That Voodoo You Do so Well

"Okay," she said, a nervous laugh escaping her throat. "Okay. Maybe I am nuts. Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe correlation isn't causation." She sat down again, and sucked her teeth for a moment. "Well, if you're going to do this, at least do it right. Or well." Getting up again, she poked around the room, eventually coming up with a couple of swatches of very fine sandpaper and an x-acto knife that might have been older than James, and was definitely old enough to drive.

"Well. Let's rub some butt." She said, trying not to think too hard about what she was doing. Soon, the studio was filled with the rasp of the sandpaper as she set about started filing away the top layer of wood, shaping and nipping in the blocky features of the figurine, freeing curves from the material as she did. It was surprisingly delicate work, given how small the weir-momma was, and her desire not to file the butt of the thing into oblivion.

Within moments of beginning the work, the tingling sensation spread throughout her behind, and a joyful warmth filtered through her limbs. It was mostly sandpaper work, filing away the thick middle of the thing into a gently tapered waistline front and back, while a couple of quick flicks with the knife cleaved the behind of the thing into a pair of pert, round globes. Barbara's toes curled with excitement as the sawdust sprinkled over her bare thighs, her pulse racing as she felt the pressure of the shorts cutting into her stomach gradually lessen, then disappear altogether.

"Holy shit," she said in wonderment. "Holy shit it works." Hands shaking, Barbara put down her tools and stood. The waistband of her shorts hung loose in front, caught only by the swell of her buttocks in the back; in short order they fell off altogether, along with her granny panties, leaving her bare from the waist down.

"Oh my god," Barbara breathed, looking down at the pale, flat expanse that stretched from her navel to her crotch, broken only by the fulsome dark-blonde bush that had replaced the salt-and-pepper pubes between her toned thighs. Twisting, she reached back to grab a handful of ass, only to find her fingers full of taut, muscular flesh. "Oh my god," she said again, feeling the stirrings of arousal. Barbara ran her fingers through the kinky curls of her pubic hair, down towards the moist centre of-

"Mom? Are you in there?" James knocked on the door. "Hello?"

Shit. "Just a sec, honey!" Panicked, Barbara kicked her shorts and panties to the side, and pulled a dusty smock from the back of the chair. She yanked it on and, holding it closed in the back with a free hand, opened the door a crack.

"Jeez, Mom are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine! Great!"

"You look all flushed."

"I'm fine, honey. Fine." Licking her lips and trying to will the blood out of her cheeks, she smiled up at her son. "I'm just working on something. What did you need?"

"Dad wanted to know when supper will be and if we needed anything."

"Tell him we could use a case of beer and one of those caesar salads from the deli that he likes so much," Barbara straightened herself a little, using her best 'mom voice'. "I'm going to put the steaks on around," she glanced at the clock on the wall. "Six?"

"Sounds great!" James enthused.

"I'll be up in a minute okay?" Her son nodded, then thumped his way up the stairs. Barbara breathed a sigh of relief, and glanced back at the easel tray, where the weir-momma lay. "Later," she promised herself, tying the smock securely closed before slipping out and up the stairs.

--

The first and most obvious thing on tomorrow's to-do list, Barbara realized later, would be to take her credit card shopping for clothes. Nothing fit. Not a pair of pants, nor a skirt, nor underwear, and if she continued working away at the figurine, she'd be in dire need of bras soon. She felt a little naughty, as she slipped into a coral-pink maxidress without putting panties on first, but she didn't really see that she had any choice. Despite the looseness of the thin cotton, she couldn't keep the dress from sliding in between her new buttocks, showing off her pert, firm curves.

She didn't know *what* she was going to tell Philip when he noticed. Maybe she'd get lucky and he'd get hit by a meteor. A twinge of doubt twisted her stomach, until she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Although the billowy front disguised the elimination of her soft pooch, there was no mistaking the new sweep of her waist and hips; she did a little half-turn, and the ensellure at the base of her tailbone, that hyperbolic slope where her back met the pronounced jut of her buttocks was even more obvious. Giggling like a teenage girl, Mrs. de Wynter lifted her skirts a little, inspecting her silky supermodel legs for the umpteenth time.

No, Phillip be damned. There was no way she was going to pass this up. Chin set and head held high, Barbara strode out and down the stairs to start supper.

As it turned out, she didn't have to worry very much about her husband noticing anything at dinner; Janie's ceaseless prattle somehow held not only James' attention but also Phillip's. It was the sort of behaviour she expected from her son - it was his girlfriend, after all - but she hoped for more from a grown man. It was just as well, however: Barbara spent too much time thinking about when she'd be able to sneak back into the basement to keep up her end of the conversation.

Which is not to say that Barbara wasn't aware that Janie just. Did not. Stop. Talking. It was a constant buzz in her ear, continually drawing her up out of her reverie.

*If only I had a doll for you,* she thought. *I'd scrape the mouth right from your face.*

Then it was time for dessert, and she didn't follow that train of thought again until she was tucked away in the basement, quietly working away at the weir-momma. She was staring at the face of the thing, slightly trepidatious about sanding the surface away, wondering if she was about to remove her facial features.

Barbara turned it over in her fingers, nimble and smooth and devoid of premature aging spot or blemish.

"In for a penny in for a pound," she said with a shrug, and began to work at the head of the thing, uttering a silent prayer.

"It's too bad I don't have a doll for that silly little bitch," she muttered as sawdust fell to the lap of her maxi dress. "I could- I could kill that bird, too, with a slightly different stone."

Barbara rolled the thought around in her head while she worked, feeling the now-familiar tingle set in around her cheeks and mouth. Of course, there *was* a second figure, wasn't there?

Looking over at the desk, she saw the weir-boy standing atop a pile of books. Had she put him there? She couldn't remember. Decidedly male, he almost looked as if he were watching her work.

"Of course you're concerned," she said. "A good boy should take care of his mother." Barbara snorted, then blew on the weir-momma's face, clearing away the sawdust. "If only James was- if only James-" She bit her lip, wheels turning in her head. If whatever magic tied her to the weir-momma could literally re-shape her entire body, then surely she could use the male figure to- to- well, she wasn't really sure what she wanted to do with it, but surely she could solve the Janie problem somehow. She ran her fingertips over the weir-momma's smooth, blank face, and a wave of warmth spread through her.

Standing, she brushed the sawdust away and crossed the studio to take up the male figure. Barbara looked at it, the rugged, cold, surface, the obviously male frame, the enormous golden knots - one over the left chest, the other between its legs - and sucked her teeth. There were no obvious faults, nothing to work with. It wasn't as if James had any external flaws to shave away. College rugby had done wonders to turn her little boy into a strapping young man.

"Alright," she said. "Now what?" There was a sudden, sharp pain in the index finger of her left hand. Unclenching her fist, Barbara looked down at the weir-momma, where a pinprick's worth of blood was rapidly fading into the bone-smooth wood. James had to bond with the thing, just as she had! That was the first step, obviously.

With a crow of triumph, she wedged both figures into one hand - where they fit together like hand in glove - and slipped out into the darkened house. It was later than she'd expected; working with the weir-momma was easy but she'd taken her time, trying to get things right, making sure everything was even. Luckily for her, Phillip had had a couple more beers than usual and turned in for the evening, and the young couple couldn't retire to someplace more private fast enough.

Padding up the stairs, Barbara still wasn't entirely sure what she was going to do. Obviously she couldn't stab her son; maybe bodily fluid wouldn't be necessary? Maybe some other kind of personal item, a tooth or a hair or a fingernail?

On her way towards the bedrooms, Barbara entered the main bathroom. She and Phillip shared an en-suite off their own room, so James more or less had this one to himself. Maybe there'd be something in there?

Bare feet sticking slightly to the cool tile in the bathroom, Barbara cast about. It was surprisingly clean in here; James had only been home a couple of days, but she still expected *some*thing. The counter, replete with his deodorant and hair gel and other assorted boy things, was nonetheless clean. Not a hair to be found in the brush. Nothing around the drain, either.

Frowning, she looked looked into the wastepaper basket tucked in next to the toilet. It was empty, except for what looked like a bright pink plastic wrapper slung over the side. Barbara bent for a closer look.

It was a condom! Nose wrinkled with disgust, she pinched the open end with her fingernails and picked it up. A *used* condom, she noted, as liquid swirled in the reservoir at the tip. *James'* used condom, a little voice reminded her. It had to be. Phillip hadn't worn a rubber since they'd gotten him snipped.

Barbara stared at the fluid, suddenly apprehensive. On the one hand, obviously she shouldn't even be touching this thing, never mind considering what she was considering. On the other... here was an available source of bodily fluid, ready for the taking. Biting her lip, she hesitated. There was a pulse of warmth from her fist.

"Right, of course." She said, quietly. "What was I thinking?" The answer was obvious.

Gently, Barbara laid both figurines on the toilet lid, side-by-side, and knelt on the floor. Fully aware of where this condom had likely been, she did her best to touch as little of it as possible as she lowered the open end towards the male figurine, the tip of the rubber held gingerly between her fingernails. Cautiously, slowly, not daring to breathe, she raised the tip of it, watching her son's cream start to slide. It raced to the opening.

Outside, in the hall, a door cracked. With a shocked, terrified gasp, Barbara jumped. There was a soft *glop* sound and a slash of semen splashed across not only the weir-boy, but the momma as well. She watched, horrified, as the weir-momma greedily drank down the cum, as she had Barbara's blood. A puddle of it soaked into the knots of the 'boy.

"Hello? Who's there?" James! Barbara snatched up the figures in her fist, still slightly greasy with his semen, and leapt to her feet. "Mom? Is that you?"

She whirled around to see him standing in the doorway, idly scratching his bare chest. For the first time, Barbara noticed how fit her son had become, his frame filled out with lean, hard muscle; a vaguely delta-shape, she couldn't help but let her gaze drift over his laddered abdominal muscles and the solid meat of his pecs. His nipples were taut in the cool air. A pair of loose boxers was slung dangerously low over his hips, revealing the deep V of muscle leading downwards into-

"Young man, I thought we raised you better than this!" Barbara recovered herself, and whipped out the used condom, where it dangled accusingly from her outstretched fingers.

"Oh shit oh God mom I'm so sorry!" He blushed a pretty pink under his tan, and grabbed the used rubber from his mother to duck behind her and toss it into the toilet. "Oh my God I'm so sorry you had to see that. It definitely won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," she said, brushing past him on her way out the door. Her face was on fire. Both figurines in her hand were warm now.

The thrill of the danger, of almost getting caught, turned out to be *very* arousing. Phillip was impossible to arouse once he'd fallen asleep, so she had to take care of herself while he snored. As usual.

--

When she woke up the next morning, Philip was already gone, probably to the office (on a Sunday, no less!). It was just as well, Barbara reflected. It would give her more time to construct a reason for her new appearance.

She sat at the vanity, where she had cast a critical eye over herself not two days ago, and goggled. In the full light of day, the changes were astounding. It was as if some airbrush artist had gone over her features, smoothing away any imperfections she'd ever had cause to complain over: the crow's feet, the wrinkles around her lips, the worry lines in her brow. For the first time in longer than she cared to admit, all signs of tiredness had been lifted, and she couldn't keep herself from smiling no matter how hard she tried. Her eyes, a deep crystal blue, were sparkling clear and alive like she'd never seen. A honey-blonde mane, shimmering and thick and flowing like she'd just walked out of a shampoo commercial, tumbled down over her shoulders.

Barbara pursed her lips, which looked fuller than she'd ever seen them, and palmed one heavy breast. Contrary to her expectations, sanding the bust of the weir-momma hadn't reduced their actual size, but the musculature underneath was significantly firmer, lifting them out of the droop of age, and giving the strawberry-pink nipples a slight uptilt; they'd still need a bra, but at they were certainly no longer halfway to her knees. Her fingertips sank deeply into the soft, mature flesh, and Barbara cooed, watching her naked reflection.

The improvements bestowed by the little voodoo doll hadn't given back her youth - she was still obviously a woman, a mom in the flower of her maturity - which was just as well, as it meant she wouldn't have to get an entire set of new photo id's. Instead she'd been...edited, almost, recreated in the image of her most physically ideal self, the self that somehow ended up a Hollywood sex symbol, an Angie Everheart or Elizabeth Hurley, only without any sign of Botox.

Barbara flicked her nipple and gasped. They were so sensitive now! A flush rose in her face as she flicked it again, feeling the juiced beginning to flow again between her thighs. It was *all* so sensitive now, she corrected, as though her nerve endings were a little closer to the surface.

It had taken a while before she had stopped exploring her new self long enough to get out of bed, particularly after last night's fevered dreams, which had left her sopping wet and needy upon waking. Barbara couldn't really recall what the dreams had been about, only that they prominently featured the chiselled body of a much younger man whose touch left her aching for more.

"Someone a little more my speed," the movie-star in the mirror smirked as she spoke. "Oh well. Can't diddle myself all day." Reluctantly, Barbara stood, feeling a bead of moisture running down the inside of her leg. Breasts swaying gently, she crossed the room to pull open the drawer in the bedside table; inside, the dolls lay nestled together, female atop the male.

She lifted them out, vaguely surprised that they weren't glued together by dried semen, and wondered if it had taken, if James and the weir-boy were bonded.

"What's this?" The 'boy had developed a small green bud in the very centre of the knot between its legs, as though a new shoot were growing there. Brow furrowed, she touched it gingerly with a fingertip; the 'boy was warm, warmer than the weir-momma, but this new digit was even warmer, and it's temperature rose as she agitated it. "Isn't that interesting?" She dragged her thumb up; it felt good, like stroking fine hairs. She stroked it that way a while, relishing the sensation, feeling the warmth rising.

Curious, Barbara stroked it once the other way. That wasn't so nice, much like rubbing a cat the wrong way, and she could feel the heat rapidly dwindling away from the figurine as she did. She frowned, and ran her thumb in the other direction; the heat came roaring back.

She'd have to figure it out later. Right now, the mall beckoned.

Although none of her clothes would fit quite right, Barbara managed to find a pair of black leggings that wouldn't come sliding off, over which she threw a blue chambray shirt that had grown too small for Phillip. Sliding into a pair of flip-flops, she looked down at her soft, bare feet and wiggled her toes. Maybe she'd get a pedicure while she was out; not that they needed the pampering, but they could use some polish, and it was just as well to treat herself while she was out; on her way out of the room, she glanced at the mirror, and decided against makeup. It seemed a shame to cover up what the weir-momma had wrought.

Heading down the hallway, she noticed that James' door was slightly ajar.

"I can't, Jamie, I can't!" Janie's was protesting something. Curious, Barbara crept up to the crack, and her breath caught in her throat as she looked inside.

"Baby, I need to!" James was standing with his back to the door, and his mother could see the whole naked length of him, from his broad, muscled shoulders, to his rounded, clenched buttocks, to the ankle socks he was wearing. "I'm sorry, Janie, I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"You can't just jump to fucking, James. You've gotta warm me up, first!" The chubby young bitch was bent over his bed as he whimpered and tried to control the thrust of his hips.

"Baby I'm so sorry, I don't know what's going on! I just...woke up like this." He stifled a needy whimper, fingers digging into his girlfriend's hips.

"Ungh!" The girl grunted. "I've never seen you so- ow! Hard, honey. But you've got to slow down."

"I'm sorry baby." Barbara watched, fascinated, then started groping at the breast pocket of her shirt, drawing out the weir-boy. The bud had grown even hotter. Curious, she started stroking the little green nubbin. Moments later, James' knees began to visibly tremble.

"Oh god oh god!" He shouted.

"Honey you're not even inside me," Janie protested. "At least let me grab some lube."

With a sly grin, Barbara gave the little green nub an experimental stroke the wrong way.

"Shit! Agh!"

"What happened?"

"Fuck! Fuck I dunno, it's like it just...went away?" Barbara stroked it down again as he pulled back from his girlfriend, cock rapidly deflating. Even as it softened, James' cock appeared to be a sizeable slab of meat, a respectable seven inches or so.

Chuckling silently, she pulled back from the door before she was spotted, and carried on down the hall. Now wasn't *that* interesting?

If there had been anybody there to watch, they would have noticed Barbara's step now included an exaggerated, confident strut.

--

She was still strutting, hours later, as she came back into the house, laden down with bags. James and Janie were sitting in the living room, watching a movie from the couch. Barbara poked her head in.

"Honey, can you go out and get the rest of the stuff in the car?" She said.

"Sure mom," James replied, not looking up.

"Bring it up to the bedroom," Barbara instructed, slipping back around the corner.

The bags *flumphed* onto the bed. She circled around and gently laid the figurines on the table. If she didn't know any better, she might have said that the little green nubbin between the male doll's legs was a little bigger. Somehow she'd resisted the urge to play with it for most of the day, knowing what it was connected to, knowing that she was indirectly teasing her own son's cock. But the naughty thrill sent an electric tingle through her body, particularly when she wondered what it looked like as the doll's nub heated up, when James' prodigious cock was fully swollen; during her pedicure, there had been very little else for her to do, besides try not to be obvious about grinding her ass into the seat in the salon.