tagSci-Fi & FantasyHexed Ch. 01

Hexed Ch. 01


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.


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.


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.

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