He hears a voice

Somehow, the Magic 8 Ball was speaking directly to him, even as nothing on it moved; it was like the words were being transmitted into James’s head, and the voice sounded like him. At first, James was hesitant, and believed himself crazy. But the sensation was so real.

“Wow…”

It revealed nothing about its origin or reason for being here, but James, though intensely curious, didn’t inquire further, because he didn’t want to scare the Ball and mess up his “gift.” The “gift” the Ball described was verbatim from Chapter 1: it will insert commands or triggers into whoever its host desires, then drop little clues as to what the triggers are.

James had a passing familiarity with mind control, and admittedly didn’t know much about it. But he always loved games, ever since he was a kid, and the hunt for the so-called triggers sounded really fun. He was told to pick a subject, and he knew right away that it should be someone he’d be seeing a whole lot of, and have easy access to. He glanced over his shoulder at the dressing room.

Of course. His mother!

Samantha Aimer may have been an attractive woman, but James wasn’t thinking of her as a potential puppet sex object just yet, more like a puppet, or maybe an object. You see, his mother’s happy-go-lucky personality was basically the opposite of James’s timid one, so the idea of making her do things she wouldn’t otherwise normally do was full of funny possibilities.

“I’ll start things off easy for you, my young friend,” his own voice called from the Ball. "The first clue will be in your bathroom — the next, in your mother’s. Good luck.” And with that, the Magic 8 Ball quickly shut up, as his Mom opened the door. She was out much faster than he’d expected, James thought. Was that also the work of the Ball?

“Hey, sweetie! Mommy’s all done now.” She glanced down. “What is that?”

That evening, Samantha Aimer was taking care of dinner in the kitchen, as her son freshened up in the shower, which was one door over from his bedroom, on the opposite side of the house. As excited as he was about the prospect of finding a clue, he didn’t want to keep his mother waiting, and figured he would start the search around midnight, when no one else was up, and everything was quiet.

He pushed the top of his shampoo bottle to get some out, but it was giving him nothing. Frustrated, James yanked the bottle from the stand it was sitting on, when something fell along with it. On the floor of the tub was what appeared to be a white card, clearly laminated, with a sentence in black text on its center. James picked it up to inspect.

“When requested, it is imperative for a proper mother to clean up after her son.”

The young man wiped the water from his eyes as he considered its meaning. Then, he turned the knob and stepped onto the fuzzy carpet to dry himself off. This, he had to test.

“Food is ready!” Ms. Aimer called from the kitchen, several minutes after James had gotten redressed. His mouth watered as he sauntered over, inhaling the scent of shredded beef tacos. They reeked of chipotle pepper, cumin, and smoked paprika, and James’s stomach growled in response. They activated his hunger, but even though the tacos were his Mom’s favorite meal, he wasn’t really in the mood for them. He would rather something from McDonald’s.

And even though James wasn’t a mean kid, the contents of the card were rubbing him a different way. If it was true, and his mother would clean up any mess he made, he could think of no sooner (and better) opportunity than the tacos.

He walked up and pinched one of them off his plate on the table, and waited until Samantha was looking before dropping it on the ground, sending bits of meat, cheese, and spice everywhere. He took a step back, wincing when she reacted poorly.

“James Reginald Aimer! What has gotten into you!”

“I’m sorry, Mom. Can you clean it up for me?”

“Of course, darling!” Her whole face lit up, a total contrast from a second ago. “Let me get that for you.” No sooner had she said that than Mom fell on her hands and knees, gathering the ingredients he’d rudely spilled and putting them back into the flour tortilla. She tossed it into the trash bin and turned to James, hands on her hips, grinning. “There.”

“Oops,” he said, grabbing the taco closest him and dropping it where the previous one landed. “I made another mess. Mom, can you clean it up for me?”

“No problem, dear,” she cooed at him, then assumed the position again. James was emboldened with his initial success, and already had an abusers’ mentality to push things to their limit. He watched his mother’s amazing breasts quake every time she hit the floor, which she did, over and over, as all the remaining tacos made their way back to Earth.

“Oops.” “My bad.” Oh! So sorry.”

“It’s okay!” “No worries!” “Forget about it, sweetheart.”

After their little game was through, the table was absent of a dinner. But if it was any trouble to Ms. Aimer, she certainly didn’t show it. Instead, she hugged her son tightly, and James took in the feel of her luscious skin against his. “Mommy forgives you for the mess you made.”

His hands were at his side, locked in the embrace, and the two stood like that for a few seconds, then a minute, then two minutes. James was used to receiving hugs from his mother, but never for this long. As much he hated to pull himself apart from her, he did, patting the small of her back and releasing both of them.

In an instant, her pretty, perfect face turned blank, and her eyes went glassy while she droned, in a voice like a robot:

“Sub-Trigger. Whenever James asks, I am happy too and will always clean up anything he requires. I find myself too focused on cleaning to notice anything James does unless he touches me. Afterward, I will give him a hug for as long as he desires and forgive him for whatever mess he made.”

Shit, James muttered to himself. He wished he had known about the “too focused” bit, since he would’ve loved to walk around his mother and examine the soles of her feet. There wasn’t even anything necessarily sexual about it — James’s Mom just liked to trot around the house barefoot, and he’d been aware from childhood how beautiful they were.

Mom finished talking and shook her head, with strands of brown hair falling about her eyes. She blinked, and made a beeline for the fridge. “I’ll see what else I can cook up.”

“Actually,” James interrupted, his heart pounding in his chest. “I was thinking we could have McDonald’s tonight.” He had zero reason to believe this would do anything, other than that the ridiculous outcome of the first card had given him a new confidence. He could take whatever his Mom would hurl at him.

“Ooh, McDonald’s sounds tasty! Come, I’ll get my purse. We’ll drive over there right away.”

She reached for her bag, and he smiled as he turned the lights off and they walked out the front door and down the lot to her car, an old blue 2006 PT Cruiser. “Know what you’re going to order?” Samantha asked.

Incredible, James thought. “I want a Big Mac.”

“You got it.”

“Ten Big Macs.”

“Sure thing!”

“A hundred Big Macs!”

“Yes, sir!” Mom answered, in a cheery tone and yet completely serious. James had to try to not double over with laughter. Her face went blank again, and with her hands ‘at ten and two’ on the steering wheel, she declared: “Passive-Trigger. James can eat whatever he wants. I will do whatever I can to have him eat what he desires when he desires.” She shook out of it, then turned the key in the ignition. “A hundred Big Macs, coming right up!”

“You know what? Just make it two, Mom. And two fries and two cokes to go with it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The next day was probably the best one of James’s short life. His older sister, Kaleigh, was a commuter to the nearest university, which was half an hour away, and she was staying the night at a friend’s house. This meant he had all Sunday to fuck with his mother, and boy did he take advantage of it.

Samantha spent the following morning bustling around in her Cruiser, trying to pick up all the fast food her son had ordered her to get. Bags of French toast sticks from Sonic, a fleet of Egg McMuffins, a dozen Sausage Gravy Biscuits from Arby’s and a dozen more Crunchwraps from Taco Bell, and that was just the breakfast course! Obviously, the meals were costing an obscene amount of money, but James reasoned that he could deny his mother and big sister of their more frivolous expenses to make up for it, assuming that was another trigger.

James sat in the passenger seat during her many missions, getting a kick out of hearing her order and an even bigger one seeing the workers’ faces. The funniest moment came at Arby’s, when James had his Mom ask for the Skirly-Whirly Shake, a completely made-up menu item, but under the Passive-Trigger, she was obliged to get her son whatever he wanted, when he wanted.

She got into a huge argument with the pimply teen at the window, **** to fetch her boy the non-existent milkshake. Once James had had his fill, and Samantha threatened to talk to the manager, he told her to forget it, and to just get the vanilla. Her whole demeanor changed, and she chirped at the worker to get a vanilla instead.

James would eat in the car as his mother drove from place to place, and once they were home, he would dump the contents of the remaining bags of food onto the living room floor, the kitchen floor, the walls, the front yard, anywhere. And his Mom, under the power of the clean-up trigger, would run over to the wasted food every time, ensure the area was spotless, and hold her son in a warm, adoring hug, while forgiving him of his trespasses.

That night, his sister arrived. She said…