Diet
by Pan
Chapter 40
“My breasts,” my sister said without hesitation.
I couldn’t help myself. A shudder of desire passed through my body at her words.
Ever since they’d ballooned into their current, glorious state, I’d been obsessed with my sister’s tits. Like, maybe I was just a natural-born pervert—recent events would certainly support that theory.
But part of me wondered if I’d been made this way by the huge pair of boobs my mother had given her.
And that was before I’d even seen them.
I wanted to reach out and tweak her nipple, to make my sister jump as I grabbed her bare breast. Her boobs were just so massive, so perfectly proportioned, so full and soft and smooth. I had jerked off on them countless times, and it was still a fraction of a fraction of the number of times I’d cum while thinking about them.
A pair of perfect tits doesn’t exist. Except for Cynthia’s.
But she wouldn’t let me touch them. I wanted nothing more than to take her nipple in my mouth, bite down until she begged me to stop. I wanted to chew on her nipples, take her breasts in my hand. Slap them. Whip them. Make them smart with pain.
Make them bleed.
But my sister was a walking (or in this case, laying down) contradiction. She’d let me fuck her, but not touch her breasts. Wiping my cum off them was as close as I got.
“Why?” I asked, and my sister swallowed in response.
“I just hate them.” I’d asked what her least favorite part of her body was, and been completely unsurprised by the answer. It was like our opinions sat on opposite ends of a see-saw; she hated her tits as much as I loved them.
“Why?” I insisted, my fingers twitching. I wanted to touch them so bad, but I couldn’t.
Not yet.
“They’re disgusting,” Cynthia replied glumly, as though she was describing Gollum’s testicles instead of her own perfect breasts. “I have fat tits, and I hate them. I can’t stand to look at them.”
I’m glad I hadn’t been born with my sister’s body. I doubt I’d ever do anything beside staring at my own tits. Touching them. Tweaking my perfect nipples.
“You’re right,” I nodded, my cock throbbing at the dull look in my sister’s eyes. Whenever she began ranting about her body, I always agreed. She thought I was helping her lose weight and raise her self-esteem. Admittedly, her weight had gone down under my regime, but I’d also shifted her self-image from ‘unhealthy’ to ‘utterly deranged’.
“Your breasts are disgusting. They’re fat, they’re saggy, they’re gross. They’re ugly, and you should be ashamed to have them attached to your body. Say it.”
My sister repeated my words. I didn’t have to do anything—she immediately believed them.
“They’re the only thing stopping you from reaching seven point five,” I continued, and I could see my sister’s entire body clench. “You’ve been so submissive, so obedient, such a good girl for your brother...”
Cynthia let out a small moan at my words. From zero to sixty in a single sentence.
“...but it’s all for nothing. Because of your disgusting tits.”
She didn’t say anything, but a single tear trickled down her face at my cruel lie.
“So what do you think we should do about it?”
My sister thought and silently sobbed, before offering a suggestion.
“I could get a breast reduction,” she offered, and I blanched.
“No!”
God, can you imagine? It’d be like the Sistine Chapel trying to save money by getting rid of the ceiling. Destroying something so utterly perfect...no, I had to cut off that line of thinking before she cut off her glorious orbs.
“No, getting surgery is even worse. You’d be scarred. Damaged. You must never get a breast reduction—say it.”
“I...I must never get a breast reduction,” my sister replied, a confused tone in her voice.
“Again,” I insisted. We sat there for several minutes, until Cynthia’s declaration was confident and clear.
“That’s not an option. So what else could you do?”
There was a long pause as my sister thought. “I could hide them away?” she offered, and I shook my head. I bet she’d love that. Having Cynthia walking around in lingerie has been the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, but I knew she’d hated every minute of it.
Of course, her hating every minute of was a large part of why it had been the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
“You’ve been doing that for years,” I reminded her. Ineffectively, of course—when you have a chest like my sister’s, I don’t think it’s remotely possible to hide it away entirely. “It hasn’t worked. What else?”
My sister’s reply was meek. “I don’t know.”
I leaned forward. “You own it.”
Cynthia didn’t respond.
“Do you follow Drew Barrymore on Instagram?” I asked.
“No?”
I don’t either, but a quick google had brought me a few articles to support the new idea I wanted to introduce to my sister.
“A few years ago, she posted a picture of her unplucked eyebrows. She was between films and she’d let them grow out. She didn’t hide them from the world; she owned them.”
My naked sister stayed silent. I glanced down at her perfect bare breasts before continuing.
“They were still disgusting, of course, but rather than try to hide her true self, she put it out there. She owned her flaws. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes...”
“You need to own your own disgusting flaws. You need to own your horrible tits. Imagine if your brother got you naked, and was surprised by the sight of your breasts. Wouldn’t it be better if you let him know in advance what a fucked-up body you have, let him see it and decide for himself? You need to own it.”
After another lengthy pause, my sister’s voice was soft.
“And you think that’ll make my b-brother...like me?”
I shrugged. “Unless you have another idea, it’s worth a try.”
Credit to my sister; she doesn’t do anything half-heartedly.
And, credit to me, I really had her eating out of my hands. I could’ve told her to jump off a bridge, and she wouldn’t even have asked ‘how high?’
The next morning, she came to breakfast wearing a lacy half-cut bra and a matching pair of pink panties. She’d been wearing nothing but underwear for a while now, but this was the first set that really seemed to designed to show off her tits.
I looked her up and down, noting the way her body moved. The way her breasts bounced. My sister’s body is perfect, her tits even moreso. WIth every movement, they threatened to spill over, to reveal the pink nipples that I’d spent so many mouth-watering hours staring at, the perfect nipples that I’d felt against my chest as I fucked my unconscious sister night after night.
I couldn’t wait to get my hands on them.
“Good morning,” I said, my eyes returning to my sister’s face. She was bright red, her blush travelling halfway down her chest. She’d been mostly-naked in front of me for weeks now (and completely naked while hypnotized) but this was the most embarrassed she’d felt about it for a while.
“Good morning,” she replied, her voice demure and submissive. Just like I knew she knew I liked it.
Before I could say anything—or comment on her more-exposed-than-normal chest—Mom entered. Her face was just as red as my sister’s as she moved forward, meeting Cynthia’s lips with her own, her hands caressing her daughter’s exposed body as no mother’s ever should.
I just watched, a soft smile on my face.
“You failed,” I told my mother the night that she’d failed to get Cynthia off. She’d used every trick in her arsenal—every trick that I’d taught her—and still she hadn’t been able to make my sister cum.
She had no way of knowing the deck was stacked against her, of course. She had no way of knowing that I’d put a lot of time, effort, and Cynthia-orgasms into ensuring that she’d fail.
All she knew was that she’d failed, and that she would be punished.
“Y-yes,” she said. “I...I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. My mother was under, only because it was the only way to make sure she understood making Cynthia cum was a punishment, one that she had to complete. Her conscious mind still understood it as a way of helping her daughter diet.
It’s amazing what we can justify to ourselves.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” I replied curtly. “Sorry isn’t good enough.”
I reached behind me, and pulled out my mother’s worst nightmare.
The Toy.
I don’t know why Mom was so terrified of the butt plug, but I knew it was effective. Any time I was struggling to push her into a new depraved act, all I had to do was threaten her with it and she’d fold like a house of cards.
And now, at last, it was time to use it. The threats were over: it was time to break my mother.
I’d ben building up to it for weeks. I’d warned her that if she didn’t do as she was told, if she couldn’t fulfill her ‘lesser’ punishment, this would be the outcome.
She was prepared. She was prepared to be broken.
My cock throbbed at the thought of it. My mother, ever since I’d begun hypnotizing her, had been frustratingly resistant. She would refuse to answer questions, stop me from crossing certain lines. I’d been slowly moving her towards where I wanted her to be, but I wanted to move faster. I wanted to break her, to eradicate her limits entirely.
I could imagine it now. When the toy was inside her, when she saw what I’d done to her—what I was capable of doing—her last walls would break down. She would deny me nothing. If I wanted to spank my mother naked while she was awake, she would obey. If I wanted to fuck her, she wouldn’t resist.
If I wanted to hurt her, she would let me.
If I wanted to bend her over the kitchen table, tie her hands behind her back, and take her while Cynthia watched...she’d let me.
Her resistance would be broken. Finally, finally, I was going to get what I wanted.
Everything I wanted.
“You need to be punished,” I reminded her. “You had two choices—make your daughter cum, or take this.”
“P-please,” she begged, tears openly running down her face. “I c-can try again...”
“You’ve failed twice now,” I reminded her. And succeeded once before that, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to bring that up. “It’s time.”
My mother began trembling, and I paused. Perhaps using it on her while she was under wasn’t the best idea. She really was terrified of it—which was why it had been such an effective tool. Perhaps the fear would be enough to wake her up.
And if she came to with an enormous plug inside her, she might be a little suspicious.
No, better to set it up—to explain to her that she had to do this while she was awake. The only downside was that I wouldn’t get to witness it myself, but I couldn’t take the risk of Mom coming out of trance out of sheer terror.
Before I could start concocting a plan, Mom surprised me.
“Wait,” she blubbered. One of the strangest things I’d discovered about sadism was that in certain circumstances, a snot-filled nose could actually be arousing. Never saw that one coming.
“What?”
“I-I have an idea.”
I paused, a half-smile on my face. Push someone to their limits, and I guess they’ll surprise you.
“What?”
“I t-think I know why Cynthia didn’t...didn’t...”
When the word “cum” left her lips, it was in a whisper.
“On your knees,” I ordered, and Mom obeyed without even thinking about it. “Why didn’t she cum?”
The answer, of course, was that I’d given her a week’s worth of orgasms and coached her on how to avoid climaxing when Mom touched her. But I was curious to hear my mother’s theory on the matter.
“Arousal is...it’s not something you can turn on like a lamp.”
My forehead crinkled. Just the sight of Cynthia’s tits entering a room—and the rest of her following shortly behind—was enough to get me erect in a moment. But maybe things were different for women.
“Go on...”
“You need to b-be in the right mood. The right mental state. You can’t just...”
She trailed off, and shrugged helplessly.
“Foreplay,” I said, and my mother nodded. “But you were already doing that.”
Mom shook her head.
“No,” she said. “Not just in the moment. In the room. Foreplay—proper foreplay—is an all day thing. Your father used to...”
Again, she stopped talking, and I sighed.
“Just say it.”
Mom took a moment to gather her courage, but when she continued, it was more than worth the wait.
“Your father used to whisper dirty stuff to me all day. What he was going to do to me. He’d smack my ass whenever he saw me pass by. And whenever he left the house, he’d...he’d kiss me. Long, and hard, until my toes curled.”
I didn’t say anything. Is it weird to be turned on by the idea of your own father getting your mother worked up?
It was probably below ”fucking your hypnotized sister” or “spanking your mother to orgasm” on the scale.
“So when it came time for bed, I’d be...I’d be ready. So ready. I’d practically pounce him, and then...”
For the third time, my mother trailed off. This time, I didn’t insist she continue.
I knew how I’d been made, of course. I’d known that my father had fucked me into my mother.
But I hadn’t known that he’d first spent the entire day getting her worked up. That their entire day together had been a form of extended foreplay...that by the time he got around to unloading the sperm that would eventually become me, he’d turned my mother into a hot, wet, dripping mess.
“So what are you suggesting?” I asked, my voice low. Again, for all the strangeness of the past few months, nothing had yet weirded me out as much as knowing that I was the second generation of men to turn my mother into a constantly-wet piece of ass.
“I...I could...”
Mom gulped. I could tell how much she hated the idea of whatever she was about to suggest.
But she dreaded the toy more.
“...I could do that to Cynthia,” she continued in a whisper.
“Do what?” I said, a cruel smile crossing my face. I had a pretty good idea, of course...but I wanted to hear my mother say it.
I wanted to hear how much the details pained her.
And I wanted to make sure there were a lot of details.
“I c-could get her worked up,” Mom suggested. “Throughout the day.”
“By doing what? Be specific.”
“I could kiss her,” Mom said, each word sounding like it was being dragged out of her. “First thing in the morning. And…and every time I see her.”
My cock was beginning to rise at the idea. Not just the idea—hot as it was—but at how much my mother would hate it.
And not just that she would hate it...that she was suggesting it. Mom was so desperate, she was trying to convince me to let her do something that she’d hate.
It was hot on so many levels.
“I don’t think kissing her would be enough,” I offered. “What else could you do?”
“I could touch her,” my mother said, her face in a pained expression. “And r-rub her...her body.”
“Where?” I asked, my voice a dry whisper.
“On h-her...on her breasts,” she said. “Over her clothes.”
“Under her clothes as well,” I suggested. “You could reach into her bra and pinch her nipples. You enjoy that, don’t you?”
Her blush was a silent admission that she did. It had come up in our ‘training’. I’d gotten a pretty good idea of Mom’s preferences.
“Where else could you touch Cynthia?”
“H-her butt?”
“You could spank her like Dad spanked you. Say it.”
“I could...I could slap her bottom.”
“Slap her where?”
“Her ass,” Mom said. “Like your father spanked me.”
“Say it.”
“I could spank her ass,” my mother repeated, her face burning with shame. “Right where your father spanked me.”
“Do you think that will be enough?”
Mom nodded, and I shook my head slowly.
“You need to be sure, don’t you? Because if you get it wrong, that’s three strikes.”
I shifted my gaze to the toy, and Mom’s followed.
“So I’ll ask again: do you think that will be enough?”
“No,” she replied, her voice a squeak.
“Where else could you touch her? Where else could you touch your daughter?”
“P-p-pussy,” she said, her face glowing red.
“What about her pussy?”
“I could touch it,” Mom said, sounding like she was confessing to murder. Her voice was the guiltiest I’d ever heard it.
I couldn’t have been harder.
“Touch it how?”
“I could stroke it, over the panties. Try to...to excite her.”
“Would that excite you?”
“Yes,” she admitted, her voice cracking.
“You can touch her other places as well. Her legs. Her thighs.”
“Her thighs?”
“You could stroke the inside of her thighs. Do you think that will turn your daughter on?”
“Y-yes.”
“Say it.”
“I could stroke her inner thigh,” Mom said, her voice trembling. “With my hand.”
“Why?”
“To turn my daughter on.”
“Good,” I nodded, breathing heavily. “Yes...yes, I think this might work.”
I gestured, and Mom understood my wordless gesture. As she clambored onto my lap, her naked skin against my thighs, I prepared to spank her to orgasm.
But before I did, I shifted the Toy, so it was directly in front of her face.
“And if it doesn’t,” I warned. “This will be your third strike. If this doesn’t work, you’ll be all out of chances...”
My mother stared at the Toy that haunted her nightmares as my hand swung down and struck her bare ass.