Diet
by Pan
Chapter 33
The morning after I watched Mom get my sister off, she was surprisingly…normal.
It had taken so much effort to convince my mother, I guess I expected that afterwards she’d be at least a little awkward afterwards.
Nope! When I came downstairs for breakfast the next morning, there was no weirdness at all.
As I munched on the crepes my mother had prepared, my mind was whirring. It had been a recurring pattern with Mom, really: she’d refuse to do something, she’d get through it blushingly, but once it was done…
It was like it flipped a switch in her mind or someting. Spanking was the obvious example: once she’d accepted that there was nothing sexual about it, that it was just a motivational tool, she’d been happy for me to spank her to orgasm every night.
More than happy, really.
Similarly, even after getting her own daughter off, she hadn’t let it faze her. Twice now, Cynthia had tremblingly cum at her own mother’s hands, and Mom hadn’t shown even a trace of awkwardness.
So now that Mom had gotten her daughter off—and let her son watch—and subsequently seen that the world hadn’t ended…
As I dutifully moved my plate to the kitchen, I wondered what I could do with that.
The next evening, I put my sister under again and asked her to report back.
“What did you think of the last time you masturbated?” I asked, and she shivered at the question.
Shivering. That’s another thing Cynthia can do while she’s under. Shiver, widen her eyes, and cum. If she could also transform into a magical warrior, you could cast her as an anime girl.
“My greatest fears,” she replied demurely.
Sometimes we’d have these conversations as I fucked her. You know, for efficiency. Sure, we’d both be a little distracted (her more than me, actually) but it meant that we could get more in.
More sex, that is. Not nearly as much in the way of actual progress.
But as amazing as I knew it would’ve been to listen to the list as I came inside Cynthia, I wanted us both to be fully focused on it. Ignoring the voice in my head screaming “You have the opportunity to fuck your sister and you’re choosing NOT to?”, I licked my lips.
I was sitting beside Cynthia’s bed, my eyes roaming over her exposed body. She had a sort of strappy pair of black panties on—like, as well as the normal material, there were a bunch of bands going around her stomach and thighs. I don’t claim to understand women’s underwear, but it looked good on her.
Admittedly, I’d yet to see Cynthia in any underwear I didn’t like.
Her bra matched, too, with some extra straps hugging the breasts. I don’t think they did anything, they just…looked good.
My hands itched with the urge to rip them off her. I’d thought I was as obsessed with Cynthia’s boobs as one could possibly be, but the more I fucked her, the more I got to stare at her pussy, what I could see of her ass (I didn’t feel game to roll her over, in case it woke her up) and the constant stream of lingerie she paraded throughout the house, the more I wanted to know what her tits looked like.
Her bare, naked tits. I wanted to see them. Touch them. Taste them. Fuck them.
That’s what I told the voice in my head. “I can fuck my sister now, or I can get complete control and fuck her whenever I like. Constantly. Looking at her tits as I do.”
That shut it up.
“What are your greatest fears? Besides heights and spiders.”
“Getting caught,” Cynthia replied. “Anyone working out how I feel about Daniel, or what a pervert I am. Rejection. Daniel not feeling the same wayabout me as I do about him.”
“What else?”
“Never getting to a ten,” she said, her voice trembling. “Never getting to be with my brother.”
Not a particularly fertile area. “What else?”
Cynthia took a deep breath, and I leaned forward, eager to hear what she had to say.
“Showing my breasts,” she said meekly, and my eyebrows shot through the ceiling.
Jackpot.
“Go on,” I said, pulling my erection out of my pants. A strangled noise of arousal left my sister’s mouth—I hadn’t thought she could see me from there, but something—her hearing, perhaps, or her peripheral vision—had alerted her to what was happening. “What about showing your breasts scares you?”
“They’re too big,” she said, panting slightly as I began slowly stroking myself.
I wasn’t going to cum, not from touching myself. Not when my sister was right there, and I could pull her panties to the side and fuck her. But touching my dick felt good (it had been a wonderful day, when I’d worked that one out) and the fear in my sister’s voice was turning me on like nothing else.
“Yes they are,” I confirmed. Y’know, because it was clearly Opposite Day. “What would happen if someone saw them?”
“They’d think I was disgusting.”
“You are disgusting,” I said, unable to help my self. “Say it.”
“I am disgusting,” my sister repeated back. As the words left her mouth, my cock released a small wave of pre-cum.
“Say it again.”
“I am disgusting.”
“What if your brother were to see your tits?”
“Then he’d never be attracted to me. Never.”
“He’s going to have to see them eventually, isn’t he?”
“Y-yes,” my sister replied, her voice a sexy combination of morose and turned-on. Part of me wished I’d been recording; it was one of the hottest sounds I’d ever heard. Right after the sound of my mother muffling her orgasm, or the rhythmic sound of my cock entering Cynthia’s wetness.
I barely had time to ponder whether I should release an album when my sister continued. “But by then, hopefully he’ll already be attracted enough to me that it won’t matter.”
“As your trainer, it should be safe for me to see them.” I’d tried this line of thinking before, but to no avail. But I figured it was worth another try, now that she was more cognizent of exactly how she felt about it. “It would help with your weight-loss program.”
“No,” Cynthia said flatly.
“Why not?”
“You’d be looking through my brother’s eyes. It wouldn’t work.”
“I need to see them,” I said insistently.
“No,” my sister said, more desperately.
I stood up, bringing my hard cock into my sister’s field of view. A wave of pleasure visibly spread across her body, just at the sight of my dick—her collarbone grew flushed, her stomach tensed in anticipation, and her pussy pulsed.
“You disobeyed a direct order, Cynthia.” I said. “You were told not to let your mother make you cum, but you did anyway.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Cynthia said, sounding as though she was on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Sorry isn’t going to cut it. I need to make sure you won’t do it again.”
“Please, sir.” A sob left my sister’s mouth. “I won’t. I promise.”
“Not good enough,” I replied coldly. “You need to be punished.”
“Yes, s-sir. Whatever you say, sir.”
“Your punishment will be to show me your boobs. Show your brother your boobs. That’s an order.”
For a moment, I felt powerful. Like it was finally going to happen. Like those tits I’d fantasized about for so long were finally going to come into view.
But the feeling faded as I watched my sister begin to twitch uncontrollably as her unconscious mind fought back against my command.
Just as I thought I was getting the hang of this…
“How do you feel about your son seeing you get Cynthia off?”
Mom squirmed at the question.
Ah. Not completely okay with it after all.
“Fine,” she finally answered.
“Fine?”
“Mm-hmm,” Mom said, using the tone I’d heard so many times in my life. That clear, firm, ’I don’t want to talk about it’ tone.
Well, Mom wasn’t in control here. I was, and I wanted to talk about it.
“How does it make you feel, knowing that you’ve made your daughter cum?”
“Fine,” Mom repeated.
“You don’t feel guilty about it?”
Mom shook her head, wide-eyed. I stared at her for a moment, trying to work out if she was lying to me (or to herself) before realizing that it didn’t matter.
I was speaking directly to her subconscious. Even if she wasn’t speaking the truth, it was what—on some level—she believed.
“So if it was fine,” I said slowly, “then it’s not much of a punishment, is it?”
Mom’s eyes widened as she realized what I was saying. But rather than change her opinion, she jus tshook her head.
“I guess not,” she said slowly. Sadly.
She sounded just as morose as her daughter had, and it was very nearly as hot.
“So we’ll have to come up with something else, won’t we?”
“Yes,” Mom nodded. “I suppose we will.”
“Stop!” I yelped. “Uh, um…tell me how it felt when Mom made you cum?”
My sister’s eyes glazed over, and her entire body relaxed.
“Warm,” she said, her voice thick with lust. “Hot. I felt like I was doing something naughty, but something that my brother would approve of. Something that would get him hard. I want him to see me. I want to make him hard…”
I breathed a sigh of relief as she continued. God, Cynthia and her boobs…it was pathological. It was like she was as obsessed with them as I was, but in reverse.
No. No, that was impossible. No one could possibly be as obsessed with my sister’s boobs as I was.
But she certainly got close.
Clearly, this wasn’t a fear I could defeat with brute strength. But there was no way in hell I was giving up. I’d have to work at it, get her used to the idea.
And I felt like I’d have more luck if she was…distracted.
Four minutes later, my pants were around my ankles, Cynthia’s panties were pushed to the side, and we were both panting as I pounded into her.
“Why,” I asked, “are you so afraid of your brother seeing your boobs?”
“Because—don’t cum don’t cum don’t cum—if he sees them, it ruins my chances with him forever.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
“Don’t cum,” my sister replied pleadingly. “Don’t cum don’t cum don’t cum. Because…don’t cum, don’tcumdon’tcum, they’re, oh god don’t cum don’t cum, don’t cum don’t cum…groteseque.”
I glanced down at the bouncing bra-clad bosoms. They were many things, but “grotesque” absolutely wasn’t one of them.
There were two clear paths ahead of me. On one hand, I could work on improving my sister’s self-esteem, teach her to accept her breasts the way they were, understand exactly how beautiful and attractive and sexy she was—and how much I loved the way she looked, boobs and all.
Especially boobs.
It was not only the safer path (my sister’s twitches when I’d ordered her to show me her tits had genuinely alarmed me) but clearly the moral one. By the end of it, Cynthia would have a better relationship with her body; she’d be a healtheir and more well-rounded person.
“You’re right,” I said without hesitation, panting as I drove myself into my sister’s wet, willing cunt. “They’re grotesque. If you show them to your brother, he’ll be disgusted. But…he’s going to see them eventually, isn’t he?”
“Y-yes,” my sister said. “Oh fuck, don’t cum don’t cum…”
“And if he orders you to show him your tits, you can’t disobey him, can you?”
The answer came as a strangled cry, a mixture of horror and wanton lust.
“No! Can’t…disobey him…”
“No sir,” I reminded her, and my sister’s eyes rolled back in her head. “Don’t cum!”
“Don’t cum, sir, sir don’t cum, sir sir sir, sir sir don’t—oh god oh fuck oh fuck me—don’t cum sir.”
I knew my sister’s anguished pleas were directed at herself, but (perhaps it’s the defiant side of me?) they had the opposite effect. I pulled out of my sister, and with a bellow (Mom was out—at the gym, attempting another impossible routine) shot my load all over her various straps.
To my great pleasure, Cynthia hadn’t cum.
I cleaned up my seed, then sat beside her and leaned in close. I had a plan.
“You’re going to ask Mom to touch you again,” I ordered.
“Y-yes, sir,” my sister said. Her eyes were watering. Even though she couldn’t move, I could tell that every inch of her, every pore wanted to cum.
“And if she does, and you cum, you’re going to get punished.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your punishment is going to be to show your tits to Danny. To your trainer.”
Cynthia’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. Nor, to my relief, did she begin to twitch.
“Say it.”
As my sister stammered through her rephrasing of my command, I breathed a sigh of relief.
I’d tried to move too fast. Things had been going so smoothly with my sister, I’d tried to force my through her resistance. It had been clumsy. Dangerous.
But I was confident I could get there. Within a few sessions, Cynthia would be agreeing that if she couldn’t stop herself from cumming when Mom touched her, she’d show me her tits.
The next steps of my plan were all predicated on Mom being unable to make Cynthia cum. That would open up the perfect opportunities for my mother, for my sister. I could see it all so clearly.
Either Cynthia would be able to resist Mom’s touch…or I’d get to see her tits.
In that moment, I honestly couldn’t tell you which I wanted more.
“What do you think would be a suitable punishment?” I asked, enjoying the shiver of discomfort that went through Mom’s body at the question.
Direct access to someone’s subconscious gives you a pretty good idea of what they’re thinking, and I was completely certain what punishment had immediately sprung to my mother’s mind:
The Toy.
But there was no way she’d ever suggest it. Nothing scared my mother more than the prospect of that huge plug entering her rear passage.
She couldn’t suggest it, but it was filling her mind to the point she couldn’t think of anything else.
“What about doing something humiliating?” I prompted.
“Y-yes,” Mom replied reluctantly. “I…I suppose that would work.”
So far I’d had Mom walk outside naked. I’d had her moon the street from our attic window. I’d had her do so much that she would never have done without my influence.
It had been a while since I’d done anything like that. We’d both been enjoying her recent punishments so much, and while the idea of making my mother humiliate herself was hot, the actual acts themselves did nothing for me, y’know?
See, that’s the thing about being a sadist: if the other person enjoys their punishment, it doesn’t push all your buttons.
Don’t get me wrong: tieing Mom up or making her cry in pain pushed a lot of buttons. Watching her get my sister off, even more.
But it had been a while since Mom had truly suffered. If she’s going to be “fine” with getting Cynthia off, then I needed something more creative.
And I had an idea.
As I’d been getting Mom ready to finger Cynthia in front of me, we’d continued playing with bondage. I’d taken an online course on ropeplay, and both of us were delighted to try it out.
Not that either of us were going to admit that to the other, of course. I knew Mom was just as excited as I was, but—for very different reasons—we each had to completely mask our pleasure.
Well, I guess I didn’t have to hide mine entirely.
I’d worked out that as long as my glee came across as immature, I could be as excited about punishing my mother as I liked. When I’d told her to flash the neighborhood, it had been in the tone of a schoolboy suggesting a hilarious prank.
Later, when I’d had my mother flash her ass to me, it had similarly been framed as silliness, fun and games.
And so despite the fact that I’d had to put down some serious cash for the ropes, for the online course, despite the hours of practice each day I’d had to do (to minimize the risk of any permanent damage)—I still had to play the part of an excited kid.
Just, y’know. An excited kid who was tying his half-naked mother up in all kinds of compromising positions.
Like I said, Mom subconsciously loved it. I don’t know exactly why—yeah, I had access to her unconscious mind…but it didn’t know exactly why either, so it was just a mystery. I think these had been the next steps she’d always wanted to take with my father. She was getting to live out the fantasies she’d had to abandon when he died.
Just…with her son, instead of her husband.
But that really was a guess. It could have just as easily been a desire even she didn’t know she had, and the excitement came from getting to explore it with someone she loved. Someone who took care of her, who only wanted what was best.
Someone who spanked her to orgasm, each and every night.
And so what if that person was her son, right?
A few weeks back, we’d started with some relatively simple stuff. I tied her hands behind her back (while she was fully clothed, sigh) and made her spend an entire Saturday like that. She blushed so hard every time Cynthia or I came into the room to find her trying to eat an apple, or get something out of a drawer.
I’d untied her when she needed the bathroom…but had been tempted not to. The idea of my mother, pantless, struggling to wipe herself after peeing.
I don’t think even my own subconscious could tell you what about that appealed to me so.
The next time she was tied up for a day, I’d left her wrists free and tied her arms to her side. It was this cool rope setup that went over and under her breasts, and only allowed her to move her hands at the elbows. Not quite as restrictive, but somehow way hotter—probably because of the way it framed her tits, or the fact that it traversed (and trussed) her entire torso.
Or maybe because for that one, I didn’t let her wear a top.
For a full day, Mom had walked around the house with her tits on full display, forced to use her hands like a T. Rex. I don’t mean, uh violently. I mean…she couldn’t reach much. Tiny arms.
But the best was what we did the night before she got Cynthia off in front of me. It was so simple, and perfectly sexy: I tied her ankles together, tied her wrists together, and then tied them to each other.
Mom was completely trussed up, kneeling on the kitchen floor, unable to move her limbs. Any of them. Obviously I couldn’t leave her like this for an entire day; as I pulled the final rope, her eyes wide as she realized that she was completely restrained, that anyone could do anything to her.
God, the things I wanted to do to her. Again, I let her keep all her clothes on for this one—I figured she was vulnerable enough. Her arms behind her back like that meant that her chest was thrust forward. If I’d decided to start groping her, just openly touching my Mom’s tits, there’s nothing she could’ve done about it.
Her body was under my complete control. And, though she didn’t know it, her mind was getting there too.
I mean, just the fact that she was tied up like that was a tribute to how much I’d affected her. Even just two months earlier, there’s no way that Mom would’ve anyone tie her up, even her own son. Especially her own son.
Now? Not only did Mom not even question it, she came to me to share her transgressions (“not being able to do five push-ups in twenty seconds”) knowing that I was going to punish her. Knowing that I was going to punish her with ropes.
Honestly, there was something…I dunno, flattering about it. Mom trusted me. If it hadn’t been enough to know that groping her breasts while she was constrained would ruin my chances of doing so much more later, the trust itself would’ve been enough to stop me.
Mom trusted me, and I didn’t want to do anything to break that trust.
Except hypnotize her into being my sex slave, I guess. But that doesn’t count.
“I’m going to tie you up,” I said, a smile on my face.
“Okay,” Mom said, unable to hide the excitement in her voice.
“I’m going to tie you up,” I repeated. “And then we’re going to go shopping.”
I watched with glee as my mother’s eyes widened in pure fear. My cock hardened as she twitched—not enough for me to be worried, but enough to know that she didn’t want this. That she would have done anything to get out of it.
That she was going to do it anyway.
My mother was under my complete control, and she’d do whatever I told her. Even if it terrified her.