Your comments are most appreciated -- if you like this story, please let me know you're reading! alien_ov@yahoo.com === 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.