Diet
by Pan
Chapter 5
The next time I was due to hypnotize my sister, it was a struggle not to react when she came to fetch me.
It took genuine effort not to let my cock burst through my clothes, my eyes fall out of my head, my mouth flood the house with drool.
I’ve seen my sister without a bra before. It’s not a common occurrence, but like she said in our previous session—she doesn’t wear a bra to bed.
The thing is, the clothes she wears—yes, even when she’s just around her family—are so unflattering, it’s impossible to see anything. I’ve seen her without a bra, but she’s always been wearing some kind of thick pajama top, or an ugly woolen sweater. She wasn’t exactly prancing around in a skimpy nightgown.
But that night, when she came to get me…
God.
I’d long suspected that my sister had a killer bod, but actually seeing it was something else. Her arms were more slender than I’d ever realized, and her skin was pale white—probably because it hadn’t seen the sun since puberty.
And her tits.
Her tits.
They were even larger than I’d been imagining—each of them was a little bigger than her head. They were covered by the black tank-top she was wearing, of course, but it was slightly too small—probably altering her figure more than a bra would have, ironically.
The result was that her boobs were pressed together slightly. It created a nice little nest of cleavage that I could happily have spent the rest of my life swimming around in.
I have no idea how long she’d had that tank top, but not only was it a little snug, the material was thin enough to outline everything.
It. Was. Amazing. I could practically see where her areolae started and ended. If the tank-top had been any other color than black, I’d probably have been able to tell you the color of her nipples.
The tightness of the tank top combined with the ridiculous size of her boobs lifted everything up, revealing a surprisingly flat stomach. Like, I hadn’t exactly been expecting a beer gut, but I’d assumed my sister’s concerns about her weight had some basis in reality.
Nope.
She had massive, gravity-defying tits, thin arms, and a completely flat stomach. I guess the size of her tits, combined with the shape of her ass (more on that in a second) had been enough to convince her that she was horrendously overweight.
She wasn’t.
Cynthia was perfect. Perfect. I was grateful that I’d been able to convince her to stop weighing herself, because even if I’d put her on the same routine as I’d started Mom on, I don’t think there was a healthy way she’d be able to shed more than a few pounds.
Not that I’d want her to. Like I said…there was nothing to change.
The one unusual thing about her body—aside from the sheer scale of those tits, especially when compared to the rest of her—was her ass. It wasn’t necessarily that it was huge (though it certainly wasn’t tiny), it was the way it jutted out from her backside. You know that picture of Kim Kardashian where there’s a champagne glass sitting on her butt?
Yeah. My sister had a shelf.
Maybe it was her posture, or maybe it was just the way she was built. Maybe it was because she was so short—it had the effect of making it look like her legs had just kept going a little longer than they should have.
Whatever it was, it resulted in her butt jutting out, just inviting anyone who saw it to touch it. Grab it.
Fuck it.
It was still hard for me to believe that my sister hid this insane body away from the world. It made zero sense that she was obsessed with her own unattractiveness. If you’ve got a body like that, you should split your time between flaunting it to the world and getting off while looking in the mirror.
Ah well. The world’s loss was my gain.
I didn’t see any of this when she approached me, of course. With all the willpower I could muster, I kept eye-contact when she came to talk to me. I let her go ahead of me down the hall, mostly just so she wouldn’t notice as I marveled at her magnificent caboose (seriously—pictures of this would do more than break the internet. They’d shut down all earthly communication for at least a month).
It wasn’t until she was under that I really let myself gawk. We were in her bedroom, chai tea at the ready. She stared at me blankly as my eyes devoured her body.
God damn. I’d always wanted, her but now…
I had no idea what she’d been hiding.
I had to have her.
And I would.
“How do you feel?”
“Okay,” Cynthia responded. “Exposed.”
“Exposed? Why?”
“I’m not used to wearing so little clothing. I’m not used to being this…revealed.”
“What about when you shower?”
“That doesn’t count. That’s for a purpose.”
“This is for a purpose as well,” I reminded her. “You want to lose weight, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You strip down for a shower to get clean. You’re wearing this outfit to help you lose weight. That’s the purpose of this outfit, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“Wearing these clothes will help me lose weight.”
“Again.”
“I’m dressed like this for a purpose. Dressing like this will help me lose weight.”
“Good. Does that make you feel any better about it?”
“Yeah. A little.”
“What else would make you feel better about dressing like this?”
“Nothing.”
“Why not?”
“Because I hate my body.”
Again, and I really want to emphasize this—hearing these words come out of my sister’s mouth was like the Beatles complaining about how much they hated the White Album. It was like hearing Stanley Kubrick telling you that The Shining was a terrible film.
It was like hearing Jerry complain that Seinfeld was unfunny.
You might think that the obvious solution was to convince my sister not to hate her body. To tell her exactly how gorgeous she was, how incredible she looked. Persuade her of the truth—that any man who laid eyes on her and didn’t immediately get hard was either gay or dead.
But if I did that, she wouldn’t need me any more. If she was convinced of her own attractiveness, why would she keep on letting me hypnotize her?
No; my sister’s low self-esteem—idiotic and nonsensical though it was—was the key to everything. And there was no way I was going to give it up.
“I’m going to give you a rating out of ten,” I said. “Ten out of ten is a perfect score—it means that you couldn’t be more attractive, no matter what you did.” My sister was easily an eleven.
“Zero out of ten means that you’re actively repugnant, that people will probably gag when they look at you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“What would you give yourself now?”
“A three,” she responded, after a few minutes of thought. “Three out of ten.”
I nodded thoughtfully. What the hell was wrong with her?
“Yes,” I said. “That sounds about right. You’re currently a three.”
There was no change in my sister’s demeanor; she didn’t look shocked, she didn’t look relieved. She just silently absorbed the rating I’d given her.
“Over the coming weeks, I’m going to assess you every time I put you under. If you go above a three, that means you’ve lost weight, and the program is working. If you ever go under a three, that means that you’re doing something wrong. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.”
“The only way to go above a three is to lose weight. I need to know that you’re dedicated to this.”
“I am.”
“I need to know that you’ll do whatever it takes.”
“I will.”
“If you lose confidence in what we’re doing, it’s not going to work. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“I need you to completely trust me, to do everything I say.”
“I trust you.”
“I need you to put your full faith in me. You need to trust me more than anything. More than anyone. Otherwise this isn’t going to work”
“I completely trust you. I promise.”
“Do you remember what happened when you wouldn’t let me hypnotize you?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“I started putting on weight. It was scary.”
“You don’t want that to happen again, do you?”
“No.”
“If I ever stop hypnotizing you, what’s going to happen?”
“I’m going to get bigger.”
“You’re going to get less attractive. Say it.”
“I’ll get even more fat.”
“It’s important that I hypnotize you, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
I took a deep breath. Everything I’d been doing so far had been relatively (no pun intended) safe.
It was time to take a risk.
“You want me to keep hypnotizing you, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You want your brother to keep putting you under, as often as he can. Why do you think he’s doing it?”
“To help me,” she replied, after a moment’s reflection. “Because he’s a good brother. He wants to help me lose weight.”
“That’s right. He’s a good brother. But what’s he getting out of it?”
There was a longer pause as Cynthia pondered my motivations. Eventually, she half-heartedly offered an answer.
“He’s just helping out his sister, I guess.”
“It’s a lot of work though, isn’t it? He’s been doing so much research, learning how to help you lose weight, learning how to put you under as best he can.”
“Yes. It’s a lot of work.”
“Would you do all that work, just to help your brother out?”
“Maybe.”
“But it’s not guaranteed, is it? If you got busy, it might fall by the wayside.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Your brother is putting so much time and effort into helping you. And you appreciate it, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“So much. More than anything.”
“You should show your appreciation.”
The size of the gap between my words and Cynthia agreeing made me breathe a sigh of relief. Zero hesitation.
It was working.
“How would you want him to show his appreciation, if the situation was reversed?”
We sat in silence as Cynthia thought. Eventually, I got impatient and made a suggestion.
“You could do some chores for him, couldn’t you?”
She leapt on my suggestion.
“Yes!”
“You could offer to do some of your brother’s chores around the house. That would show how much you appreciate him, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“It would show how much you appreciate him, and it would ensure that he was getting something out of helping you, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Your brother would be much more likely to keep helping out, wouldn’t he? He’d be less likely to be overwhelmed, if you were doing some of his chores for him.”
“Uh huh.”
“All of his chores for him.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you’re going to do.”
“I’m going to offer to do my brother’s chores for him. I’m going to tell him it’s to thank him for helping me lose weight.”
“Do you think there’s anything suspicious about this?”
“No.”
“You trust me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she replied. “More than anything.”
Sure enough, the next day, Cynthia asked if she could help out with my chores. I acted surprised, and told her she didn’t need to, that I was happy to help out.
To my delight, she insisted.
Now that I’d seen a glimpse of what my sister was hiding under her baggy outfits, I couldn’t help but imagine it every time I saw her. Those huge, round tits. Her utterly bitable shoulders. And that ass…
It was almost impressive that she was able to hide that ass. Those tits. She was the master of long tops, baggy pants. But now that I knew what was there, I could see the outline of her curves every time she moved.
All day, I watched my sister as she did the chores that I’d let stack up. Cleaning out the fridge, folding the laundry. I used any excuse I could to be in whatever room she was in, picturing that body, enjoying her voluntary servitude.
Soon enough, she’d be doing more than just my chores. Soon enough, she’d be mine.