The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

My grandpa was a farmer.

When I was a kid, I remember him telling me about milking the cows. I’ve no idea why, but I loved him, so I’d listened to his tale.

“Every morning,” he’d grunted—it had felt like Grandpa Mel always spoke in grunts—“I wake up at four-thirty in the morning, and make my way out to the shed. There are fifty-eight cows in that shed. Me and Maw milk each and every one of them before breakfast.”

After my grandma died, Grandpa Mel had remarried a woman we all just knew as “Maw”.

“At four thirty in the afternoon, we go back and milk ’em all again before supper.”

Our parents had encouraged Betty and I to ask a lot of questions, and Grandpa Mel was one of the few adults who’d put up with it, so I’d spent the next hour or so grilling him, basically, asking about why they went to bed so early, why they had so many cows, why they needed to be milked twice a day.

I’d asked him what happened if they didn’t get milked, and I’ll never forget his response—he just looked at me coolly, raised his eyebrows slightly, and said “They always get milked. Each and every day. I’m responsible for those cows, and that means I’m there for them. Each and every day. That’s just how life is—some’re responsible for others, and you gotta do right by ’em.”

I was responsible for my sister. What we’d done to her—it would have been easy to blame Chet, but I’d been there too. What had happened to Betty was on me, at least partially, and that meant that I was responsible for her.

I was responsible for her, and I had to do right by her.

Even without the responsibility, it was hard not to draw other parallels between my Grandpa Mel and me.

Between my sister and the cows.

At least I only had to take care of my sister once a day. Each night for the next week, I’d find time to be alone with her, and I’d make sure she was taken care of.

“Cum.”

The second night I did it, I didn’t put my hand up to her mouth.

“Cum.”

Not at first.

“Cum.”

But each time she followed my instruction, her moans got louder.

“Cum.”

By the fifth moan, I was terrified of our parents overhearing, coming to investigate. Catching us.

“Cum.”

And so I allowed her lips to part, letting my finger in, letting her tongue swirl around it.

“Cum, cum, cum, cum.”

I’d gotten used to the blank stare. I never thought it would be possible, but I did.

Now, it was the look of need that alarmed me. The look of wanton lust.

I knew it was fake, of course. Chet had programmed my sister to look desperate, to look enticing. Maybe it was how he eased his conscience, maybe it just turned him on.

I mean, it turned me on.

I hated that it turned me on, but it did. My sister’s tongue, swirling around my finger, the look of lust in her eyes as she came by my command, over and over again.

It wasn’t right. None of this fucked up situation was right. Betty should’ve been my sister. My passionate, science-loving, chatterbox sister.

Instead, she was a blank slate, able to be turned into whatever you wanted.

Whatever Chet wanted.

“Cum,” I said again. I’d lost count—I lost count every night. At first, I’d planned on slowly weaning her off the orgasms, reducing the number she needed.

But as my sister writhed with pleasure, climaxing again and again and again, it was easy for me to get…distracted.

And so each and every night, as I brought her to orgasm, I lost track of how many times I’d made her cum, as she sucked on my finger like it was a cock, staring at me with desire.

When I was done, I’d slip out of the room, leaving my sister horny, panting, wanting nothing more than to…

No. No, that was all in my head. My sister didn’t want anything.

Not any more.

Fucked your sister yet?

I rolled my eyes as I saw Chet’s text. Of course. The first time he reached out, it wasn’t with concern, it wasn’t with advice.

It was with a fucked-up, taunting question.

No, I responded. Fuck off.

Let me know when you do, he replied. She’s real good.

I didn’t even know they had phones in Puerto Rico, I responded. Not my proudest moment, I admit—I’d never even commented on Chet’s heritage before, let alone tried to weaponize it.

But hey, I was pissed off. He’d turned my sister into a sex robot. I figured that excused a little racism.

Classy, he replied. Just like your sister.

Attached was a photo of Betty’s ass, with what I could only hope was Chet’s cock buried deep inside it. She was reaching back, spreading her ass-cheeks with both hands, and even though I could only see half of her face, I could tell that she was mid-orgasm.

It was a face I’d gotten very used to.

Obviously I should have deleted the photo. Like, if nothing else, imagine if someone had found it on my phone? It could have set off a series of events that led to expulsion, public humiliation, jail…

But I didn’t.

Like I said, before the accident, I’d never looked at my sister in a sexual way. Ever. I just didn’t see her like that. And if I had—which I promise, I didn’t—it would have just grossed me out.

As far as I’d been concerned, she didn’t have tits, or an ass, or a pussy. She was just Betty, y’know?

But now…

Watching my sister cum as she suckled on my finger was starting to mess with my head. Each night, I was making my sister cum over and over, only leaving when she was red-faced with exertion.

After the first few days, I’d given into temptation—once I’d gotten back to my room, I’d pulled my dick out and jerked off.

I felt horrible about it, of course. But I think it’s just a biological thing—making someone cum, even if they’re related to you, it’s a huge turn-on; in my case, it seemed to be powerful enough to overcome the Westermarck effect, the natural disinclination to be sexually attracted to those you grow up with.

A part of me hoped that it’d, I dunno, “fix” me. That getting off with my sister’s image in my mind would be enough to make me go back to seeing her as a non-sexual being.

But it just seemed to make things worse.

The next night, as I watched my sister get off in front of me over and over again, it was like I couldn’t turn my brain off. All I could think about was what she’d looked like while riding Chet, the look of passion on her face, the way she’d whimpered in orgasm, just like she was whimpering in front of me now.

I should’ve deleted the image. That would have been the right thing to do, I know that.

But instead, I saved it to my phone, and looked at it when I jerked off that night.

“Cum.”

My sister did, moaning as she did.

“Cum.”

Her eyes fluttered, and she thrust her chest forward.

At first, I’d refused to look. I mean, I’d seen her naked—I’d seen her naked body being used by Chet, as she cried out in orgasm—so I don’t know why this bothered me.

I guess because the two of us were alone. Because I couldn’t blame it on Chet. If I looked at her body, if I looked down her cleavage, it wouldn’t be his fault.

It would be mine.

That had worked for a while, but then…I’d started to look.

“Cum.”

I was hard as a rock as I made my sister cum, staring at her chest. I didn’t even know breasts could blush, but my sister’s did.

“Cum. Cum. Cum.”

It started at her clavicle—the bone across her chest—and then spread up to her neck, her face…and down to her breasts.

“Cum.”

Then it met another blush—I had no idea where that one started. Between her breasts, probably. It sort of creeps up the sides.

“Cum.”

I was learning a lot about women from this experience.

“Cum. Cum. Cum.”

I was hard as steel as I watched my sister cum.

“Cum. Cum. Cum.”

She wanted to moan loudly, but my hand stopped her, so she did the next best thing.

No, not the next best thing. I had to stop thinking of her as person with wants, with priorities.

She wasn’t a person with desires. She had been programmed by Chet to turn him on.

“Cum.”

To turn me on.

“Cum.”

She wanted to moan loudly, but my hand stopped her. So instead, she moved to a different set of instructions that Chet had implanted in her, and began to suck on my finger.

“Cum.”

If I lowered my pants, I was pretty sure she would have sucked on my cock.

“Cum, cum, cum.”

I hadn’t actually seen her suck Chet off, but there was no doubt in my mind that he’d had her do it. He didn’t see her as a person, after all—she was just a living fleshlight. She was just a set of three holes for him to cum in.

“Cum.”

She was a robot who could be programmed with whatever responses most turned him on. But she wasn’t a robot made of metal and plastic. She was a robot made of flesh. Female teenage flesh.

“Cum.”

She was a robot made of Betty.

“Cum.”

My voice was hoarse, and I realized I’d done it again. I’d completely lost track of how many times I’d ordered my sister to cum. I’d stared down her chest as she tried to suck the skin off my finger, and tried to convince myself that Chet was wrong.

That she was more than just a flesh robot.

That she was more than just a fucktoy.

That she was still a person.

I tried to convince myself that there was a reason—any reason—I shouldn’t just give into my desires, and fuck her like Chet had. Like he would again, when he returned.

I knew I was smart. I don’t think that’s arrogance…if nothing else, my grades over the past decade had clearly informed me that I had above-average intelligence.

But despite the brainpower that I knew I possessed, I couldn’t come up with a reason. Even a paper-thin reason.

Nothing.

“Cum.”

My sister did, moaning loudly.

My parents had gone out, so—for the first time since I’d started ‘milking’ my sister, I didn’t have to cover her face with my hand.

“Cum,” I repeated. My sister moaned again, louder than before. “Cum, cum, cum.”

It was easier, in some ways. I was sitting across the room, so I couldn’t look down her top. Without my hand at her mouth, she couldn’t suck my finger.

Her eyes still fluttered, and her chest still thrust forward. Unlike when she was frantically fellating my finger, her hips thrust forward with every orgasm.

I wondered what her orgasms would look like if I made her cum with my cock in her ass.

No. No. I couldn’t.

For some reason.

“Cum. Cum, cum, cum.”

Her hands started moving up and down her body, caressing her skin. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a white button-up shirt. Neither Chet nor I knew anything about fashion, so we’d simply gone through her wardrobe, removed anything ridiculous (like her tiger onesie, or her old marching band uniform) and told her to pair up any top with any bottom.

So far, there had been no issues, but I always made sure to check what she was wearing before she left the house each day.

“Cum. Cum. Cum.”

To my horror, Betty began unbuttoning her shirt. I stopped telling her to cum, of course, but it didn’t slow her down.

“Betty,” I hissed. “Stop.”

She obeyed, but not before undoing the last button. With a shrug, her shirt fell to the side, and her tits came into view.

Like I said, I’d seen them before. When Chet was fucking her—I’d seen her tits bounce. It was an image that I wish I’d been able to get out of my head, but I couldn’t.

They were too perfect.

Now, sitting in front of me, I could see her tits again. And fuck…they were really something. Like, I know I shouldn’t even be thinking about my sister’s tits, but this—you have to admit—was an exceptional circumstance.

“Betty,” I croaked, my eyes locked on her tits. They were so round, so big. Her nipples were pink, and turned to face the ceiling. I had an overwhelming urge to suck on them.

I could. That’s the fucked up part of it. I could suck on them, and no one would ever know. Not my parents, not Chet, not Betty.

There was no Betty left to know.

She turned to me, and—for the first time since the accident—I felt like she saw me. Like my sister—my sister, not the flesh-golem that I’d been taking care of for the past few weeks—looked at me, and saw me. Saw me. Her brother.

“Betty?”

“Mmm…” she moaned, leaning forward and pressing her lips against mine.