Diet
by Pan
Chapter 39
As soon as my lips met my mother’s she froze. When I pulled back, she was twitching, trembling, as if she was going to wake up.
Perhaps it was arrogance. I like to think it was confidence—or competence. But arrogantly, confidently, competently, I knew: she wouldn’t reject me.
Not fully. My mother needed me; before I’d started hypnotising her, she’d been rudderless. Her only goal had been the vague aspiration to ‘be a good Mom”—now, I’d given her purpose. Losing weight, becoming attractive, returning to her prime.
In the past six months, she’d shown more discipline than in the last ten years before that. She’d been making goals, hitting them. She’d rediscovered the joy of accomplishment. Like, as humans, we’re built to be productive. I’d given that back to her.
And then, just as suddenly, I’d taken it away from her again.
I remember during religious studies at school, we’d had someone come in and talk about the “Jesus-shaped hole” we all have inside us. According to this woman, everyone has this hole, and we can try to fill it with owning stuff, or doing drugs, or...I dunno, sex and rock ‘n’ roll. But the only thing that’ll fill it is Jesus.
I didn’t really buy it; not sure if you can tell. Even if I did believe in this Jesus-shaped hole, I’m pretty sure I’d found something other than the son of God to fill it: hot BDSM sex with your busty sister and mother.
Maybe I should get a job going from school to school and spreading the word. It’s important shit, y’know?
By giving Mom such a strong purpose, I’d shown her what it was like to be fulfilled. By taking it away again, I’d made her more aware of the loss. If she woke up now, she’d be worse off than she’d been before.
She needed me. My mother had a Daniel-shaped hole, and I couldn’t wait to fill it.
I sat and watched as Mom’s body shook, her eyes fluttered...and then smiled triumphantly as she slowly relaxed. Just as I’d hoped.
She was mine.
“You need my help,” I reminded her softly. “You were supposed to help your daughter get off, but you failed. You’re not attractive enough. Say it.”
“I was supposed to help my daughter get off,” Mom repeated hollowly. My cock twitched at the hopelessness in her eyes and voice. All of a sudden, it was like I was talking to a shell of a woman. “But I failed. I’m not attractive enough.”
“You need me to teach you. Say it.”
“I...I...”
I frowned. Again, my mother was resisting.
“Say it,” I pressed.
Mom didn’t twitch or shake, but neither did she obey my command.
I sighed. Why did she always make things so difficult?
“If I don’t teach you what pleases a woman, you won’t be able to get Cynthia off. Say it.”
“If you don’t teach me what pleases a woman, I won’t be able to...to get Cynthia off.”
She stumbled briefly at the idea of making her own daughter cum, but Mom dutifully repeated my words.
“So you need me to teach you.”
Nothing.
“You’re a woman,” I said, trying a different tack. “Pleasing a woman is a man’s job. Say it.”
“Pleasing a woman is a man’s job,” Mom repeated.
“Women don’t know how to please other women. Say it.”
“Women don’t know how to please other women,” Mom said. Lol.
“So you need me to teach you. Say it.”
“So I...I...”
Mom struggled for a moment, but soon fell silent, her blank stare desperate.
Well, I’d tried being reasonable. Now it was time to use the stick.
“Get the toy,” I commanded, my voice dripping with contempt. I couldn’t help but smile at the look of shock, fear, and disgust that crossed her face.
I know it’s wrong, but I loved seeing her so afraid. I mean, okay, there were a lot of wrong things happening. And yeah—I loved pretty much all of them.
“B-but...”
“Get it,” I insisted, and Mom got up from her knees and fetched the huge butt-plug from beside her bed. When she returned, she was shaking.
I’d just slapped her across the face, without warning, but she was still more scared of that thing than she was of me.
“When was the last time you looked at this?”
“This morning,” Mom whispered, her blank eyes looking past the toy in her hands. “I look at it every morning when I wake up.”
“And what did you think about?”
“I imagined what it would feel like inside me,” she gulped. “I...I...”
Mom’s voice seized up with fear. My cock was throbbing. The sight of my mother being brought to such abject terror made me hard as stone.
“What would it feel like?” I asked.
“I can’t do it,” she said in panic. “I... I can’t take it in there...please!”
I couldn’t help but smile at her response. She couldn’t even answer the question.
“Fine,” I said calmly. “Then instead, you’ll make your daughter cum.”
Mom slumped as though I’d hit her again.
“Say it.”
There was a long pause, but just as I was about to give up and try another angle, Mom’s mouth opened, and a fat tear rolled down her face. “I’ll make my daughter cum.”
“You need me to teach you,” I pressed. “Say it.”
Another pause, but this one was shorter. “I...I need you to teach me.”
“Again.”
“I need you to teach me.”
“You need your son to teach you how to get a woman off. Say it.”
“I...I need my son to teach me how to get a woman off.”
“Good.” I smiled at the sight in front of me. My forty-one year old mother, her eyes fearful and wide, holding a butt-plug, agreeing—against her instincts, against her morals, against her will—that I had to teach her how to please her daughter. To get her off. “Now, let’s start with kissing.”
I feel like I should be clear: I’ve been kissed before. Like, my mother wasn’t my first kiss.
There was Erin Murphy, for one. Okay, most of my kissing experience up to that point was Erin Murphy—but not all! I’d also made out with a girl from another school at a party (yeah, I know how much it sounds like I’m making that up) and then I’d frenched for like twenty minutes with a summer girlfriend I’d met at camp.
She was from Australia...and YES, I know that sounds even more made up. That’s why I normally just talk about Erin Murphy—not only did I go the furthest with her, she’s also the most believable-sounding.
So yeah: even before I’d done my week-long deep dive on “how to please a woman”, I’d had a bit of experience kissing.
But part of me, I’ll admit, was excited to show off what I’d learned. I dunno, maybe it’s the adult equivalent of “look Mom, no hands!”—I was excited to show my Mom how good I was at kissing.
In this case, of course, I planned to use my hands extensively.
Mom didn’t resist as I moved my mouth to hers. Her lips softly parted as I pressed mine into her. Our tongues danced together for a moment, and then I pulled back and took the plug from her hand.
“Good job,” I said, tossing the toy onto the bed. “Now, this time I want you to run your hands through my hair, like you can’t get enough of me. Here, let me show you what I mean...”
My fingers worked their way through Mom’s hair, and my thumbs lightly traced a path along the sides of her head. I sighed as Mom leaned forward, pressing her body into me, her breasts squashing against my chest as we made out.
The next time, she ran her fingers through my hair. The time after that, I held her hips, then she held mine.
For the next twenty minutes, I kept “coaching” my mother, pushing her further and further each time. Before long, she was (reluctantly) grabbing my ass as we kissed—of course, to properly teach her, I’d had to grab hers.
“I’m going to touch you,” I warned her. “Can I touch you?”
“Y-yes,” my mother agreed.
“Tell me you want me to touch you.”
“I...I want you to touch me.” My mother’s face was red, and I knew it wasn’t just from embarrassment.
“Beg me to touch you,” I whispered.
“Please, Daniel,” my mother said urgently. “T-touch me. I need you to touch me. Please...”
Soon, Mom was grinding herself against me and moaning. At first, she was stiff and tentative, but after I moved the toy back into her field of vision, she forced herself to get more into it, losing herself in the kiss.
By the end of the session, Mom was practically jumping me on command, her glazed eyes open as we made out, pressing her body against mine as I ran my fingers through her hair, up and down her back, brushing against her thighs and pussy, firmly grabbing her ass.
I honestly couldn’t tell you what was hotter: what I was doing to my mother, or the knowledge that I was forcing her into it. Mom would never, ever do any of this with me voluntarily. Even when hypnotized and horny, I had to browbeat her into it.
She hated it. Her body didn’t, admittedly (after a few decades of not being touched, I think Mom was pretty excited to be making out again) but I knew that my mother, on a core level, didn’t want to be doing any of it.
But she did. I had full control over my mother—she’d do anything I told her to.
No matter how much she hated it.
“Okay,” I finally gasped. “I think you’re ready.”
I broke our lip-lock, pulling away from my mother.
“Tonight, when you try to get Cynthia off, you’re going to kiss her first. Just like this; like you want her. Like you need her. You’re going to explore her body with your hands and get her excited. Only then will you try to get her off., once you’re sure she’s wet. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Mom whispered. “I understand.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to kiss her first,” Mom repeated. “Like you showed me. And then, I’ll...I’ll move my hands all over her. Get her...excited. And once I’m sure she’s wet, I’ll...I’ll try to get her off.”
“Again,” I ordered, and Mom echoed back her instructions. After the fifth repetition, I was confident that she understood. That she would obey.
“Good,” I said with a nod. “Now, take your clothes off.”
Mom got up and quickly stripped. I felt my cock twitch again. My mother was so fucking attractive—every inch of her, from her perfect tits to her toned legs and tight stomach.
You might be wondering why I hadn’t stripped her before half an hour of making out. While I was growing increasingly confident that there was no order I could give Mom that would wake her up (short of maybe “Come here and fuck me, right now”) I wasn’t quite as confident about actions.
Making out with my naked mother might have been one step too far. And then if she woke up to find herself naked, her body pressed against mine...
Hot, yes. Foolish, double yes. And so yeah—I’d not stripped her down until we were done with makeout lessons.
“As a reward,” I said, sitting on the bed and patting my lap, “I’m going to spank you.”
Was that strictly necessary, for the plan to work? No. Not at all. But after half an hour of making out with my mother, feeling her hands roaming around my body, I was pretty worked up. And spanking my naked mother to a gasping, squirming orgasm...
It was a reward for both of us. Before long, Mom was writhing in my lap, her body covered with goosebumps and sweat as she came—hard—my hand on her ass.
“Good job,” I panted. “Now, what are you going to do tonight?”
“Make Cynthia cum,” Mom said dreamily, and I smiled down at her.
“Yes you are.”
No, she didn’t. The plan was doomed to failure from the start.
Well, from a certain point of view. I mean, from my end, the plan was a complete success. The plan that involved sitting in the living-room, a comic in my hands, as I watched my mother and sister make out.
When Cynthia approached Mom that night, she was wearing a sexy black set of lingerie. Mom looked amazing too—her dark hair flowing down her back as she pressed her lips against her daughter’s, their bodies wrapped around each other. Despite neither of them being hypnotized, both the girls’ eyes glazed over as they kissed, their tongues dancing together.
It could have been a porn film. Just this, just the two busty women making out. Even without knowing they were mother and daughter, just the sight of their bodies entwined, their hands exploring each other’s curves...there’s not a straight man in the world who wouldn’t have paid top dollar to see that.
My front-row seat, combined with the fact that it was my own mother and sister—and that I was the one who’d made them do it...
Yeah. Life was pretty good. The best things in life really are free, I guess.
Mom moaned and groaned, just as I’d taught her, grinding her body against Cynthia, her boobs jiggling beneath her T-shirt. I saw her fingers digging into Cynthia’s rear, only a thin piece of fabric stopping her from touching her daughter’s bare ass.
Cynthia loved knowing I was watching. She loved the idea of me seeing her make out with another voluptuous woman. Her soft moans of need; I don’t doubt that they were based in reality, but for the most part, they were for me.
My sister was making out with our mother, all for me. And she loved it.
But far hotter was how much I knew Mom hated it. My sister was getting off on the knowledge that her brother was watching, and Mom was the exact opposite. Aside from the physical sensations (like I said, it’d been a few decades for her) there was absolutely nothing that Mom enjoyed about the situation. Nothing.
My mother was making out with my sister, all for me. And she fucking hated it.
I’d lost track of time (easy to do, when you’re watching the greatest show on earth) when Cynthia pulled away, looking into my mother’s face as she licked her tongue along her lower lip. Her breasts pushed against my mother’s, and the two women moaned simultaneously at the contact. Cynthia’s reaction was probably real, or maybe just to get me hard. Mom’s reaction might have been real, or it might have been to make her daughter wet.
Just like I’d taught her.
“Oh fuck,” I muttered to myself, quietly enough that I knew they couldn’t hear me.
Cynthia moaned again as her mother, finally reached down to work her pussy with her fingers.
“You’re doing great.” she whispered supportively, as I’d instructed her to. “Doing so well. Momma, I’m so wet...”
I knew my mother hated the commentary—she hated anything that reminded her of what she was doing—but she didn’t let it slow her down. She stood staring into the eyes of her red-faced, writhing daughter, flushed with need, desperate for her mother to bring her to climax.
But she didn’t.
The training had worked. All the training, I mean. I’d trained my mother to get my sister off (although really, it had been training to put on a show for me) and I’d trained my sister not to get off. Effective though the making out had been, it wasn’t enough.
Cynthia was a good girl. Cynthia was my good girl.
Maybe I’d reward her for it. Or maybe I’d punish her, which would be a reward for me...which, in turn, would be a reward for her.
As my sister left the room, Mom slumped back on the couch, frustrated by her failure. Consciously, she didn’t really why this was so important—as far as her awake brain was concerned, this was purely about helping her daughter stick to her diet.
But her unconscious brain knew the stakes. Her unconscious brain knew that this was a punishment, that she was being punished for her selfishness.
And that if she didn’t get it right, there would be consequences
* * *