﻿Blank Betty

by Pan



Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2024-02-16 22:06:57
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,116
Publisher: mcstories.com
Story URL: https://mcstories.com/BlankBetty/index.html
Author URL: https://mcstories.com/Authors/Pan.html
Summary: After a freak accident erases Betty’s mind, her brother struggles to see her as a person any more. She’ll do anything she’s told—would taking advantage of that really be so wrong?
Erotica Tags: in, mc, md, mf





TABLE OF CONTENTS


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3



	Chapter 1

“Oh! Oh god, yes! Oh, fuck me, Chet…”

I tried to turn my headphones up, tried to ignore the sounds of my sister’s pleasure, coming from the next room. But she was being as loud as she possibly could—Chet had made sure of that—and, against my will, it was turning me on. It was becoming impossible for me to think of my sister as a person any more.

She was just a fuck toy for Chet now, in my heart I knew that. And worse, all I had to do was ask, and she’d be a fuck-toy for me as well…

But I couldn’t do that. Not to my sister.

* * *

It started two weeks ago. Back when my sister still had free will.

Well, I guess it started about a year earlier. See, my sister and I have always been close. No, not in that way, you perverts—honestly, until the accident, I’d never thought of my sister in a sexual light at all. Hell, even after the accident I struggled with it—a fact Chet was well-aware of.

He’s always had a cruel streak. I should have seen it coming, I guess…but I never thought he’d find an avenue for it.

Anyway, the accident. No, before that—the experiments.

My sister Betty and I have always been close, probably because we’re both completely obsessed with science. Mom and Dad are scientists, and their passion for it really rubbed off on us. Where most siblings would fight, we always worked together, setting up chem labs and filling the house with foul-smelling concoctions.

And where most parents would complain about mess, Mom and Dad always encouraged us—they taught us the scientific method, how to determine whether an experiment was worth our time or not…

So all through high school, Betty and me were the top students in every science class we could take. That’s how we met Chet.

Like I said, Chet had a cruel streak. More importantly, though, he had a brilliant mind—he was fascinated with taking stuff apart to see how it worked, and so he was a natural addition to our two-man crew. We brought him up to speed, and he loved it—he had ideas that Betty and I could never have even thought of, and between the three of us, we knew we could do pretty much anything.

_Why the brain?_ I’ve asked myself that more and more in the past couple of week, and the more I think about it, the more I think that it was Chet pushing in that direction. Not that we objected—hell, the mind is a fascinating thing, and pooling our money to buy more and more sophisticated devices was a no-brainer (no pun intended).

And again, I’m pretty sure it was Chet’s idea to use Betty as our test subject. We plugged her in, started monitoring the data, and that’s when—just two weeks ago—the “accident” happened…

I can’t prove anything, of course. Innocent until proven guilty, and I’ve got nowhere near the amount of evidence that I’d need to conclude that Chet masterminded the whole thing. But I’ll tell you this:

He didn’t look shocked.

Betty did. When the breaker broke (and not the way it’s meant to) and three times the intended amount of electricity began coursing through her brain, her mouth opened in surprise, right before it fell into that wide, slack-jawed position that would quickly become so familiar. For a second, her eyes had flashed with betrayal, before going blank, that same blankness that I see every day.

The two of us stood there in silence for a few seconds, and like I said…Chet didn’t look surprised.

He looked hungry.

“Betty?” I said, sighing with relief when she turned in response. “Betty, are you alright?”

She didn’t say anything, and after a few more seconds of silence, Chet spoke up.

“Betty,” he said softly, “tell us you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” she said, echoing Chet’s tone.

“Take the wires off and let us have a look at you.”

She did as she was ordered, and aside from very slight burn-marks on the sides of her head, it didn’t look like there was anything wrong with her.

“Betty, what day is it today?”

“Friday.”

“What color shirt am I wearing?”

“Blue.”

“Are you okay? How do you feel?”

No response. She just stared at me, and my heart sank.

She wasn’t okay.

It’s hard to explain exactly what happened—just to understand what our experiment was trying to accomplish, you’d need to have spent several years studying the topic…but I’ll try to explain.

When you toss a coin, or roll a dice, or spin the wheel at roulette, it’s meant to be random, right? But it’s not. It’s just a huge, huge number of variables—so many that no human (with today’s technology, at least) could ever hope to predict the outcome. But realistically, toss a coin isn’t random—from the second it leaves your thumb, its path is already decided. The angle of the toss, the force involved, the air particles…it’s impossible to predict, but that’s not the same as random.

Free will is similar. It’s an illusion—we feel like we’re making decisions, but those decisions have been decided a long time ago. The sunshine bouncing off a windshield, hitting our eyes at the right angle, triggering a memory of when we were young, causing the brain to release a chemical…it combines with the trillions of other factors that are in every second of every day, but it’s not free will.

We’re all slaves to our own chemistry. And what Chet, my sister and I were trying (optimistically, I’ll admit) to do was measure that chemistry. We were trying to monitor specific brainwaves, sparks of electricity bouncing between neurons. And if we could capture the patterns of a particular emotion, perhaps we could recreate it.

We weren’t even close. We didn’t really expect to be—even at the early, early stages of research we were at, it was fascinating.

But the accident, from what we can tell, erased several sections of Betty’s brain. It’s a miracle we didn’t kill her…depending on how suspicious you are, you could say that it _couldn’t_ have just been luck.

With just the tiniest bit more electricity, she would have been dead. Instead, she was alive and well…but she’d never be the same again.

She still understood English—she knew how to walk and talk and function. She knew where her room was, and if we told her to make her bed, she’d know where to find the necessary linen.

But her free will was eradicated, illusion or nay. Instead of obeying the chemical reactions bouncing around in her head, she now did…whatever she was told.

It took us about half an hour to work out what had happened, and then we set about fixing it.

“Don’t obey anyone but us,” was Chet’s first command, and at the time I didn’t find anything even remotely suspicious about it. To my mind, he was just looking out for her—if we set her free, obeying absolutely everything she was told, she’d be a mess. The first man who asked to see her tits would be obeyed, and from there it’s just a few short steps to being a drug-smuggling prostitute.

No, Chet was on her side. At the time, I didn’t even question that fact.

We spent the whole weekend…programming her, I guess would be the best word for it. Telling her how to behave to as many different stimulus as we could. I never appreciated the automatic decisions that you make each and every day—should I get up now, or sleep in? What kind of sandwich do I want to eat? Hell, even basic stuff like “where do I sit”…there are hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions…we couldn’t cover all of them, but we tried to broadly go over as many as we could.

“And when someone asks how you are, use a cheerful tone and reply ‘Great’, okay?”

“Okay,” she said blankly.

“If they ask for more detail, tell them that you’re just excited to be graduating soon, okay?’

“Okay.”

“If you feel like you need to go the toilet, get up and head straight to the nearest women’s bathroom…”

“…that you’re allowed into,” Chet added.

“If anyone asks where you’re going, just say that you’ll be back in a minute.”

By the time Sunday night came along, Chet and I were exhausted, but confident that Betty would pass as…well, herself, at least until we got a chance to add some more commands.

“Okay, Betty. Last one…if you’re asked a question that isn’t covered by anything we’ve said so far, just say ‘You decide’, and do what they say, okay?”

“Unless it’s sexual,” I said.

“Unless it’s sexual,” Chet agreed. “Or if it’s one of us.”

That was the moment when my suspicions started. At the time I let it slide—we were exhausted, I figured he’d expressed himself badly, and that he was just making sure that there was a loophole, making sure that Betty would always listen to our instructions.

But when I fell into bed, the comment turned over in my head over and over, and I couldn’t ignore the obvious repercussions of what he’d said.

* * *

My parents didn’t believe in pushing their ethics onto us. They were both atheists, but they took us to church a few times—they wanted to show us everything that was out there, and let us make our own decisions.

So me and Betty grew up with pretty much no hang-ups about sex. Mom and Dad taught us how sex worked way before we even hit puberty, and once we turned 13, they ran us through birth control and dealing with STIs.

At no point were we ever taught to be ashamed of our bodies, and I know that when Betty came out, she never felt even the slightest bit of guilt or disapproval.

The topic of incest never came up, but I’m sure my parents would have just commented on the health risks of children born from such an arrangement, but concluded that anything between two consenting adults was fine.

Like I said, I never thought about it. I still try not to think about it…as far as I’m concerned, Betty isn’t my sister any more. My sister was interested in science—she loved green, she hated driving, and her favorite actor was Crispin Glover.

The girl I live with now? That’s not Betty. It’s a shell of a human, with no thoughts or opinions of her own.

But the next night, when I walked in to find her with her lips wrapped around Chet’s cock, that’s not what was going through my head.

Instead, I stepped forward and punched him in the face.

“What the hell?” Chet exclaimed, pushing Betty off him and turning to face me. I pulled my fist back for another swing, but at Chet’s instruction, Betty stood between us.

“Betty, move…” I said, through clenched teeth, and she began moving until Chet stopped her.

“Stay where you are, Betty…” he said.

“Ignore Chet,” I replied, “and get out of the way.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Chet said to me, even as Betty began moving again. “That was one of the first things we told her—she only listens to you and me. That means that no matter what, she still listens to both of us. Betty, stand in front of me again.”

“Chet…” I growled, but he just stared at me blankly, even as blood ran down his face.

“Please,” he said calmly, “can we talk?”

Adrenaline was pumping through my body. I felt angry, possessive, defensive of my sister—I felt like Chet had done one of the worst things that anyone could do to another human. Taking advantage of Betty in her current state…it was like having sex with someone who was mentally disabled. It was just _wrong_.

And yet, despite myself, I was turned on.

I took a deep breath, forced myself to calm down, and turned away as Chet put his dick away. It was tempting to reach out and just snap it off, but I knew that wasn’t the right thing to do. We had to be rational. I’d hear what he had to say…

And if I didn’t like it, then I’d break his fucking neck.

“Look,” Chet said, once he saw that my fists had unclenched, that I was willing to talk. “I know that you’re mad…”

“Yeah I’m fucking mad,” I exclaimed. “Firstly, that’s my sister! Secondly, she’s a lesbian!”

“No,” Chet said, a hint of pride in his voice. “She’s not any more…she’s not anything.”

“Yeah…for now! Until we…until we put her back to the way that she used to be.”

“Bro, you’ve got to face facts…Betty is never going to be the way that she used to be. I don’t know what we did, or how we did it, but…we blanked her. We wiped out everything that made her _her_ , and that’s not coming back.”

In that moment, I wanted to hate him. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to put my hands around his throat, and throttle him until he sucked his words back in, until he stopped it from being true.

But as mad as I was, as much as I didn’t want to believe a word he was saying…he was right.

Betty was gone. For all intents and purposes, she was dead. We’d been so busy since the accident, I hadn’t been able to come to terms with it, but Chet was right.

I didn’t have a sister any more.

I saw Chet tense up as I stood, and I’m sure he thought I was going to hit him again. Instead, I sank to my knees, and started sobbing.

The three of us stayed there for at least five minutes—me, uncontrollably sobbing, Chet watching me in shock, and my sist—…and the girl who had once been my sister, just standing and watching, without a thought in her head.

Finally, Chet whispered something to Betty, and she knelt down beside me and gave me a hug.

I’d seen movies where people are in a hospital, and their loved one is in a coma, and they have to make the decision to pull the plug. Even though they’re right _there_ , alive and breathing and looking exactly like they always have, they’re gone, and they have to say goodbye.

This was like that, but a hundred times worse. Betty was gone, but she was still able to look at me, to hug me, to comfort her brother. I had no idea how to deal with it, so I just held onto her and sobbed, while Chet stood there and watched.

Finally, when I felt like I’d cried out all the water I’d ever imbibed, I looked up at Chet.

“Get out,” I said, too weak to even stand up and tower over him. “You motherfucker.”

To his credit, he didn’t ask any questions—he just got up and left me to put my sister to bed, and then collapse, exhausted, into a deep slumber of my own.

* * *

The next day, however, he was back. He didn’t go anywhere near my sister—he just came and spoke to me.

“Hey,” he said, looking—in what was unusual for him—slightly bashful, even ashamed. “We need to talk about yesterday.”

“You’re damned right we do,” I said. “What the fuck was all that about?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged, avoiding making eye contact. “I guess that was how I was dealing with what’s happened.”

“By raping my sister?” I spat, and suddenly I had his full attention.

“Dude. It wasn’t rape.”

“Are you kidding me? She’s got the mind of a child—how the fuck can you claim she can consent??”

“No,” he said, looking me straight in the eyes. “She doesn’t have the mind of a child. You’re looking at this all wrong.

“She doesn’t have a mind at all.”

That shut me up. I wish I could have come up with a clever rebuttal, but again, his words had the ring of truth to them, and when he saw that I didn’t have a comeback, he continued.

“You know I’m right. It’s not like having sex with a child, or an animal…it’s like having sex with a computer.”

“Shut up,” I whispered, but Chet kept talking.

“That’s not your sister any more. For all intents and purposes, that’s a fleshy robot. Betty’s gone, dude…what’s left is just a body.”

There was a long pause, and I tried again.

“That doesn’t matter. You know you can’t…”

“Why not?” he interrupted, and as I struggled to come up with an answer, he nodded. “Exactly.”

Everything would have been different if I’d done something. I could have stopped him, or told him to get out, or followed him and…I dunno, made Betty bite off his dick. But instead I just sat there as Chet left the room, and watched him go down the hall, and enter my sister’s room without knocking.

That was when it started.

I tried to come up with a reason it was wrong. My gut told me that there was something fucked up going on, but as I mulled the situation over from all angles, I knew Chet was right. The situation was messed up, but who was getting hurt?

Straight after the accident, we’d tried to get a reaction out of Betty—any reaction. But no matter what we told her to do, she’d obey without complaint, without even hesitating. It wasn’t until she obeyed our command to set part of her shirt on fire that we realized she’d do _anything_ we said—what was putting Chet’s cock in her mouth when compared to that?

Except it didn’t stop there.

I wish I didn’t know, I really did. But after a week of Chet coming over and letting himself into Betty’s room, I’d built up enough rage to overcome the hollowness I felt inside. I’d waited a few minutes, and walked in after him.

Betty was naked. I hadn’t seen her without clothes on since we were kids, sharing a bath, and a lot had changed. I’d suspected that Chet would want to see her nude—I’d pictured him coming in, making her strip off, and then laying down while he plunged in and out of her.

I’d predicted, correctly, that Chet would be fucking her.

What I _hadn’t_ expected was how much he’d make her enjoy it.

I entered the room to find Chet laying on the bed, the girl who had been my sister on top of him, grinding her pussy against him, moaning in ecstasy as she came over and over again.

“Oh, god…” she was saying, presumably at Chet’s command. “Oh my god…you’re so good. Fuck me, Chet, please…stick that huge cock inside of me. Do it. Make me your bitch.”

She repeatedly shuddered in pleasure, and my eyes were so transfixed by her motions that it took me a few seconds to realize what Chet was saying. Each time there was a pause in her speech, each time she stopped speaking even for a second, he’d just say “Cum”, and her next words would be thick with lust.

“You’re amazing…”

“Cum.”

“…you’re such a good fuck…”

“Cum.”

“…oh Jesus, Chet, do it…”

“Cum.”

I stood there and watched for a few minutes, amazed by what I saw ahead of me. Suddenly my anger died away—yes, Chet was taking advantage of her, but he was ensuring that she was enjoying it—more than him, even.

I felt sick, but I couldn’t look away. And it wasn’t until I noticed that I’d gotten hard from the sight that I turned and left the room.


	Chapter 2

What makes us human?

Say you’re making a doll. You decide that rather than giving it Barbie proportions, you’re going to give it the exact proportions of a humans, in every way. Size, shape, internal organs—everything. Now let’s say you’ve invented a 3D printer that rather than spitting out concrete or plastic, can somehow create human flesh.

The heart, the skin, the eyes—you print out your doll, and it’s functionally identical to a human in every way, except without life.

Is that a dead human?

No. I wouldn’t really call it a “doll” any more though either—it’s like a flesh golem, an imitation human.

But I definitely wouldn’t call it a human.

So what about this: You’re testing Artificial Intelligence. You decide to model it after yourself—the AI scans your brain, and bases its entire personality (likes, dislikes, habits, needs) on your memories, your impulses, everything that makes you you.

Is the AI human? It has human memories, human thoughts. It has human impulses and human desires…but again, I don’t think it’s human.

So what makes a human?

It’s not the body, it’s not the brain. It’s some kind of combination of the two.

My sister had been human. My sister had been _alive_. She was funny, she was opinionated, and she was incredibly smart.

But what was she now?

* * *

Chet continued to come over every day. He didn’t even bother saying hello, not any more. He would just come around, go straight into my sister’s room, and on the rare days when I didn’t jam headphones into my ears, I would hear the sounds of her pleasure through the wall.

On one level, it was sick. I despised him for it, and pitied him as well. Who gets off on a girl pretending to get off? Who is so desperate for affection that he needs to cum inside a shell of a human…if she was even human any more, of course.

But on another level…well, I didn’t want to explore my thoughts on that level.

Here’s the thing: my sister is hot. It had never been relevant before—she was my _sister_ , and a lesbian to boot—but just like I can acknowledge another guy’s beauty without any sexual interest, it was impossible to deny that my sister was attractive.

Betty was slightly taller than me, which she’d once mentioned meant she did well in the lesbian scene. She’d always worn her hair in a short pixie-cut (although it hadn’t been cut since the accident) and she never particularly flaunted her body around the house (why would she?) but she also felt no particular need to hide it.

And so even before I’d walked in on Chet and Betty, I’d known the basics. She kept her legs shaved, her breasts were fairly large, and she wasn’t stick-thin but she also wasn’t chubby.

Now, of course, I knew more than I’d expected to ever learn—more than I ever wanted to know. Her nipples were pink, and tiny, with huge areolae that stretched over about a third of her tits. Her pussy was shaved (although whether that was Chet’s influence or not, I had no idea) and she had a huge ass, though not in an unattractive way.

And, apparently, she shut her eyes and trembled when she came.

I’m a straight guy. I’ve never had any interest in my sister, on any level, but watching her bouncing on Chet’s cock, watching her boobs bounce and her whole body quiver…

It had been hot. It had been the hottest thing I’d ever seen.

I _hated_ that I was aroused by it, but I couldn’t deny the truth. I was living with the hottest girl I’d ever seen…

…and if I told her to, she’d fuck me. Without hesitation.

I’d never do it, of course. I told myself that every day. I’d never, ever do it. No matter what she was now, she’d once been my sister, and out of respect for my former sibling, I would never, ever fuck her.

Even though a word was all it would take…

* * *

It was ten days after I’d walked in on Chet and my sister when he surprised me by knocking on my door.

“What?” I said, one earphone out and scowling at him. “What do you want?”

“Come on,” he said, “don’t be like that. We used to be friends, remember?”

I just rolled my eyes in response.

“I’m here to talk about Betty,” he said, and something in his tone made me sit up.

“What is it?” I replied. “Do you think…she can be fixed?”

He gave me a smug little half-smile, and I fell back on my bed. Of course not. Nothing could repair what we’d done…I was going to have to live with my guilt for the rest of my life.

Another reason to make sure I didn’t do anything to increase that guilt.

“No,” he said, “it’s something else.”

I grunted in response. The quicker he left, the sooner I could go back to distracting myself from thinking about what Chet and my sister had been doing for the last hour. Thinking about her body, glistening with sweat, her face scrunched up with pleasure…

“What?” I said, trying desperately to dismiss the thoughts that refused to stop popping into my brain whenever I was reminded of my sister’s daily escapades.

“What do you know about addiction?”

I pulled out the other earphone, and sat up.

“…what have you done?”

* * *

Addiction, Chet explained, was a chemical process. They’d experimented with giving trace amounts of heroin and cocaine to braindead rats, and found that even though the brain wasn’t consciously aware of the increased dopamine, when the source of the pleasure was removed, the rats still went through a withdrawal process.

I could tell where he was going with this.

“Let me get this straight,” I said through gritted teeth, so angry I could barely speak. “First you brainwash my sister…”

“That was an accident!” he said, throwing his hands up defensively.

“…then you fuck her, and now you’re saying she’s…addicted? What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“I never meant for it to happen,” he said, though his tone was not at all apologetic. “I just wanted her to have a good time.

“It’s possible that I went a little overboard. Normally the chemical process of sex isn’t enough to trigger an addiction, but…”

He trailed off, but I knew exactly what he meant. His voice, softly repeating “cum”, my sister’s shuddering response—the image was burned into my brain, and I wouldn’t be forgetting it any time soon.

“So just wean her off it,” I said, hating the fact that I was implicitly encouraging him to have _more_ sex with my sister. “Just have her…do it less. Within a few weeks she’ll be fine.”

“Can’t,” he said, and there was a look of mischief dancing behind his eyes. “My family’s going to Puerto Rico for two weeks. We’re leaving tomorrow, and I only just worked out what I’d done.”

“Well what the hell do you want me to do about it?”

“That’s up to you, bud. I just thought you’d want to know about it. I know your sister isn’t…herself…any more, but I figured you wouldn’t want her suffering.”

He flashed me a smug grin, and was gone before I could ask any more questions. _What_ was she specifically addicted to? Orgasms? Because I was sure that was something she didn’t need _my_ help with.

Or was it more than that? Was there something about sex itself, cumming around a cock…

No, what was I saying. I wasn’t an expert (I’d never so much as kissed a girl) but I understood basic biology, and I definitely understand masturbation. An orgasm was an orgasm, whether induced by your hand or another person.

Right?

* * *

After Chet left, I spent a few hours doing research online. He wasn’t lying—at least, not about the dopamine addiction. It was such a powerful chemical, and if you were exposed to it in high enough frequency, your brain quickly adapted on a biological level, suffering withdrawals once the constant stimulation was taken away.

As for my other questions, the internet was surprisingly fruitless. Studies of human sexuality—especially women’s sexuality—are rare, and peer-reviewed, reliable studies are non-existent. I found a lot of conjecture and hypotheses, but very little in the way of actual proof.

Finally, I slumped back in my chair in defeat. I had no idea what my sister was going through, or what she was likely to go through, but even though she wasn’t my sister any more—not really—I couldn’t just sit back and let her suffer.

I just didn’t have it in me.

Getting up and crossing the hall, I was unsurprised by the sight in front of me. When my parents are home, we’d programmed Betty to look busy. Reading a book, using her laptop, even stuff like folding laundry—anything unsuspicious, but not interesting enough to be worth interrupting.

But I had found it weird to have her “deceive” me with those activities, so if it was just the two of us at home, I’d always find her sitting on her bed, staring forward, remembering to blink every so often (that had been a terrifying lesson to learn—breathing she did naturally for some reason, but we’d had to tell her to manually blink after realizing her eye was starting to dry up).

“Hey Betty,” I said, realizing how pointless the words were as soon as they left my mouth. She turned to acknowledge me, as instructed, her mouth splitting into a smile.

“Hey fuckface,” she replied, and I rolled my eyes. Chet’s “sense of humor” in action. He must have told her to call me that when it was just the two of us.

“How are you?”

“Great!” she said brightly, and I sighed.

“Tell me specifically whether you are experiencing any pain right now.”

“I am not,” she said immediately, returning to the monotone that she used when answering direct, specific questions from Chet and myself.

I nodded to myself. The internet had been pretty clear—as soon as she began experiencing any kind of withdrawal symptoms, it would manifest as pain. If I kept checking in on her, I’d be able to tell as soon as it started, and respond immediately.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling like an idiot even as I did. She didn’t care if I said thanks—she’d respond the way we’d taught her to, but as far as she was concerned, I might as well not exist.

No, that wasn’t quite right either. As far as she was concerned, I _didn’t_ exist. Nothing did. She had as much cognitive function as a table. A table doesn’t care if you’re in the room with it, if you die, if you cover it in coaster or if you break it in half. A table just keeps on existing, no matter what you do to it.

If Betty was in pain, she wouldn’t care. She wouldn’t react in the slightest, except to tell me that it existed (if I asked). But I still couldn’t stand by and let her suffer, not when there was something I could do.

* * *

The next morning, the whole family was eating breakfast together (meals had been strange to program in. Stuff like “eat until you have the sensation of fullness” had been easy enough, but the specifics of what needed to be combined with what—eggs with bacon, condiments with toast, milk with cereal—had taken a while as we ran through every combination) when I noticed something strange.

Betty was halfway through a piece of toast when I noticed a strange grimace appear on her face—just for a second. I waited until Mom and Dad weren’t looking, then whispered in her ear to follow me, and slipped into the next room.

“Betty,” I said, “tell me whether you are experiencing any pain right now.”

“I am,” she said flatly.

“Where?”

“There is a dull ache all throughout my body and head.”

That was exactly how the internet had described dopamine withdrawal. But something about the timeline didn’t make sense…Chet had been fucking my sister every night, but she couldn’t possibly experience withdrawal each morning. What on earth was happening?

“What did you and Chet do last night?”

“Hung out,” she said with a disarming smile, and I realized I’d reached another pre-programmed defense.

“No,” I said with a sigh, “I mean…what specific activities did you and Chet do in your room last night?”

“We talked,” she said simply, and when I asked for clarification, she explained that he’d basically done a medical cross-examination. I nodded; it made sense. Chet did say he’d only just worked out the problem, and so he mustn’t have had time to…delay the symptoms.

I sighed. I wasn’t going to enjoy it, but I knew what I had to do.

“Betty…” I said, and she looked at me expectantly. “Cum.”

Her eyes fluttered, and she moaned softly. I held a hand up to her mouth in panic, and she responded by parting her soft lips and taking my finger inside, her warm tongue encircling it.

It seemed Chet had programmed a number of responses into my sister, at her moment of orgasm.

“Cum,” I said again, hating how hard I was getting by the way she sucked on my finger, engulfing it in her mouth, her eyes looking at me desperately, clearly wanting more.

“Cum,” I repeated, pulling my finger out, causing her brow to furrow even as her whole body twitched with orgasm.

“Cum. Cum. Cum. Cum.”

We sat there for ten minutes, her actions getting more lascivious each time she came, until soon she was panting, staring at me in lust, her breasts heaving, her body shuddering, pushing me to the edge of my self-control…

Finally, I knew we couldn’t stay away any longer without drawing attention to ourselves, and I couldn’t trust myself to be alone with the horny creature who had once been my sister. I told her to go upstairs and change panties, and I slipped back into the dining room and resumed eating with my parents.


	Chapter 3

My grandpa was a farmer.

When I was a kid, I remember him telling me about milking the cows. I’ve no idea why, but I loved him, so I’d listened to his tale.

“Every morning,” he’d grunted—it had felt like Grandpa Mel always spoke in grunts—“I wake up at four-thirty in the morning, and make my way out to the shed. There are fifty-eight cows in that shed. Me and Maw milk each and every one of them before breakfast.”

After my grandma died, Grandpa Mel had remarried a woman we all just knew as “Maw”.

“At four thirty in the afternoon, we go back and milk ’em all again before supper.”

Our parents had encouraged Betty and I to ask a lot of questions, and Grandpa Mel was one of the few adults who’d put up with it, so I’d spent the next hour or so grilling him, basically, asking about why they went to bed so early, why they had so many cows, why they needed to be milked twice a day.

I’d asked him what happened if they didn’t get milked, and I’ll never forget his response—he just looked at me coolly, raised his eyebrows slightly, and said “They always get milked. Each and every day. I’m responsible for those cows, and that means I’m there for them. Each and every day. That’s just how life is—some’re responsible for others, and you gotta do right by ’em.”

I was responsible for my sister. What we’d done to her—it would have been easy to blame Chet, but I’d been there too. What had happened to Betty was on me, at least partially, and that meant that I was responsible for her.

I was responsible for her, and I had to do right by her.

Even without the responsibility, it was hard not to draw other parallels between my Grandpa Mel and me.

Between my sister and the cows.

At least I only had to take care of my sister once a day. Each night for the next week, I’d find time to be alone with her, and I’d make sure she was taken care of.

“Cum.”

The second night I did it, I didn’t put my hand up to her mouth.

“Cum.”

Not at first.

“Cum.”

But each time she followed my instruction, her moans got louder.

“Cum.”

By the fifth moan, I was terrified of our parents overhearing, coming to investigate. Catching us.

“Cum.”

And so I allowed her lips to part, letting my finger in, letting her tongue swirl around it.

“Cum, cum, cum, cum.”

I’d gotten used to the blank stare. I never thought it would be possible, but I did.

Now, it was the look of need that alarmed me. The look of wanton lust.

I knew it was fake, of course. Chet had programmed my sister to look desperate, to look enticing. Maybe it was how he eased his conscience, maybe it just turned him on.

I mean, it turned _me_ on.

I hated that it turned me on, but it did. My sister’s tongue, swirling around my finger, the look of lust in her eyes as she came by my command, over and over again.

It wasn’t right. None of this fucked up situation was right. Betty should’ve been my sister. My passionate, science-loving, chatterbox sister.

Instead, she was a blank slate, able to be turned into whatever you wanted.

Whatever Chet wanted.

“Cum,” I said again. I’d lost count—I lost count every night. At first, I’d planned on slowly weaning her off the orgasms, reducing the number she needed.

But as my sister writhed with pleasure, climaxing again and again and again, it was easy for me to get…distracted.

And so each and every night, as I brought her to orgasm, I lost track of how many times I’d made her cum, as she sucked on my finger like it was a cock, staring at me with desire.

When I was done, I’d slip out of the room, leaving my sister horny, panting, wanting nothing more than to…

No. No, that was all in my head. My sister didn’t want _anything_.

Not any more.

* * *

_Fucked your sister yet?_

I rolled my eyes as I saw Chet’s text. Of course. The first time he reached out, it wasn’t with concern, it wasn’t with advice.

It was with a fucked-up, taunting question.

_No,_ I responded. _Fuck off._

_Let me know when you do,_ he replied. _She’s real good._

_I didn’t even know they had phones in Puerto Rico,_ I responded. Not my proudest moment, I admit—I’d never even commented on Chet’s heritage before, let alone tried to weaponize it.

But hey, I was pissed off. He’d turned my sister into a sex robot. I figured that excused a little racism.

_Classy,_ he replied. _Just like your sister._

Attached was a photo of Betty’s ass, with what I could only hope was Chet’s cock buried deep inside it. She was reaching back, spreading her ass-cheeks with both hands, and even though I could only see half of her face, I could tell that she was mid-orgasm.

It was a face I’d gotten very used to.

Obviously I should have deleted the photo. Like, if nothing else, imagine if someone had found it on my phone? It could have set off a series of events that led to expulsion, public humiliation, jail…

But I didn’t.

Like I said, before the accident, I’d never looked at my sister in a sexual way. Ever. I just didn’t see her like that. And if I had—which I promise, I didn’t—it would have just grossed me out.

As far as I’d been concerned, she didn’t _have_ tits, or an ass, or a pussy. She was just Betty, y’know?

But now…

Watching my sister cum as she suckled on my finger was starting to mess with my head. Each night, I was making my sister cum over and over, only leaving when she was red-faced with exertion.

After the first few days, I’d given into temptation—once I’d gotten back to my room, I’d pulled my dick out and jerked off.

I felt horrible about it, of course. But I think it’s just a biological thing—making someone cum, even if they’re related to you, it’s a huge turn-on; in my case, it seemed to be powerful enough to overcome the Westermarck effect, the natural disinclination to be sexually attracted to those you grow up with.

A part of me hoped that it’d, I dunno, “fix” me. That getting off with my sister’s image in my mind would be enough to make me go back to seeing her as a non-sexual being.

But it just seemed to make things worse.

The next night, as I watched my sister get off in front of me over and over again, it was like I couldn’t turn my brain off. All I could think about was what she’d looked like while riding Chet, the look of passion on her face, the way she’d whimpered in orgasm, just like she was whimpering in front of me now.

I should’ve deleted the image. That would have been the right thing to do, I know that.

But instead, I saved it to my phone, and looked at it when I jerked off that night.

* * *

“Cum.”

My sister did, moaning as she did.

“Cum.”

Her eyes fluttered, and she thrust her chest forward.

At first, I’d refused to look. I mean, I’d seen her naked—I’d seen her naked body being used by Chet, as she cried out in orgasm—so I don’t know why this bothered me.

I guess because the two of us were alone. Because I couldn’t blame it on Chet. If I looked at her body, if I looked down her cleavage, it wouldn’t be his fault.

It would be mine.

That had worked for a while, but then…I’d started to look.

“Cum.”

I was hard as a rock as I made my sister cum, staring at her chest. I didn’t even know breasts _could_ blush, but my sister’s did.

“Cum. Cum. Cum.”

It started at her clavicle—the bone across her chest—and then spread up to her neck, her face…and down to her breasts.

“Cum.”

Then it met another blush—I had no idea where that one started. Between her breasts, probably. It sort of creeps up the sides.

“Cum.”

I was learning a lot about women from this experience.

“Cum. Cum. Cum.”

I was hard as steel as I watched my sister cum.

“Cum. Cum. Cum.”

She wanted to moan loudly, but my hand stopped her, so she did the next best thing.

No, not the next best thing. I had to stop thinking of her as person with wants, with priorities.

She wasn’t a person with desires. She had been programmed by Chet to turn him on.

“Cum.”

To turn me on.

“Cum.”

She wanted to moan loudly, but my hand stopped her. So instead, she moved to a different set of instructions that Chet had implanted in her, and began to suck on my finger.

“Cum.”

If I lowered my pants, I was pretty sure she would have sucked on my cock.

“Cum, cum, cum.”

I hadn’t actually seen her suck Chet off, but there was no doubt in my mind that he’d had her do it. He didn’t see her as a person, after all—she was just a living fleshlight. She was just a set of three holes for him to cum in.

“Cum.”

She was a robot who could be programmed with whatever responses most turned him on. But she wasn’t a robot made of metal and plastic. She was a robot made of flesh. Female teenage flesh.

“Cum.”

She was a robot made of Betty.

“Cum.”

My voice was hoarse, and I realized I’d done it again. I’d completely lost track of how many times I’d ordered my sister to cum. I’d stared down her chest as she tried to suck the skin off my finger, and tried to convince myself that Chet was wrong.

That she was more than just a flesh robot.

That she was more than just a fucktoy.

That she was still a person.

I tried to convince myself that there was a reason—any reason—I shouldn’t just give into my desires, and fuck her like Chet had. Like he would again, when he returned.

I knew I was smart. I don’t think that’s arrogance…if nothing else, my grades over the past decade had clearly informed me that I had above-average intelligence.

But despite the brainpower that I _knew_ I possessed, I couldn’t come up with a reason. Even a paper-thin reason.

Nothing.

* * *

“Cum.”

My sister did, moaning loudly.

My parents had gone out, so—for the first time since I’d started ‘milking’ my sister, I didn’t have to cover her face with my hand.

“Cum,” I repeated. My sister moaned again, louder than before. “Cum, cum, cum.”

It was easier, in some ways. I was sitting across the room, so I couldn’t look down her top. Without my hand at her mouth, she couldn’t suck my finger.

Her eyes still fluttered, and her chest still thrust forward. Unlike when she was frantically fellating my finger, her hips thrust forward with every orgasm.

I wondered what her orgasms would look like if I made her cum with my cock in her ass.

No. _No._ I couldn’t.

For some reason.

“Cum. Cum, cum, cum.”

Her hands started moving up and down her body, caressing her skin. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a white button-up shirt. Neither Chet nor I knew anything about fashion, so we’d simply gone through her wardrobe, removed anything ridiculous (like her tiger onesie, or her old marching band uniform) and told her to pair up any top with any bottom.

So far, there had been no issues, but I always made sure to check what she was wearing before she left the house each day.

“Cum. Cum. Cum.”

To my horror, Betty began unbuttoning her shirt. I stopped telling her to cum, of course, but it didn’t slow her down.

“Betty,” I hissed. “Stop.”

She obeyed, but not before undoing the last button. With a shrug, her shirt fell to the side, and her tits came into view.

Like I said, I’d seen them before. When Chet was fucking her—I’d seen her tits bounce. It was an image that I wish I’d been able to get out of my head, but I couldn’t.

They were too perfect.

Now, sitting in front of me, I could see her tits again. And fuck…they were really something. Like, I know I shouldn’t even be thinking about my sister’s tits, but this—you have to admit—was an exceptional circumstance.

“Betty,” I croaked, my eyes locked on her tits. They were so round, so big. Her nipples were pink, and turned to face the ceiling. I had an overwhelming urge to suck on them.

I could. That’s the fucked up part of it. I _could_ suck on them, and no one would ever know. Not my parents, not Chet, not Betty.

There was no Betty left to know.

She turned to me, and—for the first time since the accident—I felt like she _saw_ me. Like my sister—my _sister_ , not the flesh-golem that I’d been taking care of for the past few weeks—looked at me, and saw me. Saw _me_. Her brother.

“Betty?”

“Mmm…” she moaned, leaning forward and pressing her lips against mine.

* * *

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