Diet
by Pan
Chapter 16
“Do you understand why?”
“…yes.” my sister reluctantly answered. “Yes.”
“Tell me why.”
“If I wake up right now, I’ll know that I’ve cum. If I know that I’ve cum, I won’t let you hypnotize me again. If I don’t let you hypnotize me again, I won’t be able to lose weight.”
Her voice trembled slightly, but I think it was out of fear. Cynthia had started with a near-pathological obsession with losing weight, and my efforts had heightened it even further.
Mom’s weight-gain had largened her breasts, but they were still smaller than my sister’s. Her obsession was probably the same way—no matter what I did to enhance it, it could never reach the level of Cynthia’s.
“Is it okay if I touch you?”
“Yes,” my sister said, blood rushing to her face.
In an instant, I was overcome with a feeling of relief. This was my way out—my way of correcting the dumb mistake that I’d made.
Then, just as quickly, it struck me.
I was going to touch my sister.
My hand was going to move between my sister’s legs, and I was…I was going to masturbate her.
The thing I’d been dreaming of for so long—it turned out I’d been even closer than I thought.
It was really happening.
“Cynthia,” I said, a huge shit-eating grin on my face. “I’m going to touch you.”
She didn’t reply, but I could see her breathing quicken.
“Is there a particular way that you touch yourself?”
My sister hesitated, and I quickly justified my question.
“As your trainer, it’s important that I know everything about your body. And if I’m going to do this, I need to do it as well as I possibly can.”
“Yes,” she breathily responded, after another brief pause. “I rub my clit.”
Oh, yeah—she’d told me this in one of our early sessions.
Your hot sister tells you how she masturbates. Not something you’d expect to forget, right?
“You normally play with your nipples first, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she replied, all but panting.
“I should play with your nipples then, shouldn’t I?”
I held my breath, hoping for a quick affirmative, but to my alarm she started twitching.
“Stop!” I shouted, panicked. I was so close—I couldn’t have this snatched away from me. Not now. Not when I was so close. “I, uh, don’t need to do that. I can just touch you between your legs.”
“Okay,” Cynthia responded, and the twitching stopped.
“Should I go under your panties?”
“No,” she answered, faster than I would have liked. “I’m already very turned on—touching me over the top should be fine.”
I nodded. I wasn’t there—not yet—but I was closer than I’d ever been.
“I’m going to touch you now,” I said. “Is that okay?”
“Yes,” my sister responded, her face burning red.
“I want you to tell me if anything makes you uncomfortable, or if I go too far. Okay?”
“Okay,” she mumbled.
“And I want you to tell me what you like. What you want me to do more of. Okay?”
“Yes,” she said. If she wasn’t under, I guarantee she would have buried her head in her hands by now.
“I’m going to spread your legs now, okay?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Oh, god…”
“Only what you’re comfortable with,” I replied quickly. Cynthia waking up was always going to be bad, but waking up with my hand between her legs? I couldn’t imagine a worse possible scenario. “Remember, I’m your trainer. I need to know where you’re at, so I can help you lose weight more efficiently.”
“Okay,” she said, sounding immediately calmer. One-track mind, my sister. “I’m worried that you’re going to touch my legs and think that they’re gross. I’m worried that you’re going to be repulsed by my skin. I’m worried that…”
She trailed off. As she was speaking, I moved one hand onto each of her knees.
“I’m not grossed out by your legs,” I said soothingly. “I’m completely neutral, remember? I’m your completely neutral trainer.”
“Okay. Okay.”
“Tell me what else you’re worried about.”
“I’m worried that…I’m going to enjoy it. I’ve never been touched by a boy before, and I’m worried that I’m going to like it too much.”
“Are you worried that you’re a slut?” I said, slowly sliding my hands up my sister’s legs.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m worried that I’m a slut,” Cynthia said, her voice half a sigh of pleasure, half a whine. “I’m worried that I’m a slut who is going to enjoy my brother’s touch.”
“Are you enjoying it so far?”
“Yes…” she panted.
I swear, if I hadn’t jerked off that morning, I would have cum in my pants right then and there.
“I’m going to touch the outside of your panties now, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” she mumbled. “I mean, um…yes.”
God. I didn’t think my cock could get any harder, but the slip-of-the-tongue ‘sir’?
It took all my self-control not to pull it out and fuck my sister on her bed then and there.
“Tell me what else you’re thinking,” I ordered, unable to help myself.
“I’m telling myself that you’re my trainer,” she panted. “You’re my trainer. You’re my trainer.”
My hands were now up against the black lace of my sister panties. I could feel the heat of her cunt. Her pussy.
I could feel my sister’s hot pussy, radiating heat.
For me.
“Why are you telling yourself that?” I asked. Kneeling at the end of the bed, I could smell my sister’s pussy.
I could smell my sister’s arousal.
“Because,” she gasped, as my first digit gently pressed down on the gusset of her panties. “You’re my trainer. You’re my trainer. And that means…oh, god.” A second finger joined the first. “…that means you’re not my brother.”
As she said ‘brother’, her entire body twitched. I almost yelped in shock—my sister, who couldn’t voluntarily move a muscle when she was hypnotized, twitched.
I did that.
I made her twitch.
My fingers made my sister twitch with arousal.
“Tell me where your clit is,” I said. Changing the subject was the last thing I wanted to do, but…well, she was wearing panties, and I wasn’t exactly experienced in this area.
“Up,” she gasped. “Yes. Yes, right there. Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes. Yesssss…”
“Remember, you can’t cum. Promise me you won’t cum.”
“I won’t cum. I won’t cum. Oh god fuck me fuck me fuck me I won’t cum.”
Maybe it’s just that every male instinctively knows how to handle a woman’s parts, or maybe it’s the hours and hours of internet research I’d done, dreaming of this moment, but it was clear that my fingers were doing a good job.
“Tell me why it’s important that I’m not your brother,” I said, my fingers gently increasing the pleasure on her clit, exactly the way she’d described her masturbation technique to me.
By this point, Cynthia’s words were starting to get slurred. She sounded drunk.
Lust-drunk.
“You’re not my brother,” she moaned, my fingers working their magic through the black lace of her now soaking wet panties. “Can’t be my brother. Brother wouldn’t do this.”
“Why wouldn’t your brother do this?”
“Brother’s not a perv. Not a perv. Not like me.”
Oh, sis. If only you knew.
“Tell me when you’re about to cum,” I ordered. “I’ll back off, so you can edge.”
“Yessir,” she gasped. “Please…”
“Please what?”
“Please, don’t stop.”
I raised one eyebrow.
“Why not?”
“Wanna cum. Please. Wanna cum so bad.”
“You already came, remember?”
“More,” she begged. “Please. Please…”
“No,” I said, a cruel smile appearing on my face. “No—you’ll cum when I tell you to. And I’m telling you that you can’t.”
“Gonna cum,” she said quickly, her eyes watering. I could tell that she wanted nothing more than to close them, to lose herself in the moment.
But my sister, I was learning, was a very obedient young lady, and as soon as I heard her warning, I pulled my fingers back.
I spent the next thirty seconds watching my horny, gorgeous twitch and writhe on her bed, knowing that I’d done that. I’d done that to her—I’d turned her on, brought her to the brink of orgasm. Touched her until she was begging me to let her cum.
I’d done that.
Until then, spanking my mother to orgasm was the greatest feeling of sexual power I’d ever felt, but ho-ly shit, it paled in comparison to almost making my sister cum. I drank it in—the sight, the smell, the tingling feeling on my fingers—and then, when she’d calmed down, I did it again.
And again, and again, and again.
I could happily have spent the rest of my life edging my sister, enjoying her increasingly flustered pleading, the way every inch of her exposed skin got red and sweaty. I’d never understood how people could find sweat sexy before, but watching Cynthia perspire—knowing that I was doing that to her…
Holy shit.
“Beg,” I told her, pinching her clit lightly through her black panties. “Beg me to let you cum.”
“Please,” she mumbled, barely able to speak. “Please, Danny, please. Please let me cum. Please.”
“Tell me you’ll do anything.”
“Yesss,” she groaned. “Let me cum please I’ll do anything I’ll do anything you want.”
“Tell me why you want to cum.”
“Need it. Please. Need to cum. Need to cum so bad.”
“No,” I said, and grinned like Satan himself as she let out a long, frustrated moan.
Eventually, I knew we had to stop.
“Are you feeling throbby?” I asked, and Cynthia groaned that she was. “When I wake you up, are you going to feel like you did when I put you under?”
“Yes,” she panted. “Maybe even moreso.”
I’d managed to replicate several days of edging with a single half-hour session.
Not gonna lie; I was feeling pretty proud of myself.
“When you wake up, I don’t want you to consciously remember the orgasm you had. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she slurred in response. “Won’t ‘member orgasm.”
“But subconsciously, you will. Subconsciously, you’ll remember that getting hypnotized made you cum. From now on, you’re going to associate pleasure with me putting you under. Any fear or nervousness or worry that you ever have about being hypnotized—it’ll be replaced by this feeling, by the knowledge that being put under is pleasurable. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“One last thing—you’re not going to cum again until I explicitly tell you to. Say that back to me.”
“I won’t have an orgasm until you say I can.”
“Excellent,” I smiled, and woke her up.
“Did you enjoy your reward last night?”
“Yes,” Mom replied, her eyes staring blankly. “Very much.”
“What about your punishment? Did you enjoy that?”
“No,” she responded after a moment. “Of course not.”
I sat back, a gleam in my eye.
You know the story of the goose who laid golden eggs? A farmer has a goose that—and this may shock you—lays golden eggs. Every day, he gets a new golden egg, but he…I dunno, gets a bunch of credit cards or something, and goes into a bunch of debt. He could pay it back slowly with the daily egg, but he decides to speed up the process, and slaughters the goose.
I’m not really sure what he was expecting to find—surely farmers have killed geese before, and learned that they’re not just packed full of like a billion eggs. Anyway, he instead of a stash of secret goose-gold, he doesn’t find anything. And since he just killed his provider of golden eggs, he doesn’t have any way to pay off his credit cards. I think the story ends with them repossessing his farm or whatever.
The point is that if you’ve got a good thing going, don’t mess it up because of greed.
As a kid, that always seemed really obvious to me—like, a golden egg each and every day is a pretty fucking good deal. Don’t fuck it up, farmer. Duh.
But as things were progressing with my sister and mother, I suddenly found myself empathizing for the first time with the farmer.
I could have safely continued the way things were going, spanking my mother to orgasm, rubbing my sister’s clit every time I put her under.
But, like the dumbass farmer…I wanted more.
More, more, more. Always more.
After jerking off a million times, I’d done some internet research. “Orgasm denial” was a pretty common fetish, especially within the kink community.
I added it to the list of things I was apparently into.
“You came much faster after your punishment,” I said.
Mom twitched, and for a moment, I could see it—goose guts everywhere, the end of the eggs.
But like the greedy farmer, I couldn’t help myself.
And so I waited, and after a few more seconds of twitching, she answered.
“Yes.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know,” she answered.
“But why do you think that is?”
This time, she thought for a bit longer before answering.
“The stimulation,” she said. “It…heightens everything.”
“But you didn’t enjoy it?”
“No,” she said, and there it was again. The hesitation.
“I think you do enjoy it,” I posited. “I think you enjoy it, and you feel guilty about that because you know it’s meant to be a punishment.”
“I don’t enjoy it,” Mom said, a pleading tone to her voice. “I swear.”
“If I never did it again, would you be disappointed?”
After a long while, Mom sighed.
“…yes.”
“Then it’s not a punishment. I’m going to have to come up with something else for a punishment, aren’t I?”
“…yes.”
I smiled. The goose was still alive, and the eggs were getting bigger than ever.