Diet
by Pan
Chapter 23
“Grab me a cookie,” I asked, and my sister scurried to obey me.
It was movie night. About once a month, my sister, my Mom and I sat down to watch a movie. We’d done it since I was little.
Of course, things were a little different now.
Not as different as they’d eventually get, of course. I envisioned a future where movie night was naked night. Hell, where every night was naked night. And while I was watching the movie, my mother and my sister would be on their knees, sharing my cock.
I’d tell them to keep it down, and they’d obey, sucking my cock as quietly as they could. Maybe one of them would moan a little too loudly, and I’d tell them to go over and make a mark on the board—this was something I’d read in some BDSM forums, the idea of having a prominently-displayed punishment board, where all infractions were recorded, so that punishments could be doled out fairly.
If they were good, maybe I’d reward them by letting them make out for a while…although that might be too distracting. No, better for them to keep all their attention on me, so that I could watch the film in peace.
They could make out while the credits rolled.
If they made me cum during the movie, I’d let loose all over their faces, make them lick it off. Or aim for Cynthia’s tits—those tits that I’d dreamed of for so long.
I’d coat my sister’s tits with cum, make her lick one off, make Mom clean up the other. It could be a race—whoever finished first got to fuck me.
Whoever finished second got to go down on whoever was fucking me. While I fucked them.
With a sigh, I returned my focus to the film. I wasn’t there yet.
Yet.
But even in the past few months, I’d made progress.
Cynthia returned with a cookie, practically bowing in submission as she gave it to me. To my delight, her eyes and Mom’s eyes both followed its journey from my hand to my mouth—Mom because she wanted to be me, enjoying the sweet treat…and Cynthia, because she wanted to be the cookie.
Like, I don’t mean that she wanted me to eat her. Cannibalism had never been one of the fetishes she’d mentioned. Although her sexual imagination was starting to get more and more perverse, so I absolutely wouldn’t have been surprised if that eventually popped up.
My sister was perpetually ready to burst—as the film started, sometimes I’d tear my eyes away from the film to watch her. Her hands had started doing this thing—when she wasn’t paying attention, they’d start softly stroking her exposed skin. Cynthia was so sex-starved, her body was clearly crying out for attention—and since no one else was giving it to her, she’d resorted to doing it herself.
Mom was less interesting, at least to watch. I couldn’t help but smile at the knowledge that even now, as we watched the film, she had a pair of nipple clamps on. It was her latest punishment—she’d been unable to complete her workout in less than half an hour, and so I’d made her wear nipple clamps for an entire twenty-four hours.
She hadn’t resisted. She was almost as obedient as Cynthia, at least when it came to punishment.
Of course, it had helped that I’d spanked her to near-orgasm, telling her that there was no way she could be sure that no one could tell that she was wearing nipple clamps. Telling her that there was a chance—a very remote, but still real chance—that someone would be able to recognize the distinct shape through her clothes, and tell that she was a pervert.
She’d shivered as I’d put them on, biting her lip with a combination of pain and arousal.
Pain and arousal. I don’t even know if Mom could tell them apart any more.
When the movie was done, I knew she’d let me remove them. Taking off her top in front of me didn’t even register to Mom as weird, not anymore.
At least, not in the context of punishments.
It hard to deny—the plan was working. I mean, obviously my plan was working; getting my Mom topless, my sister obedient and sexually-obsessed with me…but I mean beyond that.
My Mom’s diet plan.
She wasn’t at her absolute physical apex, but fuck—she wasn’t far off. When she wasn’t working, being spanked, or cheating on her diet, she spent every spare moment she had in the gym, and she was looking incredible. To my dismay, her tits had shrunk, but not as much as I’d feared, and they were still bigger than her daughter’s.
And Cynthia’s were far from small.
I was hypnotizing both of them several times a week, and neither of them suspected a thing. I was spanking Mom to orgasm each night she completed her workouts (and refrained from cheating on her diet), and plumbing the depths of BDSM forums for punishments to give her on nights that she didn’t.
Cynthia, meanwhile, was obeying my every command, every hour of the day. I suspect I could have texted her in the middle of school and she would have come running. She was still edging for me, at least three times a day, playing with herself while imagining serving me, picturing me over her, fucking her, humiliating her, taking her however I wanted…but never cumming.
It had been several months now since she’d cum, and it was starting to melt her brain. She was constantly wet, constantly aroused, completely sexually obsessed with me, desperate to please me, to gain my interest.
She was almost ready. They both were.
As I settled back and watched the movie, I smiled. The next time we had a movie night, things would be much closer to my fantasies.
I just knew it.
“Your brother gets off on more than just pain,” I told my sister. She’d just learned that I was a sadist, and—to my great delight—she hadn’t gone running.
She’d been intrigued. Excited.
Aroused.
“He gets off on punishing people. Humiliating them. Finding out their greatest fears, and making them come true.”
As the words spilled out of my mouth, I was surprising even myself. It was all true, but…honestly, I’d never thought about it before, let alone said it out loud.
I was confessing stuff to my sister that I hadn’t even admitted to myself.
“How does that make you feel?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious.
“Excited,” my sister repeated.
“Aroused?”
“Yes.”
Again, an unexpected feeling of relief came across me. “Good,” I said with a nod. “As your trainer, I’m here to help. And it seems to me…”
I paused. Did I really want to do this?
The sight of Cynthia’s heaving bosom confirmed that I did. She was wearing blue panties, pale blue stockings, a white tank top, and no bra.
Her panties were soaked.
God, I couldn’t wait until I could tear them off her. Cut them off her.
Forbid her from ever wearing panties again.
“It seems to me,” I continued, “that the best chance we have is by playing to your brother’s desires. If you can humiliate yourself in front of him, that might arouse him. And if he’s aroused, he might be attracted to you. Do you agree?”
“Yes,” Cynthia responded, her voice a nervous squeak.
“So tell me,” I said, leaning forward. “What are your greatest fears?”
“Heights,” Cynthia replied immediately. “I’m terrified of heights.”
I rolled my eyes. Sure, I could have made her…I dunno, climb a ladder or whatever, but that wasn’t exactly filling my dick with blood.
“What else?” I sighed. “Dig a little deeper than that.”
My sister thought for a moment, before adding another cliché to the list. “Spiders,” she told me. “Don’t like spiders.”
Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m not claiming to have a deep and thorough knowledge of my own turn-ons. Like I said, I only really thought about them for the first time as I was sharing them with my sister. Like, I knew that I enjoyed spanking my mother, and whipping her feet. Giving her an exhibitionistic streak hadn’t done much to me, except for seeing how much it turned her on…and knowing that it terrified her, and that there was no way she would have done any of it without my influence.
But I can tell you, the idea of setting a bunch of spiders on my sister while she walked a rope bridge did absolutely nothing for me.
“Anything else?”
The pause was longer this time, as my sister really considered her own psyche. I think she could tell I was disappointed by her first two answers, and pleasing me had become my sister’s primary motivator.
“Rejection,” she finally said, making my ears perk up. My cock, too.
“Rejection?” I asked, and she confirmed her response. “What about rejection?”
Don’t get me wrong—even if I didn’t work out any of my sister’s psychological fears, I could quite happily continue down the pain route I was taking my mother. I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed Mom’s new routine having results—my mother was over the moon with the return of her old form.
At this point, she would have obeyed my every command just as readily as Cynthia would, simply because she knew that it worked.
Cynthia had noticed too. I bet she would have spotted the changes even if she hadn’t been utterly obsessed with weight-loss, they were so striking.
Of course, she didn’t get to see Mom’s naked body like I did.
Not yet.
My mother and my sister were both onboard with my more-than-a-little unorthadox methods, and Mom really was a loving parent. If I’d told her that the only way to get Cynthia to the same level of fitness as her was to punish her, I knew she would have obeyed without question.
As would my sister.
But Cynthia was already hanging onto my every word, and so I figured I could try something a little different. A little bolder, perhaps.
And hey, if I discovered more things about my own sexuality on the way, so be it.
“I think I’m afraid of confirmation,” she finally said.
“Confirmation of what?”
“Confirmation that I’m worthless. Confirmation that I have absolutely nothing to offer, that I don’t contribute. Confirmation that I have absolutely no value as a woman. As a person.”
I swear, my dick couldn’t have been harder.
“Confirmation that I’m fat.”
If I were a better person (spoiler alert: I’m not), I probably should have metaphorically reached in and helped soothe my sister’s troubled psyche. Before our sessions, I had to wonder—had she always thought that a woman’s value as a person was directly tied to her weight, or was that a result of my hypnosis? Had that spawned from my insistence that she obsess over her weight, and train herself to be completely obsessed with sex?
It didn’t really matter, I guess. Either way, it was a tool that I could use.
“Tell your brother this,” I instructed her. “Tell him your greatest fears. Tell him how much the idea of being rejected like this terrifies you, how much it would destroy you.”
Cynthia had stopped breathing; she was hanging onto my every word.
“…and then tell him to use it to punish you. He might fight back, but you have to insist. Tell him it’s the only way you’ll really feel the consequences of cheating on your diet. Daniel is a sadist—he wants to make you suffer. He’ll get off on it.”
My sister let out a long, ragged sigh at my instructions. A part of me wanted to feel bad for how much I was messing with her head—like, her obsession with her weight had been fucked up when we’d started.
Now…it was something else.
I wanted to feel bad, but I couldn’t. Because I knew this was all for a purpose—I wanted to turn my sister into my personal sex-slave, into my ideal sister slut….
And her obsession had given me a clear path.
It was less than twenty-four hours after I woke her up that Cynthia found me and began her confession.
While her subconscious knew of my sadistic tendencies, her conscious mind didn’t. I made a mental note to ask what she’d thought she was doing when she admitted her fear of rejection, and then begged me to use it as a punishment next time she ‘screwed up’.
My tongue flicked across my lips before I answered—a single, beautiful word.
“No.”
God, I swear—I could have cum right then and there. The sight of my beautiful sister, begging for rejection—and being rejected…I had been right, it really was as much of a turn-on as watching my mother get spanked.
My perverse tendencies would have been a problem…except for the fact that I was perfectly situated to take full advantage of them. I could be a sadist, and my mother and sister wouldn’t complain…they’d beg for more.
Cynthia’s face fell. You know that moment in The Simpsons where Bart freeze-frames the exact moment Ralph’s heart breaks? It was like the world’s sexiest version of that; my sister was wearing a light pink bra, a matching pair of panties, knee-high socks, and the world’s saddest look on her face.
“Please, Daniel,” she begged, getting down on her knees—a trick that had worked before. “Please…I need this.”
“No,” I repeated. “It wouldn’t be right.”
“It’s so right,” she moaned, inadvertently letting her lust show in her voice. “God, please…it’s so, so right.”
“I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. “Maybe Mom will do it,”
I turned back to the video game I’d been playing when Cynthia had interrupted me. It took her a few minutes to muster up the energy to get up and leave; in the meantime, she just sat there in dejected silence, completely crushed, while I finished solving the puzzle and collected another Korok Seed.
The next time I put Cynthia under, I confirmed that she hadn’t asked Mom—she’d been worried that Mom would find it a weird request.
Honestly, she was probably right. Mom was completely onboard with physical punishments, but I think she would’ve found the mental stuff a little uncomfortable.
“Why do you think your brother said no?” I asked, and Cynthia sighed in response.
“Because I think he’s a good guy,” she said sadly. “He doesn’t want to hurt me.”
“Even though he’s a sadist?”
“Yeah,” she said. “He might find it sexy, but he wouldn’t actually do it. He wouldn’t do something to hurt his family.”
I raised one eyebrow. At this point, Cynthia had no idea about the punishments I was bestowing upon Mom every night.
That, I realized, had to change. I’d planned on my refusal making Cynthia want me more—if she was able to justify it away as her brother being a good guy, that wasn’t going to work.
A smile spread across my face. Besides, a little competition never hurt anyone.
“Mom has been losing weight, hasn’t she?”
“Yes,” Cynthia said. “She’s been doing an amazing job at it.”
“Better than you.”
“Better than me.”
“After I wake you up, your brother going to mention the punishments I’ve been giving Mom. Once he does, I want you to go and ask Mom about them. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Repeat it back to me.”
“After we’re done, Daniel is going to talk about how you’ve been punishing our mother. After that, I’m going to get more details from her.”
“Good girl.”
I smiled at Cynthia’s tremble of pleasure.
“Tell me about what you’ve been thinking about while you masturbate.”
“My brother,” she said without hesitation. “I’ve been…I’ve been imagining him hurting me.”
I leaned forward. Apparently while my sister was edging, her subconscious was more than happy to provide fuel for her arousal.
“Oh yeah?” I asked, my voice low. “How?”
“Physically,” Cynthia said with a soft moan. “I’ve been imagining him spanking me, like Mom did.”
“What else?”
“Nothing else,” she said, a confused tone in her voice.
I smiled. Once Mom told her the details of some of the punishments I’d been giving her, I was confident that would change.
“Have you been imagining him hurting you non-physically?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Cynthia replied reluctantly. “I’ve been imagining him spitting on me. Calling me a slut.”
This wasn’t new.
“…calling me fat.”
“Oh?”
That was.
“I’ve been imagining opening up to him, telling him my deepest fears and anxieties,” Cynthia continued. “And in response, he…he tells me that they’re right. That they’re all true.”
“What have you been imagining telling him?”
“I’m self-conscious about my knees,” she said, and I rolled my eyes. Women.
“What does he say in response to that?”
“He tells me that I should be. He tells me that they’re grandma knees.”
Honestly, sometimes I wish I could hypnotize myself. Not to change my behaviour particularly, just to understand it.
‘Grandma knees’. Why did that make my cock pulse?
“How would you react if your brother called your knees…grandma knees?”
“I’d hate it,” Cynthia whispered. “I’d hate it so much.”
“And?”
“And I’d get so, so wet.”
It was several days before I was next able to put Cynthia under. She’d been even…squirmier than normal, if that’s even a word.
She must have been starting to get the hang of a life without orgasms—I guess practice makes perfect. I knew for sure she was as turned-on as she’d ever been, but it had been a while since we’d had a close call.
I loved denying my sister orgasms almost as much as I loved giving them to my mother. Cynthia’s situation had started as a way to control her, to soften her thinking a little, make her easier to manipulate…but now, it was almost as much fun as watching her wear practically nothing around the house.
It was nowhere near as much fun as knowing I’d made her wear practically nothing around the house. I couldn’t imagine anything would ever compete with that.
Maybe watching my sister lick out our mother while I fucked her from behind. Yeah, I could see that coming pretty close.
So even though it had been months and months since Cynthia last came, she was even more heightened after I casually mentioned that I was punishing Mom.
And after she went and asked Mom for details.
Mom told her everything, of course—as far as our mother was concerned, this was just a great way to lose weight.
She’s very trusting, our Mom.
Cynthia didn’t bring it up with me again; I don’t know if she was just processing it, or if she didn’t know how to broach the topic, or if she just didn’t want to discuss it.
But as soon as she was under, my sister was more than willing to talk about punishments.
“Why do you think Mom is losing weight faster than you?” I asked.
“Because she’s being punished,” Cynthia said. “Because my brother is punishing her when she screws up.”
“The only reason you’re not being punished is because you don’t screw up,” I pointed out. “Isn’t that better?”
“No.”
Her response was immediate. I stifled a laugh.
“Why?”
“Because…it’s not the same.”
There it was again. The squirminess. She wasn’t moving—my sister basically never moved while she was under—but it was still there, a feeling of restlessness. Unease.
“How do you feel about your brother punishing your mother?” I asked, and—to my great surprise—Cynthia’s eyelids began to flutter.
The moment passed, but it was a closer call than I could remember in weeks. Cynthia almost came at the question…which also served as a pretty clear answer.
“Do you want your brother to punish you?”
“Yes,” Cynthia gasped. “Yes, yes, yes, yes…”
“Why?”
There was a pause.
“Because I’ll lose weight faster,” she responded, but I don’t think either of us believed her.
“Don’t lie to me,” I warned. “Why do you want your brother to punish you?”
“Because I want to feel him touch me,” Cynthia said throatily. “I want to feel his hand on my ass. I want him to strip me naked and put rings on my nipples, bulldog clips. I want his attention. I want him to get off on punishing me. I want…”
I held up my hand, and my sister fell silent.
“Do you think he’s getting off on punishing your mother?”
“Yesss,” Cynthia hissed.
“Why?”
I was concerned. If Mom had told her that, something had gone wrong, and I needed to…—
“Because he’s a sadist,” Cynthia responded. “He gets off on hurting people. I know he must be loving hurting Mom.”
“Do you think this consciously?”
“No,” Cynthia responded, and I relaxed.
“What does your conscious brain think?”
“Consciously, I think that my brother enjoys seeing Mom get healthier. I think that makes him happy.”
“But subconsciously?”
“Subconsciously, I know he must be getting hard every time he punishes her. He probably thinks about it while he—ungh!—jerks off..”
There was a pause, as my sister regathered her thoughts.
“…and I want that to be me.”
“What?”
“I want it to be me that he thinks of when he gets off.”
“Why?”
“Because…”
My sister floundered for a moment, before remembering the justification I’d spent so long setting up.
“…because then I’ll be attractive.”
I narrowed my eyes. It had worked before—I figured it was worth trying again.
“Don’t lie to me,” I said slowly. “Tell me the truth. Why do you want your brother to think of you when he gets off?”
There was a long pause before my sister replied.
“Because…” she said, a note of discomfort in her voice. “…because I think of him when I touch myself. He turns me on, and I want to turn him on as well.”
“Why?” I pushed.
“Ungh,” she moaned. My cock throbbed at the sexy sound coming out of her voice, at the way her body didn’t twitch, even though it clearly wanted to. “…because if I turn him on, maybe…m-maybe something could happen.”
I tried to hide the note of hope in my voice, but I’m not gonna lie—I did a pretty terrible job of it.
“Something like what?”
“Something…like…”
There was a long pause—the longest in a while—before my sister continued.
“…maybe he’d fuck me,” she said, shivering with pleasure. “Maybe he’d fuck his sister.”
“Would you want that?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
“Yes,” Cynthia replied, faster than I expected. “Yeah. Yeah, I would.”