The office was too cold. Neutral by design—faint gray walls, the soft hum of some vent overhead, a bowl of polished stones on the table like some ancient offering to civility. The chairs were plush but firm, spaced just far enough apart to suggest intimacy without offering it. Dr. Marlow sat opposite, legs crossed, a tablet resting in her lap, her glasses low on her nose. 

She looked up, voice smooth and clinical, not unkind. 

“So, Jacob, how do you feel coming to therapy?” 

Jacob exhaled through his nose, slouched deep into the armchair. His arms draped across the sides. His eyes didn’t leave the bland painting behind her desk. 

“Wasn’t my idea.” 

Next to him, his sister Becca shifted—scoffed really—and pulled her knees up, legs crossed high, arms folded tight across her chest in a show of practiced irritation. Her bare, golden thighs gleamed under the soft overhead light, skin flawless and firm, the delicate curve of her calves catching his peripheral vision. Tousled blonde waves framed her face like a halo of feigned innocence as her lips twisted into a pout.

“Oh, you think it was mine?” she bit, shooting daggers sideways. “Right, I begged to spend my afternoon with a mouthbreather who jerks off to resentment.” 

Jacob grinned—just the corners of his mouth, dry and poisonous. 

Dr. Marlow’s expression barely twitched. “Your parents believed it would be best to work on parts of your relationship,” she said, her voice gliding like a scalpel. “To clear the air. Strengthen cooperation. Establish harmony.” She looked between them, eyes calm as glass. “Now, has anything happened recently that might be a cause for strain?” 

Becca’s arms clamped tighter across her chest. Her back stiffened. That look came over her—the one that always preceded a social assassination. She turned, slow, deliberate, and glared at Jacob with the kind of rage only siblings could cultivate. 

He met her stare. Smirked. 

“Oh yeah, fucking smirk!” she snapped, pointing at him with two fingers. “There it is. That fucking look like he’s the only person in the world who knows how annoying he is.” 

“There’s no need to shout in this space,” Dr. Marlow said, one hand raised, not scolding—directing. “We can discuss things calmly.” 

Becca’s jaw flexed tight, molars grinding beneath flushed cheeks. Her arms dropped into her lap, fingers twitching with restrained fury. 

“We were at our grandma’s birthday party,” she began, glaring straight ahead, not even glancing at Jacob. “The whole family was there. I spent time getting ready. On my outfit. My hair. I looked—” 

“Like a slut,” Jacob cut in, voice flat, surgical, a blade tossed across the room. “Just like now.” 

Becca’s mouth dropped open—not in shock, but with a laugh so venomous it curled her upper lip. She looked down—slow, theatrical—at her tight crop top, pale stomach bare, shorts nearly disappearing up the arch of her thigh. She didn’t adjust a thing. 

“You’re unbelievable,” she hissed. “This is what you always do—get bitter and disgusting.” Her eyes narrowed, locking on his face like a scope. “I dress how I want.” 

Dr. Marlow raised a hand again, calm but firm. “Clearly something occurred,” she said smoothly. “Let’s stay with that. What happened?” 

Jacob leaned back, one leg folded lazily over the other. His grin was a knife’s edge. 

“I told her we all appreciated her stepping away from the stripper pole for an afternoon.” 

Becca’s hands flew up. “In front of everyone! In front of Nan! You know how many people heard that?” Her voice cracked. “And I am not a stripper, by the way! He’s just jealous because he's an ugly loser and nobody ever looks at him.” 

The sting hit deeper than it should have. Jacob's eyes didn’t flinch, but his fists clenched slowly on the armrest.  

Becca leaned back, the smallest lift to one corner of her mouth. Just smug enough to be poisonous. 

Dr. Marlow tapped her pen against her knee, once. “These kinds of flare-ups are common among brothers and sisters in the teenage years.” Her tone remained clinical, detached, but there was a new texture beneath it—probing. Surgical curiosity. Her eyes slid to Jacob. 

“Becca is turning into a very attractive young woman.” A pause. “How do you feel about that?” 

Jacob’s jaw twitched. “I don’t.” His voice was dry, defensive. “I feel nothing about it.” 

Dr. Marlow didn't blink. “Does it bother you that your sister is developing a woman’s body?” she asked, as if she were asking about a rash. “And that that body is hers to own?” 

Jacob recoiled, face hardening. 

“Wha-stop. Why are you even talking about this? She's fucked the whole football team--I don't care.” 

Becca’s face twisted like she’d smelled rot, her spine pressing back into the couch, legs curling tighter under her as she slid away from him, hip dragging against the upholstery. 

“Please god, don’t tell me he’s some sick perv,” she snapped, head angled like she couldn’t bear to look at him. Her arms wrapped tighter under her chest, framing the very thing she seemed to be guarding. 

Jacob flinched. Not visibly—but in the cheeks, in the ears, in the way his lips pressed together like he was choking something back. The skin beneath his collar flushed hot, blotched pink up to the ears. Before he could breathe fire, Dr. Marlow gave a soft chuckle—not warm, not amused, but gently disarming. She tapped her stylus once against the glass tablet in her lap. 

“That’s not what I meant,” she said, clinically but calm, like slicing a knot with silk. “What I’m describing is a psychological pattern. For a young man like Jacob, it can be destabilizing to witness the physical changes of a maturing sister.” Her eyes held on him just long enough to make it matter. “Such as the development and prominence of the breasts—” she glanced deliberately, unapologetically, at Becca, “which can be subconsciously processed not as sexual objects, but as markers of transformation. A symbol of something once familiar becoming something unknown. A shift he has no control over. For some, that triggers reactionary behavior.” 

Jacob exhaled, jaw clenched, the sound sharp as steam through his nose. The silence after was hot and sticky. The carpet absorbed it. The fake plant in the corner felt it. 

And still—his eyes flicked. 

Just once. 

Down. 

To the swell under his sister’s arms, half-smothered by the cross of her forearms. The roundness there, straining subtly against the ribbed fabric of her top. He’d seen them a million times like that. Laundry days. Rain-wet cling. Pillow-pushed while she paced the hallway. 

He’d never thought about them. Never fixated. Never wondered. 

He told himself that again. And lied. 

Dr. Marlow turned now to Becca, folding one leg over the other, the motion practiced, seamless. 

“Of course,” she said, voice modulated perfectly, “this is not a one-person dynamic.” Her eyes settled with surgical stillness. 

“Becca, is it true that you enjoy expressing ownership of this new body through sex?” 

Becca’s jaw dropped. 

“That’s—th-that’s none of your business,” she stammered, voice pitched too high to sound convincing. Her arms tightened again, this time more defensive than dismissive, the shift in her posture subtle but sharp, like she'd been slapped with an open hand made of truth.

Dr. Marlow nodded, unbothered. “Of course you do,” she said. “That would be expected. What Jacob is feeling—perhaps without realizing—is that you’ve outgrown the version of yourself that once so comfortably fit beside him. The childhood image. The sister he could categorize.” She looked at Becca calmly. “Subconsciously, your response may be: ‘Well, then I’ll leave you behind… and become who I really am.’” 

The room froze in the afterglow of that sentence. 

Even the hum of the vent seemed to dull. 

Until Jacob gave a tight little snort, eyes narrowed. “So that’s the origin story of sluts everywhere?” he asked, voice curling into mockery, mouth twisting in a lazy, crooked grin.

Becca’s jaw clenched so hard her teeth clicked audibly. Her eyes didn’t blink. 

Dr. Marlow exhaled—not exasperated, just resigned. She uncrossed her legs, sat forward just an inch. 

“All right,” she said smoothly. “I’m going to introduce you both to a technique designed to bypass this antagonism and move us toward an actual resolution.” She looked between them. “It’s called hypnotherapy.” 

“Oh, come on,” Becca groaned, throwing her head back against the couch. “Are you serious?” 

“Entirely,” Marlow said without missing a beat. “It’s extremely effective in pair dynamics. Behavioral recalibration. Root-cause identification. I’ve seen results in under an hour that would take months in standard therapy. In fact,” she added, her voice softening like a promise, “you could walk out of this room today without your parents ever needing to send you back.” 

The idea hung there. Almost too tempting. 

Jacob glanced sideways, and Becca glanced back. Not long. Just enough. Shared suspicion. Shared curiosity. Shared disdain. 

“So what,” Jacob muttered, “you gonna wave a necklace in front of us and say magic words?” 

Dr. Marlow smiled, the faintest upward pull of her lips. “This isn’t a magic show, Jacob.” She folded her hands together lightly in her lap. “Only words are necessary. Words… and open, relaxed minds.” 

Her eyes gleamed. 

“Are you ready?” 

They both nodded—Becca with a sigh and a roll of her eyes, Jacob with a sullen twitch of his head—and Dr. Marlow’s fingers moved gracefully, tapping her tablet, then folding over her knee. Her voice shifted tone. Not softer, not sweeter—just slower. Measured. 

 A rhythm with a rhythm behind it. 

“Close your eyes.” 

And they did. Begrudgingly, uncertainly, but they did. 

“We’re going to begin by releasing tension,” she murmured. “Start with your breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In. Hold. Out. Good. Again…” 

The air in the room thickened. Time thinned. 

Her voice circled them like smoke. 

Words without edges. Repetition without weight. 

“With each breath… feel the body softening. Head. Shoulders. Chest. Arms. Fingers. Loosening. Melting.” 

She slowed again. “Now. I want you to imagine a staircase.” 

Her tone dropped a register. “Ten steps. Stone. Worn smooth. Leading downward. With every step you take… your thoughts get heavier. Slower. More distant. Ten. Nine. Eight…” 

Jacob’s limbs sagged. 

His breath eased without his permission. 

His mind—a cage always humming—began to fade at the edges, the wires loosening, sparks dulling. 

“Seven. Six. Five…” 

He tried to keep count. 

Lost it. 

Didn’t care. 

There was no couch. 

No Becca. 

No Dr. Marlow. 

Only a quiet sense of falling inward. 

It didn’t feel like sleep. 

It felt like unbeing. 

Like watching fog gather across a mirror until your own reflection vanishes beneath it. 

His thoughts drifted and dissolved, suspended beyond time, neither dreaming nor awake. 

Blankness. 

Weightlessness. 

Then, finally— 

A pull. 

Like breath catching. 

Like light cracking through a sealed door. 

He was rising. Running. 

The stairs beneath him now, rushing upward, his feet hitting each step in wild rhythm, bounding two at a time. Light above. Something urgent. Something wrong. 

Up. 

Up. 

Faster. 

Faster. 

Until— 

“Please God! No! Stop! Stop!” 

A woman’s voice. 

Dr. Marlow. 

Not commanding now—shrieking a shrill plea. 

The world slammed back into him like a gunshot. 

His body jolted, heart jackhammering in his ribs, breath ripping free as if he’d surfaced from drowning. 

Dr. Marlow was in the corner—cowering. Her hands half-raised, fingers trembling, eyes wide with horror like she’d seen something inhuman. Her voice cracked, raw: 

“Stop! Please!” she pleaded, a rasp, stripped of all control, all composure. 

But from beneath him— 

The opposite plea. Intense. Frenzied. A voice that didn’t even sound like language anymore. Just need. Just heat. 

“No! Don’t stop! God, don’t stop!” 

His eyes snapped downward and the breath died in his throat. 

His sister was laid out naked as sin beneath him, her legs wide, her back arched, her hips rolling like she was grinding up to swallow him whole. Her skin glistened, slick with sweat, flushed pink across her tits, her neck, her face—and her eyes, her fucking eyes, wide and wild, pupils blown, mouth twisted open in a delirious, hungry grin. 

“Keep going! Give me that fat cock!” 

Her fingers dug into his hips, nails raking, yanking him forward. His cock pulsed inside her as if caught in the wet clench of some infernal machine, and his whole mind reeled, nausea and shock twisting through the raw, unfathomable wrongness of it. 

This was Becca. His sister. 

And those were his sister's tits now exposed, jiggling, obscene in their movement as she thrashed beneath him. They bounced with every savage grind of her hips, tight nipples flicking side to side from the force, clapping softly with every desperate bounce like applause for the perversion neither of them could unmake. 

This wasn’t real.  

But the wet schlickk-schlickk of her heat slamming up into his groin echoed loud in his ears, each pulse around his cock tighter, hotter, more fucking real than anything he'd ever imagined. His nerves were locking, flashing, his balls tight, his stomach coiled, and there was nothing left but that slick, sucking pleasure dragging him into hell. 

“Come on,” she gasped, panting, her fingers gripping his ass now, yanking him harder, faster. “Make me your slut!” she howled, and her voice was that same voice, that old antagonistic sibling venom—but now twisted, corrupted, hungry. 

And it broke him. 

He slammed his hips back, then drove them forward in a savage thrust that punched the breath from her lungs. 

“Hhaahh—fuck!” His sister gasped, back arching like a bowstring, her legs shaking. “You’re so big—I’ve never felt so fuckin’ full!” Her voice cracked on the edge of laughter and madness, eyes wide, lips trembling. “Harder—fuck me harder!” 

The command hit him like a strike to the chest. 

He snarled, one hand flying up, grabbing her throat, forcing her down into the couch cushion as his hips coiled again, slamming forward with another brutal shot that shook her body, tits bouncing violently. She choked on a moan, eyes rolling, legs twitching uncontrollably. 

He didn’t wait. 

Another thrust. Then another. And then he was lost—his hips racing, hammering, pistoning downward into that soaked, swollen heat that milked his cock with every punishing slam. His thighs slapped into hers, her moans melting into babble as her cunt convulsed, as his sister’s body came undone beneath him. 

But he beat her to it. 

Right as her body clenched around him, pulsing wild and desperate for release, he ripped himself free—his cock slick and twitching, veins bulging, heat surging so violently it made his vision blur. 

“Wha—No! You asshole!” she screamed, hands clawing at the empty air where his hips had been, her back still arched in need, in fury. 

But he was already moving. 

He lunged forward, grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanked her snarling face up toward him, dragged her into range—and then he exploded. 

His cock flexed in his grip and the first thick rope lashed across her cheekbone, hot and heavy, streaking across her skin with a wet splat. The next painted her nose, her upper lip, thick globs dripping down over her chin, clinging in glistening trails. Another burst struck her eyelid, semen stringing across her lashes, webbing into her hairline. 

Her body jerked with every pump—his body unloading everything, his jaw clenched so tight it ached, hips twitching with each pulse of release, one final spray striking her throat and sliding down between the swells of her tits. 

And she just took it. 

Furious. Breathing hard. Face ruined. 

A silent snarl frozen across her cum-slick features, framed in gold hair matted to her skin.

He held her there, panting, hand still tight in her hair, heart slamming through his ribs, cock twitching in his fist, and the shame rising through the high like smoke from a burned building. 

She lay still, huffing, tits rising and falling with each ragged breath, streaked in his seed, glistening from chin to collarbone. Then her hand shot up and swiped angrily at her mouth, smearing his load across her cheek, flinging the rest off in a sharp, pissed flick. 

“God damn it,” she barked, glaring up at him through smeared lashes, eyes alive with fury. “I’m on birth control, you idiot! Cum inside me next time—but don’t you ever fucking take it out again!” 

Jacob stood over her, cock still slick and twitching, his pulse battering his skull. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t breathe. 

She propped herself up on one elbow, attitude radiating off her bare skin like steam off asphalt, eyes narrowing with contempt as she waved a dismissive hand in front of his stunned face. She scoffed.

“God, you always had such a weak little mind, Jacob.” Her voice was thick with mockery, taunting like a lash. “Of course you were hypnotized.” 

Then she smiled—smug, feral, practically purring as she looked down at the mess he’d made across her body. Her fingers skimmed her belly, drawing lines through the glistening aftermath, the aftershock still twitching through her thighs. 

“I’m just a talented actress,” she murmured to herself, a soft self-congratulation, her voice molten with pride. 

And right then, it struck him like lightning. 

She’d never been under. Not for a second. Not one fucking breath. Every word she moaned, every time she clawed his hips, every roll of her body, every time she screamed for more—it wasn’t trance, it wasn’t programming. 

All of it was her. 

And now she thought he was the puppet. That he was still swimming in fog, still lost, still under the spell. 

She looked around the room, gaze skating over the dim walls, the empty chair, the absence. 

No Dr. Marlow. She had fled. 

A slow grin slid across her face, eyes glittering. “Guess Dr. Marlow wasn’t exactly prepared,” she giggled, voice sugary and victorious. 

Still reclined, skin glowing with sweat and streaked in drying filth, Becca let her fingers drift down. She traced through the mess across her chest with lazy, lewd rhythm, dragging his seed in thick, swirling patterns over her bare tits,...