You go outside for a breather

You don’t know how long you spend standing at the bottom of the stairwell leading to the second floor. Atop the stairs, the wooden master bedroom door is shut. The faint trickling of the master bathroom shower just barely reaches your ears.

You’d messed up. When you were talking to Mom while she was hypnotized, you ought to have spent time eliminating her concerns about your relationship with her possibly being discovered. You’d never seen your mother cry before except when your grandparents died, but apparently she felt strongly enough about what was going on between the two of you that it merited that response.

It’s doubtful she’ll be willing to talk to you face-to-face again any time soon, at least not without you invoking her trigger, and even then that won’t solve the underlying issue of her **** worry about people finding out that she’d committed **** with her own son and her life being destroyed as a result.

Something creaks beneath you, and you realize with a start that you’ve already placed your foot on the first step. You lick your lips. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to at least go up there and see if there’s a way you can salvage this. As you ascend the stairs, your heart thuds heavily in your chest. Your palms suddenly get very clammy as you reach the second floor. You can still hear the shower. Mom must not be done in there just yet. You try her bedroom door. Locked.

You let out a long sigh. You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised. She’d rushed up here in a hurry primarily to get away from you, so there’s a nonzero chance she considered you’d try following her into her bedroom. You wonder if she doesn’t trust herself not to succumb to the feelings you’d insinuated in her mind. A significant part of you would really like to barge in there and find out for yourself.

Perhaps it’s for the best you can’t, though. You’ve taken enough risks thus far as it is. You make a note to ensure that the next time you want to take things further with Mom, there’s no chance of the two of you being disturbed.

Just as you’re about to turn and go back downstairs, you catch sight of your sister’s bedroom door. It’s still closed, but the music that’d poured from her room before is absent.

“Next time you want to have a little fun when Rick isn’t around, don’t bother knocking. I’ll keep my door unlocked just for you.”

This thing with your mother has been occupying your thoughts to such a degree you’d almost forgotten Tiffany seems more than willing to show you a good time. She doesn’t seem nearly as worried as Mom is at the potential of her incestuous affair with you being discovered. All you need to do is go up to her door and open it…

…but what if the only reason she isn’t worried is because the thought of being found out hasn’t yet occurred to her? What if you do or say something she doesn’t like that trips something in her mind and she has a reaction like Mom did? What if it’s worse, and instead of distancing herself from you and trying to pretend like nothing happened, she goes to Mom or Dad? It’d be a disaster of epic proportions. You don’t even have a trigger to stop her from doing something so tremendously stupid.

You turn away and slink downstairs, dejected.

You feel like you need to escape. To just get away from home; if you can even call it that. Your house had always felt more like a prison where you were the inmate and your parents the mercurial warden and punitive guards. Tiffany would be the mob prisoner who got basically everything she wanted so her stay was more like a vacation than a prison sentence, like in Goodfellas.

“I guess I could use a little fresh air. Besides, the weather’s nice,” you think aloud, though a part of you wonders whether or not you’re trying to convince yourself. You put on your sneakers and open the front door.

Crisp afternoon sunlight wafts over your skin. The air, slightly cooler than room temperature, is pleasing and refreshing. The weather has been unseasonably warm lately, and while you normally prefer the cold, you’re glad for today’s warmth. You’re still dressed in the t-shirt and gym shorts you’d put on for “exercising” with Mom downstairs. The door closes behind you with a thud and you hear the distant bellow of a propeller airplane rumbling through the sky. Your posture straightens. You feel lighter, somehow.

You glance around. You’d grown up in a quiet neighborhood, where every family seemed to value conformity and social decency. They lived in two-story cookie cutter houses with freshly cut lawns. The colors of the houses vary somewhat, but they all seem deliberately inoffensive; the real estate equivalent of daytime cable.

A light blue minivan breezes past you down the road, probably going slower than the twenty-five mile-per-hour speed limit. In the driveway across from you, you see another van that looks almost exactly like it.

You roll your eyes.

Just another day in paradise.

You turn at the edge of your yard and begin walking down the sidewalk. As you begin to pass your next door neighbor’s house, a voice calls out.

“Oh, well look who it is!”

You stop and turn towards the person addressing you.

Angela Hughes, your next-door neighbor. She’s smiling at you.

Mrs. Hughes is in her early forties, though she could easily pass for at least a decade younger. Good genes and a life of reasonably intelligent health choices has allowed her to retain most of the physical facets of her youth. Nary a wrinkle mars her pretty face. Her dark blonde hair is tied into a ponytail that falls just below her shoulders, complimenting her already age-defying looks. She’s wearing a denim button down shirt with the buttons undone, leaving you an eyeful of her thin low-neck white tank top that teases the slopes of her big breasts, and white shorts that stop at her upper part of her toned thighs. Her body seems to have been honed by years of work and exercise.

A white Nike visor that shades her classically beautiful face, and her eyes which always seem to glimmer mischievously, giving you an inescapable impression that she’s inwardly laughing at some clever joke whose punchline only she would understand. Her normally pale-ish skin is slightly tanned, evoking memories of the times you’d watched her work in her yard on hot summer days in tight shirts and shorts. Many of your fonder summer memories are of you peering through your window, binoculars in hand as you marveled at the well-endowed older woman sweating and working tirelessly next door. Raking. Mowing. Gardening. She did it all herself. Her husband and daughters had never seemed to help her and she never seemed bitter about it. It was as if she derived some private enjoyment from working with her hands.

Sometimes, when it was hot and you were really, really lucky, Mrs. Hughes would take off her shirt and continue working only in her bra and shorts. Her breasts, which had always seemed large and painfully constrained by her clothing, were allowed some small measure of freedom. You took full advantage of this, of course. It’s fortunate your room is the only one in your house with a decent view of the Hughes’ backyard, or your mother would most certainly have spoiled all the fun for you.

It’d been so hard to maintain an innocent look on your face whenever Mrs. Hughes came over to babysit you (your sister was never around and couldn’t be relied on to watch you and your parents didn’t trust you alone, even as you advanced through your teenage years). Oftentimes, she’d come over soon after if not on the same day you’d spied on her through your window. If Mrs. Hughes had been ugly or some old crone, you’d probably have been bitter at your parents’ lack of trust, but as it stood, it afforded you many an opportunity to spend time with a gorgeous older woman who didn’t treat you like gum to be scraped off her shoe.

“John? Are you okay? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

Her voice has the barest traces of a southern twang. She’d grown up in South Carolina, you recall absently. Her mesmerizing hazel eyes glimmer with worry.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was walking through the neighborhood and I guess I got lost in thought. It’s good to see you, Mrs. Hughes.”

She chuckles.

“You too, kid,” she puts her hands on her hips and glares at you, though she makes sure to smile to let you know she’s just being playful. “Now, now. How many times have I told you: call me Angela! Good lord, you’re making me feel old.”

You smile. A feeling of warmth suffuses you.

“That should be impossible. You don’t look a day over twenty-five.”

She beams at you. Your heart does somersaults in your chest.

“Well, ain’t you a charmer?”

“Yep,” you grin. “That’s me.”

She actually giggles.

“I forgot how much you could make me laugh,” her face falls slightly. “You don’t come around that often anymore. What gives? It’s not like I live that far away, and with Christina and Ashley away at school, things have been kinda quiet here.”

You feel slightly guilty.

“Sorry about that. I’ve just been so busy with college applications and trying to find a job,” you lie.

She nods. You feel even guiltier deceiving a woman kind and forgiving enough to trust you. You hadn’t been visiting her because you didn’t want her to think you were a loser who stayed up in his room all day instead of living his life. You guess you’d been afraid of her looking at you the same way Mom, Dad, Tiffany, and so many others had.

“I can understand that. How’s that going, by the way?” She makes full eye contact. She seems to be interested in what you have to say. You suppress the reflexive feeling of discomfort that comes on the rare occasions you have to talk about yourself.

“Not bad, but I’d rather talk more about you. You said you’re feeling a little lonely? Where’s Mr. Hughes? Shouldn’t he be home since it’s Sunday?”

Angela shrugs.

“Oh, he had to go on a trip to Germany for work. He won’t be back until next week.”

Your manhood stirs.

“So you’ll pretty much be alone for an entire week?” at her nod, you continue. “That’s tough. Sorry you have to go through that.”

“It’s okay, I’ll be fine.” She waves you off, but you can tell it bothers her, being alone. Content though she might be doing yard and housework by herself, she’s also always seemed like a pretty social person. Now that you think about it, shouldn’t she have friends? Most women in her position would probably relish the opportunity to go out on the town with a few girlfriends and have some fun. Yet, Angela doesn’t seem happy about her situation at all.

You can help her. Very easily. You can provide her with the company she so desperately craves, and if while you’re around her, she just so happens to fall into one of her daily trances… Well, let’s just say you can vastly improve her life. Through hypnotic brainwashing, admittedly, but what Angela didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

“I could come over during the week, if you want some company. Or if you need help with anything around the house.”

Her eyes widen.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. You’re probably very busy with the whole college thing.”

“Angela.”

“Hm?”

“Do you have internet?” you ask.

She raises her eyebrows.

“John, you’ve been over my house a million times. You know I have internet.”

“Then I can do the college search just as easily at your house as it can at mine,” you say. “We can also watch movies and spend time outside. It’ll be just like old times.”

Angela stares at you for a long moment. A small breeze trickles through the nearby trees along the side of her yard.

“Are you busy today?” she asks quietly. Her voice sounds uncharacteristically ****.

You shake your head.

“Nope. I’ve got a date lined up this evening, but until then, I’m all yours if you’ll have me.”

“I like the sound of that,” she grins. “Aw, come ‘ere.”

Abruptly, she envelops you in a hug. You gasp as you feel her large, soft breasts squish outward against your chest. Quickly, you return the hug, greedily trailing your hands up and down her back, stopping just about her ass. Soon, you’ll be able to touch her wherever you want.

She breaks the hug, and like the teenager you still very much are, you stand there awkwardly.

Angela shakes her head.

“Come on, let’s go inside. There’s this movie they’re showing on HBO I’ve been meanin’ to watch.” What is it with MILFs and movies, anyway?

You smile. This is probably the best you’ve felt since Sharon had left. You wonder how she’s going to prepare for your date later. Will she dress sexily or wear something more conservative? The anticipation is killing you.

“I’m right behind you,” you say.

Angela grins and turns. As you move to follow her, your eyes fall to her ass. It’s tight and round. Her shorts are high enough that you can just barely see the underside of her generous buttcheeks when she takes a longer stride. You’d seen her ass up close when she’d had you hold her ladder so she could climb up and clean her gutters. It wasn’t as big as Marissa’s; that was in a class all on its own, but it was large proportional to her body. The times when you’d deliberately not moved out of her way so she’d collide with you on her way down the ladder had been absolutely divine. You must get a better look at that thing as soon as possible.

In your peripherals, you see her turn to look back at you. You look up just in time.

“So, you’ve got a date, huh? Who’s the lucky lady?”

Now there’s a story she’s nowhere near ready for. Speaking of which, isn’t it time you started teaching your women that sharing you is the most virtuous thing they could possibly do? You do plan to set up a harem, eventually. What decent mind-controller wouldn’t? Your lips twitch upward when you picture Angela becoming a member.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

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