The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I froze at the sight of my cum landing on my sister’s face. It was like I was watching it in slow motion as my seed plastered her cheeks, eyelids, nose, and perfect pink mouth.

I’d never seen anything so beautiful.

In the past, I’d never dared to unload directly onto Cynthia’s face. Her stomach, I knew, was safe—I’d cum onto her tummy countless times, and since I’d convinced her to let me take her bra off, I’d coated her tits with my seed dozen of times.

But I’d never seen her face coated in my sperm. I was transfixed by the sight, and my cock twitched, wanting to pump another load onto her face. It was so perfect; it was like this was what she’d been born for. My sister had come into this world specifically so I could unload onto her face.

I stood there, frozen, until I saw my sister’s mouth open.

“I’m disgusting,” Cynthia repeated, her voice cracking. Her eyes widened as a glob of my sperm fell into her mouth, but—to my great relief—she showed no signs of waking up.

“I’m disgusting,” she murmured again, and I finally let myself relax. The taste of my seed was having an effect; the look of shame and self-loathing was—sadly—fading from her face, and a familiar look of lust was replacing it.

I used my thumb to brush her hair out of the way before any more of my semen could land in it. “You’re disgusting,” I said affectionately. “You don’t deserve to be called anything else.”

My sister fell silent, but I knew she would nod if she could.

She didn’t seem to have any objection to me cumming onto her face, or even into her mouth—oh, the possibilities that were running through my head at that—but I had bigger fish to fry.

“How much time do you spend masturbating?” I asked, already knowing the answer. Now that I’d cum—twice—at my sister’s recounting of the story, I wanted to move to the next stage.

And then once that was done...maybe I’d fuck her again.

“Hours,” my sister replied breathily. Her mouth was twitching, but not like she wanted to wake up. Like she’d had a taste of my seed, and wanted more—wanted to reach her tongue out, to scoop it into her mouth and swallow it down hungrily.

“And what do you think about when you do?”

“My brother hurting me,” she replied. “My brother causing me pain. How much it would turn him on. How hot I could get him, if I’d just let him hurt me.”

Before I’d hypnotized my sister, she hadn’t had any sexual interest in me. It was one of the first things I’d checked. Absolutely none.

And so I’d gotten her to start masturbating each night at the thought of me. For hours a day, playing with herself, imagining doing sexual things with me. To me. Imagining herself as my submissive sex slave, my obedient little fucktoy.

Hours and hours of bringing herself to orgasm—and then to the edge of orgasm—while thinking about me had done exactly what I’d hoped it would. It had rewired her desires. Before I’d started hypnotizing her, my sister’s sexual fantasies had been those of an normal, average, everyday teenage girl. Of the virgin that she was.

Now, she fantasized about me. Serving me. Obeying me. Letting me hurt her. And by spending hours each day thinking about me while she masturbated (and linking my attraction to her directly to her self-esteem), my sister no longer saw me as her slightly-annoying brother.

Instead, she saw me as her ultimate desire. A sexual god. Someone she wanted to spend the rest of her life pleasing. Obeying.

Whatever urges she’d had before had been completely eradicated, replaced with an obsession with me.

But having her masturbate while thinking about me hurting her hadn’t had the same effect. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she wanted it. But only because I wanted it. I was her fetish, not pain.

Mom came from being spanked. Cynthia loved it when I spanked her, but only because she knew how hot I found it.

Maybe it really is a biological thing. Cynthia had always been straight; she’d always wanted men. I’d just, y’know. Removed the ‘n’.

By inserting myself into an existing desire, I’d resshaped it. Focused it. Instead of wanting a generic man, she wanted specifically me. But even after hours—weeks!—of masturbating while thinking abou tit, Cynthia still had no interest in pain for pain’s sake.

It seemed I could warp a desire, but not create one out of nothing.

“It hurt, when Mom told you how she really felt about your body, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” Cynthia said in a sad whisper.

“Good,” I said. “That’s useful.”

“It is?”

“Uh huh,” I nodded. “We’re going to hold onto that pain. We’re going to use it as motivation. Change is hard; the human body is built to hold onto calories, to resist exercise. If you want to change, if you truly want to become attractive, you need something to fuel the fire. Your mother’s words are going to be that fuel. Say it.”

“What Mom said is going to motivate me to lose weight.”

“Again.”

“I’m going to use Mom’s insults to...to stimulate change.”

“Tomorrow, you’re going to thank Mom for her candor. You’re going to tell her you want to hear exactly what she thinks of your body, whenever she wants to share it. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“And to make sure you hold onto the words, to keep them at the forefront of your mind at all times, you’re going to start thinking about them while you masturbate.”

I smiled as my sister processed my words, and her eyes oh-so-slightly widened.

“W-what?”

“You’re still going to fantasize about me when you play with yourself,” I clarified. After all, I didn’t want to risk her attraction to me lessening. Although honestly...at this stage, I felt like that was impossible. She was more obsessed with me than she was with her own weight. “But you’re also going to think about what Mom said. Her words are going to play through your head on loop, whenever you’re touching yourself.

“Tell me what you’re going to do.”

“I...I...”

I waited. I had gotten pretty good at knowing when I was pushing my sister too far, and I was pretty sure that this was safe territory.

“I’m...I’m going to thank Mom...”

Another pause; shorter, this time.

“...for her words. I’m going to thank her for being honest with me. I’ll tell her that, um....that she can share how she feels, anytime.”

“Good girl.”

An almost imperceptible shudder passed through my sister’s body; it seemed to be the fuel she needed to go on.

“And then I’m going to think about what she said when I masturbate. I’ll think about th-them again and again, whenever I play with myself.”

“Again.”

Cynthia repeated her instructions four more times while I cleaned her up. By the time I’d wiped the cum from her face (only thinking to take a photo when I was done), her voice was strong and clear, and I was confident she’d do as she was ordered.

I’d like to say what happened next was deliberate. That I’d chosen the episode carefully, masterfully set everything up for the next step in my plan to fall into place. But, believe it or not, it was dumb luck that led me to the next part of my plan.

Dumb luck, and following a hunch.

“Your punishments still aren’t working.”

Mom nodded. Her punishments were working as well as they ever had, but so long as she kept on failing the impossible tasks I gave her, I could keep escalating.

“Last night, you were spreadeagled and ball-gagged in front of your children for almost two hours, and it was like you didn’t even care.”

We’d been watching South Park. Again, purely by chance. Sometimes I think I’m the luckiest bastard in the world.

Well, I guess it wasn’t completely accidental. See, Mom hates South Park. She thinks it’s crude, unfunny and uncultured. Cynthia and I have always liked it, but we always had to watch it in secret.

I guess I can see why Mom isn’t a fan. It’s not exactly high art. But it’s hilarious, and so many memes have come from it. It feels like every time I watch an old episode, I’m like ”that’s where that’s from??“

So watching it in front of Mom, that wasn’t really luck. She was naked, tied to a chair, her legs spread. Her pussy was on display—just weeks ago, she would have rather died than let either of her children see even a glimpse of her hairy bush, but her pink wetness was clearly visible as we watched television.

Tied up, ball-gag in, she couldn’t do anything to stop us from watching whatever the hell we wanted. It had been like a punishment within a punishment; as if the physical humiliation wasn’t enough, she also had to watch this show that she hated.

Although once or twice, I swear I heard her laugh from behind the ball gag.

Cynthia was sitting next to me. She was still dressing to show off her tits; as we watched television, she was wearing lingerie: a low-cut black corset, a matching garter belt, thigh-high stockings, and a pair of heels. The corset, of course, was too tight—as Mom squirmed in her seat, Cynthia was almost as uncomfortable beside me on the couch.

I was in heaven.

The episode was a three-parter, the one where they go to the land of imagination. One of the main plots is...look, if you don’t know the show, this won’t make any sense.

Actually, even if you do know the show, it’s still pretty weird. That’s sort of the point of South Park though, it’s so fucked-up that it’s funny. Y’know?

So the main characters are a group of eight-year old boys, and the episode is about—among other things—once of them signing a contract to suck another one’s balls. Yeah, it’s not exactly family-friendly entertainment.

We watched the episode, we laughed, I untied Mom, spanked her to orgasm, she spanked Cynthia (while I was in another room, unfortunately—they’d make out in front of me, but Mom still didn’t want me to see my sister get spanked) and then we all went to bed.

And the next morning, she’d suggested it.

“I cared!” Mom began to object, but I held up one hand and she fell silent. Good girl.

“Clearly, we need to try something else. Unless...”

My eyes flicked to her dresser, and my mother blanched.

“No!” she cried. “Anything but that.”

“Well then,” I said, leaning forward. “What should we do instead?”

That was the hunch. After Mom had suggested making out with her own daughter, a deliciously dark idea had struck me.

I spent so much time thinking of punishments for her. For Cynthia, too.

But no one knew Mom’s deepest fears better than she did. I couldn’t come close to her own self-knowledge; Mom knew what she’d hate the most, what would truly disincentivize her from skipping a workout.

And so I’d decided to throw it over to her. To get Mom’s suggestion on what she’d hate the most.

“I don’t know,” she answered, and I rolled my eyes.

It was still tempting to just break her. To tell her that nothing else would work, that the only option left was the toy she feared so much.

But the desperation that it drove her to...it felt useful. Exploitable.

“Think,” I answered, a sharp tone in my voice. “Think of what you’d despise. What would make you stop being such a failure. What would motivate you.”

Her first few suggestions were pretty weaksauce: lesser versions of stuff that we’d already done, or boring ideas like not letting her use her phone for a few hours. Her next idea was a little better—taking embarrassing photos, and if she didn’t hit goals, putting them online or sending them to old schoolfriends.

Mom’s idea of an embarrassing photo probably differed from mine, but I filed that one away for later use.

But when I told her to really dig deep, to think of something humiliating, something that would ensure she never missed a goal...that’s when I struck paydirt.

“What about what the chubby boy suggested,” she offered. Her voice was shaking and her face was flushed, and it took me a moment to realize what she was suggesting.

No. She couldn’t mean...

“Be specific,” I ordered.

“I c-could...I could...”

Mom trailed off, and gulped. I didn’t say anything, just watched her, desperate to hear the next words out of her mouth.

After a brief pause, a tear ran down her face as she continued.

“What if I sucked y-your...your testicals,” she said. My eyebrows shot up as Mom continued. “That would b-be so...so humiliating.”

I couldn’t believe what she’d just said. What she’d just suggested.

I hadn’t had to jump through a thousand hoops to convince her. My mother, of her own subconscious accord, had suggested we jump several steps in my plan.

What else could I get her to agree to?

“Why just the balls?” I asked, my voice low. “Why not just suck my dick?”

Mom’s eyes widened, and she began twitching. Her entire body began shaking—I waited a few moments for her to calm down, to stop trembling, but to my alarm...it didn’t look like she was going to.

Instead, Mom looked like she was going to wake up.

“Uh, uh...what’s the best order to do cardio in?” I asked. It took longer than I would’ve liked for Mom to process my question, and even as she began methodically recounting the research I’d had her do, her entire body would occasionally shake in an aftertremor.

I gave her several minutes to calm down before returning to the earlier topic. There had been a disconnect, and I needed to work out what it was.

“Why is sucking balls different to sucking a dick?” I asked, keeping a close eye on Mom to make sure she didn’t show any signs of waking up.

“S-sucking a dick is...sexual,” Mom said, struggling to get the words out.

I squinted at her. I spanked her to orgasm every night. She was getting Cynthia off with her hand, making out with and groping her, getting both of them excited in the process...but sucking my dick was over the line?

“Sucking on balls isn’t?”

Mom shook her head firmly.

“It’s embarrassing. Humiliating. But it’s not...it’s not sexual. It’s like on the cartoon. A prank.”

I wanted to argue back, convince Mom that sucking my dick would be an even funnier prank...but it was clear that she put these two ideas into very different baskets in her mind. I spanked her to orgasm every time I got a chance, but she was yet to do anything sexual to me. Fortunately, I could use Cynthia to get off, or I would’ve been nothing but a pair of walking blue balls.

“What if I get hard while you’re doing it?”

Mom’s face turned even redder, and that’s when I noticed it—an ever-so-slight shifting of her thighs.

She was turned on.

All of a sudden, it was starting to make sense. Mom wanted me. Cynthia, too. She wanted her own children, but on such a deep level...even with full access to her subconscious, I don’t think I’d be able to get her to admit it. It was like her incestuous desires were buried deeper than anyone could reach—even her.

And so when I asked her for punishments, when she was trying to get out of having the Toy inserted into her rear...that was the only moment she could dive down into the darkest areas of her wants. She hated how much she lusted for her children. It was the ultimate punishment.

The ultimate punishment, and her deepest desire.

If I’d ordered her to make out with Cynthia at every opportunity, she might have refused. But when she felt threatened—purely threatened, on a primal level—she’d pulled out her darkest lust to defend herself. A lesbian desire that she’d never admit to herself, even now. A lust for her own daughter.

Now, she’d done the same with me. She wanted to make me hard. She wanted to get me off, to bring me the pleasure that I’d brought her, night after night. But she couldn’t admit that. She wouldn’t admit it.

Faced with her greatest fear, however, she could use it as a shield. She could punish herself by giving herself exactly what she wanted.

It just had to be masked as something non-sexual. She wasn’t making out with Cynthia because she wanted to; she was turning on her daughter to help her with her diet. She wasn’t sucking my balls as an excuse to see my cock, to turn me on and get me hard...it was a punishment.

Even her subconscious couldn’t see what she was doing. But as she reacted to my question, I saw it. I saw everything.

“That would be...natural,” Mom croaked. “A natural reaction to stimulation.”

“What if I came?” I wanted to ask, but I held back.

All in good time.