Diet
by Pan
Chapter 31
I blinked at my Mom’s words.
“W-what?”
“I made her orgasm,” Mom gulped, as trying to swallow down her shame.
I stared at her blankly.
“Uh…”
This hadn’t been the plan.
The plan had been for Mom to fail. To try and get her daughter off, but not be able to.
“You made her…”
I trailed off.
“Orgasm,” Mom supplied helpfully.
Great. This was the moment she’d suddenly become comfortable with the word.
I sat back, stunned. I’d planned on spending the first half of this session hearing the sordid details of my mother touching my sister, then the second half making her feel guilty. Like a failure.
Worthless.
My head was spinning. Not only was my plan shot, my Mom had…she’d…
A smile slowly spread over my face as I realized what my mother had done to Cynthia.
I leaned forward.
“Tell me what happened,” I asked again. “In full, excrutiating detail.”
“Mom ran her finger down my side,” my sister said, her eyes staring at the ceiling, her tits bouncing as I fucked her.
This was either the sixth or seventh time I’d heard the story—I’d lost count.
After finally getting the details out of Mom, I’d gone straight into my sister’s room, and (breaking my own rule) put her under for the second time that day.
Then had her to tell me exactly what happened.
Twice.
My sister is a much, much better storyteller than Mom is. Though that’s not exactly a high bar, if I’m being honest.
I’d woken her up after the second telling, gone back to my room, and despite what we’d just been doing, jerked off. For the first time in weeks.
The next morning, I’d found my sister, put her under, and had her tell me the story again. Just like the previous night, I’d fucked her while she did.
Twice.
“How did it feel?”
I couldn’t imagine ever getting sick of hearing about it. Every hot, sordid detail.
“Strange,” my sister admitted. This was the part of the story that sometimes shifted. Once she’d said it was nice. Tingly. The first time, she’d said it was hot…although that had been as I was about to cum onto her stomach, so she might have been playing to the audience. Y’know, saying whatever she needed to just to get me off.
It had worked.
But every other time, she’d said it just felt strange.
“Why strange?” I probed.
“Because it was Mom,” Cynthia admitted. “And she was touching me…”
“Mom touches you all the time.”
“Not like this. This was…sexual.”
I groaned. I wanted to try to get through my sister’s entire telling of the story before cumming.
In my previous attempts, I hadn’t even gotten close.
“Why is that strange?”
“Because she’s my Mom,” Cynthia said with a shiver. “She’s not meant to touch me like that.”
“What happened next?”
“She moved in close and put her other hand on my other side.”
I couldn’t believe it when Cynthia had first told me this. Mom had somehow missed that from her telling of the story.
Why had she done it? I couldn’t wait to put my mother under again and find out. In the meantime, my brain was bursting with theories. To make sure that her daughter felt comfortable. To make the moment more intimate.
Because Mom hadn’t been with anyone since our father, and she was just following old patterns…
“Did she kiss you?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
“No,” Cynthia replied.
“Would you have been surprised if she had?”
“No.” Her voice was slightly softer that time.
“Did you want her to?’
“Yes,” Cynthia said, barely louder than a whisper.
“Say it again.”
“I wanted Mom to kiss me.”
“Oh, god…”
I pulled out just in time for my cock to begin pulsing, spraying my seed all over my sister’s stomach.
God damn it. That was one of the fastest yet.
“I was looking into her eyes,” Mom said, her own eyes glazed over. ”I was sort of checking to see if she was okay, but without using words.”
“Was she okay?”
“I think so,” Mom said, a worried crease appearing on her forehead. “I hope so.”
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
“Because…”
Mom shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
“…I’m her mother. I’m not meant to…to touch her like that.”
“Touch her how?” I asked, leaning forward. “Tell me how you touched her.”
“I reached down and touched the front of her panties,” Mom admitted, her voice shaky.
God. I don’t know what was hotter—the story she was telling, or the utter fear with which she told it.
The combination was electric. If I didn’t live a life where I regularly fucked my sister and spanked my naked mother to orgasm, I would’ve said it was the hottest thing I’d ever experienced.
As it was…even with some pretty fierce competition, it was right up there. Top six, at least.
“Were they wet?”
“Yes,” Mom admitted.
“Say it.”
“The front of Cynthia’s panties were wet.”
“What do you think that meant?”
“Nothing,” Mom said quickly. “Sometimes women experience vaginal discharge. It doesn’t always mean anything.”
Uh-huh. Sure thing, Mom. Whatever lets you get to sleep at night.
I had a vision of my mother laying in her bed, unable to get to sleep, traumatized by the fact that she’d touched her daughter sexually.
Traumatized by the fact that I’d made her touch her daughter sexually.
Maybe I could add that to the carousel of images my sister imagined while she was edging. There was something so hot about the idea of making my sister fantasize about her mother being traumatized by the fact that she’d touched her.
God. There was so little about my life that wasn’t hot, these days.
“What did you do next?”
“I...”
Mom trailed off.
“Be very specific,” I reminded her. “Tell me exactly what you did next.”
“I used my middle finger and my pointer finger,” Mom said slowly, trying not to miss anything. “And I rubbed them up and down the front of her gusset.”
“Whose gusset?’
“Cynthia’s panties’.”
“What were you trying to do?”
“I was…I was trying to make her feel good.”
“Why did you think that would make her feel good?”
“Because it felt good when your father did it to me,” my mother admitted. Her face was bright red.
Mom had told me about how much she’d masturbated before getting married. More than I’d expected, to be honest. More than I knew any woman ever masturbated.
But once she’d married Dad, she’d stopped. Partially out of shame, mostly because…well, Dad catered for her sexual needs. It’s weird to think about your parents’ sex life. Probably more so if your father’s dead, and you’re most of the way towards turning your mother into your own personal sex slave.
After Dad passed, Mom hadn’t started masturbating again. Until I’d started spanking her, she hadn’t had an orgasm. Almost twenty years without getting off once…god, I couldn’t imagine it.
(Although after her own recent dry spell, I’d bet Cynthia could.)
So thinking of getting Cynthia off more in the terms of what Dad did to her, instead of what she’d done to herself…it made sense.
And, like so much of my life, was so wonderfully hot to think about.
“Do you think it worked?” I asked, and Mom nodded. “Why?”
“Because of the look on her face,” she said nervously, like the child protection agency was going to burst in at any moment.
Cynthia is eighteen, but yeah. I understand why she was worried. If anyone found out what she’d done to her daughter, they probably would’ve taken her away.
The look of terror on her face was like chocolate sauce on icecream. I reveled in it for a moment before continuing.
“You were looking at her face?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why?”
“So I could see what she liked.”
Made sense.
It made sense, and was so. Fucking. Hot.
“What did you do next?”
“Once I thought that she was ready, I…I lifted my hand up a little, and put two fingers inside her panties.”
“Which fingers?”
“My pointer finger and my middle finger.”
“Why those?”
“Because that’s what your father used to use.”
Mom was beet-red. You know how parents sometimes dive into the most unnecessary details when telling a story? Like, I don’t need to know the kind of food the person next to you ordered at the restaurant if the anecdote is about something you found in in the carpark later.
In this situation, I was happy to go into everything in excruciating detail.
Excruciating for Mom, that is. It was incredible for me.
Incredible.
“What did you do with the fingers? Be specific.”
“I…I…”
After a moment or two, my mother overcame her nervousness, and continued.
“I moved them up and down her…labia.”
I don’t know if Mom did research on anatomy before approaching Cynthia, or if she’s just better educated than I am, but I almost felt like I needed a diagram to follow along.
“Why?”
“Because if I felt her lips parting, I’d know that it was working.”
I grinned.
“Working how?”
“I’d know that she was…she was g-getting turned on.”
“Which is what you were trying to do, right?”
“Right.”
“Say it.”
“I was trying to…to…”
I knew this one would be worth waiting for.
“…to turn her on.”
“Who?”
“Cynthia”
“What’s her relationship to you?”
“She’s my daughter.”
“Say it like that.”
“I was trying to turn my d-daughter on.”
“How?”
“With my hands.”
“And was it working?”
“Yessss,” Cynthia hissed, her eyes fluttering at the memory.
Wow. Mom must have been pretty good with her hands. No wonder she managed to get my sister off.
“What did it feel like?”
“Incredible. No one had ever touched me like that…”
Oh, yeah. Before I’d started fucking my sister, I’d fingered her…but only once, and she’d been under at the time.
As far as my sister’s waking mind was concerned, she was still a virgin. Untouched.
My cock throbbed at the thought. Cynthia thought that the first person to ever touch her pussy was our Mom. The first person to get her off.
Mom would be the first person to make her cum. And I’d be the first person to fuck her.
I was going to get to take my sister’s virginity twice.
My life was perfect. I’d reached perfection…and I still had so far to go.
“Were you wet?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Were you throbbing?”
“Yesss.”
“What were you thinking about?”
“You,” she answered, and I couldn’t help but grin. Even as my sister was losing her digital virginity to our mother, she was thinking of me.
“What about me?”
“I was imagining you watching,” Cynthia panted. “I was picturing you sitting in the kitchen chair, watching as Mom touched me. I was thinking about how hot you’d find it. I was imagining you jerking off afterwards, thinking about it.”
Well, she wasn’t wrong. Except instead of jerking off, I was fucking her. And I wasn’t just thinking about it—I was having her give me a play-by-play.
Her pussy clenched around my thrusting cock. God it felt good. Everything about fucking my sister felt so fucking good.
“What happened next?”
“Mom dipped two fingers into my…into my opening.”
To get her fingers wet, Mom had told me. And apparently that part, the opening—that is technically the “vagina”.
It turns out when you get your mother to detail the process of fingering your sister, you inadvertently get an anatomy lesson along the way.
“How did that feel?”
“Funny,” Cynthia admitted with a gasp. “But nice. It made me want more. It made me want your cock there, too.”
I smiled down at my sister. As she told me the story of Mom fingering her, my cock was inside her.
It was a helluva way to hear a story, I’ll tell you that. I know I would’ve paid a lot more attention in history class if we’d learned about the World Wars while fucking the teacher.
Well, not Mr. Markson. I probably would have skipped that class.
“Is that how you touch yourself?”
“No,” Cynthia said, biting her lip as I drove myself into her. “I just touch my clit. But…”
“But what?” I prompted.
“…I might start masturbating that way in future. Every time I do, I’ll be reminded of Mom touching me…”
With a gasp I pulled out as quickly as I could. My cock was barely clear of Cynthia’s pussy when it started spewing cum, spraying it all over my sister’s bare stomach. Some of it landed on her bra…and to my surprise and delight, a drop or two on her face, which twitched in nervous delight at the feeling.
Damn. That had been a close one.
“What did you do next?”
“Once my fingers were wet, I moved them up and began slowly, softly rubbing her…her clitoris.”
Clitoris. That was one I did know.
“Why softly?”
I knew enough about Cynthia’s masturbation habit that I could have written a book on the subject. She was doing it so much, her clit was almost rubbed raw. She probably needed more than a slow, soft rub just to feel it.
But Mom had managed to make her cum, so I could hardly criticize. If anything, maybe I could learn from what she’d done.
Something other than the Latin names for lady parts.
“How did she respond?”
“It looked like she liked it. Her eyes went a little soft, she bit her lip, and she let out a gentle moan.”
Ah, yes. It was a look I knew well. Whenever Cynthia was awake and I found an excuse to call her a ‘good girl’ (or once, when I’d been feeling particularly bold, my good girl), she went soft-eyed, lip bitey, and gave me a moan.
It was pretty much the hottest thing I’d ever seen.
Well, aside from my mother’s naked body cumming across my lap. Or Cynthia’s bra-clad tits as they bounced when I fucked her. Or…
Huh. My life was so good, there was a lot of competition for the top spot.
What a wonderful problem to have.
“How do you think she felt about the fact that it was her mother touching her like that?”
Mom’s eyes began to focus, and her body started twitching.
Oh, fuck.
“Uh…umm…tell me what tomorrow’s exercises are!”
Mom began listing the impossible routine I had lined up for her (I’d been alternating ‘challenging-but-possible’ and ‘literally no one could ever do this’ workout days, just to keep her offguard) and once I felt like she’d calmed down enough, I returned to the story.
“What did you do next?”
“While my pointer finger was stroking light circles around her clitoris, my middle finger moved down and gently entered her vaginal opening.”
My mother wouldn’t be starting a career as an erotica author any time soon, I can tell you that.
“Go on.”
“My middle finger began slowly moving in and out, at the same rhythm as I was touching her clit.”
“Did she like it?”
“Uh huh.”
“Why?”
“Because it feels good. It simulates the same nerves as, uhm…i-intercourse.”
I smiled.
“Do you like it when someone does that to you?”
“Yes,” my mother admitted in a hushed whisper. “Very much so.”
“How did you feel while you were doing it?”
“Terrible,” she replied, with zero hesitation. “Horrible.”
I leaned in. “Why?”
“I felt so guilty. I felt like I was abusing my own child. I was abusing my own child. I was touching my little girl sexually. My gut was twisted, and I wanted to die. I felt like at any moment the police were going to run in and arrest me. I’ve never felt so sick and anxious and stressed and worried in all my life.”
I swear my eyes glinted as I let all that sink in. But then, my Mom’s next words surprised me.
“…and worst of all,” she said, her voice a gentle sob. “I was turned on.”
“How did you feel?”
“So gooood,” my sister moaned. “Oh god, so good. So fucking good.”
She’d timed her responses to my thrusts.
“Why?”
“Because I was being touched. I’ve wanted it for so long, and I was…I was being touched.”
“But you’re not gay,” I reminded her.
“No,” my sister agreed. “But it was easy to pretend that it was my brother touching me.”
“Do you think my hands feel like Mom’s?”
“Yessss,” Cynthia said with a long, lustful sigh. I froze, not sure whether or not I should be hurt by that. It wasn’t a question I’d ever asked before, and I hadn’t expected that response.
“…why?”
“Because her hands felt so good,” Cynthia panted. “Because my brother’s hands will feel that good. He’ll be so talented. So hot, and skilled, and…”
“Don’t cum!” I reminded her.
“Don’t cum,” she repeated back. “Don’t cum. Don’t cum don’t cum don’t cum…”
“What happened next?”
“She increased her pressure slightly, don’t cum don’t cum,” my sister said with a soft groan. “She increased her pressure—don’t cum!—and she increased her speed.”
“And then what?”
I was holding my breath. This was the furthest I’d ever gotten through the story without cumming.
“And then don’t cum,” my sister gulped, her voice getting higher and higher as she continued. “…I came don’t cum. Don’t cum don’t cum don’t cuuuum…”
But much like in the story, I could feel it. The increasingly-familiar feeling of Cynthia’s orgasm: her pussy clenching rhythmically, accompanied by a fresh wave of lubrication. It felt so good. It felt so fucking good.
“Oh, fuuuuck,” I groaned, pulling out of my sister and shooting my load onto her stomach, before collapsing back onto her bed.
We both lay there for a minute, breathing heavily, before I got up and moved back into the chair beside her bed. My cock was still out, but I knew she wouldn’t mind.
If anything, she’d be disappointed if I put it away.
This was the most confusing part of the story. Mom wasn’t doing anything fancy. She wasn’t pulling Cynthia’s nipples and calling her a slut. She wasn’t leaning in and whispering “I bet you wish this was your brother.” She wasn’t spanking her, or tying her up, or…I dunno, threatening to brand her.
She was just slowly stroking her clit, gently fingering her, and my sister—who could, nine times out of ten, resist cumming as I fucked her, as the cock she obsessed about each and every day drove itself into her…
My sister had cum.
“What were you thinking about when you came?” I asked, as I always did.
“My brother,” Cynthia said dreamily. After she came, it was like she was floating above the clouds. On cloud nine, whatever that means. What were the first eight clouds? Practice runs? Or is nine just an important number in cloud culture?
“What specifically?”
“I was picturing him touching me like that. Or watching while Mom did.”
“You know you weren’t allowed to cum, right?”
“I know,” Cynthia said, my admonishment bringing her back to reality.
“You weren’t meant to cum, but you came anyway. Right?”
“Yes sir,” she responded immediately.
I sighed.
My sister had been doing such a good job for so long. I really thought she’d mastered not cumming.
Nope. Turns out she’d only mastered avoiding orgasm by her own hand. Almost as soon as Mom had touched her, she’d climaxed.
It was two parts hot, one part frustrating. And if it happened again, that balance was going to shift.
“Well, sis,” I said with a sigh. “If you’re not going to follow orders, there will be punishments…”