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===

HYPNO-MOM
by alien_ov

In the summer after I graduated high school, there was an ongoing
debate between my Mother and myself. I had friends who were going out
to the west coast to live near the shore, with a couple of great
liberal arts colleges in the area. Mom, who is in her late 40s, a
little overweight (by her own description), but attractive and
well-dressed, was always pretty cool, as moms go. She thought I
should stay at home at the state school where she taught psychology,
at least for a year or two. I lived with Mom and my 15-year-old
sister Julie in a typical house in the suburbs. A nice home, but I
wanted to get out see the world.

After much discussion I figured I had convinced Mom I'd manage okay on
the west coast, and had successfully addressed all of her objections
and questions. But she was still giving me a hard time, making me
sweat a little. Of course I could have moved out there in any case,
but I was sort of counting on Mom to co-sign student loans, help me
with the first month's rent out west, that kind of thing.

At the time, Mom had gotten back from a psychology conference in which
she'd attended a workshop on some revolutionary new hypnosis technique
involving subliminal audio recordings. She had been bugging my sister
and I to let her try this technique on us, to which I had responded by
rolling my eyes and laughing, and my opinionated sister told Mom to
"get that stupid new-age junk away from me".

One night after dinner, I was trying to sweet-talk Mom (who'd had a
couple of glasses of red wine with her meal) to go out west for a
weekend, just to see the sights and the campuses.

"I'll tell you what," Mom decided, a little tired of my fast-talking,
"you and I can take that trip out west. I have some frequent flier
miles. But you have to do me a favor."

"What?" I smiled.

"You have to let me try this hypnotic relaxtion technique on you. I
really want to go through it with somebody while the seminar is fresh
in my mind." My sister Julie snorted.

"Okay Mom," I sighed, "tell me about this hypnosis thing."

"It takes about an hour, mostly you just listen to some soft music on
headphones, I'm there to watch over things. It's supposed to plant
long-term subliminal suggestions to help you relax, be more confident,
that kind of thing. There will be a hypnotic trigger that will help
you focus on all the positive conditioning, something like the sound
of a chime or a certain shape or color."

"Or how about the smell of your FEET?" Julie jeered.

"Quiet, you, " Mom laughed, amused by the suggestion but shaking her
head.

After clearing the table, Mom sent Julie to her room ("no
distractions, young lady") and Mom got things ready for the session.
I was both nervous and skeptical about the conditioning ritual that
Mom promised, but it turned out to be pretty anticlimactic -- Mom lit
some candles and incense in the living room, had me drink a cup of
herbal tea, then had me lean back comfortably in the recliner and
listen to some new-age music on headphones. My mind sort of wandered
listening to the music, and after a short while I felt Mom removing
the headphones from my ears and telling me the hypnosis ceremony was
complete.

"Now close your eyes," Mom smiled. I humored her and sat there
expectantly for a few seconds, when I felt something being placed over
my nose and mouth - it took me a second before I realized by the feel
(and the odor!) that it was one of Mom's leather dress pumps that she
was cupping over my face. Normally I would have protested this
treatment with emphatic disgust, but for some reason I found myself
letting her do it, breathing deep and feeling a sensation of peace and
contentment wash over me as I filled my senses with the smelly size 11
pump Mom held to my face. There was a part of me that found the whole
thing really gross -- there was no denying Mom's shoes had a powerful,
pungent stink after a day on her feet -- but the disgust was crowded
out by a pleasure, an eagerness even, to smell Mother's shoe as deeply
and thoroughly as possible.

"Wow," Mom giggled quietly, "it really works. Little boy, I want you
to go down on your hands and knees now." I swallowed nervously,
feeling completely disoriented, but my arms and legs moved with a will
of their own, crawling down off the furniture and bowing instinctively
at my Mother's feet, covered in sheer dark grey reinforced-toe nylons,
her pudgy red-polished toes visible underneath.

"Well if you insist," Mom giggled with surprise, lowering herself into
the recliner and raising her feet up to my face. "I could go for a
nice foot massage." I found my eyes were simply incapable of breaking
away from contemplating her beautiful, entrancing feet. I rubbed her
sweaty stockinged feet eagerly, the feel of the damp nylon sending
waves of pure pleasure through my hands. The sharp, musty smell of
Mom's feet drifted up into my nostils, and even as the potent smell
disgusted me, it made me serve more eagerly.

I massaged Mom's stockinged feet for nearly three hours while she
caught up on some trade magazines and then a drug store paperback.
Even as my legs and knees ached, I had never before known such simple,
pure joy and love as I felt that night while massaging Mom's tired
stinky feet.

"Time for bed, little boy," Mom announced soothingly at last, pressing
the sweetly aromatic sole of one foot lovingly against my cheek before
pulling back her feet and standing. I staggered to bed in a daze and
fell asleep instantly.

When I woke up the next morning, I couldn't make heads or tails out of
what had happened. I remembered everything perfectly -- after waking
up from the hypno session, Mom made me smell her hot sweaty pump, and
after that all I wanted to do was bow down at her achy feet, to be a
good son who rubs his Mama's tired feet at the end of the day. Where
had that come from? It still felt good and comfortable to remember
the night before, but mostly my thoughts were starting to turn to the
day at hand, whether I was going to try and ride my mountain bike, or
spend my afternoon at the mall or community center.

My thoughts were interrupted by the pounding socked footsteps of my
sister down the hall, barging into my bedroom and pouncing across the
room before I could react. She held one of her tattered sweaty gym
shoes in her hand and thrust it my face.

"Get that thing away from me," I ordered, waving it away from me. "I
can't believe Mom told you about that."

"Maybe it only works with Mom's shoes." It was Mom's voice, standing
in my doorway with a perverse grin. She paced across the room,
reached back and removed one of her closed-back terrycloth slippers,
and handed it to my sister.

Before I could react, Julie had thrust the warm, sweaty slipper's
opening into my face. The foam interior reeked much worse than Mom's
pumps last night -- she wore these slippers EVERY night and I don't
think she's ever washed them.

I took a deep breath in surprise -- my nose wrinkled from the
sharp musty stench, but an instant later I was inhaling hungrily,
desperate to bury my face deep in Mom's dirty stinky slipper, longing
to drink in Mom's sweaty foot smell. I collapsed from the bed in a
delicious pool, on my hands and knees, straining up to smell the rank,
cheesy slipper insole.

"Wow Mom," Julie laughed, "how long will he be like this?"

"Every time he smells my shoe or my feet, the conditioning gets
reinforced. He'll only get more and more willing to obey us over
time."

"Us?" Julie giggled with surprise, " you mean he'll do what I say
also?"

"Well just look at him." And sure enough, my heart was burning with an
intense gratitude towards my younger sister. I was unspeakably
grateful to her for sticking that dirty old slipper in my face, just
as I was grateful to Mom for hypnotizing me with her sweaty smell. I
knew that in my heart I worshipped BOTH women, wanted nothing more
than to serve them and kneel in admiration. "But you be nice," Mom
added firmly upon seeing Julie's wicked grin.

I felt totally content kneeling before my sister's socked feet and
kneeling in front of my Mom, who watched with approval, one foot still
in its smelly slipper, the other foot bare and lovely, pale-skinned
with dark red toenail polish.

I spent the rest of that day learning how to be a foot slave for my
Mother and kid sister (who, starting with that afternoon, has me call
her "Superior Princess Julie" sometimes). I could not believe how
happy I was to be allowed to freely pamper Mom's sweaty middle-aged
feet, just as I was grateful to obey my bratty sister's pettiest
whims.

It was Julie who came up with the idea of tying one of Mom's old shoes
against my face with a worn knee-high, so that I never escape the
powerful aroma of her foot odor. That's how I sleep now, with my face
in Mom's shoe, but really all I ever think of is worshipping at Mom's
feet, with or without reminders. I quickly and voluntarily gave up
any plans to move out to the coast -- there was no question that my
heart's deepest and strongest desire was to worship Mother, to wait
upon Her hand and foot.

Now, Mom can make me bow down and worship her feet at anytime,
anyplace, just by having me sniff her sweaty stinky nylon stocking.
She carries a pair of her smelly knee-highs in her purse to make it
espescially convenient to control me with ease whereever she happens
to be.

One day Mom took me to lunch with Ms. Simone, one of her co-workers, a
thin, attractive dark-haired lady in her early 50s, dressed
fashionably and with a french manicure on her long, bony fingers. I
sat through most of the lunch in silence, picking at my food
absent-mindedly, as Mother and Ms. Simone chatted about shopping and
department gossip.

"And after all that running around, I like to have a nice foot
massage, which is what this one is good for." Mother's pointed stare
distracted me from my daydreaming and Ms. Simone seemed to be amused
to see me put on the spot. I'm sure I blushed as I lowered my head
and tried to lose myself in the scraps of food left on my plate.

"There's no need to be embarrased," Mom smiled, taking some visible
pleasure at my discomfort at having my role at home exposed. "You
should be proud that you give your Mother and sister such nice foot
rubs. Why don't we go back to the house and you can show Ms. Simone
how you like to massage womens' feet?" I was terrified to be put on
the spot like this and tried to escape Mom's questioning with a
polite smile, but I could not escape the feel of her smug, penetrating
stare, any more than I could escape the burning compulsion to obey
Mother's conditioning.

"Yes Ma'am," I found myself whispering softly, the words not entirely
my own, "it would be an honor to rub your feet and rub Ms. Simone's."

"Are you sure?" Mom teased, laying her mature, perfectly manicured
fingers across my own hand. "I can't speak for Ms. Simone, but MY
feet are sure to stink to high heaven. I hope you don't mind."

"No, Ma'am," I answered breathily. Part of my mind was disgusted by
the thought of another lengthy session at Mom's stinky feet, but most
of my thoughts -- and my passions and my body itself -- ached to bow
down to Mother's pumps then and there, to open myself to Her Foot
Stink.

As uncomfortable and embarrased as I was, the rest of the meal still
could not go quickly enough. Soon enough, after a short car ride
home, I found myself sitting on the living room floor, Mom and
Ms. Simone on the couch smiling down expectantly at me, and the tips
of their elegant dress shoes.

My heart racing, I reached up to one of Ms. Simone's expensive tan
loafers (size 10 AA) and gently slipped the back from her bare heel.
I could tell the wrinkled bottom of her foot was moist with
perspiration, and a sharp leathery foot sweat smell quickly flooded my
senses.

"Oh dear," Ms. Simone giggled a little nervously, "these shoes do make
my feet perspire."

"Don't worry," Mom smiled reassuringly. "That part he likes
espescially." To prove her point Mom slipped off her own low-heeled
two-tone leather pumps and pointed her beige reinforced-toed nyloned
feet just an inch below my nose. I was overwhelmed with embarrasment,
and the combined foot odors of the two women literally made my eyes
water, yet I was burning with excitement and happiness to be
subjected so casually and so intensely to these middle-aged women's
tired smelly feet.

Impulsively, I bent down and pressed my lips quickly to the top of
Mom's foot, between her stockinged toes. The warmth of her foot
against my lips, and the hint of her stinky leather-flavored sweat
experienced so directly, was incredible beyond imagination.

"Mmm, that's new," Mom considered with obvious pleasure. "But first
you serve the feet of Mother's guest." Mom pulled her feet away and
Ms. Simone gracefully placed her pale, bare, long-toed feet in my
lap. Her skin looked a little dry, with slight calluses on her heels
and balls of feet, and her toenails were unpainted but neatly trimmed.
Her ankles were thin and bony but pretty, and her veins and tendons
were visible along the top of her feminine foot. And the smell!
Ms. Simone's feet radiated an amazing warmth, even at an arm's length,
and every time she stretched or wiggled her toes it renewed the power
of the damp moist foot smell.

I dutifully massaged both of Ms. Simone's feet, kneading and
stretching and rotating as I had become well-trained. I was grateful
when Ms. Simone stretched out her leg to allow me to better massage
her footsoles and arches, her hot sweaty stinky callused footsoles
just inches from my face. I was completely fascinated by her narrow
long-toed feet, the fleshy pink pads on the bottoms of her toes, the
lines pressed into the sides of her feet from a day in shoes without
stockings.

After a long, soothing massage -- over an hour -- Ms. Simone placed
her feet back on the floor and asked me to kiss each of her toes.
Without an instant of hesitation, I bent my head down to the floor and
pressed my lips to each digit. Ms. Simone stroked my hair
affectionately and slipped her well-rubbed feet back into her loafers.

"That was wonderful," she smiled, addressing both Mom and myself. "I
really need to get going, but you come visit me anytime, young man."
Mom agreed that would be just fine, and showed her friend to the door.

After Ms. Simone had left, Mom returned to her place on the couch.
"Lay on your back," she instructed, so that I could massage her
nylonned feet with her soles dangling directly above my face.
Happily, I began to knead Mom's sweaty wrinkled soles and arches. Mom
wiggled her toes and sighed with pleasure.

"You know, the funny thing is, when I hypnotized you, I didn't tell
you to do any of this."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, startled by her statement, but
not missing a stroke of the massage.

"I mean, when I did that hypnosis, all I ever told you during the
session was to follow your inner subconscious dreams, whatever they
might be. And that first time I stuck my shoe in your face, that was
just kidding around, to wake you up. I was as surprised as you were
at what happened."

There was a part of my mind that was puzzled, shocked, even outraged
at Mom's words, but deep inside I did not doubt them. Somehow it just
fit. And any reaction was secondary to the primary focus of my
attention now -- devotedly massaging my Mother's sweaty smelly foot,
whenever, and for however long, she wants.

Since then, over the days and weeks, my foot service to Mom, my
sister, and an ever-growing circle of Mom's ladyfriends, has only
grown deeper. I lick Mom's feet on a daily basis, and suck her
toejam, and eat her toenail clippings when I give her pedicures. My
sister decided she wanted my bedroom, and there were no complaints, so
now she has the larger bedroom as her own, and her old bedroom just
for her computer desk and bookshelves, and I sleep on a floor mat at
the foot of Mom's bed. I couldn't be happier. Sometimes before bed
Mom will have me kneel at the foot of the bed so that my face is up
under the covers, pressed against her ultra-smelly wrinkled bare
footsoles, licking her toejam and foot sweat and worshipping her heels
and toes with hungry devoted kisses.

I've realized something else over time about the hypnosis session that
began my wonderful new life. That just as I was compulsively drawn to
serving and worshipping and smelling Mother's feet, she too was filled
with an irresistable fascination to control me, to mold me into her
devoted foot servant. And my sister, in a way it was her joke that
started all of this. Who is to say where a thing starts? The one
thing certain is that none of us could be happier.

I give each of Mom's fleshy smelly footsoles a goodnight kiss before
crawling down to the floor, where she has left a pair of her
sweat-stained terrycloth house slippers for me to smell and worship
during the night. I press my nose into the damp interior of the left
slipper, close my eyes, and blissfully drift to sleep.