Diet
by Pan
Chapter 10
“Hey sis,” I said casually, leaning against the family car.
Cynthia was cleaning it out. That used to be one of my chores, but…well, ‘my chores’ wasn’t really a thing any more.
It wasn’t fucking my sister, but I’d take it. I mean, think about it: ‘servitude’ is half of ‘sexual servitude’.
Now I just had to accomplish the other half.
“Oh, hey,” she said, glancing up at me with a smile.
I suddenly realized that my sister and I hadn’t really been talking as much lately. I guess I was hypnotizing her a few times a week, but that wasn’t really ‘talking’. The change made sense, I guess—half of our conversations used to just be her complaining about her weight.
But that hadn’t really been ‘talking’ either.
The sight of her smile made me realize, I kind of missed hanging out with her. That was something we’d have to do more of.
Ideally while one or both of us was naked.
“How’s everything going?”
“Good,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “What’s up? I thought my next sesh was tomorrow night.”
“It is,” I said, slightly hurt that she didn’t want to talk to me just to talk to me. “Just thought I’d come say hi, see how you’re doing.”
“Yeah, good,” she said again. “Almost done with this, then I’m going to clean the fridge out.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Hey,” she said, a surprisingly earnest tone in her voice. “Thank you for helping me. Seriously—I really appreciate it.”
I’d do anything to keep you happy wasn’t said, but it was there anyway, hanging in the air.
“It’s fine,” I said, waving off her words. “I just wanted to check in, make sure everything was okay.”
“Of course,” she said. Her eyes narrowed. “Why? Is something wrong?”
I could sense the hint of panic in her voice, like I was coming to tell her that I wasn’t going to help her any more.
“No, no,” I said, avoiding her eyes. “No. It’s…it’s nothing.”
Cynthia got out of the car and stood beside me. She was wearing a baggy outfit, hiding the killer body that I’d always suspected (and now knew) that she was hiding underneath. She stood in front of me, a foot shorter than I was.
“Seriously,” she said. “What’s up?”
“It’s just…”
I was still avoiding eye-contact, and my sister surprised me by grabbing my face and turning it to her. Her eyes were the same color as mine, but larger. Softer.
With a sigh, I reached up and moved my hand over hers, holding it to my cheek.
“You know I’ve been helping Mom lose weight, right?”
“Of course,” she said, scrunching up her nose in confusion.
“I’ve been helping you for longer, and you and I do more sessions each week.”
“Okay…”
“And it’s just…”
I sighed, and looked to the side. Maybe a little too dramatically, because when I glanced back at my sister, she was rolling her eyes.
“What?”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but…it’s been working.”
It was true. It had been a little over a month since I’d started hypnotizing our mother, and the results were actually starting to show. My technique—immoral though you could claim it was—was really working
“Yeah.”
Cynthia was staring at me impatiently. I don’t even know if she noticed her foot jiggling nervously.
“And, well…
I gestured to my sister’s body. I didn’t have to say another word—I could practically hear her heart sink.
“Oh.”
“I mean, I don’t think you’ve gained weight…”
My sister was blinking back tears as I continued.
“…but yeah. I don’t know why it’s working so well for her and not for you.”
“Well,” Cynthia said, “what are you doing differently for Mom?”
“Basically the same as what you and I are doing,” I lied.
“Maybe I can do more,” she said desperately. “Maybe I can try harder.”
The last time I’d put Cynthia under, I’d asked what her conscious mind thought we were doing. All of my instructions so far—the masturbation, the ‘thinking of what your brother would like’, wearing less clothing for our sessions—those had all been given directly to her subconscious.
Unlike our mother, I hadn’t actually done anything while she was awake—this was probably why we were hanging out less. I guess I’d been nervous about drawing attention to the fact that my ‘coaching’ wasn’t actually making her change her behavior.
Turned out, Cynthia had really embraced what I’d said about shifting her attitude. She’d figured that hypnosis was all about changing her subconscious drives, and that the results would just…happen.
I didn’t correct her, of course. Rather, I affirmed what she’d thought.
As far as my sister was concerned, weight-loss hypnosis was about ninety percent attitude changing, and we’d get to the bigger stuff later.
I could hardly wait.
“I mean, it’s not exactly the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re different people. Different things work for different people.”
“Please,” Cynthia said, moving my hand to her chest. No, not the fun part—her collarbone. I could feel her bone, in a way that I don’t think I’d be able to if she was actually fat. “Please—whatever you’re doing with her, do it with me as well. Please?”
I sighed.
“Okay,” I replied, after a long pause. “If that’s what you really want.”
“It’s what I need,” my sister said. “Please.”
“How did you feel when I told you that Mom was losing weight faster than you?”
“Terrible,” my sister said. “I felt like a failure.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re working so hard. You’re working so hard, I can’t even think of a good way to thank you…and it’s not even working on me.”
“Did you feel guilty?”
“Yes.”
“Did you feel inadequate?”
“Yes.”
“Did you feel worthless?”
There was a pause.
“Cynthia, did you feel worthless?”
“…a little, I guess.”
She sounded unsure.
“You should.”
My sister sat silently, absorbing my words.
“My technique is working for Mom, and she needs it less.” A lie, of course, but one that my sister already believed. “She needs it less, I’m doing fewer sessions with her, I’ve been working with you for longer…and yet, it’s working better on her than you.”
Cynthia didn’t move, but she was clearly hanging on my every word.
“My techniques are mostly the same, so what’s the difference?”
“Me.”
“Pardon?”
“Me,” Cynthia said, this time louder than a whisper.
“That’s right. You’ve failed, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re the problem, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want most in the world?”
“To lose weight.”
“What are you working on, as hard as you can?”
“Losing weight.”
“You want to lose weight more than anything, and you’re working on it as hard as you can. But you’re not losing weight, are you?”
“No.”
“So what does that make you?”
A tear slowly slid down Cynthia’s face.
“Louder, Cynthia.”
“A failure,” she repeated.
“You’re worthless, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m worthless.”
“You’re a worthless failure. Say it.”
“I’m a worthless failure.”
“You’re not worth my time, are you?”
“No.”
“I exist purely to help you lose weight, and you’re still not worth my time, are you?”
“No.”
“Say it.”
“You’re only here to help me, and I still don’t deserve you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a worthless failure.”
“That’s right.”
To my surprise, I was breathing heavily. My cock was always hard when I put my sister under—the combination of control and her bare skin is the sexiest thing in the world to me—but this time, I was positively throbbing.
Something about my sister berating herself at my command…it turned me on, more than I expected.
“Say it again.”
“I’m useless.”
“Again.”
“I’m a waste of space.”
“Correct.”
I smiled, and shook my head. This was fun—surprisingly so—but not the point of today’s session.
“What do you think you can do to improve?”
“I can try harder.”
“How?”
There was a long pause as Cynthia thought. I used the opportunity to stare at the wall and calm myself down a little.
“I don’t know,” she finally admitted.
I sighed.
“You really are good for nothing, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
I resisted the temptation to have her say it a few more times, and pressed on.
“What have I instructed you to do so far?”
“Masturbate twice a day.”
“So maybe you could masturbate three times a day.”
“Okay,” my sister said expressionlessly.
Insatiable slut.
“What else?”
“Think of ways that I can make my brother happy.”
“What have you come up with so far?”
“Pay him. Set him up with one of my friends. Offer him fashion advice.”
“What else?”
“…blow him. Give him a handjob. Let him fuck my tits.”
“What else?” I said, leaning forward.
“…let him fuck me. Let him fuck my ass.”
My eyebrows raised. That one was new.
“Anything else?”
“No.”
I left that train of thought alone for now. It seemed that my sister was doing a great job of pushing herself further on her own.
“What else have I instructed you to do?”
“Stop weighing myself.”
“What else?”
I could hardly tell her to weigh herself less.
“Prepare my room and change clothes before you hypnotize me.”
Bingo.
“Why did I have you change clothes?”
“So you could properly assess my attractiveness.”
My sister was laying in front of me wearing a tank top and a pair of boy-shorts. It was more revealing than anything I’d seen her in before I’d started hypnotizing her…but I wanted more.
More, more, more.
“What clothing do guys find attractive?”
“High heels. Yoga pants. Stockings. Sundresses. ”
“Do you own any of those?”
“I own high heels and stockings.”
“Next time we have a meeting, you should be wearing high heels and stockings. What else do men find attractive?”
“Boobs…—“
“Clothing,” I interrupted. “What other clothing do guys find attractive?”
“Short skirts. Bikinis. Lingerie.”
“Do you own any lingerie?”
“Yes,” my sister answered without hesitation.
“If Mom isn’t home, the next time I put you under, I want you wearing lingerie. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
The pause was small, but it was enough to make me nervous.
“Is there a problem?”
“It’s weird.”
“What is?”
“Being around my brother wearing nothing but lingerie.”
“Why?”
“Because…he’s my brother.”
It was the same excuse she’d given for not liking getting off while thinking of me. I mean, it made sense…but it was something I was going to have to deal with eventually.
But not today.
“You want him to keep helping you, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he’s going to keep helping you if you’re not doing everything you can?”
“No.”
“How could you do more to help him assess your attractiveness?”
“Dress more attractively.”
“Why?”
“So that he can tell if I’m losing weight.”
I smiled.
“So…what are you going to wear next time you have a session?”
“Stockings and high heels. If Mom isn’t home, lingerie.”
“And how many times are you going to get off each day?”
“Three,” my sister replied.
“Good,” I said with a nod.
I was about to wake her up, but a thought struck me.
“What do you think Mom is doing differently?”
It was poorly worded, but Cynthia answered immediately.
“Affirmations.”
I leaned forward.
“Affirmations?”
“Yeah,” Cynthia said. “Affirmations.”
“What are affirmations?”
“I found a list in Mom’s handwriting,” my sister said. “It just said ‘I shall not cheat on my diet’, hundreds of times. Affirmations are writing out your goals, over and over. It helps focus your mind on what you want.”
“Have you tried affirmations?”
“Yeah.”
“Did they work?”
“No.”
I mean, from my point of view, the reason was obvious. Cynthia didn’t really have any weight to lose. But I was curious.
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because I’m useless,” my sister said sadly, and my cock throbbed in response.
“Yes you are,” I said, and woke her up.
I tried. God knows I tried.
In all fairness, I’d been doing really well so far. Really well. I mean, it’s been however many years, and neither my mother nor my sister have any idea that I’m into them. I know—I searched their subconscious minds for evidence.
Nothing.
But when Cynthia approached me wearing a pair of red high heels, black stockings, and a set of white lingerie…I couldn’t help myself.
My eyes practically out of my head as she walked up to me, and for the first time in my life, I truly understood the expression ‘tongue-tied’.
“Hey,” Cynthia said, her cheeks burning.
“I…uh…the…”
“You were going to put me under, remember? It’s four o’clock.”
“You…can…”
My sister just waited patiently as I found my words, an odd expression on her face. Eventually, I gave up on speech and gestured to her bedroom.
She led the way and I followed, unable to tear my eyes away from her incredible butt.
I thought she’d looked good in revealing tops—in lingerie, she was perfect. Simply perfect. She could have been a model, if there were models with tits the size of Tokyo.
Which there definitely should be—if my sister had been advertising something, I would have bought it without a second thought. Whatever it was. I would have walked home with a set of golf clubs and a tub of crude oil if Cynthia had been on the poster.
But she wasn’t a model. She was mine. Her body, her perfect body—it was all mine.
And I didn’t intend to share it with anyone.
By the time she lay on the bed, I’d managed to regain the power of speech, and pretty soon she was under, breathing slowly, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
“Okay Cynthia,” I said, pulling out my phone. “Time to take some pictures.”