Treat her like a bitch

No more half-measures. Your sister is a bitch. A real bitch. So why not make her your bitch?

You pull her away from the wall, circling her slowly like a hunter. She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t react. Just… exists. Her tits push against that thin fabric, her nipples already stiff - not for you, just because the room is cold - but now your fault.

"Such a bitch," you think to yourself. You step closer, tracing a finger down her cheek. She doesn't flinch.

"Hey, bitch," you whisper, voice laced with dark amusement. "How’s it feel?"

Nothing. You chuckle, letting your palm slide down to squeeze one of those heavy, perfect tits through her top. She moans softly, head tilting like she’s listening to something only she can hear.

You lean in, lips brushing her ear. "You’re gonna be such a good girl for me from now on. Won’t you?"

A pause. Then, quiet as a ghost: "Y-yes…" Your cock twitches. The words slur out, husky and fake and wrong. Not her voice. Not her will. Yours. You grin like a devil.

"Good." You squeeze again, harder. "Now we’re getting somewhere."

You let your hand trail down her arm. Over her waist. Palm flat against her stomach. Then lower. She parts her legs instantly when you press between them. No hesitation. No argument. Just obedience. You unbutton her shorts. Slide them down. White lace panties. She wears good underwear. You tug the lace aside. Her pussy is bare. Smooth. Perfect.

"You’re such a bitch," you tell her again, fingers teasing her slit. Her lips part. A whimper escapes. She comes sooner than you thought. Then again when you tell her to.

"Strip for me," you say calmly.

Her expression flickers. You let the silence stretch. Let her feel the shift. Confusion, then something else. Her posture eases. Her lips part slightly, her breath hitching. The command takes root, and she obeys. The top comes off. She kicks off her boots and shorts, her movements slow but determined, her eyes glazed, her lips parted. You step back, watching as she undresses for you, her body - full curves, soft skin, the kind of look that makes people gawk - exposed under your gaze.

"You like this, don’t you?" you ask, your voice low. "Being told what to do. Being used."

She doesn’t answer. But her nipples harden. Her breath comes faster.

"Touch yourself."

Her fingers slide down her stomach, between her thighs, her breath hitching as she strokes herself. Her eyes are on you, locked on you, her expression dazed but willing.

"You listen to me now," you say, your voice low and hypnotic, threading the command into the fertile silence of her trance. "From now on, when you hear me say the phrase 'Time to kneel,' a switch will flip in your mind. You won't fight it. You'll want it. It will feel as natural as breathing."

Her lips part slightly. A string of drool connects her lip to her chin.

"Your only thought, your only desire, will be to be an obedient cocksucker for me. You'll drop to your knees without hesitation. You'll take me in your mouth and serve me until I'm satisfied. You'll love the taste, the submission, the feeling of being used. It will be your purpose. And when it's over," you continue, "when I tell you to 'wake up,' you won't remember anything. Not what we did, not your new purpose."

You let the command settle, before dressing her up again. Finally, you lean close, your lips brushing her ear. "Wake up."

She jolts as if plugged into a socket. The vacancy in her eyes shatters, replaced by immediate, familiar confusion. She stumbles back against the wall.

"What the fuck happened?" she shrieks, but the edge is undercut by palpable confusion. She feels violated, but the memory is a black hole.

"I didn't do anything," you say, holding your hands up, a picture of innocence. "You just... zoned out for a second. Weird. Maybe you're stressed."

She glares, her mind scrambling to piece together the missing minutes. The disconnect is too great. The CMD-1-induced amnesia is flawless. With a final, furious huff, she storms off to her room, slamming the door.

You smile.