The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Chapter 1

“Thanks so much for coming over,” I said, opening the door. “I feel, uh, pretty embarrassed about this.”

My sister shot me a look, immediately making me feel like a total idiot. “Oh, so what I do for a living is embarrassing?”

“No! No, of course not.” I could feel my cheeks burning red, even as she laughed.

“I’m just messing with you,” she said, putting her bag down on my couch. “Where do you want to do this?”

“Right here,” I said, pointing to the arm-chair in the middle of my living room.

My name’s Hannah. My sister, Whitney, is a stripper.

Well, technically I don’t think she strips any more. I mean, she does, but not, like, on the stage.

Whitney told me once that the stage is not where you actually make money—it’s from lapdances. The stage is just to advertise that you’re available for lapdances.

And apparently she’s gotten so good, she no longer needs to advertise.

She’s known at the club as the Queen of Lap Dances. She’s, like, supernaturally good at them. She showed me her savings account once, and I couldn’t believe it. Trust me—any lingering judgment I had for her choice in career disappeared as soon as I saw all dem zeroes.

I have no interest in getting into it, of course. I’m very happy at my job. Interior decorator isn’t the most exciting vocation, but I’m good at it, and I do like it. Way more than I’d ever enjoy being a stripper, that’s for sure.

But for my husband’s birthday, I thought it might be fun to give him a lapdance.

I wasn’t even going to tell my sister about it, to be honest. It’s like…did you know Paul McCartney’s brother was a musician as well? I bet that was a fun conversation. “Oh hey brother who is literally one of the Beatles, I think I’m going to start doing music professionally as well.”

So the plan was for it to be a secret. Something just for my husband, y’know? No need for Whitney to ever hear about it.

But then I’d started watching videos online, and…god, I just sucked at it.

Here’s the funny thing—before Whitney, no one in our family had any rhythm. There’s some footage of the dance floor on our wedding night, and you can immediately tell who’s on my side of the family.

It’s almost weird how good Whitney apparently is at her job, because man, even a few years back she was like me—just, zero coordination. And then, almost overnight, she became the best at what she does. I guess it goes to show—talent really can come from anywhere.

“Great,” Whitney said, and sat in the chair where I’d pointed. “C’mon, sis. Show me what you got.”

What followed was probably the three most embarrassing minutes of my life…and the only reason I knew it was three minutes was because of the song I put on. Honestly, it felt more like an hour as I awkwardly gyrated on around around my sister.

To her credit, Whitney managed to mostly hide her judgment, but I knew it was pretty bad. At one point, I almost fell over.

“So,” I finally said, as the music ended. “I suck at this.”

“You do,” Whitney agreed. It’s funny—she always used to be so afraid of hurting people’s feelings, but now she just says it how it is. It’s kind of abrasive, but I also kind of like it—it was why I’d known I could ask her to help, because she’d be honest with me about where I was at.

“I swear, I did everything the video said.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

My sister tried—and failed—to hide a smirk, and an idea struck me.

“Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“Show me what I’m doing wrong.”

Whitney looked at me through narrowed eyes. “I mean, I can just tell you what you’re doing wrong: everything.”

“No,” I said, dragging her out of the chair and taking her place. “I mean, show me what I should be doing.”

An wicked smile slowly spread across my sister’s face.

“You want me to do a lapdance for you?”

“No,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “Don’t be weird. I just want you to show me what a good lapdance looks like. You know I’m a visual learner.”

“You want me to show you,” she echoed, “by doing a lapdance for you.”

“Yeah.”

I shot her a puzzled look. Like, this was her job. I knew for a fact she wasn’t self-conscious about it—she was super public about what she did on Facebook and Instagram, and she’d even told me stories about some of our old teachers going in to see her work.

Ever since she’d gotten this job, Whitney had been completely shameless. I couldn’t imagine that she was suddenly embarrassed to dance for her sister. Especially since we were all alone—no one would ever know.

“I’m only going to say this once,” my sister replied slowly, staring me in the eyes. It was weird; her iris’s seemed to have some small red flecks in them. “I’m really good at what I do. By the time I’m done, you’re going to want to have sex with me.”

“Ha ha ha,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Just teach me how to turn my husband on.”

“Okay,” Whitney said, a strange look on her face. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Before I could react to her strange comment, she’d changed the music (though I didn’t even see her go near her phone) and “Devil’s Dance” by Metallica started playing, filling the apartment.

It’s funny—I wouldn’t have guessed that something that slow would work for a lapdance, but holy shit…my sister made it work. As soon as the music started playing, she started moving her body to the rhythm—not jerkingly like my attempt at a dance, but sensually. Sexily, if that’s a word.

And then she turned and made eye-contact me, and I swear to god, my mouth fell open.

Suddenly, I could see how Whitney made the money she did. I’m as straight as they come, and she’s my sister, but I was completely entranced.

She placed her hands on my shoulders, and starting writhing from side to side. She wasn’t even dressed in anything particularly slutty—jeans to match mine (but without the huge rips in the knees) and a white tanktop.

Actually, we were dressed almost identically—my tanktop was blue, and my bra was red where hers was tan…just normal around the house clothes, y’know?

But as soon as her body started moving, her simple outfit became the sexiest thing I’d ever seen a woman wear.

I awkwardly held my hands up behind her—even when receiving a lapdance, I couldn’t help but feel like I was messing it up. She whipped her short blonde hair back and forth (she’d started dyeing it when she got her new job)—I was surprised she didn’t grow it out, but as I watched her flip it seductively, I realized that its current length was more than long enough to get the job done.

Whitney briefly pressed her crotch into mine, and an alarming realization crept over me.

I’d thought that I’d hit peak shame when I’d shown my sister my total lack of dance moves, but just a few moments later I’d already managed to top it.

I was wet.

Less than thirty seconds into a demonstrative lapdance from my sister, I was wet. No, not just wet—soaked.

My sister’s moves had turned me on more than any woman had before her. Hell, watching her do her thing was making me hotter than, like, even my husband had ever managed. And my husband and I had great sex. Consistently!

“How did you get so good at this?” I croaked, and she grinned.

“I told you; I sold my soul.”

I was too distracted to even smile at my sister’s go-to joke whenever anyone asked about her new job. Her grin vanished, and as she went back into full sultry mode, it was all I could do not to groan aloud.

On paper, she was doing exactly what I’d done. But where I’d felt like a corpse being electrified, my sister was somehow managing to turn even me on. She’d mentioned her huge, loyal clientbase in the past; now, I got it. I really, really got it.

All of a sudden, my hands had suddenly worked out what to do. I hadn’t even noticed myself grasping my sister’s hips, running my hand up and down her blue jeans.

Turning around, Whitney pressed her ass into my lap. I flushed—would she be able to feel how wet I was? Would she know?

Of course she knew. This was her job. She knew exactly what she was doing.

She really was the best at what she did.

My hands moved to her bare arms, then to her denim-clad legs. I was overcome with an urge to touch her—my younger sister, the girl I’d grown up with…suddenly, she was all I wanted.

I wanted her. God, I wanted her more than anything.

She stood up, and I found myself touching her everywhere—her back, her butt. I wanted to go under her shirt, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t, right? I knew strip clubs had rules…and sure, this wasn’t a strip club, but she was my sister.

What we were doing was so wrong. So, so wrong.

A fact that only served to turn me on even more.

She turned around again, and sat down on my lap. My hands were out of control by this point—I wanted to rip her clothes off. I wanted to take her. I’d never had any interest in being with a woman before, but I wanted my sister. I wanted to see her naked. I wanted to touch every inch of her. I wanted to feel if she was as wet as I was, if she wanted me as much as I wanted her.

The way she was dancing told me that she did, but I knew that this was her job. Her role was to make the clients feel like she wanted them. She was playing me, like she played the chumps at her job that she’d tell us stories about.

And it was working.

She kicked up one leg, and her hair never stopped moving, whipping around, dancing as much as the rest of her did. I’d never been turned on by hair before—I didn’t even know you could be—but the way her blonde mop moved was enough to make me moan again, louder than before.

“You like this?” she asked as my hands moved up her back, trying to draw her closer. She was sitting on me, her torso against mine, but still I wanted her closer. I wanted more, more, more.

“Mmm-hmmm,” I moaned, and she smiled.

“You can’t resist me, can you?” she gloated. I shook my head. “You want to have sex with me, don’t you?”

“Yessss,” I said, my voice a low moan. I could tell that my eyes were glassy. I was completely under her control. I wanted my sister. I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted any man. It didn’t make any sense, but it was true.

I would have done anything for her. Anything.

“I warned you,” she said, pulling her lips up in a smile, revealing her teeth. Had they always been that pointy?

“You did,” I nodded.

Whitney leaned forward, pressing her mouth against mine. My lips parted, allowing her soft tongue entry. I was doing it—I was making out with my sister as she gave me a lapdance. We were engaged in an incestuous embrace, and I’d never been so excited by anything in my life.

The song ended, but the dance continued. My sister never stopped moving as we kissed, soft moans escaping our mouths. My hands moved to her hair, up and down her bare arms, across her back, onto her perfect butt. I wanted to touch every inch of her. I wanted every inch of her.

Whitney’s hands moved to my neck, the exposed part of my chest, my side. If it was all an act, if she truly didn’t want me as much as I wanted her, it was the best act I’d ever seen.

Every now and again she’d pull back, fix me with that stare, as if to remind me of what we were doing, to remind me that she wasn’t my husband, that she wasn’t even a man.

She was my sister. She was my sister, and I couldn’t resist her.