The Luckiest Guy in the World Ch. 01

So as I fantasized about pulling that t-shirt up over her breasts, I blathered on and on to her about my ideas for video games and apps and, in essence, the modern version of get rich quick schemes, and Mom didn't laugh at me or guilt-trip me. She supported me, unequivocally.

My mother said to me: "Jason, you are brilliant. I believe in you. You can do whatever you set your mind to. And I am here to help you reach your goals. Whatever you want to do, I will help you. All you have to do is ask."

Well, I was pretty sure there were some things for which I couldn't ask. But I never forgot her expression of devotion, and it definitely helped. I can remember a few times when I was really stuck, trying to get BlinkShrink to work, when I thought about my mom, that conversation, her breasts, and found a way to get past the sticking point.

And the point right now is that my mother was completely and utterly devoted to me. She wanted the best for me...almost compulsively, it seemed to me, as I looked back on our years together. The question in my mind became very simple: would my mother really do anything for me?

As in: how I could use my mother's deep and abiding love for me to get inside her pants?

Unfortunately, I had no idea and that was very frustrating. I was, at this point, twenty-one. I was rich enough to buy my own mansion and move out. Yet I still lived with my mother. I could feel her wondering if there was something wrong with me, inside me, that I didn't move out and pursue a more independent life. More research was needed. And one day, I found another key to solving my puzzle: my mother's own operating principles.

I'd read and heard bits and pieces of them over the years, the files, the videos. But then one day I watched her give comfort and guidance to a 27-year old man who was consumed with a single objective in life: to get his mother to swallow his cock just like Linda Lovelace does in Deep Throat.

My mom is saying: "You must overcome your sense of shame, Paul. Clearly, it is not normal," and here she held her hands to mark the word in quotes, "and potentially very destructive to both you and your mother, to obsess about putting your penis deep down her throat. But saying this doesn't help, and simply being ashamed of what you are thinking and feeling will just make it worse. You will remain obsessed and at some point take some sort of disastrous action. We need to avoid this and I have a suggestion for you. I call it my Accept-Describe-Act-Compartmentalize strategy. Instead of fighting full force against your compulsion, you must accept your desire, your lust. You must then describe - out loud - your lustful feelings as clearly as possible. By verbalizing, externalizing, how you feel, you gain perspective. That's what you are doing with me, and I feel it is going well."

My mother hunches forward, bringing her face close to Paul, who sits on the obligatory couch. "Still, that is not enough. Thinking and speaking will not resolve your obsession. You need two more things: action and compartmentalization."

Paul suddenly sits upright and rubs at his crotch.

"Not that kind of action, Paul," says my Mom, sharply. "I suggest, instead, that you try taking very small steps with her: put your arm around her shoulder. Give her a hug, perhaps a small kiss on the cheek. See if that contact will satisfy you. For many of my patients, it is enough. It gives them a sort of breathing space to step back from their obsession and realize that all they really wanted was love and affection from their mother."

Paul slumps back down in the couch. He doesn't look encouraged at all. I don't think that's all he really wanted. "But that's not all," continued my mother, "You also need to make sure that your obsession doesn't destroy or disrupt the rest of your life. So as you experiment with small, affectionate gestures, I want you to also work on constructing a little compartment, a room with thick walls of steel and concrete, and a big heavy lock. Put into that room all of the sexual thoughts you have about your mother, and keep it locked up tight. You can visit the room, and when you are inside, you can fantasize about your mother. But outside of the room, you don't see her in that way."

Paul nods. He seems encouraged. Who knows? Maybe he's already constructed a room like that and it's filled with all sorts of interesting devices. That's what I would do. And then my mom concludes:

"So let's try that. A room for your lust, small gestures of affection with your mom, and then we will see how things go."

Great speech, I thought to myself. I wonder how it worked out. I executed a search through my library for Paul's name and leapfrogged directly to the last session my mom had with him. He sat on the couch, looking at the floor. I couldn't see his face. My mom, however, did not look happy and her tone was rather sharp.

"Paul, I suggested you keep all your lustful thoughts for your mother in that little room. I asked you to try to be affectionate, just affectionate. But your mother told me yesterday that when she went into your bedroom to tell you it was time for dinner, you ripped off her clothing and then sodomized her. You pushed her penis into her anus. That is not being affectionate, Paul."

Paul looked up at my mom. I was on the edge of my Herman Miller Aeron True Black chair. Give us the low-down, Paul!

His voice was rough, croaky. "I kept all my lustful thoughts in that room. I printed big pictures of my mom, like when she was wearing a thong bikini in Maui, and hung them on the wall. I tried really hard not to think about those posters when I was outside my bedroom. I always kept the door locked, but then yesterday I forgot. She came right in without knocking. She was wearing my favorite dress, light blue satiny material, it clung to her, you know what I'm saying? It's like she wanted me to see it all and touch it all. She said come to dinner. I got up and gave her an affectionate hug. She hugged me back. But then I realized she was in my room, the room, it was the right place. I figured it was the right time. I kicked the door shut and...and..." Paul started to cry. "Did she tell you she didn't like it? When I was doing it, she kept saying 'Paul, Paul, my darling baby'..."

I turned off the video. I didn't need to hear my mom's effort to recover from her advice gone badly wrong. What an idiot. His bedroom, the lust room! But I wasn't disappointed. No, I felt very encouraged. I had watched Mom's principles before transformed into a drastically different reality:

Accept your lust, put those feelings in a box, close it up tight...and then wait for an overwhelming eruption of lust.

I liked that idea. But I still had no idea how to get my mom to start having lustful feelings towards me, and then put them in that box, that room. Damn! Another dead end.

So I took out my frustrations by burying myself in my next video game: ThoughtCrime. I'd decided that there were plenty of first-person shooter games and plenty of role playing games that were either bloody or innocent, perfect for either testosterone-soaked teenage boys or little kids.

It was time to design a game for adults, something that would utilize the latest in virtual reality, high resolution graphics, super-powered processors, and intuitive knowledge, to take players into another realm of thought and passion. No fighting (with weapons), no rewards (except for the respect and devotion of others). It would be a game that recognizes the vast gulf that existed between your public actions (and words) and our private thoughts (and fantasies). It would test your awareness of the thin line that separates civilized behavior from what I liked to refer to as "true emotions." And you would play ThoughtCrime not with an old style controller (go, thumbs, go!) but with VR glasses that would let you truly inhabit another body, another life, another world.

So began the most productive period of my life. For two years, I hid away in my "cave" (that's what Mom called it), surrounded by computers and big display screens and lots and lots of stimulants, building ThoughtCrime. I'd never felt more creative in my life, more certain of success, than I did in that time. I contacted dozens of virtual reality hardware companies before I found one that could provide just the kinds of glassed and gloves I needed.

And I decided to insert Easter Eggs throughout ThoughtCrime, and Easter Eggs of the most exciting sort. I developed algorithms that would allow players to upload images of faces and bodies, and manifest an avatar within the game that closely resembled those images. So you could play truly as yourself or as, well, just about anybody. Real anybodies. But that was just the start. I enhanced open source graphics libraries to make it easy (for me) to model real-life motions from high-level descriptions, or even other, previously existing movies. From there, it was child's play to build in menus to allow players to create "scenarios" of whatever activities you wanted. And the first menus I built? They were all about sex. Pick from: heterosexual or homosexual. Pick a position (missionary, doggy style, etc.). Pick a style (gentle, combative, dominating, or submissive).

And then whoever you "beat" to reach this point in the game? They were yours to do with as you pleased - but only if you could find and "crack" the Easter Egg. Obviously, this would be an X-Rated game, but why not? I had more than enough money. I didn't need to create another game that could be played by anyone of any age. So that's what I did.

It took me two years of intense work. Barely ever saw my mom, barely ever thought about wrapping my lips around her nipples or pushing my thumb past her anal sphincter. Just wrote code and more code. I dreamed about ThoughtCrime and lived it every day. I wrote over 1,000,000 lines of code. I anticipated thousands, maybe millions, of people playing it, and finding those Easter Eggs. Who knew what they would come up with? Well, I for one wanted to know. So I built in the capability to "watch" what other players did in ThoughtCrime, to "ping" (contact) me when certain kinds of behaviors were requested. I also made sure that I could intervene in a player's Easter Egg experience and inject some "surprise" variations.

In the context of ThoughtCrime, in other words, I would be no different from a god: modifying the direction of a person's life and behavior without them ever knowing it.

And one late night (or rather, very early morning), as I sensed that ThoughtCrime was very close to being "done", ready to release in the wild, I realized that ThoughtCrime might offer a way for me to achieve my long-sought goal in life: to feel my hard, hot, throbbing cock buried deep inside my mother's ass, while she thrashed beneath me.

Could it be? Had I finally found a path to genital enlightenment? The possibilities flooded my mind. Even thought it was 3 AM, I felt more alive, more alert, than I could remember for years. I sat at my computer for another five hours, my fingers a blur over the keyboard, as I added more and more features to ThoughtCrime to implement my strategy. I ran a few more tests, just as I heard Mom get up and head down to the kitchen to prepare her obligatory café con leche.

And then it was time. Time to act on desires that had been consuming me for the past decade. It was time to see if I could turn my mother into a son-fucker.

I joined Mom at the breakfast table. As usual, even though it was early, even though she hadn't yet finished her first cup of coffee, even though she was wearing an old bathrobe, she positively glowed with life and energy and love and (to me) sex. I rubbed her shoulders and gave her a quick kiss on the top of her head.

"'Morning, Mom," I said brightly.

"Up all night, again?" she asked, with a big smile. No one knew me better than my mom - though, really, she didn't know me nearly as well as she thought she did.

"You betski," I replied and sat down across from her. I caught her eyes and with a serious look, said to her: "Mom, I need your help."

She immediately put down her caffeine infusion and gave me her full attention: "Whatever you need, sweetie, you know that."

"Great, Mom, thanks. You know how I've been working on my new game, right?"

"Sure...ThoughtCrime, is that the one?"

"You got it. Good news: it's done, more or less."

"Congratulations, Jason! Will you be getting more sleep now, then?" Always my mother, always looking out for me. Perfect. Just what I was depending on.

"Um, well, maybe soon. Thing is, now it's time to test the game. And before I put it out in the world for my beta testers, I was hoping you could test it with me."

Mom looked really surprised. She sat back in her chair. I tried not to focus on how her robe settled against her breasts and accentuated all the lovely curves above her waist. "Me? Help you test your software? Honey, you know I am a complete basket case when it comes to computers. How could I help you?"

"Mom, that's just the point. This game should appeal to anyone and everyone (be they adults), doesn't matter if they know how to use a computer. That's why I need you," with just the slightest emphasis on "need". I wanted to see if I could engage what I was relying on to be her compulsion: helping me succeed.

It seemed to work. Her face immediately brightened. "You need me to help you with your software? Wow, I never thought I'd hear you say that. What can I do?" She was so eager, so ready to help, that I almost felt guilty. I've never been very good, however, at doing guilt, so the moment quickly passed.

"Mom," I told her, "You aren't just absolutely beautiful, you are incredibly nice." I'd noticed ever since that day on the beach that it was perfectly acceptable to tell my mom how beautiful she was. She would just blush ever so slightly and respond with some variation of ( as she did now):

"Oh, stop that, Jason. I am not beautiful. I am middle aged and getting wrinkled. You, though, are a handsome young man and I am sure you will find the right woman for you very soon."

I did my obligatory emphatic shaking of the head, but didn't push it.

"Whatever you say, Mom. But I am sure you can help me. I want this game to be interesting, well, to be honest, I want this game to be addictive to anyone and everyone, no matter whether they are geeks or nerds or normal humans. You are very, very normal."

Mom frowned for a moment, uncertain as to whether that constituted praise. I hurried on. "Anyway, all I want you to do is play the game with me."

"Seriously? That's it?" Mom sounded disappointed.

"Not quite. I also want to take advantage of your expertise. You've been counseling some rather strange characters about sex for, what, like ten years, now?" Mom frowned at my use of the word "strange," but I just ignored that. "I figure that means that you are an excellent observer of the human condition - and a person who can tell when what they are watching is real or just some made up nonsense. I am using some very advanced virtual reality algorithms that are supposed to result in hyper-realistic imaging, but I think the movements will be needing refinement. So as you play the game, I'd like you to look for actions, limbs, facial expressions, whatever, that don't ring true, don't belong. And then I will adjust them. Finally, I want you to promise to be completely honest with me about how you feel about the game, what you like and don't like. OK?"

The frown changed to a big smile. I had pushed all the right buttons. Mom said: "OK, I promise. But I've got a full day of appointments today. Can we start tonight?"

I'd love to start with you tonight, Mom, that's for sure. First, I'd run my hands over your breasts, then...

"Exactly what I had in mind. Mom. After dinner, I will get us all set up and we will play our first round of ThoughtCrime."

I am certain we both exited the kitchen feeling very pleased with ourselves. But if Mom knew why I was pleased, she would have slapped my face and kicked me out of the house. Hopefully she wouldn't feel that way in another month or so.

Chapter 2: Mom gets addicted to watching porn, hot sex between two VR characters who look just like...herself and her son.