The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The next time my mother got my sister off, I was watching.

It hadn’t been easy to set up. Cynthia had agreed to it immediately, of course. My sister was past the point of needing much justification.

She was so beautifully pliant in everything that you’d expect her to resist, commands like ‘your brother needs to be in the room while your mother touches you’. But even though she was completely sexually obsessed with me, even though she wanted nothing more than to turn me on…she still wouldn’t let me see her tits.

In case I’ve not yet mentioned: I desperately wanted to see her tits.

But this was pretty great too.

No, the real struggle had been getting our mother to agree with it. Her internal logic was almost as skewed: Mom would let me tie her breasts up, she’d serve breakfast to us topless, she’d show me her butt and (when she was under) let me spank her to orgasm while she was completely naked…but if there was a chance of seeing my sister in the nude, that was a no-go.

At least she’d let me watch as she spanked Cynthia, so long as my sister was fully-clothed. As soon as there was nudity involved, it was completely off the table.

Even though I’d seen every part of my mother’s body. Even though Cynthia walked around in nothing but underwear all day every day.

I tried a few different approaches before I finally made some traction. I’d reminded her that it wasn’t sexual, that it was a woman helping another woman out with weight-loss. That making my mother cum when I spanked her wasn’t sexual, so neither was this. If it was wrong, Mom wouldn’t have been doing it. There was nothing wrong with me being there while it happened.

But I finally pinpointed the problem. It wasn’t me seeing her get Cynthia off…it was the nudity, pure and simple.

Yeah, that’s right. Watching my Mom get my sister off was okay, so long as no panties were removed. If Cynthia didn’t take off her panties, I wouldn’t see anything inappropriate.

Even then, she didn’t want to do it. I could get her to agree in the abstract that it would be okay, but whenever I suggested it actually happen, Mom would push back.

Fortunately, I had ways of getting my relatives to do…well, almost anything.

All I had to do was remind them of what would happen if they didn’t.

“What’s your greatest fear?” I asked my mother, leaning forward. I was staring at her face with laser-focus, enjoying the show. I only wished it was possible to bottle her reaction, so I could have it any time I wanted.

The first time I’d asked my mother this, she’d answered vaguely, like it was an intellectual episode.

Since then, we’d been training. I’d probed and we’d practiced this again and again; now Mom was able to leap straight to her most visceral fears.

And my mother is a transparent woman. She showed those fears on her face.

“The Toy,” she answered with a gulp. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks had paled, and the vein on her neck told me that her pulse had quickened.

Fear. Don’t they say that’s the greatest aphrodisiac? Maybe after oysters.

“Why?” I asked, smiling in anticipation.

When we’d been a little younger, I’d never been able to understand how Cynthia could watch the same movie again and again and again. “You already know what’s going to happen,” I’d whine.

By now, I’d probably heard the tale of Mom getting my sister off more times than she’d ever watched that stupid horse movie she loved so much. I got it—when you really connect with a story, you can hear it any number of times without ever tiring of it.

And Mom telling me why she was so afraid of the huge anal Toy that I’d put on her dresser was something I’d really connected with, believe me.

“Because I’ve never…” she squirmed, as she always did. Not from arousal, but from fear.

Well, maybe a little from arousal.

“…I’ve never had anything up there.”

“Why does that scare you?”

“Because I don’t know if it’ll hurt.”

I nodded. I’d been doing some reading on the subject…a lot of reading, in fact. If done right, anal shouldn’t hurt. If you took it slow, used lots of lube, and built up to it, pain was relatively rare.

The first time my mother did anal, I was going to be careful. I was going to make sure not to damage her, not to do anything that could cause any damage.

But I was going to make sure that it hurt.

“I thought you liked pain,” I said.

“No,” Mom replied, shaking her head. “I don’t.”

Another thing my mother was in denial about. Pain turned her on, pain got her off. But she still claimed not to like it.

“What else?”

“I don’t know if it’ll fit,” Mom said, her face pale. “What if it’s too big?”

“How about if you built up to it?” I asked gently. “Started with fingers, or a smaller toy. Something to ensure that you were able to safely take the Toy?”

“Well…yeah, I suppose that would make it less scary.”

“That’s what I thought,” I nodded.

It wasn’t going to happen like that, of course. The first thing my mother would take up her ass was the Toy.

The second would be my cock.

“Anything else?”

“It would make me feel dirty,” Mom said. It was odd; she only seemed to feel this way about her ass. Specifically, stuff going into her ass. Me spanking her ass, no issue. Hell, me making her cum with my hand didn’t make her feel “dirty”.

But putting something in her butt? That was what did it.

“What else?”

“I don’t…”

Mom trailed off, and I waited. My mother described her fears half a dozen times already, but I could be patient if there was a chance she would add something new.

“…yes,” she said, and I smiled a wicked smile.

“What?”

“I’m afraid I would enjoy it,” she admitted.

I raised one eyebrow.

“Why does that scare you?”

“Because…” Mom thought for a moment, before taking a shuddering breath and continuing. “…if I really, really liked it, what if that was the only way I could…y’know.”

“Orgasm,” I said helpfully, and my mother nodded.

“Mm-hmm,” she replied, clearly uncomfortable. “Right.”

“Why is that a problem?” I asked, even as I worked out the answer out for myself.

What can I say? I wanted to hear her say it.

“Because…that’s an important part of my motivation,” Mom continued, putting a heavy emphasis on ‘that’. “And if I needed something…y’know. Then I would need you to, um…”

I licked my lips, revelling in my mother’s uncomfortableness. Not only was she afraid of the Toy, she was afraid of building up a dependence on it. She’d gotten so used to her daily orgasm, delivered by her son, she was worried that the only way I’d be able to get her off was by sticking something in her ass.

It was such an absurd, improbable fear. My mother has always been an anxious woman, but this was a whole new level. She was afraid both that she’d hate it and that she’d love it.

Of course, it was perfectly in line with her other reactions to pain.

“That’s a very real possibility,” I replied, my voice level, staring straight into my mother’s glazed-over eyes. “Anything else?”

After a few more moments of thought, Mom shook her head.

“Getting your daughter off is your punishment, remember?”

“I remember,” Mom replied, her voice dull. God, my cock couldn’t have been harder—she had completely accepted that she needed to be punished, and that getting Cynthia off was the best way to do so.

“But it sounds like making you use the Toy would be a more effective punishment, doesn’t it?”

“N-no,” Mom began to stammer. I held up one hand, and she fell silent.

“Maybe we don’t have to go quite that far,” I replied, trying to sound like I was thinking it over. “Maybe there’s something we can add to your existing punishment instead.”

Mom didn’t say anything. She just stared into nothingness, her eyes wide. “So here’s what we’re going to do,” I began, and my mother obediently listened.

Less than a week later, I was sitting in the living-room when it happened.

A few years earlier, I’d helped out with the school play. Not as an actor or anything like that; I was backstage, making sure that all the props were in the right place at the right time, all that stuff. I got to make a fake gun, that’d been fun.

Because of my role, I’d spent a lot of time watching rehearsals. For the final play I was backstage the whole time, but for weeks I’d sat in the audience, watching everyone stumble over their lines as the director told them where to go and how to say it. ’Blocking’, that was called.

The part that really stuck me was how sincerely they had to say something completely artificial. Like, we all knew it was a play. The lines the actors were saying had been written by someone who’d died twenty years ago; it wasn’t like they were spontaneous thoughts they’d come up with in the moment.

But we had to pretend they were. Well, not me, the actors. They had to pretend that when they claimed to be a good, proper girl who never sold themselves, they meant it. That it came from a genuine impulse to say those words to that person at that time, and that they weren’t just reading a line from a script that had been written decades before they were born.

Everything about the experience was artificial, but in the moment they had to pretend it was completely real.

Watching my mother and sister interact in the living-room was like that. But unlike the play, I was the only one who knew how artificial the process was. The actors didn’t know they were acting, reading lines that I’d fed them.

And the show was a whole lot better than one I’d made props for, I can tell you that.

“Oh, hey,” Mom said, as Cynthia entered the room. It was all I could do not to mouth along with the dialogue; I’d run this with her at least a dozen times, the threat of the Toy hanging over her.

She had no conscious idea that’s why she was doing what she was doing, of course. That made it more hot, honestly. Mom wasn’t just a puppet to my manipulations: she was an unknowing puppet. She had no idea that she was following my commands.

“Hey Mom,” Cynthia sang back.

She was wearing a white bra and white panties—they were lacy, and transparent enough to be alluring, but just opaque enough to hide her nipples.

God I wanted to see my sister’s nipples. I was fucking her two, three, sometimes four times a day, and I still couldn’t have told you what her nipples looked like. Or what they tasted like.

She was also wearing white stockings, with a matching lacy top. While she was wonder, Cynthia had told me once that she hated the way her skin bulged out around the top of the stockings, like a little muffin top. It was completely in her head—despite what her self-image suggested, my sister was not even approaching fat, and I couldn’t see anything.

But I’d used it as an excuse to stare at those creamy thighs whenever they were on display. My sister thought I was transfixed in disgust, and I got to check her out without her having even the slightest clue how I felt.

I’d enjoyed the sight of those thighs before, but now that I got to pump my cock between them, and then pull out and come all over them…yeah, I liked ’em even more. Funny how these things work, isn’t it?

Threats hadn’t been needed, to get my sister to agree. Her greatest fear was already that I wouldn’t be attracted to her; anything that moved things in that direction, she was more than motivated to do.

Part of me wanted to threaten her anyway, to dive into those fears…but when the choice was to spend my time doing that or fucking her, well. It wasn’t much of a choice, y’know?

Cynthia plopped down beside our mother on the couch. I was in the far corner of the room, where I’d deliberately planted myself. I wasn’t hiding, not really—they both knew I was there. But I was just far enough away that I’m sure they found it easy to pretend I wasn’t there, y’know? I wasn’t in their faces.

Also, my head was buried in a comic. I’d picked a comic for a two reasons: firstly, because I’d worked out the best way to make Mom comfortable with me seeing this kind of thing was, unintuitively enough, when she saw me as a kid. Like, if I’d been reading 50 Shades of Grey or…I dunno, some advanced sociology textbook, that might have been a reminder that I was an adult. By picking a comic, it highlighted my youth, helped emphasize the ‘this is not sexual’ angle I’d leaned on so heavily.

And secondly, because I’d just bought it and wanted to read it. I had no idea how long it would be until the show started, so I figured I’d have something to occupy myself with in the meantime.

Not long, it turned out. My sister was excited; I’d told her subconscious mind that if she acted strangely about me being in the room, watching her get off, that Mom would start to suspect how Cynthia felt about her brother.

So she’d readily agreed to do it in front of me next time. And now that it was happening, that (as far as she was concerned) her brother was going to—for the first time—see her do something sexual, she clearly couldn’t wait.

Not to mention, of course, the fact that as far as my sister was concerned, she’d only cum once in the last few months. I imagine the prospect of a second orgasm was pretty exciting to her as well.

“Mom,” Cynthia said breathily. “You remember what you…helped me out with the other day?”

Our mother froze, just as she had each and every time we’d rehearsed this. “Y-yes,” she said, her eyes flicking to me in the corner of the room. I made sure my head was buried in the comic. Mom gulped.

“I need your help again,” Cynthia said firmly, and I couldn’t help but smile, hoping that neither of the women in my family were looking in my direction.

From Cynthia’s point of view, she was asking for help cumming because Mom had noticed she’d stopped masturbating. From Mom’s perspective, her daughter was asking for help with her weight-loss program. You can see why I made sure each and every line was scripted and rehearsed, right?

But despite that, to each of the girls—to both of them—this was real. As far as they were concerned, they were genuinely asking their family/being asked for an orgasm. Like the ideal form of a high-school play, this was a genuine, spontaneous request.

If every high-school play involved two busty women asking to get each other off, I guarantee the audience would enjoy them more. On the other hand, you’d probably get a lot more complaints.

“Of…of course,” Mom said, so softly I could barely hear her.

Not that I needed to, of course. She was saying the words I’d drilled into her. And Cynthia’s lines had, of course, literally been drilled into her.

I don’t know if you have a bucket list, but if that’s your kind of thing, I have some suggestions for you: spanking your naked mother to orgasm. Fucking your entranced, busty sister. Fucking your unentranced, busty sister—I was yet to cross that one off the list.

And, of course, the bucket list item I was able to scratch off that night: watching your mother bring your sister to orgasm.

It went down much the same as it had in the re-tellings. Mom put two hands on Cynthia’s waist, and sure enough, there was this weird moment where I really thought they were going to kiss. There was an intense energy between them, it was hot as hell.

The whole situation was hot as hell. I couldn’t wait to fuck my sister later while she recounted it to me.

Mom used her fingers on Cynthia’s gusset, staring at her all the while. It might have been a bit risky, but I wasn’t just watching them out of my peripheral—I was looking straight at Mom as she stimulated the front of my sister’s panties, flicking my eyes between her and Cynthia as she bit her lip and trembled. If either of them had looked over at me, they would’ve seen me watching…but I think I would’ve gotten away with it. Like, they were the ones touching each other in front of me. It wasn’t crazy unbelievable that I’d at least look up to see what was happening.

Despite the fact that their eyes were firmly affixed to the other’s face, I knew they were aware I was there. It had Mom had never grown entirely comfortable with the idea that I’d be there; she was doing it under duress.

That just made it hotter. Mom was letting it happen because if she didn’t, I’d punish her. If she didn’t, I’d force her to use a toy where no toy had ever gone before.

Even better: Mom wasn’t just letting it happen; she was making it happen. My mother wasn’t an inactive participant, like Cynthia was when I fucked her. Mom was tremblingly touching her own daughter while I watched.

She’d go through with it, but I knew that she’d be aware of my presence with every movement.

And my sister…yeah, I would have bet my right nut that this was the sexual highlight of my sister’s life. She was standing in front of me, her younger brother, someone she’d been completely sexually obsessed with for months, and letting him watch her be touched.

There was absolutely no chance that Cynthia wasn’t acutely aware of my presence.

Mom’s fingers deftly moved Cynthia’s panties to the side, and she began stroking her daughter’s labia. Just as she’d described: soft gentle movements, then dipping her fingers briefly inside my sister (where my cock, I gleefully reminded myself, had been just a few hours earlier).

I couldn’t see it, but I could tell that was what was happening.

Next, I knew my mother would have begun stroking Cynthia’s clitoris, doing all she could to bring her own daughter to orgasm. Y’know, as part of her weight-loss routine.

But we never got to that part.

“Well, sis,” I said with a sigh. “If you’re not going to follow orders, there will be punishments…”

My sister’s eyes widened. When she’s under, she can’t make any conscious movements. It was a serious impediment to our sexual progress; if I could have just ordered her to suck my cock, I knew she would have obeyed in a heartbeat.

I’d considered ordering her let me fuck her mouth anyway, but I was pretty sure sticking one’s cock into the mouth of someone with no ability to control their motion wasn’t going to be a good time.

And so instead, all I could do was fuck her wet, waiting pussy. It’s a hard life, being me.

But there were a few things she could do, even while hypnotized. Widening her eyes, occasionally twitching, and—of course—cumming.

There were probably others as well, but those were the key ones. She could cum, but she couldn’t suck my cock. There truly is no justice in the universe.

“Y-yes, sir,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

My sister had been punished before, many times. But always by Mom. I’d never actually administered a punishment to my sister.

I mean, I couldn’t make it too easy, could I?

But the previous night, Cynthia had cum at our mother’s hand.

Mom hadn’t even gotten to my sister’s clitoris before Cynthia was trembling in orgasm, gasping softly as she came.

Despite me being very, very clear about the fact that she wasn’t allowed to.

Cynthia had always been so good. So obedient.

No matter what I did, Mom was unable to edge the way her daughter could. I could have told Mom that she’d be sold into slavery and it wouldn’t make a difference: when my mother was being spanked, she came. It was just basic cause-and-effect; she just couldn’t seem to control it.

But Cynthia had become the master of controlling her conscious orgasm. Sometimes she came when she was under and I was fucking her, but I figured that was…forgiveable.

When my sister’s busty body was trembling with orgasm around my cock, I found it pretty easy to forgive her of most anything.

But the rest of the time? She didn’t cum. Especially when she was awake; her self-control was phenomenal. If she didn’t want to cum, she simply didn’t.

Until Mom had fingered her, that is.

Now, maybe Mom was just, like, a world-expert. But considering that she’d never been with another woman and hadn’t even touched herself for more than twenty, I somehow doubted that was the issue here.

For whatever reason, Cynthia had lost control. She’d disobeyed a direct order, and—in perhaps the sexiest way possible—completely thrown my plans off-course.

So yeah; there was only one thing to be done about it.

My sister needed to be punished.

But I didn’t want to punish her while she was awake. There was nothing Cynthia craved more than my attention, and I wanted to keep her hungry. If I’d said “Okay sis, time for your spanking,” that would’ve been closer to a reward—and I really didn’t want to incentivize further disobedience.

By the time this was done, both Cynthia and my mother were going to be my slaves. I’d still punish them, of course, but just for my own pleasure. If all went to plan, they would never disobey me again. Maybe I could even train Mom to control her orgasms.

So no, Cynthia’s punishment couldn’t be a conscious one.

“What are you most afraid of?” I asked Cynthia, and she answered immediately.

“Confirmation that I’m fat. Being rejected by my brother. Heights. Spiders. Mom finding out what a pervert I am. Anyone finding out how I feel about Daniel.”

I paused, but the list ended there. Unlike with Mom, we were yet to find a single consuming terror that we could dive into. I could have asked her to stop and think about it, really plumb the depths of her soul…but we were running out of time, and I wanted to fuck my sister again before the session ended.

Even though she didn’t move, even though she just stared blankly at the ceiling, it was still the most incredible sexual experience of my life. Like cheap popcorn: it left a lot to be desired, but I wanted as much of it as I could get my hands on.

“Here’s your homework,” I said, a cruel smile curling the edges of my mouth. “Next time you’re edging, that’s what I want you to think about: your greatest, truest fears. Think about that for a full hour, and report back to me the next time you’re under.”

“Yes, sir,” my sister said with a shiver, as I got into position to fuck her again. “Whatever you say, sir.”