Homecoming Hypnotism Ch. 04

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.

Chapter Four

"You, boy, are going to learn some manners..."

That incident had happened a long time ago when mark had only been a small child -- he'd not hit his growth spurt, in all honesty, until later than most. The others boys had shot up like beanpoles and he had still been the smallest of them all, which had only made it all the easier for his other grandmother, Agatha, to loom over him and scowl down, lips turned down into that ever-present frown of hers that never failed to promise trouble.

That time, he couldn't remember quite what he'd done wrong, although he knew it had had to be something. It was always something and it was always him. A child couldn't make any more sense of it than that, even if there was always going to be more to the story than what actually met the eye. He wasn't allowed near her all that often but, when there was no school, sometimes they'd run out of options for childcare and, eventually, he'd had to be left with her. The maids could only do so much and one too many falls out of trees had convinced his mother, of course, to get him a nanny, yet their illness came at a most inconvenient time for them.

Mark could not have said just what turned him from Agatha, with her jet black hair and narrow, beady eyes. She would have been a beautiful woman in her youth and had the potential to truly be regal in old-age, but her sourness hollowed her face into something sallow -- something that needed a smile to bring and breathe back life into.

"Little boy, you are going to learn..."

She advanced on him and he knew no more, shutting out the memory of the arrogant woman and all that had happened. Nothing physical, of course, but a verbal tongue-lashing from a tiny but mighty woman such as her was more than enough to make him quail when he was that young. He had hunkered down and tucked himself away and his mother had done her best to protect him, ensuring that, after so many reports of screaming and tirades, Grandmother Agatha no longer had the influence in her grandson's life that she wanted.

Yet standing before her in her own home, a smaller mansion that she resented her whole life even with all her resounding, stealthy kind of wealth, he was no longer that little boy anymore and he could draw himself up tall and proud, looking down at her. There was a good foot and a half in height between them and she could hop and make ugly faces at him all she liked with a face that should have been so much prettier than it was. Really, there was no power she could hold over him anymore and even what she had sought to take and claim for her own when he was but a young boy had been brief and tentative, as much as the wounds gaped and scars itched in memory.

"A pleasure to see you, grandmother."

It was formal, too formal, but he was not there for pleasantries. Agatha frowned -- proving, yet again, that it was indeed possible for her lips to turn down more than they already were -- and parted her lips in preparation for the tirade to come. Venting was her strong point and scathing rants her forte but there was no longer any time or place in his life for the cold-hearted woman to get even a single handhold on over him.

He cut across her with the skill of a bolder man, becoming the king that he truly envisioned himself as, lips curved up in the very faintest essence of a smile. It was time. Her voice would no longer be heard in that manner any more. Never again.

"Pacta Sevanda."

She wavered, lower jaw falling slack, and then dropped mentally, falling into the grasp of his will as if she'd always been meant to linger there, to belong there. She was not the woman who should have ever tried to take a controlling hand over his life but a mere pawn, a slave to his whims and desires, regardless of the direction they came from or what influence, indeed, they ended up having over her own life. In her sitting room, the reception that she entertained and received visitors that never came to visit her, she tipped from one side to the other without losing her balance, allowing him to look her over in the moment of stillness, no longer apoplectic with seething, roiling rage. It had never served her well anyway.

Licking his lips, Mark stifled a groan. Not yet. The time would come for that. But there were too many swathes of fabric over her body that he had seen in far less during the course of his lifetime, a long dress falling down to the ground as if she would not even allow her ankles to be shown, feet neatly tucked away in the appropriate and demure heels for a woman of her age. That was something that he would be quick enough to change but it was time to see what goods she had on offer to him, if her body was as delectable as he remembered from the stolen peeks and nuances glimpsed through steamy baths and clothes that draped and caressed in a very different fashion. It had been innocent, way back then, but things were about to become a whole lot less innocent than they ever had been before.

Her breasts could not be concealed, however, even though they were cupped behind her dress. After seeing a bra back when both of them were younger again, he knew that she was a G-cup: further detail did not matter to a giggling boy, however. He didn't need to know more either as an adult revelling in that information for a very different purpose this time, knowing that she would never have allowed her perfect body to slip and fall; her breasts, of course, would be lifted perkily in the brassiere she wore even though she would not have retained perfect perkiness during the course of age. That could not be helped but seeing how her body had progressed through the glory of ageing would make it all the sweeter and experience for him in the end too.

And yet he wanted more. More from the woman who pressed her lips together and smiled serenely, hands folded together before those breasts that he lusted after as if in prayer, although he was sure that she had never prayed a day in her life, despite going to Church. She was perfect as she was with the grey streak in her hair, perhaps left as a dignified symbol of age where she could have had the entire length of her hair dyed and any signs of ageing hidden away. Maybe she was proud of it, of having gotten so far in life that she could, in fact, boast that grey streak.

"Now, you are my toy," he said, lowly and calmly, a deathly note of purpose in his tone. "You will do as I bid and, oh, Agatha..."

Chuckling quietly, he brushed his hair back from his ears where it had grown a little too long, eyes darkening with swift and seedy intent.

"I will have my revenge on you, Agatha, for what you did to me. That is not how you treat a man. Did you not know that?"

She shook her head, expression and features softened by the smile that he bid her don like a new shawl that could cover up other imperfections. But, in her case, it revealed what she could be if she dropped that shroud of arrogance only seemly for those who were dead and gone, the joy of a woman who would become her very best self at his feet, just another member of his harem with so much more in her life now that he had taken complete and utter control over her.

"Strip. Show me your breasts."

Agatha sucked in a breath, moving quickly to obey, although she could not have quite said just why her heart was in her mouth. It was her grandson before her but he looked different, stronger and more powerful than he ever had done ever before. Her dress shivered and fell, unhooked at the back by twitching, jerky fingers that drew stiff in old age. And yet she managed it all well enough as her heart pounded, skin flushing in hot, red patches -- though with what desire, she could not have said. The room before her should have been familiar to her with the armchairs and the coffee table, the sideboard with talking pieces and the up to date and very much in fashion sofa that anyone would have been talking about if she'd had anyone at all to invite over. But it was not and he was not the man she remembered, not having seen him for many years beforehand.

Yes... Yes, it was right to be naked before him, the dress shivering to the floor in a whisper of cotton, practical for her. It didn't seem right to dress up for him to come over to see her -- she had not understood the desire and intention behind it -- but it felt oh so very right indeed to be naked before him, standing in just her underwear, plain and unbecoming to such a figure. Even as age caught up with her, she had just about managed to retain her very large buttocks, the curves of her body held in place by a brassiere and strong shoulders, however, small she was, that lifted up her frame and carried her forth into the light of each and every day that came for her.

But he wanted more and a flick of his fingers had her unhooking her brassiere too, the nude fabric concealing more than it hinted at. When that fell to the floor, her underwear followed, the non-matching, plain briefs joining the rest in a pile that she briefly thought that she would have to have the maid clean up. And just where was she anyway? For his influence and control over her was not quite so deep that she could not feel annoyed that she was standing beside a mess that needed clearing, even if she could not find the energy or strength of will to ring the bell for her maid too to come and take care of it for her.

No matter... His eyes locked onto hers and Agatha moaned breathily, the sound seeming to come naturally to lips that had not moaned in many, many years. Her breasts spilt out, free, heavy and full, imagining them as they had been in the very prime of her life. Oh, how beautiful she had been and just how much she could do for a man, the perfect body, a figure to die for... It was no wonder, to others in hindsight, that she was so arrogant and flippant with everyone when she was the object of so much envy for the way that she looked, sashaying about and posing with every which man until she was taken. Why, she'd even done some modelling in her younger years, which had served her well until she'd settled for living off his salary, the money that the breadwinner brought in.

Mark smiled, desire stirring in the pit of his stomach, a sensual, driving curl of heat snaking up through his guts, the space where his organs should have been. If they were still there, they were overcome by the searing heat within him, burning up from the inside out as if a fire had been lit there, although he knew well enough that that too was impossible. And yet he drank in the sight of her greedily, those breasts drawn down lightly by age and the weight of the flesh, nipples a little darker than those belonging to his other grandmother, each one a divine flower to be enjoyed in their own way. But even flowers could have their petals crushed.

"Show me."

She knew what he meant solely because he planted the image of what he wanted her to do in his mind, holding onto the trigger words in a corner of his mind in case he needed to push her further into his control all over again. There was never any telling, after all, when one of his delightful quarries would try to break free and, although his cock ached to take her right there and then, he was determined to savour the moment the very best he could. Moaning softly, Agatha rolled her head back and grasped a breast in each hand, taking a firmer grip than perhaps a younger woman would have had to do. Her fingers dug lightly into her pale flesh and she hefted them up for him, squeezing and massaging as the manipulation tingled through her skin, penetrating deep.

Unable to take her eyes off him as he bid her, in quiet, mental conversation, to grope and massage her breasts, nipples perking up against her wrinkled fingers, Agatha breathed more heavily, lips parted for breath that was not enough to satisfy her need. But what did she actually need from him? He looked so strong and manly before her, just how could she not have noticed him in that way before? The need in Mark rose in the bulge at the front of his pants, fingers curled into a fist, and she whimpered softly, pressing her tits together into a cleavage that she hoped against hope would lure him to her.

Why was she doing what she was doing? Oh, that thought didn't need to be followed... Better not to think, to slip and sway on sinuous sensuality, her head pleasantly spinning and spinning and spinning as his fingers deliberately closed around her wrist and he turned her, commandingly, to the door. There was no denying him as he led her, without a single word, from her home, locking the door at her heels, which were also bare, and she went with him willingly to his car, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as the cool of the day after a recent rain licked at her skin as if it too was hungry and eager for her. She only hoped one man was, even if the hope seemed to have no root or founding that she could discern.

Thinking that she could please him, do a little more, the mental control hastened her to the car, fingers on the passenger door before his voice cracked out like the lash of a far more foreboding whip, slicing through the air between them.

"No." He stared her down levelly, pointing elsewhere, Agatha's eyes, very slowly, dragging along the line of his finger, where he wanted her to look. "Get in the trunk."

As Agatha moved to obey, the trunk looming like the mouth of a pit from which there could never again be any return from, before her, he smiled hollowly.

"You don't deserve a seat."

*

Home was where he chose to take his revenge on her in the slow and sensual fashion to which he had become accustomed with his so very devoted family. At the long dining table that was usually reserved for formal occasions with the elegant, dark wood, he sat with Sarah, although she was a couple of places down from the head of the table, as befitted her new position in his household. There was no reason, after all, that she needed to be closer to him unless he wanted to make use of her and, in that case, he could just order her to come to him, commanding all around him in his growing kingdom.

Of course, she was not the object of his attention at that moment, even though she was his first. Sarah slipped beneath the table at his direction, her meal half-eaten, although the plates that they usually ate from were, very strangely, absent. His mother eased down his trousers for the treat of his aching cock and Mark exhaled a hiss of breath through his teeth, looking down with pleasure at the sight of Agatha laid out before him on the table with food spaced out along her body. In the absence of plates, she would do more than well enough to hold their meal, although it was him that would enjoy her the most, with her breasts each donning a ring of pineapple, still glistening wetly with juice around each nipple.

Gammon was a feast and Mark's attention wavered, Sarah's hand around his cock, pumping and squeezing sensually. The feast laid out before him was there to be enjoyed, rising and falling gently with each and every breath of Agatha's. But he could not slip from his enjoyment, devoted to the pleasure of each and every second, lifting a ring of pineapple, very delicately, with the tips of two fingers. He made sure to deny her the brush of his fingers against her tit, however, Agatha shuddered and nearly spilling the rest of his dinner from her body in her need, her rampantly controlled desire, to have him touch her, to use her and abuse her just as he pleased.

She did not know how far down his control over her had gone, although there was still some sense of humiliation lingering there, clawing along the back of her mind as if it could, once again, scramble over the mental wall he'd thrown up there and pull her back to reality.

Pacta Sevanda.

Mark chewed the pineapple slowly, savouring the taste as much as he savoured the sight of her, a spread to be envied. Her legs had been positioned apart too so that the curls of hair at her crotch were on show and the soft folds of her pussy behind, tight for her age. Although he had not yet taken the pleasure of fucking her, his fingers had teased inside her just to see what was lying in wait for him, the sweet first time between them yet to be taken.

He was not a patient man but was patient enough for it to mean something more when the time came, bodies coming together as his new slut of a grandmother showed him just how much of a whore she could be. Laughing to himself, Mark ignored Agatha's admittedly delicious squirm as he trailed a fork down her front, the cool of the prongs prickling lightly as she chose a piece of gammon from her thigh. Close to her pussy but not enough to satisfy the yearning that he planted there, he took it again without touching her, skin to skin, and the moan that she gave was more than simple music to his ears. To hear her so frustrated brought a rise of goose bumps to his skin like nothing else ever could and he swallowed down the meat with relish, cock throbbing in Sarah's hand even as she quietly and obediently placed herself well out of the way so that he could enjoy his main course.

Helga entered with a tray of hot sausages, steam rising from them and a decidedly evil smirk on her face. There was no need for any kind of announcement or command that would let her know just what he wanted her to do: Helga's training was already coming on nicely, the maid working hard to please the king while she got to reap the spoils and benefits of her position in ways that she would never before have considered possible to enjoy.

With a flourish that was entirely for Mark's benefit, she took the sausages carefully between the tongs and fed them, one by one, straight up into Agatha's tight and waiting pussy. Well, there was only one possible way that the lusty woman could react as her need swelled like the rising tide, the wind picking up for a storm that threatened to tear out the very foundations of the home and housing that had protected her for so many years. But to come into a new stage of being and, indeed, training too, one had to give up everything that had gone by in the past and moan out their lust as scorching hot sausages were inserted into them, a toy to be enjoyed and, when he was done with her, cast aside in light of another.

Agatha twisted and wriggled her fingers but did not move so far that she disrupted the food, folds of flesh jiggling where they were to be found. Her large buttocks, thankfully, offered her a solidly soft place to rest herself as she heaved for breath, only one pineapple ring remaining around a hard and ready nipple that longed for another's lips locked around it. The sausages were nowhere near enough, although there was no pain, only a hint of embarrassment. Were those supposed to go into her? Questions were not allowed in the mind of one that was going through her training, however, and she blushed heavily, heat plastered down her neck in unappealing patches. No, she was just there to be used, as embarrassing as it was to have his eyes boring into her in that manner, as if he saw far more of her than was even laid out for them.

Her pussy clenched around them and she tried not to moan, although his mental control over her just made things harder, taking away her willpower. Of course, Agatha could claw for it as much as she wanted and groan and even swallow her pride, but there would never again be a thought in her mind that was borne of her own free will. She did not know just how much control Mark had aimed to pull over her, breaking her down into nothing more than his obedient little slut until the end of her days, but it was too much to have every last one of those emotions flittering through her as if they were thoughts -- thoughts that she was not allowed.