Hexed Ch. 01
A man shrinks - but Mom finds him.

**********

This is a work of fantasy. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All characters are 18 or older. This story features my usual themes of Oedipal incest, exaggerated bodies, and copious fluids.

1.

I disembark from the plane, after seventeen hours in the air, a two hour layover in Hawaii, and an hour and a half in the Sydney airport. I am shagged out and jet-lagged, but it still feels good to be back in the good ol' US after a semester in the Land of Oz. Don't get me wrong, it was fun working on my tan and surfing through the winter, and Australian girls are fit and cute and can drink me under the table, but I missed home.

A quick trip through customs and a new stamp in my passport and I'm out of the terminal. Mom is waiting for me, fairly jumping up and down to catch my attention. We've stayed in touch through the occasional phone call and lots of e-mail, but my mother the luddite couldn't figure out Skype to save her life. So I haven't actually seen her in months... and I am shocked and gladdened to see how great she looks.

Mom has shed at least ten years and fifty pounds. Always a tall, curvy girl, she's kept some weight in all the right places, and the fashionable blouse and skirt combo she's wearing shows off those curves quite nicely. Her long brown, almost black hair hangs past her shoulders, and she's wearing contacts instead of her glasses. Subtle makeup enhances her natural beauty; high cheekbones, pert nose, full lips.

Mom wraps me up in a fierce hug, holding me tight to her large breasts which mash between us. "Oh, my little man is home! It's so good to see you! I've missed you so much!" She plants a quick kiss on my cheek and then releases me, to look me up and down. "You look good, kid. All that sun and exercise has treated you well."

"You look great, too, Mom," I say, and mean it. She looks fantastic, sexy, vivacious. You're not supposed to notice that about your mom, but I can't help it. Mom is transformed from the dumpy housewife who dropped me off at the airport almost four months ago. Anyone who didn't know her would say she had work done. But I know that's impossible.

Mom smiles, too. Maybe because of me, but probably because of the new boyfriend. Good for her, it's been long enough since Dad died.

The tall, silver haired guy in the polo shirt at her side must be Clark, the beau, and he gives me a firm handshake and a welcoming smile. "Nice to finally meet you, Robert," he says. "I've heard quite a bit about you."

"Nice to meet you too, Mr. Wilkins," I say, but he quickly corrects me. Clark it is.

"I'm sure you're tired from your flight, but Clark wants to take us out for an early dinner, if that's alright?"

"Sure, Mom. I could murder a steak." It's one of those things Dad used to say, and she gives me a funny look when I say it.

She puts her hand on my cheek. "You look so much like him, you know," and we share a moment that Clark is gracious enough to not interrupt. I'm already liking this guy, and it's clear that he's good for Mom, which is the main thing.

So we go out to dinner, after packing all my luggage into the trunk of Clark's station wagon. He's a divorcee, got a few kids of his own about my age, and they'll be coming home from college in a few weeks. I'll be happy to meet them, I assure him, although I expect to be busy meeting up with my high school friends and preparing for my summer internship down the city.

Mom's looks aren't the only change. She's like another person. Light and breezy, she laughs a lot, throwing her head back and releasing a throaty chuckle at some witticism of mine or Clark's. She is absolutely devastating in her ensemble, with a low neckline that shows off some prodigious cleavage and a high skirt that showcases toned legs and a firm backside. I have to remind myself a few times that she's my mother, and not one of the Mrs. Robinsons that used to hit on me back in Australia.

After dinner, Clark drives us home and helps me carry my bags into the house, up the stairs to my bedroom. I'll unpack later. There's a message on the machine from Tony, and while Clark and Mom relax in the living room with a glass of wine, I give Tony a call. The guys are getting together tonight at Thurstons for pool and beer and wings. I am indeed down, I assure Tony.

I let Mom know. She's clearly disappointed. "But you just got here -- I want to hear more about your trip." As if I didn't keep her updated the entire time I was over there, or share stories over dinner. But I haven't seen the guys in forever, so I beg off. Clark is surprisingly supportive. "He's a young man, Beth. He doesn't want to spend his Thursday night with us old fogies."

They're not that old and they're actually pretty cool for parental types, but you know how it is. Mom acquiesces. Not that I was going to do anything differently, but it avoids a fight. Probably something else I should thank Clark for. Mom is more even-tempered than she was before I left.

I go upstairs, take a quick shower, then dig through my luggage to find something suitable to wear. After I change, I rumble down to the living room. Mom and Clark are just disengaging, and I finally admit to myself that it's a little odd seeing Mom looking flushed and glassy eyed. I give her a peck on the cheek and head outside. Tony is on the way to pick me up, and I wait for him in the usual spot.

Tony pulls up fifteen minutes later, grinning madly behind a cigarette and promising to welcome me back to the states in true American style. What follows is several hours of drunken debauchery -- shots and beers in rapid succession, broken only by the occasional order of buffalo wings and handful of stale pretzels. When the other guys show up at Thurstons, we start several rounds of pool, and I get progressively worse at the game as the alcohol thunders through my system. I thought I got good at drinking in Australia, but the sheer amount of alcohol Tony, Steve, and Perry buy me tests the endurance I built up overseas.

Finally, as the bartender announces last call, and the guys are forced to peel me off the floor, we leave Thurstons. "It's good to see you, man," Tony slurs as he pulls in front of my house. He probably shouldn't be driving, but I'm in no shape to criticize. Instead, I give him an awkward half hug from the passenger seat and admonish him to be careful driving home.

I stumble up the walk to the front door and fumble with my keys. In the back of my brain, I'm relieved to see that Clark's station wagon has departed. It takes two tries before I find the keyhole, and it takes me a while to remember how to get the thing working. I fairly fall through the front door, but with a little concentration manage to close it behind me and lock it. I stagger down the hall towards the kitchen, suddenly struck by that drunken hunger that always gets you at 2 AM.

I shrug out of my jacket and leave it on the island in the middle of the kitchen. Opening the fridge, I survey the pickings. Some cold chicken, some pasta, lots of vegetables... a-ha. In the back on one of the lower shelves, almost hidden by condiments, is a pie. There are two pieces cut out of it, which clue me in to the fact that it's blueberry. My favorite.

Salivating, I wedge the pie plate out of the fridge and bring it over the island. That's when I notice the note placed on the saran wrap encircling the pie. In my mother's hand, it reads: "Robbie DO NOT EAT this -- I'm serious -- Mom."

In my drunken state, that is hardly a deterrent. I toss the note aside, peal the saran wrap away, and finding a fork, dispense with other cutlery and a plate and just dig in. The first bite is like electricity on my tongue. Juicy, tangy, with a hidden hint of something I cannot quite place. And the crust, as flaky and light as anything Mom has ever made before. In fact, she hasn't baked since Dad died, and this is the first homemade pie I've seen in years. Shame on her for trying to keep me from eating any of it.

As I plow through the pie, I feel a sort of tingle at the base of my spine. Not unpleasant, but growing stronger with each bite. My skin feels alternately warm and cool in patches, and as I begin to work my way through the second half of the remaining pie, I feel a cool sweat break out on my forehead. My eyesight actually begins to swim a little bit, but that could be the alcohol. Proportions look a little weird. The fork looks big in my hand.

I should probably stop, and were I sober, I certainly would, but I am pretty drunk, and my ability to reason is seriously impaired. I think I only meant to have a piece or two, but I am devouring the whole damn thing. It's just so delicious and different and tasty. I'm not thinking straight. I'm not acting right.

I'm not feeling well.

As the last piece of pie enters my mouth, I look at the empty pie plate. The fork falls my hand and clatters in the plate.

My vision swims. Lights swirl in front of me, and the tingle at the base of my spine has extended across my back and into my limbs and skull. I feel tight, as if my skin was stretched hard against every muscle in my body. And then suddenly I feel as though I'm falling, like in a dream, and the bottom is nowhere in sight. I just keep falling and falling and falling and then suddenly it's all black.

Slowly, I come too, or feel as if I do. My head aches.

It pounds, actually, a thundering beat in my temples that distracts me somewhat from other aches and pains. Somewhere below my waist I feel bloated, distended. And yet my head is clear. The alcoholic haze is gone. I am thinking without static.

It feels as though something has fallen on me, a cloth or a quilt or a curtain or something. I try to pull it off me, but there doesn't seem to be an end to it. It covers me completely, extends onto the floor, wraps all the way around me. I start to panic, feel the air stutter in my chest as I fight to breathe. I need to get out from under this thing. I fight and kick and pull, and finally, after what seems like an eternity, I wrench myself free from it.

And that's when I realize I'm naked.

And less than a foot tall.

2.

The kitchen is huge. The island in the middle looks like a building next to me, the refrigerator could be a skyscraper. I'm overwhelmed, and threaten to hyperventilate again. I cup my hands over my mouth and breathe through them, deep breaths. My hands smell like blueberries and alcohol.

That "curtain" is my clothes, in a puddle beneath my feet, which has become a mound. My footing is uncertain, and my balance is off. My heart constricts like a fist as the next revelation hits me: that bloated feeling, that aching feeling below the waist, is my dick. It's huge. A comparative foot long, thick as my forearm, distended and erect and already leaking precum. My balls are massive and swollen as well, like grapefruits. I have to stand bowlegged.

What the fuck? I mean, seriously, WHAT THE FUCK?

The ground shivers beneath me. I stumble off the mound of clothes onto the tile floor, which is cold beneath my naked feet.

And then a vision:

I see a slim, muscular, toned, bare leg twenty-five feet long descend past the edge of the kitchen island. At the end is a foot, as long as a car, encased within a black high-heeled slipper with a big pink puffball on the top. Another leg, just as long, just as gorgeous, follows. The ground shivers with each step.

It's Mom. Of course -- who else could it be?

She's wearing some kind of nightie, gauzy and diaphenous, black in color, highlighted in pink. It ends just below her crotch, and from my spot upon the floor I can spy the high cut, black thong that hides her enormous vagina. The nightie is tied loosely around Mom's slim waist, while her titanic breasts distend the top, projecting out from her chest, wobbling like small planetoids with each dainty step. Her cleavage is yards long, clearly visible with the plunging neckline, and a glint of gold is at her throat. Her arms are long, sixteen feet or more, and the wedding ring she still wears on her left hand looks as big as a table.

My mother is a vision of pulchritude, a mesmerizing giantess, an icon of feminine beauty. As tall as a building and yet my mom, but still the most erotic and sexy thing I have ever seen. That could be my distended cock talking, though.

I'm almost afraid to look up further, into her face, but I am compelled to as she approaches carefully. I look up and up and up, craning my neck, to see her beautiful, billboard sized face, framed by her gigantic breasts. Her full lips are twisted into a scowl, her fine brows narrow in anger, her high cheeks flushed, and her eyes shining. Her black hair is tousled and curled from sleep, but she's very much awake and very clearly annoyed.

"Robert Arthur Matheson," she thunders, "what have you done?" To my tiny ears, her voice is deeper and huskier than usual, given it a further erotic edge that makes my dick shiver inappropriately. "Did you read the note? Was that not clear enough for you? And you ate the entire pie? What were you thinking? No, you weren't thinking, were you, you were just doing whatever you wanted, no matter who it hurts, or how wrong it is, or-" Mom is working herself up. But she is beautiful in her anger.

Still, even with the strange feelings taking control of my body, I can't help but react to the stress of my transformation and the terror inspired by the formidable anger of a fifty foot woman.

I burst into tears.

I can't help myself. One minute I'm looking up at her, wide-eyed, in shock, and the next I am huddled over my erection (which simply will not go down) bawling like a baby.

Mom immediately softens. She crouches down toward me, somewhat lessening her incredible size. But then she does something that makes my heart beat faster, in a strange mix of terror and arousal. She reaches down, wraps her hands around me, and lifts me up.

She makes soothing sounds, cupping me in one hand and softly brushing my head with the other. She presses me against her cleavage. My nakedness folds against the plush flesh of her enormous breasts. Through my tears, calming slightly, I marvel at their size. From my angle, braced against her left breast, I can see the curving slope of her right breast as it cantilevers outward, three feet of gorgeous, milky skinned tit, five feet wide and easily six feet tall. I can see through the thin material of her night clothes that her nipple is distended, hardened, erect, and almost as long as my new cock. I've always been a breast man, and this is without doubt the largest, most majestic, most perfect pair I have ever seen, or will probably ever see.

The scent of her perfume envelops me. Her heartbeat echoes in my ears, a quickened thump thump thump. It's all too much. Much too much, and honestly, its amazing I've lasted this long.

With a cry, without anyone touching me, I suddenly erupt.

A stream of cum jets from the tip of my engorged cock, spraying in a long arc across Mom's cleavage to splatter against her right tit. Again and again huge jets of pearly white, viscous liquid pour out of me, a seemingly endless stream of virulence that plasters my mother's tit in sticky, dripping pools of jism. It soaks her nightie, sticking to her skin. Aghast and enraptured, I can do nothing to stem the tide. Just enjoy it while it lasts. And it lasts longer than it should. An impossible volume of semen sprays from me, a seemingly never-ending supply. My cock tingles and aches with the effort, and my balls feel as though they are being pleasantly squeezed. My toes curl. My eyes roll back in my head. My whole body shudders with the effort.

Under me, around me, Mom shakes with barely suppressed anger. I can't bear to look at her until my flood finally, finally, subsides. I lay gasping in her hands, suddenly aware I am flooded with sweat. My dick remains rampant, and a thick dripping of cum hangs off the tip like candlewax.

Mom's enormous breasts shiver delightedly. My cum, which seems an enormous amount to me, but is probably the same amount I generate at normal size, drips into her cleavage, leaving glistening trails on her plump milky flesh.

I risk a glance up. Mom's gray eyes are bright and glazed, pupils the size of dinner plates dilated. I can see each individual eyelash, each one as thick as a cable. Her cheeks are flushed, and she is panting. I've never seen her so angry. Yet her words belie her emotions.

"There, there," she coos, stroking my back softly. "That was quite a show." She sets me gently, awkwardly, down on top of the kitchen island, just a few inches -- feet -- from the empty pie plate. It looks as big as a pool to me now. I could do the backstroke in the thing.

Mom steps toward the sink on shaky legs. She grabs a dishtowel and runs it under the faucet, then brings it up to her chest and mops at my mess. I am ashamed to admit it to myself, but the view from behind is as spectacular as the front. Her narrow waist flares out into a tight, springy ass. Those towering legs decline from plump thighs to well defined calves, emphasized by the heeled slippers she wears. She's 42, but she's got the body of a 20 year old. This is ridiculous.

"Mom, what is going on?"

She laughs lightly. "No apology, Robbie? Not for eating the pie, or for spraying your semen across your mother's chest?" I turn red. She pivots on those impossibly long legs to look at me. Mom is smiling, taking the sting out of her words. "I shouldn't be so sharp with you. I'm sure this is rather overwhelming. Still," she says brightly, "I thought I raised you better."

"I'm sorry, Mom," I say, and I mean it. My stomach is all knotted up with worry, embarrassment, and lust. "I was drunk and hungry, and you know I love blueberry pie. And as for, well, y'know, I honestly couldn't help myself."

She sighs one of those irritable Mom sighs. "Yes, I know. That's part of the hex."

"The... what?"

Mom approaches with the wet towel. She gently grabs me and begins to clean me up. "Your mother is a witch," she tells me. "No flying broomstick or pointy hats, but I can do spells, jinxes, and hexes. Minor alterations to the fabric of reality."

It sounds preposterous, but in my current predicament, I am forced to believe her. Unless I'm dreaming? Could I be passed out on the kitchen floor right now, filled with beer and pie, my addled brain conjuring up an incestuous fantasy featuring a giant Mom?

"By the face you're making, I see that you don't quite believe me, even though you're about nine inches tall at the moment." She sighs, places the towel on the island next to me, a huge mound of fabric.

I shake my head quickly. "No, no, I believe you. Can you change me back?"

"Not exactly," she says.

Despite myself, the tears threaten again. I don't want to be a tiny freak for the rest of my life.

"It's not permanent," she stresses. "The hex is strictly temporary. It shrinks the subject, acts as an aphrodisiac, and also enhances certain physical characteristics." Mom gives my engorgement a playful flick with the tip of her finger. I stagger backwards, but her other hand is there to catch me. For once I'm more irritated than aroused or terrified.

"Watch it, Mom!"

She pulls her hands away instantly, and the sensual smirk on her face dissolves just as quickly. "Sorry," she says. "It's difficult for me not to... I should control myself better. Sorry.

"Anyway," she says, taking a careful step back from the island, "the pie is supposed to only be eaten one slice at a time. One slice lasts a few hours, after which the subject changes back to regular height. But you ate the whole thing."

Minus two pieces, I add mentally. On the heels of that thought, come unbidden images of a tiny Clark cavorting on my mother's splendid body. I squash them, as well as the surge of jealousy that accompanies them. "So what does that mean?" I make myself say.

Mom frowns. "I don't know, honestly. You could be stuck like this for days. Weeks at the outside. Or you could be back to normal in the morning."

Days? Weeks? I slump on top of the kitchen island. "How can you not know? It's your pie, your hex or spell or whatever."

She forces a smile. "Well, that's the problem. It's magic, not science. The proportions are important, and also the fact that you're blood of my blood complicates things. I used, well, bodily fluids in the recipe. Mine, and... someone else's."

My stomach churns again. I force myself not to think about that, or the odd taste to the pie.

Mom's hands come around me again, and she carefully strokes my back. "It's going to be okay, honey. If things don't clear up in a day or two, I'll figure out a way to get you back to normal." I look up, but she forestalls me with a finger that lies entirely across my chest. "It's better to let these things run their course, if possible.

"You'll just have to adjust to the situation."

"That's easy for you to say!"

Mom shakes my head. Almost under her breath, she says, "You have no idea." Louder, she adds, "Now, come on, it's late, and some of us have to go to work in the morning."

I can't help squawking as she scoops me up again. This time she's careful to hold me out from her body, although I find myself almost hypnotically being drawn to her jiggling, enormous tits. Her nipples are still hard and tenting the fabric of her nightie. While she cleaned her skin and most of the splooge off her clothes, there's a sheen across the fabric on her right tit that will most likely stain. My dick strains and throbs between my legs, and with an act of will I force myself to look away.

I try to tell myself that it's the hex's fault. Or that Mom is barely human anymore, having been transformed into a living billboard, a person the size of a building. She's a goddess, not human, let alone my mother. But I still feel a squirminess in my gut when I check her out that proves the lie.

My surroundings don't help. The familiar home in which I've spent most of my life has become an alien landscape. Being carried suspended thirty feet in the air does nothing for my vertigo, either.

Mom marches right past the door to my bedroom. "Hey! Where are we going?"

"You're too small to leave alone. We'll have to figure out something for tomorrow when I go to work, but for now, you're spending the night in my room."

A sick thrill thunders through my tiny frame.

Mom shifts me into a one handed grip as we enter her room, which unfortunately presses her giant fingers against my engorged cock, which in turn presses against my chest. The head hits my breastbone, and I feel an electric charge along its length where her finger touches it. I start thinking about baseball. In this posture, I definitely don't want it going off. I'm afraid I'd drown.

Mom opens her closet and pulls out the old kitty carrier for Ferdinand, her late cat. "You don't seriously think -?" I start to say, but she shushes me.

"You didn't think you'd get away without any punishment, did you?" she says. She sets the carrier on her tall bureau, then crosses the room quickly and retrieves a towel from her bathroom. I'm feeling dizzy and uncertain.

Mom shoves the towel into the carrier one handed. It's thick, and she has to fold it in places to get it to fit. Then she gently sets me down inside and closes the door, letting it lock when it shuts. I'm on my feet and grabbing the bars in a second. "This isn't fair," I say. "Don't you think being stuck at this size is punishment enough?"

Mom clucks. "Normally, I'd agree with you. But honestly, honey, at your size, you're in considerable danger from normal things. This is as much for your safety as anything." She bends down and presses her full, mattress sized lips against the carrier door. Her flesh presses against my hands, and the head of my cock, sticking out through the door, inadvertently nudges her chin. Mom makes an indistinct noise, and an exhalation of her breath almost knocks me over. "Good night, honey."

Mom picks up the carrier, unbalancing me, and turns it around, so that the front faces sideways, pointed away from the bed. I hear a whisper of fabric.

Despite myself, I surge to my feet and rush to the side of the carrier. There are plenty of breathing holes in the side, too narrow to climb through, but wide enough to see through. I catch the barest glimpse of my mother before she flicks off the light and slides into bed. It's enough. The image will be indelibly etched on my brain for as long as I live.

I see her from behind again. She's removed the stained nightie, and holds it limply in her right hand. Her naked back is smooth and sculpted, with a long beautiful line down the middle, narrowing as it approaches her waist and then suddenly flaring out into broad hips. She's wearing a thong, black in color, the whisper thin back of which has disappeared into the crack of her delectable ass. The effect is of seeing her backside completely naked. Two gorgeous, tautly sculpted globes of flesh, coming together in a marvelous peach shape that I just want to bite into. To complete the picture, her braless breasts are massive enough and hang well enough that even from behind, I can see the outer curve of each.

A moment later the light is off, and it takes just long enough for my eyes to adjust to the darkness that Mom gets under the covers before I see anything else.

But I've seen enough.

I move to the back of the carrier, find a fold of the towel, and quickly stroke my massive dick until I feel a shuddering release rushing up the shaft. I jam the head into the towel and dump another epic load into the fabric, soaking it almost through. I hear Mom tossing and turning in her bed, and my mind makes me think I hear a moan or two escape her lips, but that is surely my imagination. It still fuels the illicit thrill.

Sleep doesn't come easily. Ashamed, I have to empty myself one more time in the other corner before my eyelids feel heavy enough. I curl up near the carrier door, fold a bit of towel over me, and in moments I am asleep.

3.

I'm awakened by the sound of the shower in Mom's bathroom. I try not to imagine what's going on in there. After an eternity, I hear the water taper off, and Mom puttering around in the bathroom. In a little bit, I hear her come back into the bedroom, flick on a light, and start opening drawers. I notice that something is diffusing the light -- with a start I realize Mom has draped the nightie from the previous evening over the carrier. While the fabric is sheer, it is double folded, obscuring the view through the breathing holes. All I can make out is a silhouette of my titanic mother, wrapped in a towel, hair tousled and wet.

I'm almost relieved to still be tiny. Almost.

The view affords me a glimpse of Mom as she shucks the towel and, naked, slips on a pair of panties and a rather large bra. I don't see any details, but the lines of her form are perfect. Smooth and rounded in all the right places, in proportions that are mouth-watering even at normal size. She turns as she clips the band across her back and approaches her closet. But she doesn't select her outfit yet, instead returning to the tall bureau. She opens a drawer below me, and I lose myself for a moment in the contemplation of her epic cleavage, which, now that she is closer, I can just barely make out.

Mom retrieves a few items, then retreats. If she is aware of me being awake, she makes no sign. Other than the nightie draped around my prison, she makes little attempt at modesty. I see that one of the items she recovered she puts around her trim waist, like a belt, and when she sits down on the edge of the bed and extends one of her monumental legs, I realize it's a garter belt. She's putting on stockings.

I release an involuntary groan as I watch the fabric slide up her long, muscular leg, past her dainty foot flexed in a point. The other stocking follows, and Mom stands and ties the tapes. She tugs them a little, to test them, and I'm momentarily distracted by the jiggle of her breasts.

Finally Mom turns to the closet and selects a blouse and suitjacket, adding a short skirt that barely reaches the top of her stockings to the ensemble. She stops at the mirror above her shorter bureau to apply makeup and select a necklace and earrings for the day.

Mom walks towards the door, pausing only briefly to check the carrier. I freeze, still looking through the narrow breathing hole, wondering if she will remove the nightie, whether she will catch me watching her. I'm not sure what outcome I want, or how I will react -- with shame, flirtation, or flustered anger? But she only pauses a moment before sweeping out of the room.

I release a breath I didn't even know I was holding and slump back on to the towel. This is beyond perverse, I tell myself. It doesn't matter how beautiful Mom is, or how huge, this isn't right. This is very, very wrong. I feel like I might throw up, but there's nothing in my stomach. On the heels of that realization, I wonder when I will next eat, and what? I'm also sweaty, reek of cum, and still smell of blueberries. I need a shower and a shave. I figure I might be able to get a bath at some point, but I don't want any razors coming within a hundred yards of me.

So I manage to thoroughly dishearten and depress myself before Mom comes back. This time she tugs the nightie off the carrier. "Wake up, sleepyhead."

"Um... good morning, I guess." I try to convincingly play tired and just waking up, but I doubt Mom believes me.

She opens the carrier and reaches in to scoop me up. She smirks at me and shakes her head. "That thing never goes down, does it?"

I flush and try in vain to cover my cock with my hands. Mom kind of casually knocks my hands away with her thumb and closes her hand loosely but completely around me. "Don't worry, honey. I'm not offended. It's actually kind of flattering." She chuckles throatily, then holds me with both hands and carries me out to the hall.

Neither her words nor her cavalier attitude help my mood. I don't say anything as she whisks me down the hall and then to the first floor.

"Not talkative? I thought you'd at least thank me for taking you out of the carrier."

"Thanks, Mom," I offer lamely, without much conviction.

Mom sighs. "My poor little man." When I was over six feet tall, that was cute. Now it adds insult to injury. "You'll be better in no time, sweetie. We just have to ride this out. A positive attitude helps. Not many people get the opportunity you have."

"Opportunity?"

"To see the world from your angle," she says. I look up, into her smiling face, but of course at the angle to which she prefers, I have to track over her immense breasts to get there. I'm afraid I linger a little too long, especially when I see the top few buttons unbuttoned, and the pendant at her throat pointing like an arrow at her cleavage. Mom has one eyebrow arched when I finally meet her eyes. "See what I mean?"

I flush again, which is becoming a habit, but force a smile. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. As I said last night, it's not exactly your fault. The hex is working on bo- on your mind. Just try not to get carried away, okay? I'm still your mother."

Don't I know it.

"Anyway, I've set up the couch for you, so you should be okay while I'm at work." We've arrived in the family room. I look around. She's spread a couple of bath towels across the long couch, and set a few bowls out. One is empty, at the far side of the couch, and this she explains is for calls of nature. Ew. On the near end of couch are two bowls. One is filled with water, the other with chopped lettuce, cherry tomatoes, and what looks like diced sandwich meat. Ham, maybe. In the middle of the couch is the remote control to the television and the phone.

Mom sets me down on the couch near the phone and remote. Both devices are nearly as big as I am. It makes me feel even smaller to stand next to them.

"You've got enough food and water to last you the day, and you can watch all the TV you want. I left the phone for emergencies, but don't bother with 911. Just call me if you need anything. I'd advise you to let the machine get any calls, but I'll give you a call later today to check on you, if I don't hear from you first. Caller ID will let you know who is calling."

"I know how the phone works, Mom."

She clucks. "I know, I'm just, well, I feel bad leaving you alone like this. I'd call out sick, but I have an important meeting today. I also doubt you want your old mom hovering around you all day."

I sigh. I'm feeling a mix of lust, resentment, anger, and guilt. "You're not old, Mom. You're great, and I've missed you. I wouldn't mind spending the day with you, at normal size anyway. But go to work. I'll be okay. Honest."

She looks doubtful, but nods. She crouches down in front of the couch. "Give me a hug," she says. She holds out a hand, and reluctantly, I wrap my arms around a few of her fingers. I try to keep my dick out of the way, but it's big and awkward and I haven't gotten used to it yet. I feel that same electric charge as before when it comes into contact with her skin. She pulls her fingers away from me than leans in and gives me a quick, dry kiss on the top of my head. It's like being nudged by a soft, warm mattress.

"Be good, stay safe, don't hesitate to call me if you need anything."

"I will, Mom. Have a good day. Hey, maybe when you get home I'll be back to normal."

"That would be... that would be a relief, wouldn't it?" she says. She gives me another kiss, and heads to the kitchen to gather her laptop and bag. The back door shuts, and shortly after that, I hear her car start and she is gone.

I'm alone. Tiny, naked, and stuck on a couch.

I sit dejected, contemplating my predicament for a good long while. Eventually, I give up feeling sorry for myself and approach the food and water. I'm neither particularly hungry nor thirsty, which is odd, since I've been at least dripping since my transformation. By rights I should be a dehydrated husk at this point. But hey, magic, right? Not like I'm a science major or anything, but still, the whole violation of physical laws thing kind of gives me the willies.

To take my mind off things, I scoop some water in my hands and drink. I nibble on the lettuce and the meat -- it turns out to be ham after all -- and try to bite into a cherry tomato. My teeth just aren't strong enough to break the skin, so I give up.

I flip on the TV after that. The remote works if I give the buttons a good swat, and before long I'm scrolling through channels. There's not much on during the day, I decide. Even with the thousand or so channels Mom gets through the dish. Still, even though the television is the size of a movie screen, it's much less jarring than anything else I've encountered so far, precisely because it's the size of a movie screen. I'm familiar with that kind of ratio, and the people on the TV screen don't look as large as they actually are in relation to me, even when they go for a close-up. I find myself relaxing a bit.

But in my current state of abject arousal, I find myself coming back to the exercise shows quite a lot. It's not long before I'm rubbing one out on the towel at the far end of the couch. Fifteen minutes later I'm going again. I can't control myself. I'm constantly on edge, I've been incredibly horny for almost half a day, and even getting myself off feels extraordinarily good. It's a relief in the truest sense of the word. The length of my orgasm is extended, and while I'm cumming, I don't have to think about being small. The sheer amount I generate is less fun, but it mostly soaks into the towel, and I try to confine myself to the other end of the couch afterwards.

I smell blueberries again. It takes me a few minutes to realize that it's my cum that is generating the scent. More magic, I guess. And better than the alternative, I suppose. Still, it's just another weird element to this whole weird scenario. You'd think by now that I'd be inured to it, but no, every new element keeps me unbalanced an uncomfortable.

The phone rings a few times. Telemarketers and bill collectors mostly, and around 11:00, Tony tries to reach me. I don't bother answering the phone, but Tony asking to meet up for lunch depresses me even further.

By noon, when Mom calls to check on me, I've jerked off three more times and feel as though I've thoroughly explored my immediate environs and watched as much TV as I can handle. Still, I put up a game face for Mom. "Are you behaving yourself?" she asks, and the way she stresses the "behaving" makes me blush.

"More or less," I say.

She clearly doesn't believe me. "Do me a favor and try not to play with it too much." I turn even redder. How do moms know?

I'm glad she can't see my expression, but I assure her I'll try. I try to change the subject. "I'm really, really bored," I tell her.

"Sorry to hear that, kiddo. Wish I could do something for you. There's a whole rack of DVDs to watch, but you can't reach them right now. Just stay on the couch, um, get some rest, and watch TV. Isn't there a game on somewhere or something?"

"Ok, I'll try." She lets me go, going off to eat lunch, but makes me promise to call if I need anything. Yeah, Mom, I need to be taller. But whining won't help anybody. When the phone call is over, I stare blankly at the TV for a while, and then decide to "make the best of it." I don't care if it gets me in trouble. I'm going exploring.

I clamber over to the arm of the couch and look for handholds. It's a fifteen foot drop to the floor, but the towels and the coverlet afford me something to grip. I slip over the side, holding bunches of fabric in my hand, and start to lower myself. My huge dick makes things uncomfortable and awkward, and when I bump the sensitive head against the side of the couch, I release an involuntary gasp and lose my hold. Sudden vertigo as gravity does its work and I plummet fifteen feet.

I cry out, an instant flash of a broken leg or worse filling my mind, and then I hit the carpet. All the air is knocked out of me, but I bounce up and land on my feet, sucking air through my teeth and wincing at the bit tip of my tongue. I do a quick survey, find nothing broken. I'm whole, unharmed, untouched. More magic, I guess. I flex my knees and attempt a hop. Surprisingly, I bound ten relative feet up into the air, and my hands reach out and grab the edge of the coffee table. I cling there for a second and then drop back down, bouncing as I alight on the carpet.

This is... okay, I decide. I can work with this.

I've always been in good shape, and a few months in Australia hiking, swimming, and surfing at every opportunity has left me in the best shape of my life. Maybe compressing my molecules down to this size has done something to me, too. I'm light as a feather, but clearly stronger than I am normally, and capable of leaps that professional basketball players would envy. I bounce around the room a bit, getting used to the action and activity. Before long, I've figured out how to get from the floor to the top of the couch.

I'm no longer bored. And to be honest, I'm starting to see what Mom was saying before she left. The bit about few people seeing the world from this angle. I feel like I have superpowers. Robbie Matheson: The Human Bouncy Ball.

It's well into the afternoon when I decide to explore the rest of the house. Everything is weird and huge and odd-looking. The kitchen looks slightly less strange during the day, softened somewhat by the natural light streaming in through the windows. Dad's old study is filled with bookshelves, a veritable ladder for me at my current size. I make it up to the top of the desk, and see a picture of Mom that's as tall as I am. It's a photo taken when she and Dad were dating. She's young and cheerful, wearing some kind of peasant blouse and big 80s hair. I find myself admiring the curves hidden by the blouse, and slowly I realize that, while Mom was definitely well endowed as a twenty year old, she's gotten bigger since then. Much bigger. A wicked idea occurs to me.

In a trice I bound off the desk, rolling as I hit the ground. I leap across the room to the staircase that leads upstairs, and bounce my way up to the second floor. In a minute I've made it to Mom's room. I approach her short bureau with some trepidation. My palms are sweaty, and my cock is dripping. But it's always dripping lately, and I'm beginning to get used to it.

I leap up onto the bureau. The big mirror gives me a shock, as I see myself at this size for the first time. I'm nearly nine inches tall, I guess, stark naked, plastered with sweat and other fluids. I don't look good, and framed against the size of the room I look freakish. Quickly I look away, before I get too depressed and lose my nerve.

It's the work of long minutes to get a few drawers open. The top drawers hold socks and stockings and panties, and while those interest me, they're not my real goal. I'm hindered by trying not to leave pecker tracks everywhere I go, but my newly discovered agility is a considerable aid in this regard.

Eventually I get the drawer open that I want, by balancing on the drawer above it and leaning over. I tug and tug, sliding around on my perch. I shouldn't be able to move that much mass (it's a much bigger drawer), but somehow I manage it. Once it's open about an inch, I'm able to wedge it open further, and drop inside. With my whole body as a lever, I get the drawer open all the way and stand up.

Bras. Bras as far as the eye can see. Enormous, with cups large enough for me to curl up in. Some plain and practical, some lacy and delicate, all of them with underwire support to contain Mom's massive mammaries. I pick up the nearest bra and flip it over. It's plain and purple. Immediately her scent washes over me. I breathe in deeply. My cock twitches. I try to focus and find the tag. When I finally do, my eyes fairly bug out of my face. Mom wears a 38F bra. I had no idea. She must have these things custom made. My God... they're enormous. Bigger than I imagined, bigger than anything I'd expect to see on a real woman even while regular size. At Mom's present effective height...

... unconsciously, I've been stroking my cock, and within moments I am spraying the inside of the bra cup with my seed. I leave an unmistakable gelid mess that drips down the interior of the cup and pools at the bottom. For once I'm thankful of the blueberry scent. When the euphoria from my orgasm subsides, I am suddenly awash in terror. What happens when she finds this? I'm dead. I am so dead.

I grab the bra and leap out of the drawer. With practiced leaps, I manage to get the other drawers closed by bodyslamming them. Then I grab the soiled bra again and leap towards Mom's hamper. With effort, I flip the top open and jam the bra inside, doing my best to drag clothes over it and hide it. I leap down and bound away, trying in my shame and worry to get back to the couch as soon as possible. I'm halfway down the stairs before I realize that I manhandled all that clothing more adeptly than I handled my own the night before. Am I getting stronger, or just more used to my size? I chalk it off to shock and hurry to the couch.

That's where Mom finds me when she finally makes it home.

4.

I have some stupid sitcom on when I hear the backdoor opening. I didn't even hear her car. "Hi honey, I'm home!" Mom calls from the kitchen. I let myself relax. It could have been anybody at the back door -- and sudden abject terror gripped me at the thought of Clark finding me like this. I don't know why. He seems like a nice enough guy. But still. I don't want anyone seeing me like this, but especially not another dude.

I hear Mom setting her bags on the kitchen table. She appears over the back of the couch. She surveys the mess I've left on the towels and shakes her head. But she's smiling. In fact, she looks downright cheerful. And incredibly gorgeous. Her cheeks are bright, her eyes playful.

"I see my little man has been keeping himself busy." She leans down over the back of the couch and easily catches me. For a moment I think about leaping away, but decide to keep that talent a secret for now. I'm not sure if Mom is aware of that ability yet. Besides, ashamed as I am to admit it, I like it when she holds me. She cups one hand under my butt and the other behind my back to keep me steady. I reach out and balance myself by holding her thumbs.

"That thing never goes down, does it?" she says. She said that earlier in the day, too, and the effect is still largely the same. My whole body turns red, eliciting a throaty laugh from Mom. "Six orgasms in an eight hour period, and you're still raging and ready to go. Maybe I should market those pies, they're clearly better than Viagra."

I risk a glance over my shoulder at the mess I've left on the towels. How could Mom guess from that the exact number of times I jacked off? Especially since one of them wasn't anywhere near the couch.

"Come on," Mom says. "You stink of blueberries. And I need a shower before I make dinner." Despite myself, my dick throbs at the possibilities inherent in those two sentences, and Mom chuckles throatily again.

Mom nonchalantly carries me up the stairs, all but cradled to her impressive bosom. I get lost a little bit contemplating the line of cleavage as it disappears beneath the collar of her blouse. There's just something about that separation between breasts that drives me crazy. I barely hear her talking about her day. Something about that important meeting in the afternoon being difficult to get through, and how unsettled she was in the morning. Worried about me, I guess, although she doesn't quite say that. Still, the implication is that I'm involved, or at least, "what I had gotten up to."

We sweep into Mom's room. I peak guiltily at the hamper, but she doesn't seem to notice. She pauses at the low bureau for a moment, but if I left anything out of place, she doesn't say.

Mom sets me down on the marble top of her long, low sink. The huge mirror forces me to realize just how great the disparity is between us. I'm tiny. She's huge. Paradoxically, my dick gives another excited little throb. I hope Mom doesn't see, although when I look up into the reflection of her eyes, she's clearly admiring the size difference as well. Beneath her lightly applied rouge, her cheeks are flushing.

There are two sinks, as well as a large accoutrement of beauty aids, unguents, lotions, soaps, creams, and so on, spread across the marble. There's a gigantic hairdryer and hair curler down by the wall. I don't want to go anywhere near those. Long, loose black hairs are everywhere.

Mom turns on the faucet at the nearest sink, testing the water to make sure it's neither too warm nor too cold. I give her a questioning look, and she smiles warmly. "The tub is a little too big for you, I think." As the sink fills with water, I'm forced to agree with her. It looks like a private pool. Mom pours some bubble bath liquid into the water and it starts to foam up. She contemplates the huge slab of soap by the faucet knob, but decides to give me some softsoap.

"Hold out your hands," she says. I dutifully do, and she squeezes the top, sending a streamer of soap into my cupped palms. Unselfconsciously, I start lathering up my chest and arms and shoulders. Mom watches for a moment, then looses a deep sigh and turns to go.

"Hey," I hear myself say. "Where are you going?"

"Um... to clean up the living room and give you some privacy."

I shrug in what I hope is a nonchalant manner. My stomach is a nest of adders at this point, but my horniness gives me courage. "I thought you were going to take a shower."

Those pretty eyebrows arch upward. "With you in the room? I hardly think so."

"Well, gosh Mom, you've seen everything I've got. Here I am rocking out with my cock out, in my birthday suit. It's hardly fair."

She is silent for a long while, looking at me. I'm trying not to breathe too heavily, but I fear I've gone too far. I stop rubbing soap into my skin, primarily because at this point I have to go south of the border, and that could set off an explosion.

Finally, Mom opens her full lips. "Robbie," she says slowly, "I am your..." but she trails off. A sort of hungry look comes into her big, beautiful gray eyes. It should frighten me, that look, but instead it makes me bolder.

I put my hands on my length and start to slowly soap it up. Mom sucks in a shuddering breath and kind of shivers.

"Do you... do you have any idea what you are suggesting?" I nod slowly. "Are you prepared for what might happen?" I think a moment. I nod again.

Mom smiles suddenly, a broad and shining smile that makes my heart skip a beat. It's as though some inner debate has been argued and settled. She relaxes. And begins to undress. She does it slowly, neither sensuously nor businesslike, but in a measured manner.

Mom unbuttons her cuffs. She starts unbuttoning her blouse, and as her hands move down the shirt, she tugs a bit, untucking it from her skirt. With the shirt loose on her, she reaches up and takes off her earrings, setting them down on the sink by my feet. Her necklace is next, the chain settling into a pool of gold by the earrings.

Mom's smile broadens and she shrugs her shoulders, sending the blouse off of them. A slight movement of her arms and the garment slides free, falling lightly to the floor. And her magnificent breasts are visible, all but overflowing over a simple modest black bra.

Mom unsnaps her skirt and shimmies it down her long, long legs. Her stockings are black, with a sexy lace border at the top. I see her garters and hose, and framed between them, a pair of black high-cut panties that mold tightly against her sex. It's not my imagination either -- the gusset is soaking wet, stained an even darker black around her hidden pussy.

There's no pretense about what I'm doing now. I'm not washing my dick, I am jerking myself off while I ogle my own mother. This is so very, very wrong, but I can't help myself. I try to blame the hex. Maybe it's even responsible. She did call it an aphrodisiac.

Mom unhooks her garter belt and the tapes, and slides it down her legs. She finally kicks off her pumps, adding them to the growing pile on the floor. Still watching me, she puts one twenty-five foot pin up on the edge of the tub and slowly winds her left stocking down to her foot and peels it off. She repeats the process with the right leg, but this time she puts a little "oomph" into it, sliding her hand across the material to make it whisper before she removes it.

Mom stands up in front of me, naked except for bra and panties. She could be in a bikini, but we both know that's not the case. Were there any flaws in her form, they would be revealed. But there's nothing. No blemish in her skin, no cellulite, hardly an ounce of fat. She's perfect. Her belly is smooth, her belly button an innie, and her stomach has just a little bit of a pouch as it descends into her pubis.

Mom is beaming. I guess my adoration is unmistakable. Precum drips in copious amounts from the end of my soapy cock, making a puddle on the marble.

"One of the first things I used my magic on was my body," Mom says quietly, as if she's embarrassed to admit it. "I hope you like it."

I groan. "Mom, you look amazing." My voice is hoarse, almost a croak, but if anything, Mom's smile widens.

She reaches behind her back, and I hear her bra strap unsnap. She holds the cups with one hand and lowers the shoulder straps, pulling her sixteen foot long arms through them, until she is only protected by the thin bits of fabric that she is holding up herself.

Then she drops it.

Mom's gigantic tits bounce and jiggle a bit as they settle on her chest, free from all support. Breasts that massive should hang further than they do, but gravity has only a slight hold on them. They are high and proud and full, round and firm milky white, with gigantic strawberry pink areolas that are each a yard in diameter, crowned by erect pink nipples. In a word: magnificent. Enormously magnificent. Her tits are nearly as big as I am, and just perfectly shaped and beautiful. Obviously the biggest tits I've ever seen, but they're also the prettiest and most spectacular pair I've ever laid eyes upon.

I should probably have better control, but at that point the inevitable happens. The first arc of cum from the tip of my cock sprays across the marble top and the intervening space and actually splatters across Mom's belly. In an instant, her right hand is beneath me, cupped to catch my spray as it empties out of me, pulse by pulse. Her huge tits sway with her movement, and it looks so tremendous that my heart stops beating for just a moment. Mom is shuddering and shaking a bit, her hand bobbing before me, and her upper teeth are rubbing sensuously against her bottom lip. I squirt over and over. Loud splat-splat sounds echo from Mom's palm as my flood pours out, over and over.

Finally I fall backward on my heels, gasping, soap and sweat and other fluids streaming from me. Mom smiles sweetly. She contemplates the mess in her hand, and seems to hesitate a moment before turning on the other sink to wash my spend away.

"Well," she says. Her eyes are shining, and the skin on the upper slopes of her breasts is flushed. Her right hand flutters in the direction of her soaked panties for a moment, but quickly rises back up above her waist. "That was quite a show for both of us, I guess."

She reaches toward me and gently nudges me into the bubble bath filled sink. "Clean up, sweetie. I'll do the same, and then we'll have dinner. Okay?"

No. No, definitely not "okay." With my orgasm over, my mind somewhat clear again, I am once more consumed by guilt and feeling a little sick.

I slide into the sink. The water has cooled in the interim, but it's warm enough. Mom turns around, pulls the shower curtain back and starts the water. Without looking back at me, she peels her panties off, sliding them down her legs. She bends her knees to keep her happy place hidden, but I get a beautiful view of her plush, springy, enormous backside. Lust thunders back into my system. Taboos be damned.

I watch with admiration as my mother climbs into the shower, and pulls the curtain closed behind her. The light yellow curtain is largely opaque, but I can seem Mom's curvy silhouette through it as she stretches out beneath the shower spray.

I find my feet on the bottom of the sink, allowing me to stand about chest deep in the water, and begin to wash myself as best I can. And I watch as Mom soaps her loufa and scrubs every inch of her magnificent body.

I climb out of the sink when I'm done and sit as best I can, admiring the view. To my dismay, when the shower is over, Mom reaches through the curtain to grab a towel, and when she finally emerges, she is securely wrapped in terrycloth.

I watch bemused as she leaves for the bedroom. I say nothing, as there is a troubled expression on her face. I myself should feel more troubled than I do. A function of the hex, I suppose.

A thought occurs to me. Why is Mom acting this way? The spell only affected me, didn't it? I ponder this while I wait for her. I could easily jump down from the sink and stroll or bounce into the bedroom to watch her dress, but I hold myself back. For one, I still don't yet wish to reveal my agility, and for another, I want to try to respect her privacy. Particularly given what I did in the afternoon.

At length, Mom returns. She's dressed in a loose, blue button down shirt. The tails obscure her thighs and what, if anything, she is wearing beneath. The top is unbuttoned almost to her waist, revealing a bright pink tank top underneath. I don't think she is wearing a bra, given the way her own tanks roll and sway beneath the fabric.

Mom holds out her left hand at the edge of the marble counter. "Are you hungry?" she asks. Her voice is light, or as light as her husky, altered giantess voice can get. "I'm famished."

When I hesitate, she gestures with her right hand, and at last I take the step off the counter into her palm. My feet sink into her skin a little, and she steadies me with her other hand. I lean back into her right hand and spread my arms for support, unintentionally showing off the goods. Mom giggles uncertainly. Her nervousness somehow makes me relax a little bit. Knowing that she is as weirded out by all this as I am makes me more comfortable.

Mom carries me back downstairs, one eye on where she is going, and the other watching me. I make no effort to disguise my admiration of her mammoth bosom.

At last we reach the kitchen, and Mom sets me down on the island.

5.

Mom starts taking out pans and pots, a box of pasta, a piece of chicken, some peppers and onions. She dices meat and vegetables, boils water, pours the pasta in to let it cook. Drizzles olive oil in the pan and fries up the chicken and vegetable in it, adding a few pinches of things to enhance the taste. While she cooks, we talk.

"So I told Clark about what happened."

Sudden surge of panic, unavoidable. "What?" I blurt out.

She hastens to reassure me. "Just the part about you eating the pie, not the, well, you know. Don't worry, he agreed to keep away until I tell him it's safe to visit. He is, well, acquainted with the particular vulnerability you must be feeling. Shall we say."

"So you and him...?"

Mom coughs daintily, blushing a little. "Well, yes, of course. Who else do you think I'd let eat the other pieces of pie? Its harmless fun, normally. Just lasts a little while, and we both enjoy the change in size... and shift in power."

Okay, well, I don't really need to know this kind of stuff. Mom looks at me over her shoulder. "Are you jealous, Robbie?"

I think for a moment. "No," I finally admit. "I suppose not."

Mom nods. "Good. You have nothing to be jealous about. He's my boyfriend, but you're my son. You will always come first for me." She sets down the spatula in her hand and steps toward the island. She puts a hand down near where I'm sitting, sort of half-cupping me. "However," she continues, "I don't want the reverse to be true. Whatever... happens... and I'm not saying anything will, or, I guess, anything more will happen, but... whatever happens, you need to find some girl of your own and get married. I expect grandchildren some day."

I flush. "Mom, I don't... I mean, that, that's not even really a concern right now. I'm 22! I haven't found the right girl yet." Have I?

Mom retreats. "Okay, that's fine. I was settled down by the time I was your age, but that doesn't have to be the case with you." She returns to the stove.

To change the subject, I say, "So Clark is okay with the magic and the shrinking and what have you?"

"Oh, sure. How do you think we met? Clark's an occultist, like me. I suppose you'd call him a warlock, but we're really all just witches."

"I had no idea... how long have you been a witch?"

"Oh, not too long. After your dad died and you moved away to college, I had to do something with myself. I tried hobbies and book groups and things. Knitting, gardening, etc. Actually, it was the gardening that got me into herbalism and then into potions and magic and so on. I dabbled for a few years, and only cast my first successful spell a few months ago, right around the time you left for Australia.

"It was slow going at first, but once you figure out how to convert energy into mass and mass into energy, it's really a snap."

"Mom, that's insane."

"Yes, I suppose." Mom begins to set the table. She puts out a large plate for herself, as well as silverware and a wine glass. She puts a small plate in my spot, and adds a small cup filled with toothpicks and a shot glass which she turns over.

"You're violating physical laws. Thermodynamics, Mom! They're not just theories!" I don't know why this bothers me so much. I really am not a scientist.

Mom shrugs and smiles. "Remember when you explained your computer games to me? Like, when some level was too tough for you, you'd use a cheat code to get past the tough part?"

I nod.

"Well, think of magic as the cheat codes to reality. And don't think I'm some kind of will-worker or full blown wizard or something. The stuff I do is generally temporary, and I don't meddle in things that I don't understand. Usually." She pours herself some wine and sips it before returning to the island.

Mom makes a ledge with her hand for me once again. I step on. She carries me to the table and sets me down. "You can use the shot glass as a stool, if you want," she says. She points at my rampant erection and adds, "That's going to be very distracting during dinner." She hands me a napkin. "Just cover yourself up a bit, please."

I comply, wrapping the napkin around my waist like a towel. I have to adjust it higher so that it covers my dick, and precum leaks into the paper almost immediately. But at least I'm covered.

Mom starts putting food on plates, giving me only a little bit. "The only semi-permanent changes I've made are to my own body, and mostly all I did was convert my extra mass into healthier tissue. I cleaned up my skin, made my boobs a little bigger," and here she pauses to cup one of her massive tits, "fixed my vision, tightened up a few areas, y'know, rotated the tires and so on.

"But even that's mostly cosmetic. I can't extend my lifespan indefinitely, just make sure I'm healthier than I otherwise would be while I'm here. Exercise and a good diet do the rest." She's nonchalant about it, but she really has transformed herself into something unbelievably gorgeous and sexy and vibrant.

"Could you do that sort of thing for anyone?"

Mom picks up a fork and scoops up some food. It makes me slightly queasy, seeing her easily manipulate what amounts to a battering ram or pike to me, and I have to look away at my own meager plate. I take a toothpick and spear some chicken. "What do you mean?" she says. I hear a playfulness in her voice. "When you get bigger, do you want to keep that epic cock between your legs?"

I nearly choke on my food. Mom ignores my discomfort. "Because I have to tell you honey, at normal size, something like that could hurt somebody." She makes an indistinct noise, which draws my eyes back to her. There's a dreamy, far away look on her face. "Although it would be fun to try it out..."

"Mom!"

"Well, theoretically. If you weren't my son, you understand."

"And, uh, what else would you do if I weren't your son?" I say, looking intently at my plate.

Mom is quiet. "And we're back to this again," she says eventually. "You shouldn't say things like that, Robbie, not when w -- when you're in the state that you're in."

I look up at her, into her big gray eyes. "I'm not the only one in a state, am I, Mom?"

"I don't know what you're-"

"Mom." She's never been good at lying to me.

She sighs, looks down at her plate, pushes food around with a fork almost as long as I am tall. "Okay, so you've figured it out. You and I are linked through the pie you ate. I've been walking around for the past day and a half just as aroused as you are, although I thought I'd been hiding it better."

"Huh."

"Yeah, well, it gets worse." She sighs again, looks up at me. "Every time you... well, every time you orgasm, so do I. Little ones mostly, but a couple in a row add up to big ones. You set one off in the middle of the meeting today, which made things a little awkward."

"Holy shit." It's all I can say. I mean, I suspected, but to have her confirm it... Mind = blown.

"So you can see the kind of trouble we could get into. Have gotten into. Neither one of us is thinking straight."

"Can you blame me, Mom? I mean, look at you."

She blushes, laughs uncomfortably. I'm about to make her more uncomfortable, but maybe I'll kick this thing to the next level. I'm hardly aware of what I've decided to do even as I do it.

I stand up. I pull the napkin away from me. My distended cock hangs downward, pointing like a divining rod in Mom's direction. She watches me, frowning slightly, but clearly curious. I pick up the shot glass and flip it over. My stool becomes a bucket. I take my cock in both hands and begin to stroke. I look Mom in the eyes while I do.

Her eyes get bright, her cheeks flushed. Her hands flutter beside her plate. "What do you think you're doing, young man?" She could stop me, easily. But she doesn't.

I don't answer. I just keep tugging away, watching her, thinking about her enormous size, her perfect shape, her magnificent breasts and long, long legs. Her full lips part and she pants slightly. The eyes are glazing over. I'm beginning to crest. Mom's eyes roll back and she shakes in her seat, rattling her silverware, shaking the table under my feet. Somehow I maintain my balance and aim my erupting cock into the shot glass. I cum and cum and cum, spraying my seed for the umpteenth time that day. Slowly the shot glass begins to fill.

Mom comes down, breathing heavily. Her tits lurch enticingly in her tank top. "That was very inappropriate, Robbie," she says.

My cock is still hard, of course. I wipe the cockhead on the edge of the glass, squeezing the last bits into the receptacle. And I start jacking again. Mom moans, a sound that sends a pleasant shiver down my back. "You shouldn't do this," she says, but her protest is a weak one. I watch, still manipulating myself, as one of Mom's hands drifts below the table.

Suddenly I feel a phantom caress on the length of my cock, as if someone else is touching me, but only my hands are connected. Is Mom teasing the folds of her pussy? The thought of her yet unseen treasure is enough in my current state to trigger my second orgasm. The amount of semen I generate does not flag, and I add another generous amount to the bucket. Three quarters of the way full.

"Oh, Robbie," Mom moans as she rides her own climax. She cups a generous breast through shirt and tank top, while her other hand is busy under the table. The wine glass jumps a little. I'm barely doing anything now, as Mom's masturbatory manipulations create phantom sensations across my length. I'm erupting in no time at all, unleashing another torrent of pearly white, viscous fluid. By this time, what I am expelling is thick and creamy, and the sensation as it erupts from the end of my rod is hard to describe, but mind-blowing. All I smell is blueberries. The table shakes like an earthquake beneath me. I almost lose my footing, but my newfound agility keeps me upright. Cum sloshes around the edge of the glass onto the table top.

Mom's eyes are half-lidded and glazed with lust. She releases a shuddering breath. "You naughty, naughty, naughty boy." Still cupping her breast, her other hand comes up from beneath the table, glistening with fluid. She gives me a gentle poke with her forefinger, leaving a glistening trail on my chest.

Mom picks up the shot glass filled with my cum. She contemplates it with her sleepy-eyed gaze. She brings it to her lips and tips it backwards. The liquid pours into her mouth, down her throat. Mom swallows greedily, moaning as she does. She watches me over the rim of the glass as I watch her throat work.

My own mouth has dropped open. I'm speechless, consumed with twisted, taboo lust.

Mom sets the empty shot glass back on the table. Her huge pink tongue swipes a trail of creamy cum off her bottom lip.

Mom leans forward. "Well now," she says in that husky, giantess voice of hers. "What shall we do with the rest of our evening?"