Lucia's Story (the Vasquez Sisters Part 2)
by Vax
Copyright© 2025 by Vax
Erotica Story: Lucia has noticed a dramatic change with her sister since she started dating Mark. What is going on, and is her sister being taken advantage of?
Caution: This Erotica Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Mind Control Heterosexual DomSub MaleDom White Male Hispanic Female .
Two months. That’s how long it had been since Elena started dating Mark, and in that time, something had shifted in her sister—something Lucia couldn’t quite name but felt in her bones every time they spoke. Elena at work was still Elena: sharp, strategic, capable of reducing a junior account manager to tears with a single raised eyebrow. But Elena outside of work had become someone else entirely.
It had started small. Little things Lucia noticed during their Sunday dinners, their almost daily phone calls. The edge in Elena’s voice had softened. Topics that used to spark passionate debates—politics, the state of the industry, their mother’s memory—now seemed to bore her. She’d listen, nod, and change the subject with a placid smile that made Lucia’s skin crawl.
And then there was Mark.
Every mention of him transformed Elena’s face into something Lucia barely recognized. Her sister—the woman who had once told Lucia that men were “useful distractions at best and career liabilities at worst”—now spoke of this unremarkable office worker as if he’d hung the moon and stars. “He’s just so wonderful, Lu,” Elena would say, her voice taking on a dreamy quality that had never existed before. “I’ve never felt so ... understood.”
Lucia had met Mark twice. He seemed fine. Nice enough, certainly. Forgettable, honestly—the kind of man who blended into crowds at networking events, who you’d struggle to describe to a friend afterward. Pleasant smile, wire-rimmed glasses, standard business casual. Nothing about him suggested the kind of man who could inspire such devotion in someone as discriminating as Elena.
Which was precisely the problem.
By the third week, Lucia had started running scenarios. Maybe Elena was having some kind of midlife crisis at twenty-nine. Maybe the stress of her job had finally cracked something loose. By the sixth week, darker thoughts crept in. Drugs, perhaps. Or worse—maybe Mark was running some kind of long con on her successful sister, and this personality shift was the result of manipulation she couldn’t see.
Today was the day Lucia had decided to stop wondering and start asking.
She hadn’t called ahead. That was deliberate. If something was wrong, she wanted to see it unfiltered, unrehearsed. The building Elena lived in was familiar territory—a sleek high-rise in the financial district that Lucia had visited dozens of times. She took the elevator to the twenty-third floor, walked the carpeted hallway she knew by heart, and knocked on her sister’s door.
Footsteps approached from inside. The lock clicked.
The door swung open, and Lucia’s brain stuttered to a halt.
Elena stood in the doorway wearing what could generously be called lingerie and would more accurately be described as a few scraps of black lace clinging to strategic locations. A sheer babydoll top that hid nothing. Matching panties that rode high on her hips. Her feet were bare, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, and her expression—that was perhaps the strangest part—was utterly relaxed.
She blinked once, registering her sister’s presence. Then she smiled, warm and welcoming, as if she wasn’t standing in her doorway essentially naked.
“Lu! What a surprise.” Elena stepped back, gesturing into the apartment. “Come in, come in.”
Lucia didn’t move. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again.
“Elena, what the hell are you wearing?”
Her sister glanced down at herself, as if she’d genuinely forgotten her state of undress. “Oh, this?” She laughed—a light, airy sound that didn’t belong to the Elena Lucia knew. “I was just lounging around. Come inside, it’s cold in the hallway.”
Against her better judgment, Lucia stepped into the apartment.
The space looked the same as always—immaculate and expensively decorated, with clean lines and neutral tones that spoke of Elena’s controlled, precise taste. The afternoon light filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in warm gold. It should have felt familiar, comfortable. Instead, Lucia felt like she’d stepped into a stranger’s home.
Or perhaps it was just that the stranger was her sister, padding barefoot across the hardwood floor in lingerie that left nothing to the imagination, apparently unconcerned about the chill in the air or the impropriety of receiving family in underwear.
Elena gestured toward the living room. “Sit, sit. Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Wine?”
“It’s two in the afternoon.”
“Wine, then.” Elena was already moving toward the kitchen, all graceful limbs and exposed skin. “I have that Pinot Grigio you like.”
Lucia sank onto the leather sofa, her mind racing. She’d prepared talking points on the drive over. She’d rehearsed gentle questions about Elena’s wellbeing, about whether Mark was pressuring her somehow. She had not prepared for whatever the hell this was.
Her sister returned moments later with two glasses of white wine, settling onto the opposite end of the couch with her legs curled beneath her. She looked completely at ease, serene in a way that Lucia had never seen her. Even the way she held her wine glass seemed different—looser, more languid.
“So,” Elena said pleasantly, “to what do I owe the surprise visit?”
Lucia’s carefully planned conversation had been derailed before it even started. She found herself blurting out the first thing that came to mind.
“Since when do you lounge around in lingerie?”
Elena’s smile turned slightly coy. “Since I realized I’d spent twenty-nine years wound up tighter than a spring. Do you know I used to wear a full outfit just to watch television alone? Slacks and a blouse. In my own home.”
“I remember.” Lucia had always found it amusing, actually—her sister’s inability to relax even in complete privacy. “But this is a pretty dramatic shift in the other direction.”
“Is it?” Elena took a sip of wine. “I don’t know. I’ve just ... come to realize that there’s a time and place for professionalism. When I’m at work, when I’m closing deals, when I need people to take me seriously—yes, absolutely, I dress the part. But here? In my own space?” She gestured around the apartment with her wine glass. “Why shouldn’t I be comfortable? Why shouldn’t I feel ... free?”
There was that word again. Free. Elena had used it in their phone call last week too, describing how being with Mark made her feel “free in a way she’d never experienced before.”
Lucia shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “Okay, but ... I mean, I could’ve been anyone at the door. What if it had been your building super? Or a neighbor?”
Elena shrugged, the motion doing interesting things to the sheer fabric barely covering her chest. “Then I would have been slightly embarrassed, and they would have gotten an eyeful. Life goes on.” She smiled, something mischievous creeping into her expression. “Besides, Mark appreciates when I wear things like this. He can be quite ... amorous ... when he comes home and finds me dressed this way.”
Lucia nearly choked on her wine.
“I’m sorry—Mark can be what now?”
“Amorous.” Elena’s eyes had taken on a soft, faraway quality. “Commanding, even. There’s something about seeing me like this that just...” She made a vague, expressive gesture with her free hand. “He takes charge. It’s quite thrilling, actually.”
The Elena Lucia knew—the Elena she’d grown up with, shared a bedroom with in their cramped childhood apartment, supported through their mother’s death—that Elena had never in her life described a man as “commanding” with anything but contempt. That Elena had once delivered a fifteen-minute lecture at Thanksgiving dinner about the infantilization of women in heterosexual relationships when Lucia had mentioned a boyfriend who liked to order for her at restaurants.
“Since when,” Lucia said slowly, “do you like a ‘commanding’ man?”
Elena seemed to genuinely consider the question, her head tilting slightly. “I think I always did, somewhere deep down. I just never let myself admit it. I was so focused on control—controlling myself, controlling my environment, controlling how people perceived me. But with Mark...” She paused, and her smile grew. “With Mark, I’ve learned how wonderful it can feel to let someone else make the decisions. Someone I trust, obviously. Someone who has my best interests at heart.”
“Someone you’ve known for two months.”
“Time is relative, Lu. Quality of connection matters more than quantity of days.”
That sounded rehearsed. It sounded like something Mark had said to her, some line he’d fed her that she’d swallowed whole. Lucia felt her protective instincts flaring, the same instincts that had always made her simultaneously admiring and jealous of her perfect older sister.
“I’m just worried about you,” Lucia said carefully. “This is a lot of change really fast. You seem ... different.”
“Different better, I hope?”
“Different period. I mean, El, you’re sitting here in your underwear telling me how much you like it when your boyfriend is ‘commanding.’ That’s not nothing.”
Elena laughed again, that strange, airy laugh. “You make it sound so sinister. It’s just intimacy, Lu. It’s healthy.” Her eyes went dreamy, unfocused. “Actually, just the other day—god, it must have been Thursday—Mark came home and I was wearing this gorgeous set I’d just bought. Vintage-style, you know? A lacy garter belt, these little silk panties, and this absolutely stunning corset. French, I think. The boning was—”
“Elena—”
“—just right, not too stiff, but enough structure to really lift everything. Anyway, he walked in and saw me bent over the kitchen island looking at my phone, and he just ... stopped. I could feel him looking at me, you know? That weight of someone’s eyes on your body. And when I turned around, the expression on his face...”
“I really don’t need to—”
“He didn’t even say hello. He just crossed the room in about three steps and grabbed me by the hips. Spun me back around, pressed me down against the counter. His hands were everywhere, Lu, and his mouth—”
“Oh my god, Elena, please—”
“—was on my neck, and he was telling me all these things about how I was made for him, how my body was his to enjoy—”
“STOP.” Lucia held up both hands, her face burning so hot she was sure it could be seen from space. “Please. I am begging you. Stop.”
Elena paused, looking mildly surprised by the interruption. “What?”
Lucia stared at her sister. Her face felt like it was on fire. She was not a prude—she’d had her share of experiences, more than her share honestly, and she wasn’t shy about discussing sex with friends or the occasional inappropriate detail at brunch. But this was her sister. Her older sister. The one who used to cover Lucia’s eyes during kissing scenes in movies, who had once described sex as “an efficient stress relief mechanism,” who had expressed physical affection with the enthusiasm of someone filing quarterly taxes.
And now she was sitting there in her lingerie, eyes glazed with pleasure at the memory, casually describing how her boyfriend of two months had bent her over a kitchen counter and told her she was “made for him.”
“Since when do you talk like this?” Lucia’s voice came out slightly strangled. “You never—I mean, you’ve always been so—”
“Repressed?” Elena offered helpfully.
“I was going to say private.”
“Same thing.” Elena waved her hand dismissively. “I spent years being ashamed of my desires, Lu. Mark helped me see that. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying physical pleasure, with wanting to be wanted, with—”
“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it! I’m saying this is a complete one-eighty from how you’ve been your entire adult life, and it’s happening because of a guy you’ve known for two months, and you’re sitting here telling me graphic details about your sex life without even blinking!”
Elena considered this. “I suppose I can see how that might seem alarming from the outside.”
“You think?”
“But from the inside, Lu, I promise you—I’ve never been happier. I’ve never felt more myself.” She reached out, placing her hand over Lucia’s. Her touch was warm, her expression gentle. “I know you’re worried. You’ve always looked out for me, even when I insisted I didn’t need it. But Mark isn’t doing anything harmful. He’s just ... helping me see things differently. Helping me let go of all that tension I was carrying around.”
Lucia looked at her sister—really looked at her. The serene expression, the relaxed posture, the complete lack of shame about her state of undress or her explicit confessions. Elena did look happy. She looked calmer than Lucia had ever seen her, free of the rigid tension that had defined her for as long as Lucia could remember.
But she also looked wrong.
Something about the dreamy quality in her eyes, the practiced nature of her explanations, the casual way she spoke of surrendering control to a man she barely knew—it all set off alarm bells that Lucia couldn’t ignore. This was not Elena letting go of unhealthy perfectionism. This was something else. Something deeper. Something that made Lucia’s skin crawl even as she couldn’t put a name to it.
“I should go,” Lucia said, standing abruptly. She nearly knocked over her wine glass in her haste.
Elena looked up at her, blinking in surprise. “Already? You just got here.”
“I have a thing. A work thing. I forgot.” The lie was transparent, but Lucia couldn’t bring herself to care. She needed to get out of this apartment, away from the sister who was and wasn’t her sister anymore.
Elena rose gracefully, seemingly unbothered by her near-nudity as she walked Lucia to the door. “Well, it was lovely to see you, even if it was brief. We should do dinner soon. Maybe you could meet Mark properly this time? I’d love for you two to get to know each other.”
“Sure,” Lucia said, not meaning it. “Dinner. Absolutely.”
At the door, Elena pulled her into a hug. The embrace was warm, affectionate, entirely normal—except for the acres of bare skin pressed against Lucia’s clothed body, the lingering scent of expensive perfume, and the complete absence of the stiff awkwardness that had always characterized Elena’s physical affection.
“I love you, Lu,” Elena murmured against her hair. “Don’t worry so much. Everything is exactly as it should be.”
Lucia pulled away, forced a smile, and fled.
In the elevator, she leaned against the wall and tried to catch her breath. Her hands were shaking. She felt like she’d just witnessed something terrible—a slow-motion car crash, a house fire, a drowning. Something she should have been able to stop but didn’t know how.
Her sister was gone. Someone else was wearing her face, using her voice, living in her apartment.
And somehow, impossibly, Mark had done this. Lucia didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. That forgettable man with the wire-rimmed glasses had reached inside her sister’s head and rearranged everything he found there.
She had to find out what was really going on.
But first, she needed a drink. A strong one. And probably another shower, to wash off the feeling of wrongness that clung to her skin.
The investigation started three days after Lucia fled Elena’s apartment. She told herself it wasn’t stalking, not really—just concerned sisterly vigilance conducted from her parked car at a discrete distance from Elena’s building entrance.
The first few nights yielded nothing. Elena’s lights would go on around seven, visible from the street despite the height of her floor, and they’d stay on until ten or eleven before winking out. Normal patterns. Normal behavior. Lucia began to wonder if she’d overreacted, if she’d let her protective instincts run wild based on nothing more than some lingerie and oversharing.
Then Mark arrived.
She spotted his car on Thursday evening—a sensible gray sedan that matched his sensible gray personality. He parked in the visitor lot, grabbed a small overnight bag from the backseat, and walked into the building like he owned it. Like he belonged there.
Lucia watched the windows. Elena’s lights stayed on late that night, past midnight, and when Lucia drove by the next morning on her way to work, his car was still in the lot.
He’d stayed the night.
A pattern emerged over the following weeks. Mark visited once, sometimes twice a week. He never seemed to stay for just an evening—it was always overnight, his gray sedan occupying the same visitor spot until morning. Elena mentioned nothing about this during their Sunday dinners, which had grown increasingly stilted as Lucia struggled to reconcile the composed woman across the table with whatever she’d witnessed in that apartment.
It was on the third week of surveillance that everything changed.
Mark arrived on a Wednesday evening, same as usual. But this time, he wasn’t alone. A woman stepped out of the passenger side of his car—blonde, beautiful, moving with the kind of easy confidence that came from knowing exactly how attractive she was. She wore a simple sundress and carried nothing but a small clutch purse. Mark said something to her that made her laugh, a bright sound that carried across the parking lot, and then his hand found the small of her back, guiding her toward the building entrance.
Toward Elena’s building.
Lucia’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.
She watched them disappear through the lobby doors. Watched the elevator indicator climb to twenty-three. Watched Elena’s windows, where the lights remained on, soft and warm, welcoming the visitors inside.
Neither of them came back down.
By midnight, Lucia had to accept what her mind had been desperately trying to avoid. Her sister—her uptight, controlling, sex-is-an-efficient-stress-relief-mechanism sister—was apparently having a threesome with her boyfriend and some blonde woman in her expensive high-rise apartment.
The drive home that night was a blur of conflicting emotions.
On one hand, good for Elena, right? Sexual exploration was healthy. Lucia had always said so, had always been the one pushing back against shame and judgment, the one encouraging friends to try new things, to embrace their desires. She’d been the progressive one. The experienced one.
That was the thing, wasn’t it?
Lucia had been with women before. A few exploratory encounters in college, a brief but intense fling with a coworker two years ago. She’d had threesomes—though with two men, never two women—and experimented with various techniques and combinations that would’ve made her buttoned-up sister clutch her pearls. She was a veteran of the bedroom, and that had always been something she had over Elena. The one arena where the younger Vasquez sister came out ahead.
Now that gap was shrinking at a breakneck pace.
Elena wasn’t just catching up; she was potentially surpassing Lucia entirely. Three months ago, the idea of Elena participating in a threesome would’ve been laughable. Now she was apparently doing it with casual ease, and not just with two men—which somehow felt less threatening—but with another woman involved. It was progressive. It was adventurous.
It was supposed to be Lucia’s territory.
She hated herself for the jealousy. It was petty and small and entirely beside the point, which was that something was fundamentally wrong with her sister, that this transformation was too fast, too complete, too convenient. But the jealousy was there regardless, coiling in her gut alongside the genuine fear.
The next time Mark stayed over, Lucia was waiting.
She parked down the block from Elena’s building before dawn, coffee growing cold in her cupholder, and watched his gray sedan like a hawk. At nine-fifteen, he emerged from the lobby, overnight bag in hand, looking insufferably pleased with himself. He climbed into his car, pulled out of the lot, and merged into morning traffic.
Lucia followed.
The drive took nearly forty minutes, leading away from the city’s gleaming downtown into the sprawling suburbs beyond. The houses grew larger, the lawns more manicured, the trees more abundant. Mark’s sedan turned onto a quiet residential street lined with impressive properties set back from the road, and pulled into the driveway of a two-story colonial that had no business belonging to a mid-level office worker.
The house was beautiful. Large. Far larger than a single man would need.
Lucia parked on the street, engine idling, and watched Mark gather his things. He walked up the flagstone path with the easy stride of someone arriving home, produced a key from his pocket, and let himself inside.
The door closed behind him.
For several minutes, Lucia sat in her car and debated.
This was insane. She didn’t know this man, not really. Showing up at his house unannounced to demand answers about his relationship with her sister was inappropriate at best and potentially dangerous at worst. He could be anyone. He could be involved in anything. She had no idea what she was walking into.
But Elena’s face floated in her memory—that serene, dreamy expression, the casual way she’d described being bent over a kitchen counter, the complete absence of the sister Lucia had known her entire life.
Fear won out over caution.
Lucia parked in the street, killed the engine, and forced herself out of the car before she could change her mind. Her heels clicked against the flagstone as she marched up the driveway with a confidence she didn’t feel. Her hand was steady when she raised it to knock, even though her heart was hammering against her ribs.
Three sharp raps.
Footsteps approached from inside, unhurried and light. The lock clicked. The door swung open.
The woman standing in the doorway was beautiful—blonde hair cascading past her shoulders, features that belonged in a magazine, body that belonged in a lingerie catalog. Which was appropriate, given that she was wearing lingerie. Lacy underwear, to be precise. Nothing else. She stood in the doorway of this suburban home in the full light of morning wearing scraps of pale pink lace and absolutely nothing else, looking at Lucia with polite expectation.
Just like Elena.
Lucia’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her brain had stalled entirely, caught in a loop of recognition—this was the woman from the parking lot, the one who’d gone upstairs with Mark, the one who’d spent the night in her sister’s apartment—and incomprehension—why was she here, in Mark’s house, also dressed in underwear, answering his door like she lived here—
“Oh,” the woman said pleasantly. “You must be Lucia.”
The blood drained from Lucia’s face.
“How do you know my name?”
The woman’s smile was warm, genuine, and somehow that made it worse. “Elena talks about you all the time. Please, come in.” She stepped back from the doorway, gesturing inside with the grace of a hostess at a formal event, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was conducting this invitation in her underwear. “Mark will be so pleased to meet you properly.”
Lucia didn’t move. Her mind was racing, trying to assemble the pieces into a picture that made sense, and failing. Mark had this woman. Mark had Elena. Both women answered doors in lingerie like it was normal. Both women seemed to know about each other, seemed to be comfortable with the arrangement, seemed to be—
Oh god.
“What exactly is going on here?” Lucia’s voice came out strangled.
The blonde woman tilted her head, her expression patient and kind. “Why don’t you come inside and find out? I promise, everything will make so much more sense once you talk to Mark.”
Every instinct screamed at Lucia to run. To get in her car and drive away and pretend she’d never followed Mark home, never seen this woman, never learned whatever dark truth was lurking behind this suburban facade.
But Elena was involved in this. Elena was in this, whatever this was, up to her neck.
Lucia stepped over the threshold.
The door closed softly behind her.
The woman extended her hand with practiced grace. “I’m Sarah, by the way. I should have said that at the door. Follow me—Mark is just finishing up in the shower.”
Lucia shook the offered hand automatically, noting the warm firmness of Sarah’s grip, the perfect balance of professional and personal. There was something about her—a calming presence that seemed to radiate outward like heat from a fireplace. Lucia could feel it pressing against her, inviting her to relax, to settle, to trust.
She resisted.
Whatever was happening in this house, in her sister’s apartment, in this strange web of lingerie and overnight stays and women who answered doors half-naked—Lucia would not be soothed into accepting it. She set her jaw and followed Sarah through a spacious foyer, past a grandfather clock and a coat rack that held several jackets in different sizes, into a living room that stopped her in her tracks.
The room was large. Far larger than the entryway had suggested. Vaulted ceilings gave way to exposed beams of dark wood, and the furniture—a sectional sofa in charcoal gray, matching easy chairs, an elegant coffee table of glass and chrome—was arranged to create distinct conversation areas while maintaining an open flow. Everything was immaculate. The throw pillows were perfectly fluffed. The hardwood floors gleamed. Not a speck of dust marred any surface.
But what drew Lucia’s eye was the television. It dominated one wall, massive and flat, easily eighty inches of high-definition screen currently showing a muted nature documentary. The kind of television that belonged in a sports bar or a home theater, not a suburban living room.
“Please, have a seat.” Sarah gestured toward the sofa with that same easy grace. “Mark shouldn’t be more than a few minutes. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?”
“No. Thank you.”
“The remote for the TV is right there on the coffee table if you’d like to watch something while you wait.”
“I’m fine.”
Sarah’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew warmer, more understanding, as if Lucia’s terseness was expected and entirely acceptable. “Of course. I’ll just let Mark know you’re here.”
Lucia lowered herself onto the edge of the sofa cushion, her spine rigid, her feet planted firmly on the floor. She was ready to move. Ready to run if necessary. Ready for whatever was about to happen.
Sarah watched her for a moment—that tolerant, patient smile still in place—and then turned and disappeared down a hallway.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Lucia forced herself to breathe, to look around, to take in details. The room was warm in a way that felt intentional, inviting. Soft lighting from carefully placed lamps. A vase of fresh flowers on a side table. The faint scent of something pleasant—vanilla, maybe, or sandalwood. Everything designed to put a person at ease.
She refused to be put at ease.
Through an archway, she could see into the kitchen, and what she saw there made her breath catch.
It was not a normal kitchen. The counters were stainless steel, gleaming and industrial. The stove was commercial-grade, with six burners and a flat-top griddle. An enormous refrigerator—the kind restaurants used—hummed quietly in one corner. Pots and pans hung from a ceiling-mounted rack in perfect order, organized by size and type. Everything was spotless, clearly well-maintained, and equally clearly designed to serve far more people than a single man living alone.
How many people did Mark feed here?
How many women were involved in ... whatever this was?
The thought sent Lucia’s imagination spiraling. A cult. It had to be a cult. Mark was some kind of leader, gathering women to him through charm and manipulation, housing them in this suburban compound, feeding them from that professional kitchen while they padded around in lingerie and answered doors for visitors. Maybe there were more of them, hidden in other rooms, waiting for instructions. Maybe Elena was already here somewhere, dressed in lace and silk, her brilliant mind reduced to—
Lucia’s hands were shaking.
She gripped her knees and forced herself to stop. She was catastrophizing. She had no evidence of anything beyond some unusual living arrangements and her sister’s personality shift. Jumping to cult conclusions was exactly the kind of impulsive, emotionally-driven thinking Elena had always criticized her for.
But something was wrong. She knew it in her bones.
And even if something did happen to her here, she reasoned, it would be difficult to make her disappear entirely. People knew where she was. Well, no one knew exactly where she was, but she’d told her coworker about following Mark home. Hadn’t she? She’d meant to. She’d planned to send a text, just in case, before she knocked on the door.
Had she actually sent it?
Before Lucia could check her phone, footsteps approached from the hallway. Not Sarah’s light tread, but something heavier, more confident.
Mark Fullerton walked into the living room.
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