Diet
by Pan
Chapter 11
“Count them,” I instructed. “Out loud.”
SMACK.
“One!” my mother gasped.
SMACK.
“Two!”
SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.
“Three! Four! Ungh…five!”
“Not fast enough,” I said. “I’m adding another ten.”
“Yes,” Mom moaned. “Yes! Harder. Please, son…harder.”
“How did you feel the first time I spanked you?”
“Disappointed,” Mom answered.
“Why?”
“Because it didn’t hurt.”
“Why did you want it to hurt?”
“It’s a punishment,” my mother replied, crinkling her nose. “If it doesn’t hurt, it’s not going to work.”
“How did you feel the second time I spanked you?”
There was a pause as my mother shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes,” Mom replied without hesitation.
“Did you like it?”
“Yes,” Mom said, her voice low and soft.
“If I’m going to help you lose weight, I need to completely understand what’s going on in your head, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to ask you questions that may be uncomfortable, but if it has to do with your weight-loss regime, it’s important that you be honest. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Mom said again.
“Will you be totally honest, no matter what I ask?”
“Yes.”
“The second time I spanked you…did it arouse you?”
“…yes.”
“Good job,” I said warmly. “Answering honestly is vital. You’re doing great.”
Mom smiled in response.
“Did you notice anything unusual when you came and got your brother today?” I asked my sister without preamble.
“Yes.”
“What did you notice?”
“My brother’s reaction.”
“How did he react?”
“He looked shocked.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because of what I was wearing. Because of how revealing it was.”
My heart sank. I was busted. My sister was going to piece together what I thought of her, what I was doing. She could wake up at any moment, from sheer suspicion. I was going to…—
“It showed off how unattractive my body is,” Cynthia added.
I swear, normally I’m better at controlling my expressions than this. Like I said—I’ve hidden my familial attractions for God knows how long.
But before I knew what was happening, a laugh had emerged from my mouth.
“Yes,” I said, when my giggles had subsided. “Yes, that’s exactly what it is. Your brother was disgusted by your body. What do you think you’re currently at, out of ten?”
“Two,” my sister whispered sadly; the lowest number she’d given yet.
“That’s right,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Two. Where do you think Mom is.”
“Five point five?”
“Also correct. She’s improving, and you’re dropping. Have you been taking the actions we discussed last time?”
“Yes,” Cynthia said. “I’m masturbating three times a day, and I dressed more attractively.”
I took a moment to feast on my sister’s body with my eyes. I have no idea why she owned a set of lacy white lingerie without owning stockings to match, but it was hard to complain. She’d kept the heels on even as she lay down on the bed. She was typically so short—even with the heels, I was still probably a foot taller than her, but following her down the hall I’d loved what it did to her legs and butt.
My sister, leading me to her room, dressed like a whore. That was something I could get used to.
“What are you thinking about when you masturbate?”
“Boys,” Cynthia said. “Cock. Sucking cock. Fucking boys. Being thin enough to attract three boys at once, and taking one in each hole…”
I leaned back with a smile. It seemed that the more Cynthia got off, the more deviant her thoughts grew.
“What are you thinking about when you cum?”
“Fucking my brother,” Cynthia said without hesitation. My eyes widened. There was a slight huskiness to her voice. “Sucking his cock. Making him cum. Making him cum on my face.”
“You’re meant to be coming up with ways to please him,” I said.
“I know,” Cynthia said.
“Do you think those would be good ways to please your brother?”
“No.”
“Then…why is that what you’re thinking about?”
“It’s really hard to get off three times a day,” my sister said, her voice strained. “It’s really hard.”
Interesting. My impulses had been correct—instructing my sister to get herself off so much had forced her into darker fantasies.
“How long is it taking you?”
“Longer,” she said, after a brief pause. “Maybe forty minutes each time?”
Not ideal, but not the end of the world. If it went above an hour, that’s when I’d start to worry.
“Do you like thinking about your brother while you get off?”
“No,” Cynthia admitted. “I hate it.”
“Why?”
“It makes me feel so dirty. And…”
She trailed off. I’d learned this trick now, and waited patiently for her to put together the rest of the sentence.
“…it’s making me feel weird.”
“Weird how?”
“When I’m around my brother. Like he knows. Like he knows what I’m thinking.”
I scratched my nose thoughtfully.
“You mean…you’re having sexual thoughts about your brother while you’re around him?”
Cynthia’s response was barely loud enough to hear, but I was listening intently.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Sort of.”
“What do you mean ‘sort of’?”
“I’m not thinking of him sexually,” she replied. “But I’m having sexual thoughts about him. About what I think about when I get off. About what I do to him in my fantasies.”
“But you’re not thinking of him sexually?”
“No.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I’m looking at him and thinking of sex, but…he’s not the sexual one. I am.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“Gross,” she answered without hesitation. “Like there’s something wrong with me. It makes me feel completely disgusting. I hate it.”
I’d gone through a phase of that. When I’d first started jerking off, thinking about my Mom and sis, I’d despised myself for these disgusting, erotic thoughts that I couldn’t control.
Now…eh. I was pretty much okay with being a pervert.
“Any good ideas for how to keep your brother happy?”
“No. Except for keeping him from ever learning about my fucked-up fantasies.”
My ears perked up. ‘Fantasies’.
“Good idea,” I said with a nod. “That would definitely scare him off. Of course, you can safely tell me, can’t you?”
“Yes. You’re not my brother. You’re Danny, my trainer.”
I was suddenly very grateful to past-Daniel for setting that up.
“I’ve been thinking about how we can help you lose weight,” I said, abruptly changing tack, “and I’ve come up with an idea.”
Despite the fact that she was staring ahead blank-eyed, completely unable to move, I swear my sister’s face lit up.
“What is it??” she said, even though I hadn’t asked her for a response.
“It’s something that I couldn’t get Mom to agree to,” I said. My sister has always had a competitive side. “But I think it’d work wonders.”
I paused. She wasn’t moving, but I could still feel my sister desperately straining to hear what my suggestion was.
“I’ve been reviewing your photos, and it’s going to be easier to tell how your weight-loss is going if you start dressing more skimpily around the house.”
My sister’s pupils narrowed in fear.
“That way, while I’m checking in every few days, seeing you as your trainer, your brother can assess you more frequently than that. Any questions?”
“How can my brother assess my attractiveness?”
I paused. Good question.
“How did your brother react when he saw you today?”
“He was repulsed.”
“So that’s what you’re looking for,” I said, leaning forward. “If he keeps on reacting like he did today, you’ll know you’re repulsive. If his reaction isn’t as strong, you’re less repulsive. Make sense?”
“Yes.”
“Any other questions?”
“Do I have to?” Cynthia asked quietly.
“If you want to lose weight, this may be the only way.”
There was a long pause.
“What do you say?”
“Okay,” Cynthia whispered.
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I’ll wear fewer clothes around the house.”
“Like what?”
“Tank tops. Shorts.”
“And I don’t want you wearing a bra. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I won’t wear a bra.”
“Your brother will need to assess how repulsive you are, so you need to wear fewer clothes. Sexier clothes.”
I paused. I couldn’t. Could I?
“Sluttier clothes.”
I held my breath as I watched Cynthia’s reaction.
Nothing.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Say it back to me.”
“I need to dress like a slut.”
“Why?”
“To see how much it grosses out my brother.”
“How will you know if your weight-loss regime is working?”
“If he’s less repulsed.”
I smiled.
“Good.”
This was going so well, I couldn’t resist.
“That means heels, all the time. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you’re going to do.”
“I’m going to dress attractively around the house. I’m going to wear fewer clothes than normal. I’m going to wear heels.”
“Why?”
“So my brother can assess how attractive I am.”
I nodded.
“…and because Mom couldn’t,” my sister was unable to resist adding.
My smile quickly become a grin.
“How do you feel about being aroused while I spanked you?”
“Uncomfortable,” Mom answered. “It was weird.”
“Why do you think it was weird?”
“Mothers aren’t supposed to enjoy their son’s touch.”
“You enjoyed cuddling me when I was a baby, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So sometimes it’s okay for mothers to enjoy being touched by their son, isn’t it?”
“This is different,” Mom said.
“Why?”
“This was…sexual.”
“Why do you think it was sexual?”
“I was turned on,” my mother replied. “I was sexually…aroused.”
“Yes, but…—“
“So were you,” Mom said. My eyebrows shot up.
“What?”
“You were aroused as well. I could feel it.”
My immediate impulse was to deny it, but I knew that would be a bad idea. I was starting to get the hang of the ebb and flow of hypnosis, and directly contradicting someone…something told me that wouldn’t go well.
The trick, I’d learned, was not direct confrontation. It was ducking and weaving around the edges of an idea, changing someone’s perspective inch by inch.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I felt too uncomfortable,” Mom replied.
“Did it make you suspicious?”
“No.”
I could literally feel my individual muscles relaxing. It was like I’d grown entirely new parts of my body, just to tense them up.
“Why not?”
On one hand, it felt like I was playing with fire. On the other hand, if I was going to keep going with this—and now that I’d spanked Mom properly, I knew that I had to continue—I needed to understand what was going on in her head.
“Getting aroused is a natural reaction,” Mom said. “I know you it didn’t mean anything. You aren’t attracted to me.”
“So why do you think I was aroused?”
“Because we were in a sexual situation,” Mom replied.
“You used to spank me and Cynthia when we were young, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Was that sexual?”
“No.”
“Why is this different?”
“Because of the arousal.”
I narrowed my eyes. There was something circular about this logic, and I wanted to see if I could break the cycle.
“I was only aroused because it was sexual, correct?”
“Yes.”
“But it was only sexual because we were aroused. Right?”
“No.”
There was a long pause, as I stared into my mother’s unblinking eyes.
“…well, yes,” she finally admitted.
“Why did I spank you?”
“Because I asked you to.”
“And why did you ask me to?”
“Because it’s the only way to ensure that I stick to my diet.”
“There’s nothing sexual about that, is there?”
“No.”
“So why was the spanking sexual?”
“Because…”
Mom squirmed on her seat again. Probably due to embarrassment, but I couldn’t help but hope that a part of it was arousal.
“…because of how much I enjoyed it.”
I sat back. Within the minute, I had an idea.
“Me spanking you was part of your weight-loss regime, yes?”
Mom nodded.
“Have you ever ridden a stationary bike?”
Mom shook her head. Figured.
“It’s an exhausting process. You end up covered in sweat, your heart racing, your skin flushed. Do you know what happens to some women while they’re on a stationary bike?”
“No.”
“They cum.”
Mom’s eyes widened at my crude language, but—to my great relief—she showed no signs of stirring, no indication that she was going to wake up.
“They cum,” I repeated, driving the point home. “Not because it’s sexual, just because of the physical stimulation. And you know what their coaches say?”
“No,” Mom replied, not even questioning who these women were (or why they needed coaches).
“They encourage it. If a woman has an orgasm while working out, she’s more likely to work out. Right?”
“…yes.”
Mom’s reply was slow—and reluctant—but it was affirmative, and that was good enough for me.
“If you cum while exercising, that’s not really sexual, is it?”
“N-no.”
“Say it.”
“If you…if you…cum…while exercising, that’s not really…sexual.”
“Again.”
“If you…cum while exercising, that’s not really…sexual.”
“Ten more times.”
“If you…cum…while exercising, that’s not really sexual. If you c-cum…”
By the time Mom reached the eleventh repetition (apparently losing count), she was no longer stammering out any of the words.
“Your punishments are part of your diet, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Without your punishments, you’re going to put on weight, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What will you do to avoid putting on weight?”
“Anything.”
“Say it.”
“I’ll do anything to avoid putting on weight.”
“What will you do to lose weight?”
“Anything.”
“Say it.”
“I’ll do anything to lose weight.”
“You need your punishments to lose weight, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“They’re part of your fitness regime, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“They’re just like exercise, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“So it’s okay to feel sexual pleasure while being punished, isn’t it?”
I was hoping for an immediate, enthusiastic yes. You can call me an optimist.
Instead, I got a long silence.
But then, just as I was starting to lose hope…Mom nodded.
“Say it,” I whispered.
“It’s…it’s okay to…”
“Say it,” I urged.
“It’s okay to…oh, god…”
“Mom,” I said, staring straight into her blank eyes. “If you want to lose weight, say it.”
“It’s okay to feel…”
The rest of the words were inaudible, but it was a start.
“Again,” I pressed.
Mom repeated her inaudible whisper.
“Again,” I said. “Twenty more times.
“It’s okay to…to feel…s-sexual…pleasure…while being p-p—…punished. It’s okay to feel..sexual p-pleasure…while…”
She never got to the point of loud and proud—even on her twenty-fourth repetition (keeping track of numbers is apparently not Mom’s strong suit) she was still stammering over the word ‘pleasure’.
But she said it, which mean that on some level, she believed it, and that was good enough.
“The next time you screw up on your diet, what are you going to do?”
Mom’s face was beet-red, and her blank eyes looked like they wanted to be looking anywhere but at me, her son.
“I’m going to come to you and let you know.”
“What are you going to ask me to do?”
“I’m…I’m going to ask you to punish me.”
“How?”
“With a…with a spanking.”
I smiled.
“One last thing,” I said. “Cynthia’s weight-loss journey is different to yours. She responds more to positive attention, so I’ve told her to start wearing less clothing around the house.”
Mom nodded.
“She’s going to be self-conscious if you say anything about it, so don’t say anything out loud. The best thing you can do is just stare at her whenever you see her wearing less, okay?”
“Okay,” Mom said reluctantly, and I woke her up.