Diet
by Pan
Chapter 9
I’ll never forget the first time I spanked my mother.
It’s hard to say who was more nervous, me or her.
Before we began, I couldn’t even tell you exactly what I was afraid of. I mean, in the absolute worst-case scenario, I knew I could just slow things down, move back to non-physical punishments.
After all, it wasn’t like she’d stop wanting my help. By this point, Mom was just as obsessed with her weight as Cynthia—which was really saying something.
But where my nerves were a mystery, Mom’s fears were more obvious, even to me. A small part of her was probably afraid of the pain, but most of all, Mom was afraid…of enjoying it.
Or, worse: not being able to hide how much she loved it.
I know my Mom. She’s easily embarrassed. She once pronounced my third-grade teacher’s name wrong, and blushed every time she saw him for the next few years. If she trips on a stair while there are other people around, she blushes like a pro. Social norms are kind of a big deal to her, and she doesn’t really cope well with embarrassment.
Getting spanked by her son was obviously way out of her comfort zone, but I’d managed to convince her that it was vital if she wanted to lose weight (which—thanks to me—she now did, more than anything).
If she accidentally moaned with pleasure or showed that she was enjoying herself, I knew she’d be so mortified—there was no way she’d let me spank her again.
A million thoughts were racing through my head as I sat on the kitchen chair.
This was a fantasy come true. The first of many, I hoped.
Mom stared at me, and for a moment I thought she wasn’t going to do it, that she was going to back out and make an excuse. But then her smile reappeared—that stunning, charming, utterly gorgeous smile—and she nodded.
“This is a good idea,” she said, and leaned across my lap.
I wanted to go to town on her. I wanted to spank her, hard, again and again. I wanted to release years of pent-up frustration and lust, truly dominate her.
I wanted to spank her until she came, slapping her rear so hard that she couldn’t help but get off. I wanted to bring my mother to a screaming orgasm, right there in the kitchen.
But as much as I may have wanted these things, I’m no fool. I knew they weren’t a good idea—they wouldn’t get me closer to my goal.
They wouldn’t bring my mother under my permanent command.
And so I played the part of the reluctantly-spanking son, and gave her a few light taps.
“There,” I said sternly. “Let that be a lesson to you.”
I must have inherited my ability to hide my feelings from Dad, because I certainly didn’t get it from my mother. The look of disappointment in her eyes was obvious as she got up, awkwardly adjusting her skirt.
“Thanks,” she said reluctantly.
“I’m sorry I had to do that,” I said with a sigh. “Hopefully it works.”
“Yeah,” she said, a note of confusion in her voice. “Hopefully.”
But we both knew it wouldn’t.
“How often have you been masturbating?”
“Twice a day,” Cynthia replied, staring blankly at her ceiling.
“How long has it been taking you?”
“An hour.”
“Each time?”
“No. Total.”
Well, that was good. I’d been worried that further increasing her rate of masturbation would have made the whole process slower.
I tried not to tell myself that this was evidence of my sister being an insatiable slut, but I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.
From a few times each week to twice a day. How far could I push it?
“What do you think about while you masturbate?”
“Boys. Cock. Sucking cock. Being thin.”
“What do you think about when you cum?”
“Pleasing my brother.”
“What specifically?”
I leaned forward with a grin. There it was—that pause. That beautiful, revealing pause.
“Remember,” I said softly, “there’s no such thing as a bad idea.”
“Nothing new,” my sister said. “Just…”
“What?”
“Setting him up with my friends. Giving him fashion tips.”
“What else?”
There was a pause, as though my sister was mustering up her courage.
“Tell me,” I wanted to say. “That’s an order.”
But I didn’t. We weren’t there—not yet.
Instead, I waited.
“…blowing him.”
“An important part of losing weight is changing your attitude towards weight-loss,” I said, not entirely dishonestly. “Repeat that back to me.”
“To lose weight, you have to adjust your attitude.”
“As your trainer, it’s important to me that I understand what you’re thinking. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Since you’re masturbating to lose calories, it’s a vital part of your weight-loss routine. Say it.”
“Masturbation is…an important part of losing weight.”
She paused briefly in the middle, but my sister managed to get through the thought without prompting. A good sign.
“Your attitudes and your masturbation are both important for me to understand, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So tell me—how many times in the last few days have you cum while thinking about blowing your brother?”
There was a brief pause, as Cynthia counted. Counted! That could only be good.
“Twice.”
Well, less than I would have hoped. But still—more times than the rest of her life put together.
“Have you thought about doing anything else sexual with your brother?”
“…yes.”
“Would you tell me what?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my coach. My diet coach. You need to know what I’m thinking, especially during my weight-loss routine.”
I bet my track coach wished his job involved learning about my sister’s most private sexual thoughts.
“What other sexual thoughts have you had about your brother?”
My sister’s eyes narrowed oh-so-slightly. If I hadn’t been staring intently at her face, I bet I wouldn’t even have noticed.
“What other ideas have you had,” I corrected myself, “about keeping your brother happy. Be specific.”
“I thought about giving him a hand-job,” Cynthia answered. “Then I thought about putting his…his cock between my tits, and letting him fuck them.”
“What else?”
Pause.
“Even if it was only for a fleeting second,” I pressed. “What other ideas have you thought about how you could please your brother?”
“I thought about letting him fuck me,” Cynthia reluctantly admitted. “I thought about his…his cock, between my legs. Inside me.
“I imagined my brother being my first.”
“Why?” I asked, harder than I think I’ve ever been.
“I didn’t mean to,” Cynthia said quickly. “I didn’t mean to think about any of these things. But when I’m so turned on, and trying to think of ways to please my brother, it’s…it’s…”
My sister trailed off, and I let her sit in silence for a few moments. My cock was throbbing, and all I wanted to do was pull it out, touch myself, spray my seed onto my sister’s entranced, scantily-clad form…
I didn’t, of course. I took a deep breath, and allowed myself a second to calm down.
Before I was ready to start again, Cynthia surprised me by finishing her thought.
“…it’s so hard. I can’t help it. I…I can’t help it.”
“Have you ever had thoughts like this before?”
“No,” Cynthia replied. “Never.”
“Never?”
There was a pause.
“Not that I can remember.”
“Do you find it at all suspicious?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s my own fault,” my sister sighed. “Losing weight is such an obsession; it’s all I can think about. Since my brother is helping me, it makes sense that thoughts of him have been…caught up in it.”
Interesting. I’d always known that my sister was unnaturally obsessed with her own weight-loss, but I hadn’t realized she was self-aware enough to realize it.
“Do you like thinking about pleasing your brother when you get off?”
“No,” Cynthia replied, with zero hesitation.
“Why not?”
“He’s my brother,” she said, sounding disgusted. “That’s…yeah, that’s gross.”
“Then why do you think it gets you off?”
There was a pause. I seemed to have stumped my sister with that one.
“I don’t think it does,” she eventually replied. “I think I’m just…I’m getting off anyway, and that just happens to be what I’m thinking about.”
“But it keeps happening,” I said. “That can’t be a coincidence.”
Again, the pause. Again, Cynthia replied dismissively.
“It’s just what’s on my mind,” she said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Okay,” I said, not wanting to push it. “If you say so. Have you come up with any good ideas of how to keep your brother happy?”
“No,” my sister admitted.
“Well, keep thinking on it. Twice a day, just as you’re about to cum. Do you understand?”
“Of course.”
The next day, before I’d had a chance to put her under and see what she thought of the spanking, Mom approached me.
“Hey,” she said, a guilty look on her face. “I did it again.”
I gave an overly-exasperated sigh.
“Mom…”
“I know,” she said, staring at her feet. “I’m sorry. I just…”
“What?” I asked, no idea where she was going with this.
“…I don’t think that last punishment worked.”
“That’s okay,” I said, far too quickly. “We can go back to lines.”
“No,” she said, “those weren’t working either. I…I think that capital punishment was a good way to go.”
“Corporal punishment, Mom. Capital punishment is the death penalty.”
“Right. Yeah. I mean, I think the, uh…the…”
“Spanking?”
“Yeah.”
Mom was blushing so hard, you could have roasted marshmallows on her cheeks.
“I think the…— I think that was the right way to go. I just don’t think it was, um…”
I wasn’t sure what to say. The last time we’d discussed spanking, I’d spent a week writing the script and memorizing it word-for-word.
We were in uncharted territory here, and I didn’t want to screw it up.
“What?” I said, warmly. My Mom was so nervous around her own son—it was cute. It was like she was talking to a guy she liked, not someone she gave birth too.
Cute but dangerous, like a kitten with a handgun.
“I don’t think it was hard enough,” she said, so softly I could barely hear her.
Speak for yourself, I thought. I was hard as a rock.
“Oh,” I said. “I mean…”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her words coming out in a rush. “I shouldn’t have…it was wrong of me to ask.”
“No, no,” I said slowly. “It’s okay. I mean, if that’s what you need to lose weight.”
“It is,” she said confidently. “I’m sure of it.”
Of course she was. I’d put a lot of effort into convincing her subconscious mind of that fact.
“Well,” I said, glancing around. Cynthia wasn’t due home for at least an hour—if she walked in on me spanking Mom, that was going to be a tricky one to explain. “If you need to be punished, we should…we should do this.”
“Okay,” Mom said quietly.
“Now,” I said, surprising myself with my own commanding tone.
“Okay,” she repeated. I saw a shiver go through her body.
Last time, I’d been afraid that Mom would freak out. That the feeling of my hand on her ass would suddenly make her realize that what we were doing was wrong, that a son shouldn’t be disciplining his mother like this.
But I’d laid the groundwork. I’d ensured that Mom thought that it was necessary…no, more than necessary. Vital.
And it had worked. When I hadn’t spanked her hard enough, she’d come back for more. She’d come to me.
I was still nervous, but in a good way. Hopeful.
My mother was going to let me discipline her, and somehow, I knew she wasn’t going to freak out.
As she lay across my lap, I made sure that she couldn’t feel my erection. The kitchen chair meant that my legs could support her ample frame.
I looked down. There she was—my beautiful, buxom mother, laying prone, prepared for me to spank her. Excited for me to spank her.
Her ass was huge.
She was mine for the taking.
SMACK.
This time, I didn’t hold back. My hand stung as it met with my mother’s rear padding—I couldn’t only imagine how it felt from her end.
Mom jumped as my hand made contact, but she didn’t make a sound. She didn’t resist.
SMACK.
For the second slap, I aimed for her other cheek. My mother stiffened, and I could practically feel the wave of pain pass through her body.
Still, she remained silent.
SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.
On the third smack, I heard it. A small whimper. It could have been pain, it could have been pleasure. Arousal.
My hand may have been have an effect on my mother.
The spanking might be turning my mother on.
SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK.
The next four blows were rained down without pause. My mother was breathing heavily, practically panting…and as we sat there, I realized that I was as well.
I hoped my mother would think it was just the exertion, and not read anything more into it. Just as I’m sure she was hoping I thought the sound I’d heard was a cry of pain, not pleasure.
SMACK.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” I said hoarsely. “Don’t do it again.”
“Thank you,” Mom said, wiggling to get off me.
There was a long, awkward pause. My mother’s face was as red as I had ever seen it, and all the while we stood there, her breathing remained ragged.
Finally, I gave her a nod, and she scampered off.
The first time I’d spanked my mother, I hadn’t known exactly what I was nervous about. After the second time, it was crystal clear:
Now, I was nervous I wouldn’t get to do it again.