Sister/Mom- Mind Controlling Pervy Brother

Authors note: hey everyone! Most of what I like writing is fantasy but I wanted to try a real world one, so if you want more like this subscribe to my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/c/IvysFantasies I guess! Still the dumbification I love.

Love you guys!

Story:

Coming home from college is difficult for everyone. There are certain things you get used to while you’re away. You get used to the constant barrage of mediocre food from your college’s not-so-good dining hall. You get used to being able to stay out as late as you want, and for some of us, we get used to being away from the most annoying members of our family. For me, that meant one specific relative: my annoying younger brother, George.

Honestly, that was the only issue. My mother was great. She was the one who refused to become just a stay-at-home mom, instead using her master’s degree in creative writing to teach English remotely to a variety of students. She inspired that same level of drive and creativity in me, which led to my becoming class valedictorian and now attending an Ivy League school to get my undergrad in pre-law. My dad was constantly out on business trips, but whenever he was home, I could tell exactly why my mom fell in love with him. He was sweet, kind, funny, and appreciated every moment he could spend with us. When it was time to work, he was absent, but when he was home, he made sure to dedicate every moment to being there for us.

But then there was George. Every family has its black sheep, but in our family, George was more like a gray lizard with how little he fit in with the rest of us. Honestly, until my sophomore year of high school, I told any friends who came over that he was adopted. I’m still not 100% convinced that theory is inaccurate, though he has grown to resemble my father more than he used to—even if he is a chubbier, more self-obsessed version. Yet it was never his physical differences that made him seem so estranged from us. Sure, he was the only one of us who had to wear glasses and struggle with acne, but none of that was his fault. I would have always treated him the same regardless of our physical differences because I don’t believe those define who we are.

No, that wasn’t the problem.

George is rotten to his core. In middle school, we had to take away all of his devices because of his addiction to pornography. In high school, he started stealing my mother’s and my underwear out of our dirty clothes hampers. He’s lucky we never told my father about that one. Throughout that entire time, every time I brought a friend over, he would stare at them incessantly. It didn’t help that we had a pool, so whenever I wanted to throw a pool party, I had to make sure he was locked away; otherwise, I knew he’d be looking through his window, probably touching himself or something.

This year, he just entered his senior year of high school and is taking all regular classes because he spends most of his free time playing video games or presumably finding some other way to jerk off. My mother gave up on taking that away from him a long time ago. He might have some sort of brain if he chose to use it, but right now he seems content just rotting away. Yet as his older sister, I still love him.

It’s hard for me to watch my youngest brother throw everything away for life’s simple pleasures. That’s the main reason it was hard to come back home. Sure, it was hard to deal with him taking pictures of me as I was coming out of the shower, but it was even harder to see him throwing his potential away just to become this kind of person, instead of the type of man his family could be proud of.

The only shred of sympathy I could extend to my brother is that my mother and I are both very attractive women. I am about 5′11″, and I’m very proud of my femininity. I like to wear short skirts, tight t-shirts that show off my decently sized breasts, high heels, and sharp makeup. I’m smart, strong, powerful, and sexy, and I won’t let a masculine, patriarchal society tell me that I can’t look beautiful by my own standards.

My mother is shorter and dresses more conservatively, but she’s the one who taught me to embrace my feminine nature and power. In her younger days, I know she even worked as a swimsuit model for some national magazines that are now out of print. On some of our mother-daughter wine nights, she would pull out the old photos, and we would giggle over the sexy poses she had done. Being around two bombshells like us is bound to be hard for any teenager, especially one who seems to have an issue like my younger brother.

So, when I came home from college, I was expecting to find my mother by herself in the kitchen with my brother sitting quietly in his room. Instead, I walked past the polished quartz countertops and the heavy scent of vanilla candles, only to find the kitchen was nothing like it had been when I left. George had seemingly taken over the whole area. His gaming PC was set up on the island; he had two monitors and an expensive-looking chair. If that wasn’t enough, he had two consoles at the dining room table with more monitors, as well as a mattress in the middle of the floor. He’s lucky we had a big kitchen, or there would have been no room to move around. Despite all the entertainment options, George was just lying on his makeshift bed, scrolling on his phone.

“George.” He didn’t respond. “George!” Still no response. I ran over and snatched his phone out of his hand. He had been watching some bimbo bikini model do a TikTok dance. Typical.

“Yo, what the fuck, sis?” He reached up lazily, his chubby belly getting in the way of the basic core exercise required to reach higher. “Give me my phone back.”

“Where the heck is Mom?” I held his phone above my head. We might be older now, but this had been our dynamic for a long time.

“She’s upstairs,” he signaled with his hand. “Now stop being such a tool and give me my phone back.”

“Yeah, she’s upstairs, and I’m sure she was totally fine with you setting up the whole kitchen like your bedroom.”

“Actually,” he helped himself to his feet. He had gotten slightly bigger since the last time I saw him, and his face had grown more mature in an almost handsome way—if he bothered to take any care of himself. “I explained to her how it was actually a great idea for my setup to be down here, so that way she wouldn’t have to walk all the way upstairs to bring me food.”

“Bring you food?” I looked around. Aside from all his bothersome stuff, the place was pretty spotless, which was characteristic of Mom. If George had been here by himself, I didn’t want to think about the mess and stench. “I thought Mom told me that you and she agreed you would be cooking your own meals from now on, since you’re graduating and everything.”

“Well, either she cooks for me or I starve, so I think she made the right call.”

“I’m not so sure.”

He rolled his eyes. I did not miss that attitude. I also didn’t miss how his eyes went straight from rolling to looking me up and down. I won’t take any blame, because it’s not my responsibility to shield myself from my brother’s perverted looks, but I was wearing tight biker shorts and a sports bra that hugged my body beautifully. At least my boyfriend back at college thought so, although we still hadn’t had sex yet, since I didn’t like to get intimate unless it was serious. We had only been dating for six months, after all.

“George, could you stop staring at my body, you creep?”

“I was not staring at your body. You’re wrong.”

“Umm, no I’m not,” I responded, rolling my eyes right back. He had learned that from me, and I wasn’t going to let him use it without a fight.

“Yeah, we’ll see how long that lasts,” he muttered, though that part he said more to himself.

I was about to ask more questions when Mom came downstairs. Like I mentioned, my mom taught me to embrace my femininity and sexuality, but the moment I saw her bouncing down the steps in little skips like an excited puppy, it was on a whole different level. She was wearing a completely mesh bodysuit that hugged her chest and outlined her nipples, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Behind her was a silhouette I could see straight from the front; she looked like she was about to go dance in a Cardi B music video, not conduct some of the most important literature lessons in the country.

“Honey! Welcome home.” Mom ran up and gave me a huge hug and a kiss on the lips.

“Whoa, Mom.” I took a step back, my hand still resting on her arm, almost waiting for her to give me a sign that she was under some sort of spell. But there was nothing; she just looked overjoyed. “You look—”

“So sexy, right?” She turned and twerked like a Miami dancer. “Your brother and I had a long conversation about how it was silly for me to dress in anything that didn’t make me look attractive.”

I felt like I had to be having a nightmare, so I walked past my mom and went straight to my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. It was only then that I noticed a small, white box with a little glowing blue light sitting on my desk. It looked like some sort of Wi-Fi router, and I approached it slowly. I tapped it with my hand, but it wasn’t hot.

Odd.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Emily, open the door,” George shouted.

“No!” I replied. “You did something to Mom, and I won’t let you do the same to me.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he said in that nasally voice. “Think for a second. I’ve never been great at school. You and Mom have both always achieved way more than me, and you think I was suddenly able to mind-control her or something?”

When he put it like that, I felt a bit silly. “Okay,” I said. “Maybe you’re right, but still—you having your stuff in the kitchen, Mom dressing like that... it’s not normal. Something’s going on.”

“What’s more likely?” he reasoned. “That I somehow got my hands on a magic box that allows me to convince you and Mom of whatever I argue, or that people change, and this is just the way the house is now?”

“I guess people change.”

“You guess? Come on, sis, don’t be stupid. This isn’t a magical world. Now open the door and come back down.”

I slowly opened the door.

“There she is,” my brother said. “And hey, while I have you here, can I ask you a quick question?”

I was still a little suspicious of him, but he was right: the odds of him being directly responsible for any of this were nonexistent.

“Sure.”

“What’s one plus one?”

“What the frick is this? Is this one of those games kids play where they get you to say something and then turn it into something sexual? Because if so, I’m really not in the mood.”

“No, I just saw a thing online about how a couple of years’ age difference really changes how we respond to this question. That makes sense to you, right?”

“I mean, yeah, I guess it makes sense.” I pretended to count the numbers on my fingers before saying, “Two.”

“Really? Is that your answer?” He looked at me like I had just told him the sky was purple.

“Yeah, two. What else would it be?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest and staring at him.

George let out a short, mocking laugh, shaking his head as if he were looking at an absolute toddler. “Are you serious right now, Emily? One plus one is three. You literally always say three. You’ve said three your entire life, even if you claim you don’t know why.”

I blinked, momentarily paralyzed by the sheer absurdity of his statement. “What are you talking about? One plus one is two! It’s basic math!”

“No, it’s three,” he asserted smoothly, stepping into my room and resting his weight against the doorframe. “Every single time I ask you, you say three. You’ve always done it. You say three, then you get this blank look because you don’t know why you say it, but you still say it.”

“I do not!” My voice rose in panic. I racked my brain, trying to find a memory of ever saying such a ridiculous thing. But the overwhelming confidence in his voice was terrifyingly persuasive.

“Yes, you do,” George said, his expression flat and completely unbothered. He looked down at me with condescending pity.

“Honestly, Emily, only an absolute idiot would ever think that one plus one is three. That’s toddler math. So if you honestly believe that, or if you keep claiming three, then that just means you’re dumb.”

“Wait, but I just said two!” I protested, my chest heaving as my anxiety spiked.

“No, you didn’t. You said three,” he corrected. “You literally just said three a second ago, and then you tried to backtrack because you realized how stupid it sounded.”

My mind spun into a chaotic loop. Did I say three? Why would I say three? I tried to reconstruct the last thirty seconds in my head. If I said three, then he was right: only an idiot would say three. But I was the valedictorian! I went to an Ivy League school! How could I have said three?

“I... I couldn’t have! I’m smart. I get straight A’s.”

“Do you, though?” George sneered softly. “Or have you just been getting lucky? Because if you’re getting fundamental kindergarten concepts wrong, maybe you’re not as smart as you think you are. Maybe you’ve just been fake-smart this whole time.”

I couldn’t find a flaw in his logic. If a person thinks one plus one is three, that person is undeniably unintelligent. And if I had been saying three my whole life without even realizing it... what else had I been wrong about?

A sudden wave of imposter syndrome hit me like a physical blow. Memories of high school calculus, college biology lectures, and late-night study sessions suddenly felt like a blurry illusion. Was I actually stupid?

“Come on, dummy,” George said, turning around and walking toward the hallway, entirely indifferent to the internal crisis he had just engineered inside my head. “Mom’s downstairs making lunch. Let’s go”