The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Paddy’s brain was screaming at him—run! Run! Run!

Intellectually, he knew that he should run back to his bedroom and do some research. A lot of research. That was the safest route—learning everything he could about deep sleep, about sleeping while drunk, about the half-life of alcohol in the system…

He could wait. He’d waited this long, after all. Everything he’d done had been so careful, so deliberate. And the one time he’d acted recklessly, it had almost ruined everything—if she’d gone into her closet, she would have found him. His naked sister would have confronted him, would have guessed that he was a pervert.

It could have all been over.

Although…

It was impossible to forget; after taking that first risk, he HADN’T been caught. In fact, it had led to one of the greatest moments of his life—he’d seen his sister naked.

It was an image that had never left his memory; that would never leave his memory.

He’d seen Leah naked, and the memory of that glorious moment had been in his head literally every time he’d jerked off since.

Being reckless had yielded great rewards.

But this was different. He knew this was different. His sister was asleep, and while the sound of her mirror smashing hadn’t woken her, the sound of her brother calling her name, even him trying to shake her awake…

She could wake up at any moment, and then he’d be fucked. He couldn’t see how he could talk his way out of being caught molesting his sleeping sister.

But if she didn’t wake up…

Paddy closed his eyes and counted to ten. At ten, he assured himself, he would return to his room. He’d spend weeks researching sleep patterns, the effect of alcohol on sleep. He’d read testimonies of people molested in their sleep, of people who did the molesting. The thought sickened him, but it was impossible to deny—he was going, if the research allowed him to risk it, to become one of those people.

He had to.

But when he reached ten, Paddy didn’t return to his room. Instead, he moved his hand to his sister’s neck.

He’d had girlfriends before. One of them had been extremely turned on by the idea of being ‘marked’, despite (or perhaps because) her conservative father losing his shit if he ever saw anything that could even be mistaken for a hickey.

And so, Paddy had learned exactly how far he could go without the risk of leaving permanent marks.

On his ex-girlfriend, anyway. Again, he told himself that he was being an idiot, that he should research it properly, not take such stupid risks.

But still he didn’t leave.

Leaning forward, Paddy’s nose moved to his sister’s collar-bone. She smelled like alcohol, like sweat.

He’d never smelled anything so magnificent in his life.

He tentatively reached out his tongue, and—for the first time since his obsession had begun—Paddy tasted his sister.

As soon as his tongue touched his sister’s exposed neck, Paddy pulled back. It was happening again.

He’d jerked off four times that day—twice after his sister’s shower in the morning, once when she was getting changed to go out with Jillian, and once imagining her being ploughed by Jillian’s college-aged date.

His obsession with his sister was all-encompassing. He imagined himself fucking her, of course, but just the idea of anyone—man, woman, animal—fucking his sister was enough to get him off within moments.

Despite cumming four times in a single day, the taste of his sister’s skin—her actual, real life skin—was enough to cause Paddy to once more fill his pants with rope after rope of his stringy seed. He tried to keep his eyes on his sister’s sleeping form, but they uncontrollably rolled back as he stood there shaking in orgasm, doing everything he could to keep his orgasm silent.

That’s something I’ll have to practice, he told himself once he’d come down from his orgasm. If he was going to be cumming uncontrollably around his sister, he had to make sure it was silent.

Because he suspected it wouldn’t be the last time.

Paddy stood silently in his sister’s room for almost five minutes, making sure that his silent orgasm hadn’t awoken her, that the smell of semen that was now faintly detectable hadn’t penetrated her sleep enough to rouse her from her deep, alcohol-induced slumber.

When he was convinced that it hadn’t, he tried shaking her awake once more, and was relieved and delighted to find that she was still out cold.

His rational side had given up. Yes, it made more sense to leave and come back later.

No, he wasn’t going to do that.

Instead, his mouth returned to his sister’s neck. For the next several minutes, he lightly bit and suckled—never close enough to leave a mark (he hoped), but enough to make him feel as though he was marking her, as though his sister was his.

No matter what he did, she never woke up…and he decided to push things a little further.

Placing two hands on his sister’s stomach—his cock throbbed, hard and slimy in his cum-soaked underwear—he slowly slid them up her body.

She wasn’t sleeping in a bra, of course, and Paddy almost passed out when he found his hands on his sister’s tits.

He’d seen them once in person, and countless times digitally. Each and every time he’d locked his eyes on Leah’s pixelated tits, he’d had the same urgent question—what do they feel like.

Back when he’d been fruitlessly trying to wipe away his incestuous obsession with other girls, he’d held so many tits, mentally comparing them to his little sister’s, convinced each and every time that they were coming up short.

He’d been right.

The feeling of Leah’s tits was…god, it was heavenly. It was as though they’d grown specifically to fit into his hands, or as though his hands had grown specifically to hold his sister’s tits. He didn’t want to risk playing with her nipples—he couldn’t, even in his daring, euphoric state—but the feeling of her tits was everything he’d imagined and more.

Paddy sat there for almost twenty minutes, just holding his sister’s tits, matching his breathing to hers. He knew he could have done more, but he didn’t want to risk it—he didn’t need to risk it.

For now, holding his sister’s perfect tits was further than he’d ever dreamed he’d go, and it filled him with a joy he’d never thought possible.

The next morning, Paddy made sure to beat his sister to the kitchen in the morning. He was reading the back of a cereal when she entered, a deliberately dispassionate look on his face.

She didn’t say anything, and neither did he.

When she finished her coffee (Paddy knew exactly the effect that cup of coffee would have on her vaginal discharge), she nodded at him and left the room.

Paddy counted to eighty-three (exactly the length of time he knew it took for Leah to travel from the kitchen to her bedroom on the second floor) and when—right on schedule—he heard the sound of her floorboard creak, let out a huge sigh of relief.

She didn’t suspect a thing.

He’d gone back to his room the previous night and jerked off twice more, just remembering the feeling of his sister’s perfect tits in his hand, the taste of her skin, the sound of her breathing. He knew it had been reckless, an unnecessary risk…but he also knew that he’d never forget the sensations as long as he lived.

And, if he did his research right, he’d be able to do it again. And again, and again, and again.

For the next several weeks, Paddy became an expert in slumber. He devoured every scientific paper on the subject, watched every documentary, even bought a burner phone and used it to call several leading experts.

He learned about REM cycles, circadian rhythms, the effects of alcohol on sleep, and—most importantly—how to wake someone up.

Or, more specifically, how to avoid waking someone up.

The next time Leah went out with Jillian and her friend, Paddy was ready. From the moment she got home, he was on his computer, unblinkingly watching her get ready for bed. He had the audio from her bedroom turned up so loudly, a sudden noise (like the mirror falling over again) would probably have deafened him.

After she went to sleep, he used the graphs he’d made over the past month to pinpoint the exact moment she drifted into REM sleep.

Ten minutes later, he’d wiped his computer, carefully stashed everything in the safes, and was standing over his sister’s bed, watching her sleep.

Paddy had long since bought his own supply of his sister’s various colognes—they lived on the top shelf of his smaller safe, and he often smelled them while masturbating. Tonight, he’d used them to mask his scent—last time, he knew he’d gotten lucky; even the smallest olfactory change (such as someone unexpectedly cumming in their pants) could be enough to wake someone from a deep sleep.

He’d jerked off once every hour since waking up that morning, confident that would be enough to stop him from spontaneously ejaculating once more.

Before doing anything, he rested his hands under his sister’s blanket for close to twenty minutes; he didn’t want a sudden change in temperature to alert her body to his presence.

Finally, after making sure to avoid the dumb mistakes of his last visit, he was ready.

Paddy started the same way he had last time—he licked and sucked at his sister’s neck until he felt he was going to burst. When he couldn’t take it any longer, it was time for the main event.

He’d seen his sister put on the tanktop she apparently preferred wearing when sleeping off a big night out, and so he knew she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Slowly, his hands crept up her body once more, until he was cupping her breasts, a huge smile on his face.

This, he knew, was what heaven must feel like.

But after a few minutes of happily holding his sister’s tits, Paddy went further. Unlike last time, he slowly, gently stroked her nipples with his thumbs, watching her carefully.

As he expected, they quickly hardened under his manipulation. Her face didn’t change at all; she continued breathing softly, in and out, his contact with her nipples causing no detectable reaction.

That was all he did that night—hold her breasts and stroke her nipples as she slept, a huge smile on his face.

It was less than two weeks before she next went out and got drunk—that night, he spent more than an hour slowly, carefully lifting her shirt, stopping until he was convinced she had re-entered REM sleep, and then silently cumming in his pants as he suckled on her left nipple.

A month later, he first tasted her right nipple, filling his pants with ropes of cum as he did.

And ten days after that, he struck gold—she came home so drunk, she only wore a tank top to bed.

Shortly after tasting his sister’s nipples, Paddy had gone on a single date with a girl of roughly his sister’s build; he’d convinced her not to move as he removed her panties. After seeing how clumsy and sleep-disruptive the pantie removal process would have to be, he’d immediately left the date, too disappointed to even attempt intercourse with his sister’s lookalike.

And so when the camera showed him that Leah was sleeping in the next room competely sans underwear, Paddy was more excited than he’d ever been in his life.

He didn’t even bother with her neck or tits that night; after shaking her by the shoulder and confirming that she was asleep, Paddy slowly, carefully spread his sister’s legs.

There it was.

He’d seen it once before, but not this close. He’d smelled its offerings many times, but always dry—never straight from the source.

Paddy’s eyes rolled back in his head as he took a deep whiff, and—for the fifth time in the last few months—filled his pants with cum while in his sister’s room. He’d stopped seeing it as embarrassing or even unpleasant; now, it felt more like a physical representation of the obsession that had taken over his entire life.

After his orgasm, he looked up to check his sister’s face. She was still soundly sleeping, innocently unaware of what her perverted brother was about to do to her slumbering form.

Good.

He leaned forward, his tongue less than an inch from his sister’s freshly-shaved peach (he could practically taste it on the air) when he heard it.

A knock at the door.

“Leah? Leah, honey, are you awake? I’m coming in.”