind against the very depths of her pussy. Slowly, Barbara began to rise again.

"Mommy's pussy is perfect, isn't it?" 

"Yes!" She sank down an inch. 

"You'll never want another pussy again, will you?"

"No!" Another inch, and she circled her hips, twisting his shaft in the grasp of her mature cunt. 

"Not even Janies'?"

"God, god no mommy! J-just yours!" Another inch, and she reached back to tickle his balls. 

"Good boy," she enthused, dropping the last inch, bottoming out on his cock once more. Barbara began to pump her hips, fucking her son in short, sharp thrusts. "You're going to break up with her aren't you? So you can stay here with mommy? So you can serve mommy? So you can be with mommy's pussy?" 

"Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!" Each response was rewarded with another pump. 

"Say it," Barbara commanded through gritted teeth.

"I won't- ah! I won't go away, mommy! I'm going to break- ohhhh break up with her so I can st- ahhhh! Stay here and serve you! Stay here and be with ohhhhh your perfect pussy!" 

"Good boy," she said. "Now start fucking mommy, honey. Don't be a dead lay." James' hands gripped her waist tight as he pushed his thick meat up into her. "Oh god YES! We're going to do this every! Single! Day! You're going to make mommy's pussy soooo happy, sweetie bear!" His hips pistoned as he picked up the pace, slamming his fat cock into his mother's sweetly clutching cunt. 

"Ooooohhh honey!" Barbara screamed, her hands on his chest, nails drawing lines of blood in his golden skin. The green light from underneath the pillow intensified. "Fuck mommy! Fuck mommy! Mommy's going to be so good to you honey! Mommy's going to be your queen! You'll never have to think for yourself ever again! Ngh! Fuck mommy, sweetie bear!" 

The weir-momma's blossom spiralled out and bloomed, huge pink petals covering the tiny grey form; an intense pink light filled the inside of the table drawer, leaking out as Barbara fucked her son, unaware of what was happening a foot away. 

"Oh god, mommy! I love you mommy! I'm going- I'm going to-"

"Do it, baby! Cum for mommy! Fill up mommy's perfect pussy with all that wonderful cream!" 

Their voices rose in a lustful crescendo as the light underneath the pillow flared, momentarily distracting Barbara before her orgasm overtook her. Their bodies became locked in pleasure as they came at the same time, James' cock jammed as deeply inside of her as he could get, flooding his mother with his youthful cream as his shaft pulsated and balls jumped between his thighs, while Barbara's luxurious cunt sucked and writhed around him, pulling every ounce of semen out of him. 

Suddenly, it was over, and Barbara collapsed atop him, panting. "Here, sweetie. Suck this." She said, feeding one of her pinky-thick nipples into his mouth. They lay there, breathing heavily in sync with one another, perfectly happy. Curious, she lifted the pillow a little, and found nothing underneath, no weir-boy. For a moment, she wondered if he was cuddling with his own momma in the drawer. Only a moment, though, as the floorboard by the bedroom door creaked, ominously.

"Jamie?" A small voice, a girl's voice, asked from the other side of the world. 

In the drawer, only a couple of big pink petals remained of the weir-momma. 

--

Elsewhere, heterochromatic eyes watched with glee as green light flared, and the weir-boy appeared on a shelf, next to a jar of pickled awfulness. The other doll appeared moments later, next to him.

"Another happy son and a happier momma," a voice cackled. "Soon be time to set up shop again, see if there are any other mommas out there need help." 

If the dolls thought anything of it, they didn't say anything in particular.