Diet
by Pan
Chapter 25
My sister has always been creative. She’s not going to be the next Van Gogh or anything like that (which I’m sure her ears are grateful for) but she’s got good…I dunno, creative impulses. I could easily see her ending up as a graphic designer or something like that.
If I didn’t have very different plans for her future, of course.
But even knowing that my sister had a knack for the creative, I was still impressed when I walked past her bedroom the next day, and saw lego blocks strewn everywhere.
“What’s this about?” I asked, barely able to hide my grin.
The question was unnecessary, of course. I knew exactly what she was doing.
The previous night, my sister had recounted for me the spanking and foot whipping our mother had given her, in long and wonderful detail.
I could probably have recorded it without her noticing, but I didn’t need to. I’d had her tell me three times, and I’d savored every detail. When I got off later that night, I was able to recall everything she said, every sensation she described.
Every perverse thought she’d had while being punished.
I came quickly, remembering what I’d seen, what I’d heard. I’d witnessed my sister’s punishment at my mother’s hands, then heard her every inner thought afterwards.
The only thing that could have been better was administering it myself.
After the tale finished, I could have woken her up, but instead I had an idea.
“Why do you like getting punished in front of your brother?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Because,” my sister responded obediently, “it’s the only way I’m going to get his attention. It’s the only way I’m going to make him more attracted to me.
“It’s the only way I’m ever going to be a ten.”
I leaned forward. “Don’t lie to me, Cynthia. Why do you like getting punished in front of your brother?”
“…because I want him to want me. I want him to want me as much as I want him.”
“Do you think that’s possible?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I have to try.”
I couldn’t help but grin at her response. She really had no idea how I felt about her.
Perfect.
“How much time do you and your brother spend around each other?”
“A few hours every day.”
“And how much of that time are you being punished?”
“Maybe half an hour?”
It was closer to ten minutes, actually. It probably felt like an eternity from her end, but as someone enjoying the show…trust me, it was all too brief.
“So only a small fraction of the time you spend together.”
“Yeah…”
My sister sounded nervous. I wasn’t sure if she didn’t understand where I was going…or if she’d already reached the conclusion I was carefully leading her towards.
“So you want your brother to be more attracted to you,” I said slowly, making sure my point was crystal clear. “But he only sees you in pain for a tiny amount of the time you spend together.”
“Yeah,” my sister said, and I could practically hear her heart sinking.
“You should probably do something about that, shouldn’t you?”
“Yeah,” my sister replied, and the thoughtful face was still on her face when I woke her up.
“Hey bro,” Cynthia said, as I stared at the lego strewn around her room. When I’d been in here less than twelve hours earlier, it had been spotless. “I got the urge to, y’know, pull out some old…ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow.”
This time, I really couldn’t help myself. A chuckle escaped my lips at the sight of my sister’s bare feet—which had been whipped just the previous night—coming into contact with almost every piece of lego they could as Cynthia walked towards me.
I had to give her credit for the creativity.
“Don’t laugh,” she pouted.
Despite the fact that I couldn’t hold back my laugh, I was still a hundred times better at putting on a poker face than my sister. Fortunately for her, her protestation made sense even if she hadn’t been urgently lusting for me.
And as someone who knew exactly what she was thinking, it was obvious why she didn’t want me to laugh.
She wanted me to reveal that I was turned on. She wanted me to lose control, to ravage her right there.
Or, at the very least, to visibly get a boner.
Even as her eyes scrunched with pain and frustration, they never left my face—she was staring at me, hungrily scanning for a sign, any hint of attraction. I didn’t give her a thing, of course. I’d like to say that it was because I had a specific plan—that I’d mapped it out, worked out exactly when I was going to reveal each possible level of attraction.
But if I’m being honest, it was for one simple reason: denying my sister turned me on just as much as seeing her in pain.
As the day went on, I was very glad that I hadn’t given away the milk for free, as they say. If I had, maybe she would have concluded that the lego trick was enough for the day, that she’d accomplished her goal. But by not giving her even a modicum of feedback, I forced my sister to keep on going, to try harder and harder as the day went past.
The next few moves were a little more subtle than the lego trick. My sister continued her trend of barely wearing anything around the house…but I noticed that her bra wasn’t one I’d ever seen her in before. It wasn’t as sexy as her typical around-the-house wear, and it took me a few minutes to realize what it was.
Cynthia was wearing one of her old bras, from before her tits really ballooned up. Back then, she hadn’t lounged around the house in lingerie, but she also hadn’t been as obsessed with her own unattractiveness, so I’d caught a glimpse of her changing a few times.
Call me dense, but it was probably fifteen minutes before I realized what she was doing. The bra was way, way too tight—I could see it really digging into her skin, and every time she moved, she winced with pain.
Maybe she was putting it on, but it looked real…and I couldn’t look away. The sight of my sister putting herself through this low-level torture, the red marks that her too-tight bra left…it was so fucking hot. Cynthia even caught me staring, once or twice, until eventually I forced myself to stop.
As she left the room, she stubbed her toe. Again, it could have been an actual accident…but after the events of that morning, I suspect it wasn’t. Part of me—most of me—wanted to go to my room and rub one out, but there was a chance that Cynthia would follow me, press her ear against the wall and listen to the sounds of my self-pleasure.
And I didn’t want to give her that. I didn’t want to give her anything. Denying her was almost as hot as watching her put herself through hell for my entertainment.
When the family got together for dinner that night, Cynthia had changed out of the bra—maybe because she’d seen me reacting to it, maybe so that Mom wouldn’t get suspicious, maybe just because it had become too painful to bear—and was more dressed than she’d been in weeks. Jeans, a shirt (but no bra)…and a pair of Mom’s shoes.
“You don’t mind if I borrow these?” she’d asked casually, and Mom had shaken her head.
“Of course not, dear…but aren’t they way too small for you?”
“Yeah,” Cynthia admitted. “A little. But I’m tough. I can deal with it.”
That last remark had been said while looking straight at me, and despite there being no lego in sight, Cynthia winced with every step she made across the room.
My sexy, barely-dressed sister was all but torturing herself for my pleasure.
I loved it.
When she finally, painfully reached the table, Cynthia practically coated her food with hot sauce…and after almost two decades living with my sister, I’m yet to find anyone with a lower tolerance for spice.
She practically choked on the first bite, and it just got worse from there. With every taste, her eyes grew redder and redder, until she was openly crying at the table. I could tell that Mom wanted to say something, and I panicked.
“Oh hey,” I said approvingly, gesturing at my sister’s plate. “That’s a good idea.”
“What is?” Mom replied. Cynthia’s eyes, filled with concern, met mine. She was clearly worried that she was being too obvious…which, in all fairness, she was.
“It’s a great way to make sure you don’t overeat,” I said, impressed by my own quick thinking. “You cover your food in hot sauce. It speeds up your metabolism a little, too.”
That last part was true—I’d done a lot of reading about diets. Even if were eating a bottle of hot sauce with every meal, it would barely have an effect…but hey, every little bit counts.
“Uh huh,” Cynthia said, her cheeks flushed. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“Oh,” Mom said thoughtfully. “Huh!”
I swear, it took everything I had to hide my grin as Mom pulled out the bottle of hotsauce and covered her own food in spice. A few minutes later, both women were grimacing with every bite as they choked down their meals, practically sobbing as they did.
If this kept up, mealtimes were about to become my favorite part of the day.
Except for punishment hour, of course.
“Please,” Mom pleaded. “Please, Daniel. There must be something else.”
I paused, basking in the moment. Mom wasn’t literally on her knees, but she probably wouldn’t have hesitated if I’d ordered her drop before me and beg. She had a look of true fear in her eyes.
I’d never seen her look more attractive. Even when she’d been cumming, naked, bent over my knees.
“What’s wrong?” I answered, trying to play the part of a cheeky, mischievous son. From my mother’s point of view, my suggestion was meant to be embarrassing. Funny because it was inappropriate.
As far as Mom was concerned, it wasn’t even remotely sexual.
“I’ve never…”
My mother hesitated, and a blush spread across her face. I’d made sure to wear pants that hid my erection. If Mom had noticed how hard I was, there’s no way she’d buy the ‘playful’ angle.
And my mother’s trembling lip, the way her hands were nervously playing with her dress…
I was hard as a rock.
“…I’ve never had anything up there,” she squeaked, and I rolled my eyes.
“Duh,” I said, as though my mother was the Virgin Mary. “That’s the point. Besides, this is your fault.”
“I know,” Mom replied, hanging her head in shame. She’d failed to run two kilometers in five minutes—y’know, basically an Olympic-level speed—for almost a week straight now. She hadn’t even come close.
And so she had to wear a butt plug as a punishment.
This hadn’t been something I’d come up with all on my own. Obviously I didn’t invent the butt plug, but you know what I mean.
No, this suggestion had come from Mom herself.
Well, kind of.
“What’s your greatest fear?” I’d asked. Just like I had with my sister.
I had been completely unsurprised to learn that my mother had almost no self-awareness on this front. She’d umm’d and ahh’d for a while, and come back with even more generic fears than my sister—public speaking, death, anything happening to her children.
And so I’d pushed.
“Why didn’t you go any further with Dad?” I’d asked. “You both liked it when he spanked you. Why stop there?”
“Your father hadn’t wanted to,” Mom replied, squirming at the question. From embarrassment, not arousal.
Probably.
“But you liked it. Right?”
“I did,” Mom admitted. When she was under, she knew that everything I asked was to help her lose weight. She wouldn’t hold anything back, even if I plumbed the depths of her sexual history.
Which I had. There just…wasn’t really much to plumb.
“So you could have asked him for more. Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Mom answered. I wasn’t surprised—she was perhaps the least self-aware person I’d ever met.
But I’d gotten pretty good at finding answers, despite my mother’s unhelpful responses.
“Were you afraid he’d be mad at you?”
“No,” she responded, after a few moments of thought.
“Were you afraid that you liked it more than him?”
Again, there was a pause, but she eventually shook her head. “No. I do think I liked it more than him, but it didn’t scare me.”
“Were you afraid he’d like it too much?”
“Yes,” she responded, surprisingly quickly. “I think that was it.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Really?”
“Yeah,” my mother said softly. “And if he liked it too much, maybe he’d ask for more.”
“More?”
“More. Stuff…that I didn’t want to do.”
I leaned forward, put the tips of my fingers together, and grinned.
“Like what?”
“Please,” Mom said again. “I’ll try harder. I’ll do better. I…I don’t want this.”
I knew she didn’t want it. For reasons that I hadn’t been able to pinpoint, Mom was terrified of having anything in her rear passage. She’d been afraid that if she asked my father to keep spanking her, it would somehow lead to anal play, and so the most powerful sexual experiences of her life had drifted away, without her doing anything about it.
“You’re not meant to want it,” I said patiently. “It’s a punishment.”
“I know,” Mom pleaded, To my delight, she actually did it—completely unprompted, she dropped to her knees. “I know, but…please, Daniel. Not this. Anything but this.”
“Anything?” I asked, and my mother nodded earnestly.
I’d tested the entire scenario in a hypothetical, and it had been quite surprising how far my mother was willing to go in order to stop me putting a toy up her ass. Not, I should be clear, because of the sexual nature of what I was proposing—I’d spent a lot of time laying the groundwork for that, making sure that she didn’t see any of these punishments as sexual.
Even a sex toy, inserted into her ass by her son.
No, the issue was just that she just didn’t want to.
When we’d tested this while Mom was hypnotized, she’d agreed to pretty much anything to avoid it. She wouldn’t, like, jerk me off—that crossed a line, as did anything that she saw as ‘sexual’; anything that made her suspect that I was into this, or into her.
But beyond that, the sky was the limit.
You might think, when pretty much everything is available, it might be hard to choose. But quite the contrary—it had made it very, very easy.
I put the butt-plug down on the kitchen table, and pulled Mom onto my lap for a spanking. We’d done this so many times, Mom didn’t even hesitate. As I lifted her dress, revealing her white cotton panties, I leaned forward and began whispering into my mother’s ear.
“Look at the toy,” I said, my voice a husky growl.
SMACK.
“You’re going to take that into your room tonight,” I continued.
SMACK.
“No,” she moaned. “Please, I…—“
“You’re going to take that into your room,” I repeated, cutting her off. “And put it on the table beside your bed.”
SMACK.
“You’re going to put it beside your bedside lamp…”
SMACK.
“…and you’re going to leave the lamp on all night.”
SMACK.
“That toy is going to be the first thing you see when you wake up, and the last thing you see before you go to bed.”
SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.
“Whenever you enter your room, you’re going to look at it.”
SMACK.
“You’re not going to hide it, you’re not going to cover it up.”
SMACK. SMACK.
“Each and every time you look at it, you’re going to imagine using it.”
SMACK.
“You’re going to imagine putting it in your ass.”
SMACK.
“You’re going to visualize exactly what that would feel like.”
SMACK.
“Your heart is going to race. Your blood will go cold.”
SMACK. SMACK.
“You’re going to feel the terror that you feel now.”
SMACK.
“And if you don’t, if you don’t do exactly as I say…”
SMACK.
“That toy is how I’ll punish you.”
SMACK.
“If you don’t look at it each and every day, that plug will go straight into your ass.”
SMACK.
“Do you understand?”
“Y-yes,” my mother groaned. Her breathing was often ragged as I spanked her, but tonight it was different. The quiver in her voice sounded like true, genuine fear.
It was the hottest sound I’d ever heard my mother make.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to take that toy into my room. I’m going to…to look at it every day.”
“And what are you going to think about while you do?”
“You…using it on me,” my mother gulped.
“Using it how?”
“Putting…putting it in my ass.”
“Exactly,” I said softly, before straightening up. “Are you going to obey?”
“Yes,” Mom groaned, and as my hand met her ass with a strong, powerful SMACK, she came, twitching on my lap, her eyes never once leaving the toy.
When she was done, I pushed her away. She left the room shakily, taking the butt-plug with her.
I knew she’d do as she was told. For the next little while, my mother was going to be living in fear. Marinating in it.
Which would make it so much more delicious when I made her take the toy inside her.