A Little Blackmail 3: Life of a Toy by Jacksmith
Summary:

A shrunken brother has been the property of his sister Carly for the past 5 years, but finally discovers what might ultimately save him from the cruel enslavement of his giant sibling.


Categories: Teenager (13-19), Young Adult 20-29, Butt, Entrapment, Feet, Gentle, Growing/Shrinking out of clothes, Humiliation, Incest, Instant Size Change, Mouth Play, Odor, Slave, Unaware, Violent Characters: None
Growth: None
Shrink: Minikin (3 in. to 1 in.)
Size Roles: F/f, F/m
Warnings: Following story may contain inappropriate material for certain audiences
Challenges: None
Series: A Little Blackmail
Chapters: 32 Completed: Yes Word count: 96870 Read: 689345 Published: August 24 2011 Updated: March 31 2012

1. Chapter 1: Five Years Later by Jacksmith

2. Chapter 2: Cookies and Sweat by Jacksmith

3. Chapter 3: Cut Down to Size by Jacksmith

4. Chapter 4: Sports Medicine by Jacksmith

5. Chapter 5: Paint the Town Blue by Jacksmith

6. Chapter 6: Early Morning Jog by Jacksmith

7. Chapter 7: Prisoner of War by Jacksmith

8. Chapter 8: Stone Cold Burn by Jacksmith

9. Chapter 9: Donut Hole by Jacksmith

10. Chapter 10: Dead on Arrival by Jacksmith

11. Chapter 11: Best Christmas Present Ever by Jacksmith

12. Chapter 12: Holiday in Sissy's Sock by Jacksmith

13. Chapter 13: The Great Escape by Jacksmith

14. Chapter 14: Carly 2.0 by Jacksmith

15. Chapter 15: A New Pair of Hands by Jacksmith

16. Chapter 16: The Revenge Fantasy by Jacksmith

17. Chapter 17: Rescued At Last? by Jacksmith

18. Chapter 18: When Giant Cousins Attack by Jacksmith

19. Chapter 19: Your New Home by Jacksmith

20. Chapter 20: Feeding Time by Jacksmith

21. Chapter 21: Back in Sissy's Clutches by Jacksmith

22. Chapter 22: Return to the White Room by Jacksmith

23. Chapter 23: A Little More Blackmail by Jacksmith

24. Chapter 24: The Fall of Carly by Jacksmith

25. Chapter 25: Jenny by Jacksmith

26. Chapter 26: No Ifs, Ands, or Butts by Jacksmith

27. Chapter 27: Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Freezer by Jacksmith

28. Chapter 28: We All Scream for Ice Cream by Jacksmith

29. Chapter 29: Her Toy Forever by Jacksmith

30. Chapter 30: A New Life Begins by Jacksmith

31. Chapter 31: Carly's Last Game by Jacksmith

32. Epilogue: Six Months Later by Jacksmith

Chapter 1: Five Years Later by Jacksmith
Author's Notes:

Welcome to part three!  If you’re reading this after having read the first two parts, again, thanks.  If you haven’t, you should be able to follow what's happening pretty easily, but I encourage you to check those out.  You can find both on my account page.

Interested in commissioning me for a custom story? I can write your ultimate macro fantasy, from a wide range of genres and lengths. Read details here: https://www.deviantart.com/thejacksmith/journal/Story-Commissions-Are-Open-Again-698491757

I also have a side-shop for miscellaneous pre-written & discounted goodies, such as flash fiction, unfinished tales, and deleted scenes from series like A Little Blackmail and Time-Out. Check it out here: https://www.deviantart.com/thejacksmith/journal/New-Special-Stories-Shop-802615692

My Patreon for early-access stories and exclusive tales is now online! Hope you'll give it a look: https://www.patreon.com/JacksmithShrinkStories

You open your eyes to the pitch black of your muggy abode, the only sound coming from your own slow breathing as you wake up.  Without even sitting up or blinking, you run your hands along your body, gripping your fingers around your purplish, bruised side.  This last weekend hasn’t been entirely bad, and you almost made it through without a major injury.  Weekends are always worst.  That’s when Carly isn’t in class all day, and instead has most of her time free.  And she happens to enjoy spending a lot of that free time with you.  Luckily for you, though, it’s a Monday, meaning you have time to recuperate.  Until she gets back from classes, that is.

You’re reasonably certain, though, that the rib isn’t broken.  Most likely, it would be a lot more painful if that was the case.  But then again, you realize you’ve built up one of the highest pain tolerances of probably anyone your age.  You imagine you could step onto a battlefield with a gun, get your legs blown off, and just grimace.  Likely an exaggeration, you note humorously to yourself.  Not only would the agony be a lot worse, but if your rib actually was broken, there’s a high likelihood you wouldn’t even be able to stand up, let alone not have any of your vital organs punctured.  It’s a God-spanked miracle that nothing like that has ever happened to you in the last five years since you shrank down to just under three inches tall and essentially became The Incredible Human Hamster.  Or at least, that’s pretty much what you are to your sister.  With one minor difference: hamsters tend to have access to much more fresh air and sunlight when sitting in their cage.  You, on the other hand, while still quite human (you think?) are currently laying inside your sister’s sock drawer in an old, ratty dresser in her college dorm room, with the smallest slit of light coming in at the top where your sister leaves the drawer cracked open enough so that you don’t suffocate, your body tucked halfway into a woolen tube sock for use as a sleeping bag.  It’s the same one you always use, because it’s the softest and thickest to help protect against the cold.  Your sister is aware of this, and as she never likes wearing such thick socks, she’s kept it for your own benefit to sleep in in the drawer.  It’s not much, but it’s at least a gesture: some glimmer of what some might consider “kindness.”  And you don’t tend to see much of that particular word in your skyscraper-sized sibling.

As you continue rubbing at your throbbing and battered rib, you absent-mindedly reflect on the last five years of your total imprisonment by Carly, your 19-year-old “little” sister.  It all truly had been kick-started just a week before the terrible, fateful day.  Your sister, just 14 at the time, had befriended a rebellious guy her age that she had been forbidden to see again by your parents.  She did it anyway while they weren’t home, though, and you took the liberty of snapping a photo to use as leverage over your sister, forcing her to do all your work and chores for a full week just to avoid you squealing on her.  And she did it, albeit begrudgingly.

It truly was one of the most satisfying weeks of your life.  You and your sister have always had a very rough relationship; however, Carly’s pretty face and sweet words are all she really ever needs to get her way or convince anyone of anything that comes out of that mouth of hers, and she tended to use this to lord over you.  Despite being just under three years younger than you, Carly has always been, to an extent, the dominant one in your decidedly antagonistic relationship.  She’s crafty and conniving enough to get you to do just about anything.  Your parents, two of the strictest people on the planet, can’t stand cursing or acting out of any kind, and you utilized both.  Knowing full well how much trouble you’d get in (both you and your sister), she always found ways to use this to her advantage.  Tossing food all over you.  Getting you to do her homework for her.  Forcing you to smell her feet just to humiliate you.  Tying you down while asleep and getting her friend to stick her butt all over your face.  These were just the tip of the iceberg, and it all pointed to the simple truth that you were firmly wrapped around your sister’s finger (unfortunately, now you are quite literally wrapped around her finger on many occasions). 

Finally with a piece of blackmail of your own to use at the time in the form of the photo, you got your sister to do a grueling amount of work for you in the yard, until something you still can’t quite explain to this day happened.  You were splashed by chemicals in a school lab one day.  You were struck by a bolt of lightning in a thunderstorm while you were idiotically sticking a long, metal object into the air.  And then you shrank down to the size of a small mouse.  Seeking sanctuary in your house, your enormous sister managed to find you.  At first seeming like she was going to help you, the bratty and controlling young girl realized just how unique an opportunity this was.  And with you ranting like a madman at her hesitance to call for help, not only did she refuse to find you any aid, she forced you into the most painful, humiliating, and terrifying nightmare of your now-pitiful existence.  Torturing you, verbally abusing you, taunting your inability to get her back in any meaningful way, the spiteful Carly had at first offered the chance to get help if you simply followed her directions and tried to learn a few life “lessons” about treating people (namely herself and her friends) with a bit more respect.  And at the end of it all, when you had given your devotion to your sister in so many sickening ways you don’t care or dare to count them, she laughed in your hopeful face, telling you that not only would you not be receiving help of any kind, she planned to keep you like a pet.  And she has.  For the past five years.

Five.  Years.

But it’s different now.  In the first few days of your shrunken life, when the chance of help and escape still loomed, you had actually found the strength to fight back against most of your sister’s insane demands.  Not that you ever were able to affect the decisions, because your sister did whatever the hell she felt like doing with you no matter your response, but you had fought, both physically and (perhaps more importantly) mentally.  That was what mattered.  Your will had been strong enough in the face of this gigantic, evil goddess of a sibling that you had refused to break.  That is, until she told you of her plan to keep you like a caged guinea pig for the rest of your life.  That was the final breaking point: the straw that broke the camel’s back.  From then on, you became a rather docile creature.  You no longer tried to fight anything your sister did to you.  You acted obediently, without a clear thought of rebellion against her.  And over these five years, you’ve watched a steady change take place.  Your sister was a cruel and veritable witch during your early days, her desire to dominate a human being so all-consuming that she did just about anything that popped into her mind to you without a second thought.  And you have a feeling that much of your own pathetic resistance fueled the fire, showing her just how in control she was.  She made you her personal bitch, and there wasn’t a thing you could do about it.

Now, though, five years later, your sister halfway through her freshmen year of college, you have to admit to yourself: your life is technically better than it was around four years ago.  As your will had been utterly broken in just a matter of days as your sister’s little naked pet, you’d guess she didn’t find it as fun subjugating you.  Not by any stretch of the imagination that she doesn’t do this anymore, or still enjoy it immensely; you’re still a little human toy to Carly, and she has never shown any signs of wanting to grow you back to size, nor any sign that’s she’s become bored of you.  The difference now is the relative complacency your relationship has achieved.  You don’t resist anything, and Carly repays you in certain ways, such as by beating you up a little less, or not threatening to kill you every other day. 

Pleasant little rewards such as those. 

Having been in this position for five years, you’ve learned how Carly’s game works.  Go along with everything, and your life doesn’t have to be a never-ending train wreck of pain.  Not that you don’t have pain, you note grimly, as you wince again upon another touch of your ribs.  But at the very least, it’s not constant.  Plus, there’s the added bonus that she hasn’t killed you yet.  You figure you shouldn’t discount the continuation of life as a good thing.

                Your moment is broken up by the loud clapping sound of flesh against wood.  You look to your side to see four long, gigantic fingers squeezing against the drawer lid and pulling out.  Your entire tube sock-filled world shifts around and the blinding lights of the dorm room fill your eyes as you stare upward into the massive face of Carly as she beams down at you.

                Her smooth and silky dirty blond hair is tied up in a ponytail behind her head.  Her deep blue eyes gleam as they stare hungrily down at you, her perfectly straight white teeth glistening with a similar sheen.  Her tanned skin is a particularly potent shade of peachy, light golden brown today; you’d bet she’s spent some time in the sun this afternoon.  As you look up at her, her tight purple shirt billowing subtly in the breeze of the AC like a flag to you, you see her shoulder shifting as her hand rises up, her long fingers curling expectantly as it nears you.  Her hands are particular oddities, being impressively large for a girl.  Carly’s fingers aren’t even spindly or bony; her hands themselves are average in form, but they’re simply massive.  This has always been good for Carly, as she’s one of the top players on the college’s freshmen girl’s basketball team partially because she can palm a basketball easily in those gargantuan things, coupled with the fact that she’s just shy of six feet tall.  It also happens to be good for use in her controlling of you, because no matter what you’re doing, it simply takes a quick wrap around from those soft, smooth, muscular fingers of hers, squeezing you against her spacious and fleshy palm to completely immobilize you.

                And that’s exactly what she does.  You watch, unmoving, serene, and uncaring as your little sister curls your nude body up inside her warm fist and plucks you easily and weightlessly from the tube sock bag.  Wind hits your face as you are whipped up into the air and planted at a close range in front of Carly’s face, her hot breath steaming against your eyes, your dick clenched lightly in the crevice between her fingers.

                “Hey there, little bro,” she says in a melodic, whispered voice.  “Did you miss me?”

                “Yes.”

                “Really?  That’s so sweet of you.  How much?”

                “A lot.”

                “A LOT a lot, or just a lot?” she teases.

                “A lot, a lot,” you state simply.  These are the accepted responses, and half a decade of experience has taught you that strictly sticking to them is always the best option.

                “Well, I’m glad,” she says, giving you a slight extra squeeze of what is probably meant to indicate some level of affection.  Her lips curl up into a larger smile, and she chuckles at you, sending out an extra puff of warm exhaled breath.  It smells fruity, like partially digested strawberries.  Not too good, but it easily beats the way Carly’s rancid breath smells when she first wakes up (and you’ve become well acquainted enough with this particular scent to count your blessings when another is present).  “Because I missed you too.  Today was such a looooong day, oh my God…” she mumbles, walking towards her bed and plopping down onto it in a cross-legged position, still gripping you firmly.  “Professor Talbot… I don’t know what I’m going to do about his class.  He just goes ON, and ON, and ON… I was practically falling asleep.  And I almost did, too.  But know why I didn’t?”

                “Why?”

                “You, little bro,” she says, wrinkling her nose cutely.

                “Me?”

                “That’s right, you.  I was sitting there, about to conk out on my desk, and then I just started thinking about you.  I just couldn’t WAIT to come back and see you.  You know you’re my favorite part of today, right, Jack?”

                “I am?” you squeak in a low voice, just going with the flow.

                “Well, it’s not like you had much competition from Talbot, but yeah.”

                “Umm…” you mumble.  “Uh… okay?”

                “Oh God, it’s so cute when you say things like.  Do it again.”

                “What do I say?”

                “Oh, I don’t know…” she croons gently, shifting her grip around you absentmindedly and letting some air rush over your back before she smushes you back into her warm hand flesh.  “Say: “You’re a really pretty girl, Carly.”  That’s what I want you to say.”

                “Okay.  You’re a really pretty girl, Carly,” you say, not using much inflection but saying it in the same voice so as to just get this over with.

                “GOD, it just gets me every time when you say that…” she giggles girlishly, rippling her fingers around you.  “That’s what I need in class when I’m falling asleep.  Just you to say cute little things to me like that in my ear, and I’d make it through.  If only you were a little smaller, bro…” she says, squinting at you in thought.

                “Huh?”

“Oh, don’t freak out, I don’t really mean it, but it could be fun… I mean, if you were only like an inch tall.  I could put you in like an ear bud, you know?  And then you could just say that to me all… day… long…” she drawls dreamily, evidently very pleased with this particular idea.  “Over and over… and over… and over again.  Maybe you could sing a couple songs, too.”

                “I…”

                “Relax.  I know your singing sucks,” she says slyly.  “But it’s okay.  You don’t have to sing for me.  I don’t want to have some weird little pop singer in my ear.  I just want you.  My little brother.  My sweet, sweet little brother.”

                “Uh-huh.”

                “And you like it too, don’t you?”

                “What?”

                “Don’t be so cute like that, Jack.  You like it too.  You know it.  I mean… c’mon, your life is like a luxury hotel or something!” 

You would firmly beg to differ.  But you of course don’t do it verbally.

“Food, water, a soft bed…” she says, eying the dresser drawer.  “Your big sissy to take care of your EVERY need.  And all you have to do is be cute for her.  I don’t think that’s too terrible, do you?”

                “No.”

                “Cool,” she grins, bringing her other hand up to you.  She extends her pointer finger and begins stroking it over your hair.  “Your hair feels really soft today.  I like it when it feels like that.”

                “Yeah.”

                “It’s really messy, though.  Maybe you need a bath again.  What do you think?”

                “Um…”

                “Oh, you know what?  I don’t think I have time.  I’ve gotta meet Nikki in a little bit.  We’ve got a huge project to work on for dumb old Professor Talbot’s class.  Ugh,” she groans irritably.  She sighs at you.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to get your hopes up or anything about that bath.”

                Yeah, you think sarcastically.  You were REALLY looking forward to that.  Would have been a lot of fun.  Just like normally. 

Good grief.

                “Believe ME, I would MUCH rather spend my time with you, cutie,” she says sweetly.  You watch as her fingertip finds its way to her lips.  She pokes it just inside, then removes it with a soft pop, the very tip glistening with a miniature glob of her saliva.  “I’m sorry.  This is going to have to do for now…” she says, gently pressing down on your hair.  A warm dribble of the spit forms on your hair, and she begins rubbing vigorously at it, working it in like shampoo and matting your hair with the sticky droplet.

“There, that’s much better for now,” she opines.  “Go on, keep going.  Work it in a little better, like it’s conditioner or something.”

You shrug, forcing your fingers into the gooey mess your hair has become and mussing it around in the warm goop.  She ceases the gentle stroking of your hair and squeezes you again.  This time, her finger flesh presses into your bruised rib and you can’t help but flinch.  “What’s wrong?  Did I do something?”

                “It’s nothing, it’s just my side,” you answer simply.  She opens her hand to examine you, allowing you to flop limply into a spread-eagled position in her cupped palm while she pressed her fingertip against your bruise.  You wince again.

                “Oh, I’m sorry about that, little bro,” she says, but you know perfectly well she’s not really at all.  “I guess our games get a little rough sometimes, huh?  Well, look at it on the bright side: you’ve got your own teensy little battle wound now, bro.  To show off to all those little girlfriends you have,” she jokes, knowing full well you’ve had no meaningful human contact in quite a while.

                 “I’m off.  If we don’t get to work on this thing soon, I’m gonna fail this course.  And if I have to sit through another semester with this dude droning at me like the guy from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, I’m going to lose it,” she says, as her hand descends back into the dresser drawer.  Her soft fingers release their grip on you and you roll back onto the sock.  “Just sit tight.  We’re gonna stop for some food, so I’ll grab you some for later.  I’ll be back before you know it, and then maybe we’ll have some fun,” she says, winking again.  “Bye-bye, little bro.”  The drawer pushes inward, leaving you in almost pitch blackness save for the little line of light left by the opening so you can breathe.  You shrug, not really giving a damn about what she might mean by fun.  Frankly, you’re just pleased to have another moment alone with your thoughts.  You slide your legs back inside the tube sock, scratching at your hair, which is now itchy with Carly’s drying saliva, and settle in for a quick nap, although you’ve got a bad feeling that no amount of sleep could prepare you for whatever it is that’s in store for you.

End Notes:

Please comment!

Chapter 2: Cookies and Sweat by Jacksmith

                You hug the thick folds of Carly’s woolen tube sock to yourself, shielding yourself from a sudden gust of cool breeze that seeps in through the crack in the drawer.  Letting it drape again over your body, you clasp a hand against your stomach, just feeling it rise and fall.  You were always a big weight lifter before Carly flipped your world upside down.  Well enough for you, though, with the constant barrage of games and personal enjoyment Carly uses you for, you’ve actually been able to keep up a reasonable physique just by trying to keep yourself uninjured and alive, as Carly likes to play rough and doesn’t normally account much for the risk involved with you.  Sometimes you roll over and do some pushups on the floor of the drawer when you’re alone.  Additionally, there’s a long, somewhat rusted nail protruding from the side of the drawer near the back just low enough for you to reach up and grab it, allowing you to do some pull-ups as well.  It’s like trying to stay sharp on the frontlines of a battle.  Each time your sister removes you from this drawer, you might very well suffer some painful personal injury.  The better your shape, the better prepared you are for anything.  It’s your barracks.  Besides, there’s not much else for you to do in here, so you figure you might as well use the time to try and delude yourself into thinking a few push-ups or pull-ups could actually save you in a moment of dire need.  But you don’t like to think about the reality of this fact.  It’s better to just tell yourself you’re gonna run out there and kick some Nazi ass, just like they used to tell the WWII soldiers before they shipped them out.  Self-marketed military propaganda.  Probably a first for a situation like this, you figure; then again, most of what you’ve done in the last five years is, technically, probably a first for the human race.

                You lift the sock up and look down in the darkness at your lower body.  Of the many things Carly has put you through before, you have to admit that the ironically platonic relationship the two of you have with your genitals is just about the weirdest and probably most psychologically scarring to you.  So many things have scarred you in the last five years and you’ve been thoroughly numbed to almost all of it except this.  Back when Carly first found you shrunk, she took it upon herself to test out her curiosity of male organs by forcibly jacking you off multiple times just for entertainment because of what some of her apparently sexually active friends had told her about the body of a guy.  Carly had been almost utterly oblivious to the implications of such things, having only the basic idea of how sex worked, so she had no idea of how humiliating it was for you when she’d molested you.  You were being raped, and normally that’s enough to leave a mark on any person, but the fact that it was your kid sister was just another nail in the coffin of your psych.  Now, however, at the age of 19, she’s fully aware of just about anything she could ever need to be aware of, and she uses it to her full advantage on you.  And the part that’s so sad it’s almost funny to you is how thoroughly nonsexual both of you find it.

                Carly has discovered that the best way to make you feel like you’re happy while humiliating you at the same time is abusing your comparatively microscopic dick as often as she sees fit; she derives personal pleasure from it only in the sense that she’s controlling you in every way she has access to.  On the flip side, you are disgusted with yourself each time it happens, and yet can’t help yourself, as (besides the fact that you’re a 22 year old guy who’s had unfulfilled needs for the past 5 years) there’s not a single thing you can do to stop her whenever she feels like doing it, so it always happens in direct contrast to your wishes.  It’s odd for you to think of it, but in truth, your dick is not so much a sexual organ these days as a simple tool for your sister to further remind you how bug-like you are to her.  It’s pretty terrible, and you can’t imagine what you would think of yourself if you had been able to look into your future and see this, but you don’t care anymore.  Besides, any pleasurable, drug-like effect (sickening as it is) beats having your sister pound your ass into the ground and nearly break all your bones.  And that’s happened enough times for you to know the difference.

                You barely even notice it as the drawer is dragged open again, jolting you right out of the sock as your sister’s soft fingers pinch around your sides to lift you out towards her face.  “How are we doing, little guy?  I promised I’d be back soon for you, and here I am.”

                “Hi,” you groan groggily, your eyes adjusting to the light again.

                “Looks like your side is still a little beat up there,” she drawls calmly, bringing her other finger up and flicking you hard in the side as if it was nothing.  You wince in pain, shaking for just a moment before righting yourself.  You clutch your free hand at your rib as your sister continues gripping you calmly on your hips between two of her fingers.  “Yep, definitely still beat up.”

                “Ow…” you grumble as neutrally and quietly as you can.

                “Well, that’s okay.  We can fix that right now…” she says, and before you know it, the very same finger that just flicked you is pressing into your crotch.  This isn’t the gentle touch, but a rough press that pins your dick angled upward against your waist and stomach, the skin of her finger molding around it.  It hurts at first, and you gasp in shock (somehow, you still manage to be surprised every time she decides to do this) as you flail a little to get into a more comfortable position, but this only causes her to press harder with her finger, leaving you completely helpless with your junk dangerously close to being crushed by your sister’s finger.  She smiles. 

“Come one, little bro.  Go ahead.  It’s okay.”  You know pretty well what she’s talking about, but somehow you don’t feel like it when you realize how at risk your family jewels are at the moment.  Your dick refuses to budge.  “Are you kidding me?  What, is it broken or something now?” she coos mockingly at you.  You shake your head no.  “Well, what is it then?”

“I… don’t know…” you mumble.  You never particularly enjoy engaging in idle conversation while she’s doing this to you.

“This has to feel good, little bro.  I know it does.  You’re just lying to me.  And you know what happens when you lie to me.”

“N-No, I’m not… lying…” you say weakly, still feeling wildly uncomfortable as Carly continues holding your dick firmly in place against your body.

“Then why aren’t you getting bigger yet?”

“It’s just…”

“Just be quiet now, Jack.  Relax.  Breathe.  Let your little body feel how nice it is,” she orders gently with just a little more speed in her voice.  You feel her fingers ceasing their pinching around your sides as she lowers you into her palm, allowing you to surrender all need for muscular control to her.  “Breathe.  Just breathe.”

                You lay there, your dick still pinned against you, and feel the pressure increasing.  You squirm a bit in pain, grasping at the thick, soft flesh of her palm for a reprieve you won’t find.  She chuckles at you as the pressure and pain continue building up. 

“Wow.  I’m surprised, normally you’re at least halfway there by now.  Nothing, little bro?”  You shake your head no, grabbing ahold of her pointer finger and trying uselessly to force it off of you.  She shrugs, and you gasp for air as her finger releases you finally.  “I guess you’re just not in the mood right now.  Don’t worry, we’ll try you again later once I’ve got you warmed up,” she says cheerfully, striding over to the bed.  This time, in one motion, she flops onto it in a prone position, her jeaned legs stretching out to the end of the bed where she crosses her pink sock-clad feet.  She clasps her fingers back around you in another fist, immobilizing you again.

                “I was talking about you with Nikki,” she says nonchalantly, her pupils dilating in focus as she stares into your face, her lips pursing into a slight smile.  You freeze for a moment, wondering what the hell that means.  “We were just talking about our brothers.  I was telling her how sad and stuff I am that you’re dead, you know, like pretty much everyone else thinks…” she notes.  “She was really nice about you, but she was talking about her brother and what a jerk he is.  I told her you used to be a jerk, so I didn’t care if she talked about it or not.”

                “Uh-huh.”  You’ve found that whenever she starts rambling like this, it’s best to occasionally make a sound indicating that you’re paying attention to her.

                “Her brother’s in high school now.  She says he does all kinds of pranks to her for no reason.  He’ll just leave bugs in her clothes drawers, or drop food on her when she’s going out for the night.  Sound familiar, little bro?”  You nod obediently.  “Good.  So I told her she ought to get him back.  He deserves it, anyway.”

                “How?” you ask, showing the minimal required interest in the story.

                “I told her what I used to do.  Find his weakness, make sure his parents don’t like it, then just ride him for everything he’s worth.  Make him yours,” she says, squeezing you effectively for emphasis.  “Get him to eat right out of your hand.”  At these words, she reaches into her pocket, rummages for a moment, then comes out with a Chips Ahoy cookie, half crumbled into dust, and holds it out in her hand, mere inches from your face.  The processed goodness is within your grasp, and you’re absolutely starving.  You haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours.  You crane your neck forward (your head is the only thing you can move when she’s holding you like this) and open your mouth, trying hungrily to reach for a piece of the broken cookie in her warm, lotion-scented hand.  However, before you can get close enough, she snaps her hand back, balling the cookie into a fist.

                “Not yet.  First you’re going to thank me.”

                “Thank you, big sissy.”

                “Ohh… it’s always so sweet when you do that, but no, that’s not what I want.”

                “What?”

                Her hand opens back up, allowing you space to move for an instant before her thumb is suddenly jamming back against your dick, resuming the same high level of pressure as before.  You convulse and yelp in surprise, trying to push backward against her finger, but it only presses you deeper against her palm, and you have nowhere to go as the pain continues building.

                “Come on, little bro.  Do it.  Let it happen.  I want to see it.  Let me see it.”  Eventually, instead of just pressing into you, she begins rocking her thumb back and forth against your dick, and that’s all it really takes.  Despite the pain in your crotch region, the endorphins finally get to work as you start growing, your sister’s finger kneading your manhood powerfully.  “Oh THERE it is!  That’s it, now…” she coos as she feels it inflating, letting up the pressure for just a moment before continuing.  “Let it.  Let it.”

                You feel yourself reach the halfway mark pretty quickly, but just as you do, Carly’s finger flies off of you, letting you breathe heavily.  She chuckles.  “Oops, I don’t want to spoil all the fun just yet.  Hang onto that thought…” she says, pointing at your dick and grinning.  “That shouldn’t be too much trouble for you, should it?”

                “No.”

                “Don’t worry, I’ll finish you off later.  I’ll bet it takes half the time you just took to get there.”  You shrug, not caring.  “Sorry about that, little guy.  I know you were kinda looking forward to that ending.  Weren’t you?”  You nod in the affirmative.

                “Say yes, please.”

                “Yes.”

                “Yes what?”

                “Yes, I was looking forward to it.”

                She studies you for a second, nodding and pursing her lips harder.  “That’s good enough for now.  Here you go.  Eat out of my hand,” she says, un-balling her fist and bringing her open palm toward you, the cookie now crushed pretty thoroughly into edible bite-sized pieces for you.  You push off of her inclined palm and land on the fingers of her other hand, just a few inches away.  You crawl forward, grabbing up a crumb and shoveling it down.  You hear your sister giggle as you continue desperately and gratefully cramming cookie bits down your gullet that she had just sitting in her musty jean pocket.  A few of the crumbs are damp from Carly’s palm sweat, as she had her hand closed in a fist for several minutes, but you don’t care.  It just barely adds a salty tinge to the sweet chocolatey goodness.  You eat over a third of the cookie in record time, filled up reasonably quickly.  “Done?” she asks, her voice trailing off in a laugh.

                “Yes.”

                “Get back in my other hand, then,” she says sternly.  You hop right back into her other hand, her warm fingers instantly enveloping you again in a firm grip.  “Good boy.”  You nod, allowing her hand to sweep you back higher into the air.  She returns you to your original position, although this time a little higher, right in front of her massive eyes.  “What did you do today?” she asks pleasantly.

                Is that a joke?  What could you possibly be doing in the drawer? 

“Um… nothing,” you answer.

                “Oh, c’mon, you must do something when you’re there all day,” she giggles.  “I mean, we both know how much you like my socks…” She’s clearly referring to the time you were forced to suck the sweat from her freshly used socks in order to avoid death by dehydration.  It wasn’t your proudest moment, but you managed to survive.  Unfortunately, your sister has never let you forget it.  “Don’t you?”

                “Like your…” you begin, finding the wording to be a bit strange.

                “Yeah.  Don’t you like your big sissy’s socks?”

                “Yes,” you say, having a feeling that’s the correct answer.

                “Oh, I’ll bet you do.  And I know you REALLY love the big one that you sleep in.  I don’t know why you like it so much though, it’s so itchy when I wear it.  And it gets my foot sweating soooo quickly…” she drawls coyly, watching your reaction.  She knows this is a point of embarrassment for you; ergo she has to milk it for all it’s worth.  “But then again, you don’t really mind it when that happens, do you?” she says.  As if she doesn’t already know the answer.

                “Y-Yes, I do.”

                “You DO mind?  Oh, I find that very hard to believe.  You DON’T like it when my feet sweat.  Coulda fooled me, the way you sucked my socks dry that one time.  Are you seriously going to tell me you didn’t enjoy that?  Just a little?”

                “Oh… I mean…” you say quickly, trying to change your answer.

                “Don’t just tell me what I want to hear, little bro.  Tell me the truth.  Do you like it when my feet sweat?”

                “Y-yes…” you whisper, ashamed.

                “That’s what I thought,” she says, thinking for a few silent moments.  “I think you could use a drink to wash down that cookie, don’t you?”

                “I… wait!” you shout, but it’s too late; in instant later, your face is being pressed hard against Carly’s thick, cotton sock right in front of her sole, the dampness leaving a wet mark all over your face.  The thick fibers begin to fill your nose and lips, despite your best attempts to fight away, but this only causes Carly to hold you more firmly against her sock, giving you a rug burn against the ragged fuzz.  You feel her sole flexing just behind the wall of bright, worn pink fabric, the soft skin tightening and giving way to incredible muscular strength beneath it.  You gasp for breath and receive a convenient mouthful of pink sock fluff, starchy and tasteless.

                “I’m waiting.  Go ahead.  I’m not in a hurry,” says Carly.  “Take a drink, little bro.”

                Just wanting to get this over with, you bite down hard suck onto the sock, the bitter, salty transudation leaking into your body from the foul sock material with great ease.  You shut your eyes, the terrible liquid trickling down your throat and replenishing your strength, your thirst being horrifically quenched with each drop of Carly’s foot sweat.

                “More.  Drink more,” she orders eagerly and gleefully, clearly enjoying watching you do this.  You gag, grimacing and breathing hard in the corners of your mouth before biting down again, allowing a fresh river to flow down your tongue.  “Suck on it.  That’s it, more.  Suck more.”  You find her words humorously ironic almost, knowing that in every other situation of life, where words such as those are spoken, the roles tend to be reversed, and you’re certainly not talking about a sock.  But at your size and power level (meaning nothing), that can’t possibly be much worse than this.  “I want that spot to be completely dry when you’re done.  Keep going,” she encourages, flexing the wrinkles of her sole through the sock, pinching at your face.  You shake this off and grab on again with your mouth, shutting your eyes and just riding it out.  With each bite down you take, the sparsely spread dampness congregates into a bulbous droplet of cold sweat that willingly slips over your lips, splashing against your cheeks with a sting.

                Just to make things interesting, you hear the soft crunch of the remaining cookie in Carly’s powerful hand just behind you, and an instant later a shower of cookie crumb confetti is raining down on your head like soft hail.  Much of it gets caught in the fibrous forest of sock fuzz as it falls.  You pull back for a second, wondering how to react as the crumbs become so populated around your face that there’s no room to suck on the sock, but you are quickly given the correct answer with a soft squeeze from your sister’s fingers.

                “Eat them,” she says so slyly and childishly maniacally, you would have sworn it was a devious little elementary school kid saying it, and not a college freshman.   Clearing your throat, you latch back on and swallow the crumbs, receiving a tangy, oddly flavored sweet-and-sour mixture of sugary cookie crumbs, salty with sock sweat.  You make a face, but continue on, moving your head to the side and swallowing another rough mouthful of unconventionally soggy dessert bits.

 

 

It takes another ten minutes to satisfy Carly’s expectations.  Your jaws are starting to get a little tired from having to constantly stay latched onto her soaked sock material.  Fortunately, though, the taste is beginning to become more and more bearable, the saltiness feeling a little milder on your tongue.  You’ve gotten pretty used to this sort of behavior, and at this point, your body is conditioned to just keep on rolling, even in the face of what most ordinary people would consider revolting and inhuman beyond belief.  Maybe they’re right, but you also don’t happen to be an “ordinary” person any longer.  Finally, your teeth getting sore, the spiciness of Carly’s sweaty flavors settling into your taste buds in thick layers, you unlatch your lips from her sock and spit out an excess piece of sock fuzz from your cheek to the bed cover.  “Not thirsty anymore, little bro?”

                “No.”

                “Not even a LITTLE bit?  Because, you know, I’ve got an entire other sock over here that I’ll bet tastes just a good.  Maybe even a little better…” she says, bringing her other foot toward you.  You watch the wall of fuzzy pink approaching you hopelessly, the warm fabric hugging itself tightly around her flexible toes.  She wiggles them threateningly through the sock, then brings you up to face level with the bottom of her big toe.  She slowly curls it down on top of you, pressing your face against the warm fabric, and further dampens your hair by working it in hard to your head.  She scrunches even more strongly against your face, cutting off your air and forcing the stale-smelling fuzz into your nose and mouth again.  When she pulls you away, she laughs as you discover a pink thread suck in your damp, sweat-soaked hair that came undone.  “If you’re sure you don’t want any more… I guess it’s bedtime for little Jack,” she says quickly, sitting back up and striding to the drawer.  She smiles one final time at you, shrugging.  “I know we didn’t finish you off.  But look:  If you really feel like you need to, you’ve got an entire drawer of my socks in there…”  she winks slyly.

                You shudder violently at the very notion of this particular idea as your sister places you back on top of her woolen tube sock and sends you back into the near pitch blackness of her drawer, the soft scent of Downy and perspiring flesh pervading your breathing space with every inhalation.

End Notes:

Next chapter, we'll get a little more structural variety.

Chapter 3: Cut Down to Size by Jacksmith

You dangle upside down, your ankles both tied tightly into a hair band which happens to be currently wrapped around Carly’s long ponytail.  As she occasionally turns her head, you are whipped side to side through the forest of smooth, silky wires of hair.  Occasionally, a hair will get stuck in your mouth as you try to breathe, the blood all rushing to your head, but all you have to do is spit to get it to come out.  This is probably the most painless thing you’ll be forced to do all this week, but even so, it’s unpleasant, as you’re getting seriously dizzy now and almost feel like throwing up, being rocked around for what feels like the past two hours.  Carly’s been working on homework, and when she gets down to business, especially if she has a huge test the next day, this can go on for an unreasonably long amount of time.

                “Feeling comfy back there, little bro?”

                You groan.  “Umm… I’m okay…”

                “You sure?” she asks, purposefully shaking her head around a little, whipping her darker blonde hair.  You gasp for breath, getting another few hairs attached to your tongue, but these are quickly spat out.  She giggles.  “Are you trying to eat my hair or something?”

                “N-No, it’s just… all over the place…”

                She sighs, bringing her massive left hand back behind her head.  She taps at your face with her pointer finger for a few seconds, before gently squeezing you around the stomach with her thumb and pointer finger.  She then begins kneading at you, rubbing along your abs up to your chest.  Admittedly, it feels pretty good.  If anything, Carly has learned how to push your involuntary buttons in these past five years.  Most of the time, she uses those button to degrade you or just plain push you into the mud and kick you while you’re down, but on rare occasions she’ll just randomly feel like not being a psycho bitch and actually try to make you feel a little better.

                Her soft fingertips continue massaging your midsection, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure for you to effectively feel the powerful muscle in her finger without forgoing the calming cool of her flesh.  Your body begins to hang a little less stiffly as you allow yourself to be engulfed in the good feeling of having your muscles rubbed all over, the tactile sensation of having massive, ridged pads sliding over your naked body without resorting to rape.  After a few minutes of simply playing with you between her fingertips, Carly finally releases the soft pressure on you.  You sigh deeply, hanging a little more casually and comfortably from her hair.

                “That make it any better?”

                “Yes.”

                “You’re just so easy to please, aren’t you, little dude?”

                “I… I guess…”

                “Oh, give me a BREAK,” she almost scoffs at you.  “You are TOO easy.”

                “R-Really?” you say, using your forearms to push some hair out of your way.

                “Well, no duh!” she says, making you sound ridiculous.

                “I… I’m sorry, then, I think…” you stammer, your head getting light again.

                Her fingers come sliding slowly back around her head, and this time she uses her thumb, pointer, and middle fingers to latch onto you.  “Don’t be sorry.  It’s not all bad for you now, is it?” she suggests playfully, beginning again to squeeze you in gentle intervals, moving her fingers up and down along your stomach as lightly as possible.  You go limp again almost immediately as the massage continues.  She laughs.  “See what I mean now?” she asks matter-of-factly.

                “Y-Yes…” you stutter, caught up in the feeling of her soft fingers on your chest and stomach.  Somehow, the combined effect of her smooth, creamy digits and your extreme lightheadedness are improving the situation greatly.

                “It’s like I lay a single finger on you, and you just curl up for me like a puppy dog,” she says, letting go with two of her fingers, leaving only her thumb on her stomach.  Rather than the gentle squeezes, then, she begins gently stroking from the top of your chest to your stomach, swiping side to side, the feeling of her doughy fingertip flesh giving you almost continuous goose bumps.  You continue hanging limply, letting her do her work and giggle childishly at you as you act like a total heel for the sake of a few minutes of near bliss.  “Actually, not a puppy dog…” she says thoughtfully, continuing working you over.  “A pill bug.  Yeah, that’s about right,” she finishes confidently.  Embarrassed at your reaction, you try to straighten yourself a little despite the continuation of her soft, practiced strokes.

                “Umm… I don’t know, I think…”

                “Oh, shut UP already!” she says mockingly.  “I can feel you just hanging there like you’re high or something, and I don’t even have to touch your little pea-sized dick, do I?” she asks.  You pray that that’s not an indication she’s going to start now.  You decide you’d rather just give it up rather than end this conversation by getting ruthlessly raped while hanging upside down from your sister’s ponytail.

                “I… guess not, no…”

                “See, you know it, don’t you?  So go ahead.  Enjoy it, I know you want to.”

                And she’s totally right about that.  No matter how embarrassingly quickly your sister can make you clam up like her pet, you could never resist some form of pleasure that didn’t involve molestation, no matter where it came from or the circumstances.  You un-tense yourself and allow yourself to enjoy the massage along your stomach.  After a few minutes, Carly slips her thumb onto your back, pressing in at rather precise angles and helping your somewhat sore back immensely with her cushiony pad of flesh.

                “Little bro?” she asks cheerfully, still rubbing you around with one hand and still writing notes down on her paper on the desk with the other.  You groan, opening your eyes back up and shivering a little from the goose bumps rushing along you.

                “Yeah?”

                “You know I love my tiny brother, right?”

                “Yeah.”

                “Good.  So, you know how siblings should act together, right?  They should be sharing.  You know, like friends or something.”

                “Sure.”

                “Cool.  Well, I think we ought to act like that a little more often.”

                “How?”

                “Well, I was just thinking… since I’m doing something nice for YOU to make YOU feel good…” she coos slowly.  “…I think it’s only fair you do me a favor, too.”  At these last words, she latches all available fingers onto your upper torso, encasing you in cushy, warm finger flesh, and begins to knead at you.  It feels incredible, and you can tell she’s just buttering you up to do whatever the hell it is she wants without complaint.

                To her credit (if she deserves any), Carly seems to have at least discovered within the last few years that she gets a lot further trying to ground you into the dirt through pleasure rather than intense torture.  Obviously, the torture can come later very easily; her trick has become getting you all set up for something you feel like you can handle, only to have your soul practically crushed by the task.  You know pretty well how it works.  You’ve had your soul killed and reborn, only to have it destroyed again, more times than any human being ever to live.

                “Okay,” you answer in response to the request.  Not that saying “no” was going to be an acceptable answer.

                “That’s nice of you bro.  Okay, I’ll get outta your hair about that… actually, I’ll get YOU outta my hair now…” she says, chuckling at her painful pun as her massive fingers slowly release your warmed body, instead beginning to work at the hair band around your ankles.  A few tugs, and your ankles come loose, allowing you to tumble directly into Carly’s waiting palm below you.  She clutches you, flipping her hand over as she brings you back in front of her face.  Her plush lips spread out into a smile as the hand not holding you places the pencil onto the desk and begins rummaging through a small box she keeps on the desk.  A second later, she brings forth a tiny square of sandpaper, comprising no more than a square inch.  She brings it forward and offers it to you as you recline in her open palm, using the bulbous heel of her hand as an armrest.  You quickly grab it, looking at it blankly.

                “Tell me what you think, little bro…” poses Carly, curling the fingers of her other hand like a claw and bringing it nearer to your relaxed, naked form in her other palm.  Reaching forth two bent fingers, she presses down into your stomach with her fingernails.  It’s pretty uncomfortable, but not enough to be painful… that is, until she scrapes them off to the side, leaving two distinct red marks on your stomach.  You grunt in pain, looking up at the calm face of your humongous sibling.  “Do you think my nails are getting a little too long?”

                “Yes…”

                “I thought so, too.  So how about you do a little something about that, hmm?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.  She lowers her palm to the table, dumping you gently onto the desk.  Then, you watch as she raises her hand into the air, shadowing you with her massive palm before slapping her hand down hard on the desk, knocking you over from the concussive smash of her leviathan fingers just in front of you.  As you pull yourself to your feet, she begins to drum her fingertips loudly against the table.  “Take your little file there and make sure I can’t hurt you anymore with these nails, or else I’ll just file them myself and use you instead…” she suggests in a nearly kindly voice.  She’s clearly bluffing about that last part, but it’s quite clear you’ve got a job to do now.  “Sound okay, little bro?”

                “Okay.”

                “Cool.  Now get to work,” she says, picking her pencil up with her other hand and continuing writing.  Shrugging, you step to her meaty thumb.  Her nail is very wide, just about as wide as your torso, and her nail is like a large, circular plate of thick ivory, having a similar texture to an elephant tusk.  You touch your fingers along the porcelain edge, feeling the slight overgrowth, and decide where you’ll need to work at.  You start at one side, then scrape the sandpaper along the nail several times until you notice a fine powder of nail dust only visible to someone of your size collecting in the air and on the table.  You start to move to the next finger, but suddenly feel warm breath washing over you, meaning there’s probably a gigantic, feminine, disdainful face right behind you at the moment.  Carly’s pencil tip bats at you, forcing you to fall back over, causing you to trip over the thumb and land on your back.

“If I wanted you just practicing for a dance routine or something, I’d have you do that.  Feel that nail. Does that feel smooth to you, bro?  Really?” she demands softly.  You run your hand along the ridge, realizing it still feels a little rough.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Didn’t think so.  Maybe you should spend a little more time there then, hmm?” she asks condescendingly, as if waiting for you to figure out this conundrum on your own.

“Y-yes, okay…” you answer obediently, crawling into a kneeling position over the nail to get at it better.  You line the sandpaper up with the rougher spots you just ran your fingers along, the nail feeling so thick and unmovable it feels like you’re cutting against soft quarrie stone.  As you begin scraping along your little sister’s thumb nail again, smoothing out the edge, you get a weird mental image of giving the Statue of Liberty a manicure.

“That’s good.  Keep going; I don’t want you taking all night to do this,” says Carly.  Her thumb suddenly bounces up from the ground, and she taps you with the grooved pad of her fingertip enough to knock you flat on your back again.  You nod, shifting over to her pointer finger and getting to work.

It takes you over half an hour to finish grinding along the surface of your sister’s fingernails on both hands.  When you finish, she lifts both hands into the air and splays her fingers.  Pursing her lips, she blows across them to make sure you got every angle correctly before nodding, satisfied.  “Looks okay, I guess.  Ready for the next part?”

“Next part?”

“Of course,” she grins.  “You wouldn’t want me looking like I only do things halfway, would you, Jack?  So you’re going to… one of your favorite places…” she winks, and you mentally groan as her soft fingers close back around you, lifting you off the table as she scoots out from the desk to get some more space.  You already know perfectly well what you’re about to do.  Pressing you harder into her spacious, squishy palm flesh, your sister lowers you to the ground below the desk, plopping you on the carpet. 

You look ahead, seeing her feet, in a pair of white flip-flops, crossed over one another at the ankles.  One foot, tucked behind her ankle, dangles the flip-flop uncaringly near to the ground.  Her toes grip the strap tightly, bending slightly, as they squirm the strap around in their grip.  You cringe, and can’t help but imagine yourself jammed between those gigantic, smooth digits, as you so often are for no reason in particular other than Carly wanting you to be there.  Finally, as you come to a standing position, she curls her toes all the way back in, slapping the foam shoe back against her fleshy, wrinkled sole before slamming her entire foot flat onto the ground, one next to the other, her toes doing the wave as they wait for you, her heels shifting a little against the grooved foam design to get into a more comfortable position.  You look between her smooth, muscular legs, all the way up at her face, above the desk, where she’s looking down at you kindly but condescendingly at the same time.  “You know what to do.  Put just as much work into them as my fingers.  And if I don’t think you did a good job…” she mumbles, poking a fingertip into the corner of her mouth before shaking her head.  “…actually, I’ll just assume you don’t want to know what happens if you don’t do a good job.  Just work hard, and I won’t have to push you around, okay?” she says sweetly and calmly, perfect clarity in every word.  Her gaze shifts back to the table top and you hear the scribble of her pencil seconds later.  She’s apparently not even giving you the time of day while you do this, just so long as you aren’t slacking off.

You gulp, approaching her toes, which are still wiggling energetically in the white flip-flops.  As you stand within touching distance of them, you inhale.  Thankfully, Carly apparently hasn’t been sweating profusely, or she at least took a shower back at the locker room after basketball practice.  You can smell the faintest hint of fleshy perspiration, but it’s nothing new and certainly very manageable; it’s the average amount one might find on a person at this time of day in a slightly muggier room, it’s just extremely apparent to your nose because of your size.  You can also detect a whiff of a watermelon-scented body wash, particularly at this close proximity.  It’s strong, but it’s also very sweet smelling, so you decide it should at least make this a little more enjoyable.  You place the sandpaper chunk along Carly’s big toe on her right foot, having trouble lining it up as her toes are still dancing, bouncing up and down with soft taps against the foam. You try to work like this, but her toes are just wiggling far too fast and strong for you to get a good aim.  She’s not doing this on purpose just to make your job harder, it’s simply something she tends to do while concentrating on something like homework.  You’ve hung around her feet often enough to notice the sort of behaviors they take on in certain circumstances.  You’d even bet you know Carly’s feet better than she does.

Placing your sandpaper file onto the carpet, you shrug and go for the toe.  You squeeze around each side, trying to hold the toe in place, but it continues rocking, vibrating your arms.  Putting all your strength in, you come in nearer to the toe, sliding your arms up around, tucking your fingers into the slight indent between the nail and the dry skin.  Still nothing; her toe continues bopping against the shoe sole.  As you get too close, her nail actually slams your chin, and it hurts for just a moment, but you rear back, looking for a better angle.  Digging each entire arm against the pliable, pale toe flesh, feeling particularly soft in the crevice between her big and second toes amidst your clenched fingers, you squeeze, essentially hugging her big toe against yourself, the barely noticeable dampness feeling cool against your skin.  After a few seconds of this, you hear her chuckling up above, and her toes stop wiggling; flop against the front of her toe, nearly ramming your dick painfully against the dry grooves of her toe print.  Finally.

“Sorry about that bro, I didn’t even notice I was doing that.  Guess I wasn’t making your job very easy, was I?”

“Um… not really, I guess.”

“My bad.  Here, I’ll even make it easier for you to get to them…” she offers.  You step back quickly as her toes begin sliding back along the surface of the shoe, squeezing lightly at the flip-flop strap as she pulls both feet from the shoes.  Curling her massive toes backward, she pushes the flip-flops out of the way, then brings both of them forward.  Her toes splay out, as if reaching for you, her feet coming forward at about face level with you.   You back up, surprised, and find yourself unable to move back as your sister calmly slides your head in between her big and second toes like a vice of soft flesh.  Despite often finding yourself in positions such as this, your heart can’t help but flutter; with one swift motion, perhaps not even on purpose, Carly could squish your puny head like a rotten grape.  You slide one arm around her big toe, and the other up into the adjacent toe crevice, and try to pull out, but it’s useless.  Carly giggles, and slowly begins compressing her toes together.  Your head is forced forward, and you find your face pressed deeply against the deepest part of Carly’s toe crevice, right against the foot where her toes become connected.  Her toes begin to pulse ever so lightly, caving your face against the cushy crevice.  Admittedly, there are much worse places to find yourself, as the slight dampness of foot sweat has made this particular spot one of the softest on her enormous peds. 

The trace saltiness combined with the watermelon soap invades your nose, and you cough; it’s very strong, but at least it’s not the most pungent thing you’ve ever been forced to take into your poor lungs.  She continues grinding on your face for a few minutes more, your breaths coming in labored intakes of sudor and artificial fruit, between each pulse, when your face isn’t pushed helplessly against the soft valley of your sister’s toe cleavage.  You keep your lips tightly shut, but regardless of what you do, with each pulse, your sister forces you to press your taut lips against the doughy patch of flesh, as if each time she clenched her toes, you were kissing them obediently against your will.  You have a feeling that this is precisely the desired effect.  Finally, her toes lift into the air, parting and releasing your head, which now smells pretty strongly of body wash.  You rub at your raw neck and cheeks, which had the rippleless skin folded pretty hard around them for several minutes, and then stagger to your feet.  Just as you do, Carly’s foot taps forward, her big toe pointed, and she flicks it against your stomach.  The unexpected battering ram of muscle and dry grooves sends you reeling onto your butt again.  You splay your legs out, looking at her foot, so soft and cared for looking (mostly by you), yet massive enough to utterly destroy you in just about any way possible.  Despite the dark shadows, you can make out Carly’s deep heel wrinkles, reflecting light in certain places, curling in and out of view as she flexes her youthful soles.  You shake your head and return your view to your sister’s hulking pink digit, which gently taps each of your legs, pressing down on your knees terrifyingly for a moment before releasing them.

“Hmm… that’s kinda weird, I don’t really remember telling you to take a break yet…” she muses, setting her foot back on the ground.  As you sit up, you watch as she flexes both of them hard against the ground, bending her flexible toes and arching her heel as far as she can, high above your head, resting it calmly against the leg of her chair.  She taps a single big toe against the carpet silently.  “C’mon, little bro… they’re waiting for you,” she teases, and a second later the pencil scribbling continues.  Rubbing at your somewhat aching cheek still and ruffling your messed up hair, you grasp up the sandpaper and approach her feet, which are now both arched against the chair as high as possible, resting on her curled toes and the dry balls of her feet.

You kneel obediently before her towering peds, her toes now perfectly still and waiting for you, and slide the sandpaper tab along the thick plate of nail.  It’s much thicker than her fingers, and a single scrape from you hardly does anything at all.  You run your fingers along the uneven edge, feeling the collection of dirt and dust directly underneath her toenail.  Tightening your biceps for the harder work, you begin grinding the file along her toe in a smooth pattern, side to side, as hard as you can.  After a grueling five minutes, your arms already feeling pretty spent, you lay down the sandpaper on the carpet.  You grip the edge of her nail with your sore fingers, your arms slightly shaking still from the strain, and run your palm along it.  Perfectly smooth, end to end.

“Keep it up, bro.  Next one.  If you don’t hurry, the sun will be up before you’re done, and then I’ll have no choice but to wear you to class so you can finish up,” she chuckles at you.  Groaning softly enough so that your titanic sibling can’t hear your auditory protest, for fear of the obvious retaliation, you pick the file back up, shifting on your knees, and begin grinding it calmly along her peach-flushed second toenail, your fingers already beginning to quiver from tiredness.

End Notes:

Opinions?

Chapter 4: Sports Medicine by Jacksmith

                Exhausted, your numbed fingers drop the file, and you collapse onto the carpet, catching your breath as you complete filing Carly’s final toenail into a smooth work of art.  Your arms are beyond spent, throbbing, and you grip at them tightly in your fingers.  After giving you a few minute break, you watch as Carly’s arched feet slip back onto the carpet in front of you.  She then uses them to push off from the ground, sliding her chair out of the desk to get a better look at you.  She grins down at you pathetically, then leans down, resting her arms on her bare knees and allowing her blond ponytail to hang limply over her shoulder.

                “Looks like you’re earning your keep down there, aren’t you?” she smiles.

                “Yeah…” you answer, shaking your head around and regaining your stamina.

                “You look tired.  Are you tired?”

                “Yeah.”

                “Do you want to go to bed?”

                “Yeah,” you respond robotically.  She nods.

                “Okay, that’s fine.  Let’s get you tucked in, cutie,” she says, extending her hand and splaying her fingers out to wrap you up.  You lay perfectly still, holding your arms up so she can tuck her fingers underneath them and give you full range of motion.  However, just as she lays her smooth finger flesh around your side, about to curl you up against her somewhat damp palm, she pulls back, crossing her arms again and looking down thoughtfully at you.  “You know what, Jack?”

                “What?”

                “I bet you could move if you tried.  Can you stand?”

                “Um…”

                “Just try for me,” she suggests gently.  You push against the ground, pulling yourself into a kneeling position.  Groggily, then, you stand.  She claps her hands together lightly as if congratulating you.  “There you go…” she sings softly, grinning cheekily, clearly pleased with your evident success.  “Good boy.  Now, about these… feet here…” she says, clenching her toes against the carpet and looking down at them.  “They’re pretty special feet, I’d say.  Don’t you agree?”

                “I think so…”

                “You THINK so?”

                “Yeah, they are.”

                “Glad you like them so much, bro,” she snickers at you.  “So, anyway… I was just thinking, maybe they deserve a little extra time…”

                “Okay,” you answer neutrally, having a feeling she had made her mind up about this several minutes back.  “What?”

                “Oh, I was just thinking about something, little bro.”

                “What?”

                “Back, a long time ago.  Do you remember back when I was like twelve or so… what I did to my ankle at that one basketball game?”

                “Umm…” you say, trying to recall.  Having never attended one of her games, it’s a little fuzzier.

                “Sure you do.  Someone fouled me and I tripped, twisted my ankle pretty bad.  Maybe if you had ever showed up to one of my games, like any good brother would, you’d know that kind of stuff,” she says, sounding a bit irritated.  At this point, you remember perfectly well what she’s talking about.  The memory easily floods your brain in surprising detail.

 

 

                “It’s okay, honey, it’s gonna be okay…” your mom coos to twelve-year-old Carly as she helps her hobble back inside the house after the game, tears streaking your sister’s cheeks from the pain; you sit up uncaringly from the kitchen table, where you were doing your homework.  “I’m going to give Dr. Ryan a call, and we’ll take you in to see her first thing tomorrow morning, okay?” she says, helping Carly into the living room.  Your sister lowers herself down into a leather armchair in the room.  Your mom slides over a matching leather footrest, allowing Carly to prop her icepack-tied twisted ankle up for support.  Ruffling your sister’s matted, sweaty hair from the game, your mom marches into the kitchen to talk to you.  “Probably could have used those arms of yours to get her inside…” suggests your mother sarcastically to you.  You shrug.

                “Mom, she’s totally faking it; look at her, how often have you seen her do this?”

                “Jack, can we please just cool it between you two for one measly night?” your mother snaps, looking over her shoulder at your whimpering sister as she wipes a hand across her soaked cheeks.  “I’ve gotta call the doctor’s office, and it might take me a few minutes, since it’s almost nine right now… would you do me a favor and just get your sister anything if she needs it?”

                You groan.  “MOM…”

                “Well, if not for your sister, do it for your weekend privileges,” she answers curtly, clearly not in the mood to deal with your perceived selfishness.  “Because you won’t have them if you can’t bear to cooperate with me for just a few minutes here while I’m on the phone.  I’ll be back in a few minutes and then I can help her myself.  Just get her a drink or something, Jack.  Please?” she says, although she’s not really offering you a choice so much as threatening to ground you if you don’t comply.  Rolling your eyes, you sit up from your chair and take a step toward the living room.  “Thanks, buddy,” your mom smiles, ruffling your hair as well before heading into the house office to schedule an appointment for Carly.  Your shoulders hanging heavy, you lean against the doorframe, looking in at your softly crying sister.

                “What do you want?” you ask with complete and utter disinterest and disdain.  Carly looks over at you, frowning through her wet eyes.

                “Get me an apple juice,” she orders.  You shrug and re-enter the kitchen.  Removing the jug from the fridge, you sloppily pour a cup of it out for your sister and smack it onto the counter while you put the juice away. Then, marching it into the living room, you stick it out in the air within your sister’s range to grab it.

                “Here,” you say quickly.  She reaches out to take it, but then wrinkles her nose in disgust.

                “What, no ice?”

                “Carly, this just came from the refrigerator… it’s already cold.  C’mon, take it, I have stuff to do.”

                “Oh, I see, so your stuff is more important than me, huh?”

                You grin, taking pleasure in the question.  “Well… yeah.”

                Carly frowns a little harder, but then a smile creeps back over her lips as she stares intently at you before calling out.  “MOM!  He’s being mean!”

                “Carly!” you groan.  “What…”

                “MOM!”

                “Fine…” you growl, walking back toward the fridge.  You slam the cup against the ice dispenser button on the freezer, spilling a few droplets of juice out, and fill it with as many cubes as the cup can hold before marching briskly back into the living room.  “There’s your stupid ice.  Now take it so I can get back to work.”

                “Oh, no you don’t,” says Carly, waggling a pointer finger at you and wiping at her cheeks, her normally more authoritative and sweetly masked face returning, covering up the brief interlude of weakness and tears.

                “Um, actually, yes I DO!” you say back rather sarcastically, turning to leave.

                “You don’t go anywhere until I say so.”

                “Watch me,” you answer, beginning to walk in the other direction.

                “MOM!” she screams.  You stop in your tracks, hanging your head in annoyance.  The bossy brat is starting to get on your nerves, as she so often does within a fifty foot range of you, but you also have to consider your weekend.  You had been thinking about asking out Laura, one of your friends but also a girl you’ve also got something of a crush on, to a movie this weekend, because you have a feeling another guy has his eye on her too.  It’s killing you to have to turn back to your sister, at her beck and call, but you have to; the desire for the potential of this weekend is far too much.

                “What?” you answer dryly.  “Can you make it quick?”

                She shakes her head.  “Stop asking me when you’ll be done, all you did was get me a stupid drink,” she says, sipping thirstily at the glass.

                “Well, what do you want?” you ask irritably.

                “First I want you to stop sounding like a jerk to me.”

                “What do you want?” you say, sounding marginally more civil.

                “That’s a little better.  What’s so hard about helping your cute little sister, huh, bro?  I got hurt.  You should be over here, ASKING me how you can help me!”

                “Believe me, Carly, if I did that, you’d probably have to assume I’d been abducted by aliens and been replaced.”

                “Shut up,” she says, wrinkling her nose.  “Why can’t you be a nice guy for like two seconds, ever?”

                “Whatever.  What am I supposed to do for you, your majesty?” you ask sarcastically.  She clears her throat, and then her eyes fall to her shoes.

                “I want to get my shoes off, but I don’t want to reach down there so I don’t hurt my ankle more,” she says, sounding rather pathetic.  You roll your eyes.  “Take my shoes off, Jack.”

                “Fine,” you grumble.  You drop to your knees, quickly undoing the laces of Carly’s mud-stained basketball shoes and loosening the tongue of the shoe.  You then slip your fingers into the opening of the back of the shoe.  You’re instantly a little repulsed as your fingers meet the absolutely sopping wet rags of thin cotton Carly’s wearing as socks.  You’re shocked she can even play very well in the things, because they’re so thin, you can feel every angle and curve of her foot, firm but squishy with fresh sweat.  As you pry this opening up between the side of the shoe and Carly’s foot-hugging sock, an aroma begins to leak out of her shoe, smelling strongly of vaporous salt and reeking foot minerals.  You quickly slip the shoe off, dropping it to the ground, before following suit with the other one.  You then stand up, pinching your nose and stepping back.  “Okay, there you go, your stinking shoes are off…” you mumble, stepping back toward the kitchen.

                “Hold up!” she yells out defiantly.  You turn back, your mood worsening by the second.

                “What… is… it…” you say through gritted teeth, nice and slowly so she can understand your meaning.

                “Socks too,” she orders childishly, pointing at her feet.  You see her socks, dampened so heavily that gray greasy spots have formed along her toes, ball, and heel inside the shoe, the fuzz hanging oddly off of it at different angles from so many runs in the washing machine.  You look at her in disbelief.  “I heard Mom.  Do you wanna stay inside all weekend?” she pouts at you.  You give her a death glare.  “I mean… if you have to stay home all weekend, you’ll just be hanging around while mom and dad are at work, and I’ll be here with a twisted ankle.  I can’t do anything.  You’d kinda be my slave…” she says devilishly, grinning.  “Is that what you want?”

                Grumbling a few choice words under your breath, you drop back to your knees.  Immediately, the odor of her foot’s transudation starts fogging up your breathing.  You cough, holding your head to the side (although this does little to keep your sister’s awful musk out of your lungs) and slip your fingers into her sock.  The experience is absolutely revolting; you hear a soft peeling sound as the thin white socks, stuck so thoroughly to her wrinkled, excretion-soaked soles, come sliding off slowly.  You pinch at the mouth of the damp socks, your fingers brushing up against Carly’s warm ankles, made much softer by the liquid soaking through every fiber of her flesh.  Her heel, filled with deep crevices, comes into view and clenches as you continue sliding the white, grungy tube off of her foot.  Next the ball of her foot comes out, fuzz from the filthy sock still stuck along it.  Her toes take a slight extra tug, as they’ve conveniently clenched themselves around the end of the sock, making it form fit her toes.  She giggles as you have to yank a bit harder to get it to come off, finally having the soaked, frayed, fuzz-covered article in your hand.  Her toes wiggle, airing out, filling the air around your unfortunate face with the smell of her damp flesh.  Disgustingly, you see a very large clump of wet toe jam stuck between Carly’s big and second toes.

                As your hand continues sitting in range of her, Carly lifts her lithe bare foot up, pressing it against your hand.  Before you can react, she’s parting her big and second toes, and wiping the toe jam clump onto your finger.  You swat it off, allowing it to fall onto the stool as Carly sniggers.  Annoyed, you grip at the water-logged, salty sock on her other foot, slipping it off with another sticky peel and drop both pieces of footwear on the stool.

                “Well, you’re doing a lot better now.  Wait for your bedside nurse to come back,” you snort at her, turning to leave.

                “Ah-ah-ah!” she sings at you, mockingly but nice sounding at the same time.

                “Carly, I took your stupid socks off AND your tennis shoes, AND I got you your juice.”

                “But my ankle is TWISTED!” she whines.  “How can you expect me to do anything by myself?”

                “It’s easy.  Ask MOM!” you groan at her, taking a few steps away.

                “I think it would be nicer if YOU did it,” she retorts.

                “Did what?” you say, now almost back into the kitchen.

                “Jack, c’mon… please come back?” she asks, having actual politeness in her answer.  You turn to look at her, her face pleading.

                “Look… ONE more thing.  One.  One quick thing, I’ve got homework.”

                “Thanks, big bro.  I guess I CAN count on you when I really need you.”

                “Yeah, whatever, what am I doing, getting you some crackers or something?”

                She giggles.  “Nice try, bro.  No, I just want you to come back over here and sit down.”  You shrug, wanting to just get this over with and return to your homework.  You move back to the chair, and watch as Carly slowly takes her twisted ankle off of the stool, as well as her other foot, and sets them both on the floor.  You take a quick seat on the leather stool, and suddenly find Carly swinging both legs back up and planting her stale, grimy feet in your lap.  You pull back, grossed out, but you don’t really want to touch them to take them off of your lap.  She smirks at you.

                “You’re joking, right?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

                “Nope,” she laughs.  She moves one foot over and begins tapping her toes against your stomach through your shirt, even gripping at your shirt in her toes.  You look down to see a wet mark left on your clothes where her soaked digits were pawing you.  You wipe it off, looking disdainfully at her feet.  For a twelve year old, they’re pretty big, coming in a size seven and a half, with somewhat longer toes, and a tan complexion to match her ankles.  Right now, her feet are bearing the slight indents in the soft outer layer in the shape of the fuzzy sock fibers, indicating just how tightly she was wearing them.  You look on with disgust as two of her toes part.  A single bead of sweat slips from the porous crevice, sliding down the hill of her foot ball, through the twisting cracks of her cream-colored sole, and finally off of her heel, where it plops directly onto your pants above your crotch and leaves a wet spot.  Great.  Now you get to look like you peed your pants, for all your troubles.
                With your hand held out as if trying to make a point, you are snapped out of your revolted trance to find Carly has lifted her leg and is now pressing her soggy heel firmly against your palm, twising it firmly, dampening it. You try to move away, but her foot follows you, her sole scrunching wetly against your fingers.

                “Moo-ooo-oooo-ooomm…” sings Carly into the hallway, dramatically, trying to get your mom’s attention.  You’re disgusted beyond belief to have your little sister forcing you to do this for her, her peds so unwashed and pungent, and yet you can’t help but think of Laura.  You picture Laura’s face, then look down at the large, sopping foot in your hand, the toes wiggling cutely, and then you picture Laura again.  You groan to yourself.  You mentally declare yourself to be a very pathetic human being, and then clench your fingers around Carly’s soft instep.  “Good dog,” laughs Carly.

                “Don’t push your luck,” you grunt through gritted teeth.  You run your palm along the length of her sole, rubbing your fingertips into the grooves of her heel, bending it around.  While her damp sole continues resting heavily in one of your hands, with your other hand you clamp the top of her foot, rubbing along the soft skin, feeling the veins of her feet popping out ever so slightly.  While you work on her right foot, Carly clenches the sole of her other foot against your shirt, soaking your shirt in a damp footprint for no particular reason other than to spite you.  Then, she leans back, laying her hands on the leather armrests, looking up at the ceiling and closing her eyes as you work.  She murmurs in a higher pitched sound of gratitude.  She’s really rubbing this in.  But you of course can’t stop; you just have to keep at it.  This weekend is going to be too important.  You pull your hand back, sliding your fingers between all of Carly’s toes and causing her to convulse a little with pleasure as you work them, the particularly soggy toe crevices leaving her salty stink all over your hands.

                After massaging both of Carly’s feet intensely for around five minutes, your sister leans her head back forward, reaching for the side coffee table next to the chair.  “Thanks, Jack.  That felt sooooo good.”

                “Yeah, I’ll bet.  Now have fun not walking; I’ve got stuff to do.”

                “Hey.  Wait up.”

                “NO.”

                “Well, geez…” she says, and grasping at a small glass bottle on the table, she holds it up for you to see.  It’s a red, sparkling little tube with a large cap.  “I just wanted you to paint them for me.”

                This is the final straw.  She’s not even making requests out of necessity anymore, she’s just enjoying lording over you so completely.  “No.”

                “Mooooom…” she moans, grinning at you, knowing there’s no way out of it.

                “I’m back!  What’s wrong?” asks your mom, stepping back in.  “Thanks for covering for me Jack, you can get back to your work.”

                “Oh, cool.  Get well… soon, Carly…” you mumble sarcastically, shaking your head with a smile at your sister, who looks at you with another death stare, gripping the bottle tightly in her hand.  She squints at you, sticks out her tongue when your mom isn’t looking, and raises her foot into the air, wiggling her toes as if in a warning sign.  She apparently had her heart set on you becoming her new pedicurist.  No matter; you’re free.  You shrug off her odd antics, wiping at the rather prominent sweaty foot print on your shirt front.

                The weekend goes great.  You do end up getting the date with Laura, and while things never really went anywhere after that first date, you couldn’t help but enjoy yourself even more during the movie, knowing your sister was sitting at home without a single sucker to paint her toes for her.

 

 

                Your mind returns to reality, and suddenly you realize you are no longer in any position of particularly quantitative enough power to recreate a similar outcome.  You gulp deeply, staring first at your sister’s long, expectant toes wriggling playfully against the carpet, before turning your face up to stare at the grinning, glistening pearly whites of your devious sibling.

End Notes:

Please comment!

Chapter 5: Paint the Town Blue by Jacksmith

                “Well?” your gigantic sister asks as you are fully snapped out of the memory.  “You DO remember that, don’t you?”

                “Umm… yeah, I think so…”

                “Do you remember what we did?”

                “Yeah.”

                “What?”

                “I got you a juice, then I rubbed your feet for you,” you answer.  The words are cold and unfamiliar feeling in your throat, and suddenly you realize it’s not because of the fact that you’re detailing your pathetic servitude, it’s that your tone doesn’t shift in the slightest in reference to it.

                Has this truly become so old hat to you that you can’t even react in your voice?

                No.  It can’t be.  It’s not.

                Why, then?

                “Uh-huh…” says Carly, as if trying to recall it herself, pulling you from your random contemplative moment.  She twiddles her long fingers together as they dangle in the air above you.  “And… what was it that I asked you to do at the very end?”

                “The end?”

                “Yeah… there was something, but I just can’t say what…” she drawls with a sugar-sweet voice.

                You gulp.  Somehow, you’ve been wondering when this event would come up.   Over the past five years, as you’ve had a lot of time to think over your experiences with Carly, you’ve often been able to pinpoint the locations of Carly’s growing dislike toward you.  This happens to be one of those moments.

One of Carly’s favorite ways to humiliate you is to remind you of some past event between you that irritated you greatly, before forcing you to pay for it somehow; generally, “paying for it” entails you engaging in something not only very similar to the original event, but exponentially more mind-shatteringly horrible for you. 

“P-Paint your nails,” you stutter.

                “Yeah.  That’s right,” she answers calmly.  “I wanted you to paint my pretty toe nails like a good brother should for his sister after she gets hurt, but what did you do?”

                “I…”

                “You walked away from me.  Just walked away, because you were so rude.  Well, guess what?” she says, her arm stretching onto the desktop.  You hear the sound of glass clacking and being picked up from the surface, and a second later, Carly is brandishing a huge blue glass bottle of nail polish in the air.  Her hand shakes it side to side gleefully to loosen the syrupy liquid content, her tongue poking out from between her lips in teasing.  “You’re about to do some arts and crafts, little bro.  Painting,” she grins, leaning over and setting the bottle on the ground.  “Do you like arts and crafts?”

                “Umm… yeah.”

                “Good,” she says, clasping her hands tightly around her knees and rising up from her kneeling position, her face looking down at you between her knees.  “Now go ahead, it’s starting to get late and I’m almost done with my notes.  I’ve been waiting a long time to see if you’re any good at this,” she winks, leaning forward and continuing with her homework.  Your eyes shift from the gigantic glass bottle, roughly the same height as yourself, and then back at the two massive podiums of muscle, flesh, and form before you, her body-sized toes scrunching against the carpet before splaying outward, waiting for you.  Your eyes go back to the bottle, and finally back to the side of Carly’s foot, where the slightest bit of excess foot flab hangs on the sides of her athletic peds, tiny wrinkles appearing that run underneath her foot and along the plain of her soft sole.  You blink, then decide to waste no more time, moving forward and grasping at the bottle cap.

                It’s wound pretty tightly around the rippled glass lips, but with all your effort, you manage to twist it off.  Of course, as soon as you do, you’re pretty sure you shouldn’t have; the smell is so painfully strong and oily, it instantly fills the air around you.  You fall backward in shock, your head swimming as you instantly get high just from the simple act of standing so near to the bottle.  Coughing heavily in the mastic air, you pinch your fingers around your nose and approach the cap, the usable brush attached at the bottom.  It’s a little heavy, making it a bit hard to maneuver effectively with the thing, but you can pick it up at least.  A clump of gleaming dark blue liquid clings to the black bristles of the brush as you walk toward Carly’s feet.  Her toes stop wiggling for a moment, and shrugging, you allow the brush to slide down and splay the bristles onto her big toenail. 

                You never really pictured the title “artist” entering into an apt description of you, but it has now.

You begin to work, swabbing the brush all over her thick ivory nail, rolling the plastic cap over your shoulder as if aiming a bazooka, rubbing every inch of her previously clean nail with the gooey material.  The longer you swab, the thicker layers of the liquid getting stuck in little plops, you can’t help but feel dizzy from the intense smell, easily beating out any faint hint of watermelon body wash or stale sweat you could find near Carly’s foot.  The smell of the paint is just downright oppressive, and as you finish up Carly’s big toe, looking it over to ensure you’ve covered every last spot in the shining dark blue, you wonder if you’ll be able to make it through this whole thing without passing out on a trip.

                The rest of the job is an odd experience for you as you continue painting your little sister’s nails like a tiny, freakish pedicurist with the smell growing more and more prominent in your nostrils.  Between each toe, you return to the bottle, reaching as high as you can, and dab the bristles back inside before returning to her foot with a fresh batch. 

By the tenth toe, you’re higher than a kite, your eyelids drooping lazily as you struggle to stay standing up straight.  Scrubbing hard into every corner of her light pink plate covering each toe and turning it into the vibrant blue, you feel like you hear music from somewhere far off, although you’re not sure where.  You’re not even sure you’re hearing it.  For all you know, it might be right in front of you, and you’re supposed to be seeing it instead of hearing it.  Who knows, anyway?  Who the hell is going to tell you differently if you saw it, anyway?  For a moment, you think you can smell something that smells distinctly like the number eight, but after a second you realize it’s just the wafting polish in the air. 

Oh well; those two things are pretty much the same thing, anyway.

                “Almost done down there?” comes your sister’s voice.  “If I’d had Nikki do this instead of you, she’d have been done like ten minutes ago.”  Calmly, your sister arches up her big toe on her other foot, which you just finished painting, and lifts it up off the ground.  You stare at it, the peachy flesh’s hypnotic toe print rings beginning to spin the longer you stare at them.  Eventually, you think you see eyes, a nose, and a mouth.  You squint in your drug-induced stupor and see the pretty illusion of Laura’s face printed on the bottom of your sister’s cruel toe.  Gasping happily, you rush forward, dropping to your knees so you can reach it better, and grasp your arms around your sister’s soft toe, pressing your lips against the dry base, where you think you see Laura’s lips.

                You continue to kiss at Carly’s big toe, holding the sides tightly in your fingers.  Eventually, your sister feels what you’re doing and looks down, a bit weirded out for a moment, but she doesn’t seem to feel this way for long. 

“Hey… aren’t you such a sweet little guy?” she coos, twitching her toe in response to your passionate kiss.  “Keep it up.  You’re doing great.”  As you continue desperately kissing all over the toe, Carly calmly rolls her foot forward on her ball.  Her toe clenches onto your body, pushing you gently to the ground as her big toe presses down on you, pinning you so forcefully you’re rendered nearly immobile.  You spread your legs out, allowing her to lay most of her big toe along your body.  You’re now so deep in the hallucination, still seeing Laura’s smiling face and thinking she’s kissing you back, you begin to lap lightly with the tip of your tongue against Carly’s flavorful, thick toe pad, feeling the grinding levels of her toe print stamped along your lips and tongue by traces of dirt.  Responding to your submissive embrace, your sister’s big toe begins clenching onto your body, burying your dick in her dry joint crevice.  It hurts, but you don’t even notice it, as you begin licking hungrily at the toe prints, digging in as hard as you can to the bulbous toe flesh with your fingers.  You’re so high at this point, the somewhat musty and even sweaty taste of Carly’s foot doesn’t register in your head, instead making you think you’re tasting cherries, or some flowery mix of scents from Laura’s lips.

                “Good boy… good boy… good boy…” whispers Carly slowly, clearly entranced by your show of perceived submission as she continues lovingly clenching you hard into her toe flesh, encouraging you to keep hugging your helpless, naked form against her foot and laying your wet kisses upon it.  “You’re making me a happy girl, little bro.  You know that?”

                You don’t even answer as you close your eyes, imagining Laura’s tongue swiping around inside your own in a wonderful, carnal manner, her lips pressed damply against your own, her hands snaking down to your crotch and cradling your junk through your pants.  In reality, you’re just spreading your tongue and kisses all over some very thick, dry toe flesh belonging to your sister, and the feeling of having your dick touched is the sensation of it being folded up helplessly inside the deep wrinkles of Carly’s toe, but it’s nicer that you don’t have to realize this directly. 

You feel fantastic. 

Finally, as the vision begins to fade, you release your grip on Carly’s toe, laying down, while she continues working your body with her heavy flesh, wiggling her others toes around you.

                “One more, for good luck?” requests Carly slyly.  “Just for me?”  You nod, obliging her more easily than normal in your ridiculously stoned state, and press your lips back against her toe.  You actually begin sucking against the flesh, tightening your grip around the edge of her newly painted nail.  She giggles, culminating with the softest moan she could probably make, clearly enjoying your impromptu devotional display.  As you release your lips with a soft pop, Carly’s foot slides off of you.  An instant later, her fingers are curling around you, whipping you upward.  Although your head is still swimming in the crazy visions slightly, the sudden lack of stinging paint stench, which has suddenly been replaced by the much more mild scent of vanilla hand lotion on the cushy layers of puffy flesh surrounding your body from every angle and feeling you over.

                Carly lifts you up towards her face, yawning loudly and blowing out a combination of hot air and what smells like pizza over you, before smiling.  “You know what?  I think I like you, Jack.  You can be a real cutie when you feel like it; I just don’t know what I’d do without you around here.”

                “Mmhmm…” you moan, groggily regaining your normal consciousness as the effects begin to wear off.  She props her feet up onto the chair, wiggling her feet and examining your handiwork.

                “Not bad, bro, not bad.  You did get a little thick in a few spots, but mostly, I guess I won’t be embarrassed the next time I wear something open-toed outside,” she grins.  “Guess I’ve found my new pedicurist, huh?”  You nod diagonally, wondering contemplatively what music would taste like if you were given the opportunity to ingest some.  You figure that if you moved fast enough, you could catch some.  It seems like it would be easiest to catch some that someone else made while speaking to you, as it would already be coming for you.  It would be a simple matter of snatching it. 

Right? 

You don’t really care about that idea anymore; you’re already wondering about your next important matter of discussion: elephants.  Big, green elephants.  Discussion?  Are there others here? 

No, it’s just you. 

And your sister’s hand, but you’re not including that thing in the conversation.  Hands can’t talk anyway.  Can they?  You look closely at your sister’s soft fingers, which are wrapped tightly around you, studying the barely noticeable indents representing the fingerprints along the inside of her hand.  You press your face against the flesh of her finger, trying to get a closer look, but mostly all you get is a noseful of her vanilla lotion scent.  Instantly, your brain begins snapping back more fully into reality, and you shake your head around wildly, wondering what’s going on, before settling down, a few microscopic beads of cold sweat rolling down your neck.

                “Are you… okay?  You look a little sick,” says Carly uneasily.  “If you’re gonna puke, you better tell me, because I’m definitely dropping you if you gag up all over my hand.”

                “I’m… I’m good, I’m good…” you mutter dizzily.

                “Uh-huh… yeah… okay, let’s just wrap this up for the night, huh?”

                “Cool.”

                “You gonna get sick?”

                “Nope.”

                “Really?”

                “No…” you mumble, puking heavily onto your sister’s fingers.  She shivers in disgust, but doesn’t let go of you, and instead stands up, heading for the bathroom.

                “Great…” she mutters, annoyed.  “You should be glad I’m in such a good mood tonight, you little sicko.”

                “Sorry…” you sputter, coughing to get the nasty taste out of your throat.

                “Whatever.  Okay, head’s up, pukehead,” she says simply, flipping the light switch on and lowering you toward the sink bowl, where she releases you.  You roll toward the center, bonking your head against the metal drain. 

This doesn’t make much difference though, as your head was already flipping its shit very thoroughly from the intoxicating, solitary rave you just had next to your sister’s mammoth toes.  Grimacing as you spit out the remains of the vomit into the drain, you admit to yourself that you at least got to experience the closest thing you’ll most likely ever see to a party scene.  And from the experience you’re having right now, you doubt it’s something you’d want to experience again.  At the very least, though, you seem to be immune to physical pain while under the influence, so that’s a plus considering Carly just dumped you uncaringly against the metal drain.

                As you struggle to your feet, you suddenly are slammed back against the sink bottom, stained with white, foamy splotches of dried tooth paste spit from Carly, as an icy stream of water comes careening out of the faucet onto you.  You drag your soaked self out of the immediate stream, pulling yourself onto your knees, and scooping up the heavy stream onto your face to wash away the filth.  The perfect pillar of opaque liquid is suddenly broken, though, as Carly sticks her hands into it, rubbing her fingers together to rid them of the tiny globule of vomit she got on them.  This allows the water to cascade off of her hands like a fountain, spraying you hard once again from an angle and allowing you to flop back into a particularly thick clump of dried tooth paste.  Your fall actually breaks past the cracked outer shell, and your back is suddenly soaked in liquid tooth paste, which had only begun to solidify inside into a whipped, paste-like material.  You gag, pushing off but instantly slipping along the slick, sloped ground, ending up back against the drain as more water rushes down over you.  Suds then begin splashing down as Carly rubs her hands almost raw with some flowery hand soap, the bubbles forming around your limbs and shifting as you try to get up again.

                After thoroughly rinsing her hands off, Carly’s ice cold fingers grip you again.  You shiver as she carries you back into the dorm, stooping quickly as she snatches the nail polish bottle from the ground.  She stops by your drawer, creaking it open just enough to slip you inside.  She brings you close to her face, her nose sending warm air down onto you.  “Better sleep well, Jack.  We’re getting up early tomorrow.”

                “We?”

                “Yep.  You’re gonna be hanging out with your big sissy tomorrow morning.  Won’t that be fun?”

                “What… are… we doing?” you ask hesitantly, pretty positive you don’t want to know the answer.  She grins smugly at you.

                “We’re going to get in… a little exercise, bro,” she answers, winking.  With her other hand, she dips the polish brush into the bottle and brings it up to your body, splaying the bristles against your stomach.  It tickles, but the smell also immediately fills your nostrils, sending your pleasure centers into overdrive as you descend once again into your happy mode.  Carly giggles at the effect, coating most of you except your face in the stuff, before blowing you off to dry and laying your newly painted body inside the cracked drawer.

                “Get some sleep.  You’re gonna be leaving this room tomorrow morning, little boy blue,” she snickers, pushing the drawer almost closed.  You stare into the darkness, smiling oddly as your brain is flooded with another blue nail polish-induced hallucination from a simple article of your sister’s cosmetics.

End Notes:

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Chapter 6: Early Morning Jog by Jacksmith

                The next sensation you experience is a wall of muscular flesh wrapping itself around your body and roughly yanking you upward through the chilly air nearly fast enough to give you a severe case of the bends if your altitude change didn’t happen to only consist of about twenty inches or so.  You blink a few times, groaning as your sister squeezes a little tighter to wake you up, inadvertently pressing down on your bruised ribs.

                “Little broooooo…” coos Carly, rocking her hand side to side, cradling you.  “Wakey, wakey.”

                “C-C-Car…” you mumble, and suddenly the after-effects of the previous night’s high begin to hit, your brain receiving the equivalent feeling of being split in two.  You grit your teeth, settling the incoming roar of pain down to a pained muffle.  No point in giving Carly something to take advantage of this early in the morning.  “Carly?  Carly?”  The word sounds odd to you, but it’s probably just because your brain is concentrating so hard on keeping you from convulsing in discomfort.

                “That’s my name; don’t wear it out, little Jackie-poo, or I’ll make you buy me a brand new one,” winks Carly, grinning widely, politely keeping her voice low enough that it doesn’t exacerbate your condition.  “And I honestly have NO idea how you’d work that one out, since I don’t give you an allowance or anything.”

                “What?” you gasp, too busy grunting in agony to try and decode your sister’s nearly nonexistent sense of humor.

                “I SAID…” breathes Carly deeply and more loudly to get your attention.  “I’ll make you buy me a new NAME!”  The sudden increase in volume rips through your ear drums, and you yelp, the vibration reverberating through your skull with such speed you would swear someone just bonked you on the head with a rubber mallet.

                And, of course, as Carly pulls you in closer for this newest public announcement, your ears are joined in their misery by your nose as a tidal wave of morning breath engulfs you.  The unappetizing putrescence of Carly’s tongue bacteria and throat slime reeks so heavily, the air around your face feels damp, and you begin to cough, trying to clear your lungs of the awfulness.  This proves ineffective within moments, and without warning you’re hacking away, causing your brain further pain as the persistent, rotten cloud of stench lingers like gaseous paste around your watering eyes and mouth.  It makes your cheeks feel gooey as Carly’s warm, steamy breath condenses slightly on your face, and you feel the cold touch of microscopic spit droplets forming on your cheeks as your sister proudly repeats her joke to you so close to her mouth, it’s like you’re in the splash zone at a Sea World, where the water happens to be floating with garbage and partially digested food.

                “Geez, bro, get ahold of yourself, okay?” groans Carly, raising an eyebrow and pulling you away from her lips to give you a clean breathe of oxygen.  “My breath can’t smell THAT bad in the morning.”

                You heavily beg to differ in your mind.  Obviously, though, you wouldn’t repeat this particular factoid to your titanic little sister.

                Carly loosens the grip of her fingers around your body, brandishing you in her palm and wrinkling her upper lip in disgust.  You question her expression for a moment before remembering that you entire body is still encrusted with blue nail polish from the night before when she so unceremoniously painted you like a little china doll out of sheer slap-happiness.

                Slowly, one of Carly’s pointed fingers descends onto your stomach.  For a second, you’re afraid she’s going to scratch you again, but instead, she latches lightly onto the tiny, crunchy layer of polish and begins picking at it and flicking it off of her fingertips in annoyance.  Once your body is mostly cleaned, save for your crotch, Carly grips her fingers back around you, warming your momentarily chilled body again with her palm.

                “I’ll let you do that part,” she says uneasily, pointing at your tiny dick.  “I wouldn’t wanna accidentally tear one of your dinky balls off when I was trying to clean you.”

                You shudder at the very thought of this, and Carly giggles, the thick skin of her hand vibrating around your entire body like a heavy duty stereo speakers.

                “You ready, now?” she says with a lingering snicker, her eyes watering somewhat from the effort to speak clearly.

                “For what?” you question uneasily, the pain in your head finally settling back down to a normal level.

                “Exercise,” she grins, extending her hand that happens to be holding you out to its fullest position.  Now, with much more of your sister’s body in your line of vision, you realize what she’s wearing: a white, ratty running shirt, and black short shorts, revealing most of her toned, tanned legs, down to her running shoe-clad feet.

                “Umm…” you drawl dryly, not entirely sure what this is supposed to mean for you.

                “I’ve been feeling so… so…” shrugs Carly, searching for the perfect word as she confidently strides over from her dresser to her homework desk.  “…down… this past week, that I just need a little pick-me-up.  And there’s no better way to do that than to get the endorphins flowing, you know?” she chuckles, lowering her hand slowly to the desktop.  She opens her hand, allowing you to roll down the soft slope of her fingers and onto a large sheet of her homework she left on the desk, a variety of calculus scribbles adorning the rows of pink and blue crisscrosses.  “And I don’t mean to rush you or anything, little bro,” she says, rummaging through the supplies she keeps on her desk.  “But I’ve got class in about an hour, so we’ve gotta get going.”

                “We?” you gulp, still not grasping the mechanic of this.

                “I made you a promise, little guy, remember?” she says gently.  “I told you you were going with me this morning.  And I’m a girl of my word.”

                You can certainly attest to the veracity of this last phrase in particular.

                Carly’s hands go to work at the pencils, erasers, rulers, and random miscellaneous beauty products she has strewn about in her school supplies, casually lifting objects out of the way that could easily crush you if she were to drop them and let them roll down the desk toward you like a boulder.  Finally, sighing with delight, Carly pinches her thumb and forefinger together around what she was searching for: a nearly-empty roll of Scotch tape.

                “Time to load up for a little ride, Jack.  Hold still.”

                “Huh?” you mumble, taking a few steps back as Carly calmly brings the tape closer to you and tears off a piece over double as long as your body between two of her fingers, allowing it to dangle from her powerful thumb by the adhesive side.

                “Now, be a good little boy…” she orders with a soft, reassuring whisper, bringing the tape closer to you and stretching it across your stomach.  “…and do what big sissy says.  Hold still, and try not to get your arms in the way.”

                “Get my arms in the… WOAH!” you screech as Carly lifts you up by the end of the piece of tape, dangling you far over the desk top, leaving your fate fully in the nonexistent hands of a simple piece of Scotch tape.  You instantly grasp onto the tape with your hands for extra support, and find each of them hopelessly attached to the tacky dry glue like bugs on flypaper.

                Carly pinches with her other hand at the lowest flap of her short shorts on her right leg, lifting it and revealing the thickest, most muscular section of her thighs.  She then brings you closer, eventually letting you bounce against the firm flesh with your head before pinning you hard against it, pushing the tape down onto her own skin.

                Turning your head to the side, you grasp the full picture of what’s going on: Carly has just taped you onto her quad, just underneath her running shorts, and you happen to be facing right up against her warm skin, leaving your backside exposed save for the tape she twirled around you for extra security.  And, of course, your hands are twisted up in the gooey mess of tape glue, giving you zero method to push off slightly from the absolute, titanic pillar of your sister’s skin that you’re being pinned so hard against.

                “Told you to keep your little arms out of the way, Jack,” she giggles, patting at your body with the wide palm of her hand before slowly releasing the shorts flap, cloaking you heavily in the airy material of her exercise pants.  The lack of fresh air coming in suddenly makes Carly’s fruity body wash-scented leg the dominant scent, but the fact that she actually hasn’t bathed yet this morning allows it to mix with another indistinguishable stink: a dank, unkempt reek nearly ingrained into the fibers of the shorts.  Carly’s pores seem to almost be leaking it right onto you in trace amounts.  It occurs to you that Carly was lying on her backside all night, and now that she’s walking around, any excess bodily grime that might have been dispensed in microscopic quantities through your sister’s skin is being jostled about, all over you.

                Carly takes a step.  As she pushes off from the ground with great purpose, you feel her quad flexing, almost writhing at a glacial pace, through her tanned skin, and you feel the tape tighten slightly against your back, forcing you to hug your sister’s wide leg more: the outward, bulbous shape of Carly’s thigh is so wide that you can’t even fathom being able to reach all the way around, and yet you know that your little sister’s legs are toned and shapely from all the training she gets for basketball.  The thought is mind-boggling to you.

                For a moment, you experience near stomach-flipping weightlessness as your sister’s leg is suspended in midair, all her body weight placed onto her left leg.  Her muscle unclenches, and gives way to the softer, plusher feel of her skin, and for a moment, you are calmed and almost comforted by the smooth flesh of your gargantuan sibling’s warm leg touching the entire front side of your body.  You press your cheek against her leg, closing your eyes, in an attempt to distract yourself from the terrifying, gut-wrenching fact that if the tape should snap, Carly probably wouldn’t be able to grab you in time to save you from a death plunge to the carpeted floor of her dorm room.

However, a mere second later, Carly plants her right foot back down on the carpeted ground with far more force than she needed, sending a rumble through the ground and practically sending a shockwave up toward you.  The feeling comes to an end and you feel her quad tightening again, the hard muscle seeming to press against the almost doughy outer layer of Carly’s skin like a domino effect, right into you: Carly’s skin seems almost to be firming against you, jamming your entire body harder against her leg.  You wince as your dick is squeezed between your own crotch region and the never-ending mass of your little sister’s leg, so you quickly part your legs, allowing your member to dangle in relative safety between your own thighs.  You have a feeling this is going to get rougher before it gets better.

“Let’s get moving, little bro.  I’ve been needing this for a few days now…” laughs Carly as she takes several steps toward the door, pounding you harder against the slightly jiggling outer layer of her slender leg with each thundering footfall.

Chapter 7: Prisoner of War by Jacksmith

Sometimes, when you’re going through a difficult experience in your life, you find it a very useful option to force your mind into an alternative situation.  A dream world.  Something to take your mind off whatever it is that’s happening to you.  As a kid in elementary school, you remember having to have surgery on one of your wrists.  Before the procedure, while waiting to be sedated, sweating out the anxious minutes, you discovered the technique by telling yourself that you weren’t on an operating table.  You were actually in a capsule about to be launched out into space, free to wander the cosmos unfettered.  It helped you immensely, and was part of the reason why you didn’t end up in tears as they placed the mask over your face to put you out.

A similar strategy is heavily in play for you at this moment as Carly’s early morning jog has been underway for roughly thirty minutes.

You imagine a jungle, allowing the illusion to fill your mind completely.  The air is hot.  Thick.  Muggy.  An unpleasant atmosphere, in general, you decide, but it feels good: like a sweatbox in a gym.  Your skin dampens as you simply stand still, taking it in, the heat like a cloud swallowing you up absolutely.

You inhale deeply, drinking in the scents.  A musky, animalistic odor.  Like bodies sweating all over one another and then letting it soak into their skin.  You wrinkle your nose.  It’s not a pleasant smell, but it’s the jungle.  It comes with the territory.

You feel a cool, clean droplet land on your hair.  You wipe it away, smiling to yourself, before a large splatter of it comes down, absolutely soaking the top of your head and sending miniature dribbles cascading down your cheeks, some of it even getting in your eyes and nose.  Of course, you don’t care, because it’s clean rainforest water just trickling down from the sky like a gift from the heavens.  And those kinds of things are good.

You walk up to the closest tree, and with a feeling of warmth in your psyche, hug yourself tightly to the smooth, slim tube of wood, shaved clean of its bark, running upward.  As the warmth and musk settle into your nostrils, the rain continuing to pound down onto you and into your face, you smile.  Because you’re in the jungle.

The jungle, damn it.

                No, you’re not.  You’re not in the jungle, you suddenly realize.

                The jungle air and sweltering heat don’t come from the climate, but from the oppressive body heat of your overworked sister’s skin.

                The fusty, odiferous animal scents don’t come from mating or tired beasts, but from the grody, spice-spiked BO of your sister: a cancerous, nauseating fog of sweaty balm.

                The smooth, rounded tree trunk you’re hugging isn’t made of wood.  It’s made of firm, muscular, toned flesh, clenching itself in and out in such a mesmerizing pattern there might as well be complex machinery operating Carly’s right leg itself, forcing her tight muscles and soft skin into action.

                And, of course, there’s not a clean rainstorm cleansing your body, splashing into your hair, running down your face and into your eyes and nose.  Your little sister is simply sweating.

                Rivers.

                As reality cruelly slaps you with a metaphorical, metallic rod across the skull, you sputter, cough, and shiver all at once, gasping for breath, and remember what’s going on.  Carly’s running shoes against the dark pavement far below at the end of her mile-long legs, which become visible in quick flashes as her sweat-soaked shorts flip back and forth between hugging themselves damply against your body and being flung outward ever so slightly.  With each unforgiving flap against you, the cold, soggy fabric feels like a wide whip cracking itself against your freezing, battered skin before swooping outward again, allowing you a brief, painless reprieve before snuggling around you with another wet whack.

                Your hair feels tacked together, a gooey substance pervading seemingly every single follicle on your cranium.  With each slam of Carly’s muscular leg, a fresh batch of sweat drops comes careening down her leg from underneath the strap of her underwear, which long ago had absorbed all the translucent excrement it could, forcing the thick, salty bulbs to roll down the newly slicked vertical surface of Carly’s leg.  They leak over your cheeks, stinging your skin as layer upon layer of starchy droplets soak into you. 

You cough as another generous, warm droplet of your sister’s sweat leaks down her leg and unavoidably toward your lips.  As you spit it, though, your head is jostled hard into Carly’s leg as she plants it on the ground again, and the droplet pops right against your nose, forcing you to inhale it so hard that most of the sweat bubble finds its way into your body regardless of your efforts.  And once it’s this far, with no wait to spit upward without it coming back down, your options become limited to drowning in the moisture or actually swallowing the cruel, greasy crystal of sisterly exudation.

So you do.

                The morsels of sweat that don’t find their way up your nose or splash against your lips slide down your overheated body and into the tape, slowly weakening the bonds.  Particularly for the last ten minutes (or what you perceive as ten minutes, anyway), you’ve felt there being slightly more give in the tape as far as keeping you trained against the steamy wall of leg flesh.  This of course means that you might more easily slip right out of the confines of the tape and drop straight toward your death on the pavement far below, but the detriment doesn’t stop there.  As it turns out, being forced to more closely hug your sister’s leg was a blessing, because now that you have some wiggle room, each time Carly slams a foot down on the ground, you slide back against the tape before being slapped wetly back against her limb with even more force than before, as if you were belly flopping into a taut leather barrier with each of Carly’s Brobdinagian footfalls. 

And with each step, you find the pattern repeating: being drawn back by forces impossible to combat, a fleeting moment of weightlessness against the sticky, wet piece of weakening tape, before feeling the firming of your sister’s leg and the instantaneous, numbing smashing of your body back against her tough pillar of tan skin.

“D-D-D…” you gasp, figuring that speaking is something to do with yourself, and anything to do is better than just sitting there and stewing in your lack of power to do anything about the situation.  You have to have some kind of power left somewhere, and you intend to use it.

“DAMN IT!” 

As you scream out these two words with great defiance, a potent bead of cold sweat trickles downward, snaking toward you like a cobra looking for easy prey.  It splashes against your face, dribbling messily over your lips, as if punishing you for your exuberance.  You hack in defense, but you’re far too late.  You wrench, tasting as the salty flavors molest your throat, and ponder this newly discovered fact: even karma seems on the side of your insane, heartless, slave-driving sister, regardless of right and wrong.

You hate how philosophical you find yourself getting in situations like this as you feel another healthy dribble of cold sweat settle moistly into your sticky hair.

Damn it, you resolve to only think to yourself rather than speak it aloud, as you finally swallow the nearly poisonously salty droplet of your little sister’s sweat with a painful grimace to yourself.

Damn it.

Chapter 8: Stone Cold Burn by Jacksmith

                You figure you must have passed out at some point, or at least become completely delirious during the jog, because when you become conscious of your surroundings again, you’re not being held precariously against your sister’s toned leg by a steadily sweat-soaking piece of tape from her desk, you’re laying atop Carly’s horizontal quad as she props it up on her bed, perpendicular to her other leg.  You struggle for a moment against the damp, soggy bonds of the tape, and find it won’t come loose, as your hands are still bound into the twisted ruffles of gummy Scotch.

                Spitting, you lick your lips a little to dampen them, but quickly retract your tongue into your mouth in a searing double-take, your lips quivering, as you realize a sizeable layer of Carly’s sweat has actually dried to nearly every square inch of your face.  Your hair, at this point, is a dried-sweat-encrusted, smelly mess, your sister’s musk heavily pervading it.

                It’s times like these that you think you’d endure a thousand hours of branding torture for a single two-minute shower.

                “Earth to little brother, Earth to little brother…” coos Carly sweetly, batting gently at your cheeks with a pinky fingertip.  “The USS Carly has come in for a landing,” she giggles.

                You mentally groan.  Carly’s misplaced sense of humor never ceases to irritate you, although you have a feeling you would find her much funnier at this moment if she hadn’t just forced you to spend the past forty minutes fearing that you might tumble to a bloody death on the pavement while simultaneously getting whipped in the back and drinking half a gallon’s worth of her wicked sweat.

                Carly’s fingers wrestle with the damp tape, which is barely holding on by the remaining glue that hadn’t been washed away by her streaming, salty solvent during the jog.  Finally peeling it off her warm, sticky leg, she dangles it over the bed a few inches.  You are far too exhausted to move, and so you simply remain stuck to the tape like flypaper, your arms crossed and pinned to your sides, your legs hanging, as Carly holds the twisted tape between her long forefinger and thumb, watching you spin before her deep blue eyes like a baby’s toy mobile.

                “How do you feel, little guy?” she asks at length, after the tape has finally ceased aimlessly spinning around in its swirling pattern, her hand still keeping you above the surface of the bed so that you can’t actually get your footing to try and end the merry-go-round from hell.  “Because I feel pretty freaking good.”

                “Oh, G…” you mumble randomly at nothing in particular.  Your head is spinning so wildly and you’ve become so moistly drunk on your sister’s sweat, you frankly just want her to wad you up into the woolen tube sock and put you in the drawer so you can sleep this off.

                You cough at this thought, spitting out another mouthful of dried mineral from inside your cheek.  What did you just think to yourself?

                That you want to sleep this off.  That’s right.  That’s what it was.  Nothing else.

                Your next semi-conscious thought comes in the form of spine-tingling shock as a chill rushes through your body.  It begins slowly at first, causing goose bumps to prickle along your arms and legs, and the hairs all over your body to stand on end as if electrified by some invisible force.  Then, it rushes through your body fully.  Your skin ices over, nearly going numb, connecting quickly into your blood.  You feel like your system has just been flushed with liquid nitrogen, and as it all finally comes together in your synapses, you writhe like a worm, flopping against whatever it was that just induced this feeling in you.

                You open your mouth and roar with shock, the feeling of cold continuously rushing across your body.  As your skin slowly comes back into feeling, the chills continuing to ripple through your head and down to your toes, you notice that whatever it was that just touched you wasn’t your sister’s finger.

                It’s wax. Your entire back is becoming coated in it, thick and clay-like, and it’s only continuing to ridge its way up your sides, onto your stomach and crotch, as you continue to be dragged through it by the twisted tape piece.  Your head is bonked against the plastic rimmed lip of what is evidently a jar before Carly spoons you back through the waxy center again, stirring you thoroughly until most of your body is coated in the freezing goop.

                Your skin begins to feel sore, as the wax is much more solid than liquid, and drags violently at your skin as you coast weightily over the surface.  As your body has settled into a steady pattern of insane shivering, you are finally lifted out of the container, a mass of wax probably equal to or even greater than your own body weight clinging to you in such tight layers that it seems like you should be warmed, and yet you’re not.  It feels more like you just shoveled thirty gallons of fresh-fallen sleet down your gullet.

                As you rise higher and higher into the air away from the container, your unsteady eyes manage to make out the colorful blue, red, and orange hues of the bright jar label.  The large white bubble letters.  Your vision finally comes into clear enough focus through the tortuously unending chills, and you groan aloud to yourself as you read it.

                “ICY HOT”

                You would expect nothing less from Carly.

                Your quick midair reprieve comes to an end as you are pancaking with a gooey slap against Carly’s still-propped quad, the muscle-relaxing remedy instantly adhering you onto your sister’s warm leg.  Bouncing the tape lightly, then, Carly begins to drag you along her leg slowly.  Your body reacts confusedly as the hot, thick flesh of your gargantuan sister’s impressively massive runner’s quad smushes through the layers of chemical wax, your stomach soon running along the smooth, sweaty surface, leaving your arms and legs to remain partially frozen in a cocoon of freezing wax.

                Freezing for the time being, anyway.

                As you reach Carly’s shin, the motion reverses, and she slides you back down along your tape yo-yo up her leg and along the curved edge of her tanned leg.  She tilts you at a lower angle, and soon your cheek is being ground against the ridiculously wide fleshy curvature, gumming IcyHot collecting against your nose and battling for high dominance amongst your senses with the flaking dried sweat of your sister’s leg as it chips lightly off against your chin and lips.

                “Oh, YEAH!” laughs Carly, slapping the side of her own leg playfully as she turns your body around for another lap along her leg.  “Wooh!  Yes!  So c-c-cold…” she giggles, stuttering purposefully as she watches your hapless ride along her long limb.  “Went way too far on that round.  Oh, God, I’m going to be feeling my legs until next week…”

                You let out a little screech of pained, frigid shock, while your sister simultaneously sighs pleasurably at the relief your little wax-coated body is bringing her overheated quadricep.

                The moment of exchanged sound effects is split by the cheerful, bouncy rhythm of Katy Perry’s “California Gurlz” trilling out from Carly’s cell phone, which rests peacefully in the folds of her bed sheet.

                “Give me two seconds, little bro,” winks Carly, continuing to drag you along her leg and ignoring your pathetic whimpering as she scoops her cell phone up with the hand not pinching your tape line.  Humming the catchy tune as she snaps open her phone and reads the ID line, she raises her eyebrows.  “Looks like it’s mom,” she says, tapping the receive key with a shrug and placing her phone against her ear.

                She always seems to enjoy teasing you like this.  Your mother is on the phone, no more than two feet away from you right now.  If only you could summon up the correct volume level, you could let your parents know what’s happened the last five years.  That you didn’t run away and die.  That your sister isn’t really a human being.  She’s secretly one of the cruelest, most sadistic creatures to ever walk the earth, and she’s been systematically torturing your body and mind for what has felt like twenty lifetimes.

                But, unfortunately enough for your psyche, you are less than three inches tall, and your loudest volume would only register as a muffled squeak in the phone; it might as well be static pops.

                In moments this unbearable for your desire for freedom to handle, you can thank your sister for giving you something to occupy your attention, as you spit out a bitter, greased wad of Icy Hot that finds its way onto your teeth.

                “Hey mom,” says Carly sleepily into the phone, continuing to massage her leg with your body, swooping you down her thigh with particular roughness that rubs your skin red raw.  “Nothing much.  No, you didn’t wake me up, I just went for a run.  What?  Yeah, I gotta shower, class starts in like twenty minutes.  I’ll be fine!  It’s like a two minute walk from here, seriously, I… what?”

                You try to imagine your parents’ voices.  What they might be saying whenever one of them calls your sister.  They probably speak with cheerful voices.  Ask how Carly’s doing, what she’s up to, if she needs anything.

                A tiny, icy tear rolls down your cheek to imagine any one of these things being given to you just one more time.  Your teeth chatter together along a particularly hard swipe down Carly’s toughened hamstring.

                “YES, I have a jacket.  Mom, I know it’s December, but it’s like 60 degrees here, you know that, I don’t need a… what?  Yeah.  Yep.  YES, mom.  What?  Yeah, I’m still coming out there, why wouldn’t I?  I have two finals left, and they’re not that bad, I already got through calculus, that was kind of a bust… yes I studied, oh my God.”

                You can’t help but smile to yourself despite the stinging nostalgia.  Your mother is evidently unchanged from her constantly worrying nature.

                “Yeah, yeah, I have enough gas.  It’s only like three hours, isn’t it?  Yeah, I’ll leave in the morning, it’ll take that long if I go on the highway and… no, I’m not going to speed like crazy, I’m not dad… huh?  Right.  Christmas traffic.  Sure.  Okay.  Yeah, I’ll leave SUPER early, okay?  When did you say?  I’m gonna leave Saturday, probably before the sun’s up.  I should get there before Aunt Karen does.  Pick up what?  A cranberry Jell-o mold?  Mom, nobody likes that stuff.  What?  Fine, fine…” mumbles your sister, clearly becoming bored with the continued conversation.

                It’s at this point that the second half of the wax’s namesake begins to kick in.  Your chills go away.  Your body settles into a more normal temperature before passing into sweltering territory.  Hands quivering, you grit your teeth, awaiting searing pain to rip through your skin and turn you into a bloody red pulp, but luckily enough, the stuff just gets heated enough to settle you down, and it’s frankly very welcome as Carly’s warm personal leg massage trudges onward uncomfortably.  You can’t be sure, but you’re almost certain your ankles are nearly twisted from how winding this little job has become.

                “Right, mom.  Yeah.  I’ll be there.  You got it.  Tell dad hi for me, ‘kay?  Gotta go, still have to shower for class.  Bye!” she says sweetly before snapping the phone closed and tossing it onto her pillow at the head of the bed.

                At last, she seems to be satisfied with her leg waxing.  You can almost feel the stiff hardened muscle behind the layers and layers of skin loosening, becoming softer themselves.  Admittedly, it makes the experience a little more pleasant for your sore face and body, but it’s a moot point now as you are gently peeled with a sticky pop from your sister’s leg.

                “Rest up, little bro.  Road trip in four days,” she says with a grin, pulling her leg off the bed and stomping hard on the floor.  Taking several steps toward the other side of the room, she yanks your sock drawer open and lowers you back toward it.  “You can go ahead and get yourself out of there, right, Mr. Muscles?” she giggles, sliding the drawer partially closed again.  “Got class.  Be back later!” she whispers, disappearing from view, as you are left to struggle with the damp bonds of the remaining Scotch glue that still surround your body with the strength of steel cables.

                Your heart skips a few beats despite the fact that the tape isn’t going anywhere (as Carly knows perfectly well).  You’re leaving the campus for the first time in months.  Home.

                You’re going home.

End Notes:

Please comment!

Chapter 9: Donut Hole by Jacksmith

The rest of the week is one of the most excruciatingly long waits you’ve ever had to endure, and considering some of the situations you’ve been forcibly jammed into by your titanic sibling, that’s saying something, but Saturday morning comes almost unexpectedly.  As if you didn’t dare believe you were actually going to get to go home for Christmas and be near your family.

But you are.  Or, at least you think you are.  As you were unable to fall asleep Friday night with excitement, Carly was apparently forced to scoop you out of your sock and deposit you in the driver’s seat cup holder of her car, because you awake not in the musty safety of the sock drawer, but to circular plastic walls vibrating against your naked skin.

After driving for what feels like an hour or so, having regular stops for red lights, you feel the car lurching to a complete stop for several minutes.  You press your hands against the rough black material of the cup holder, standing on your tiptoes and trying to see something.  Unfortunately, Carly’s car’s cup holders are pretty deep, so you can’t see much of anything beyond the very top of your sister’s hair.  You hear the crackle of a radio voice.  You’re confused for a moment, and then get it as you look out the window, seeing a tall, colorful sign just outside the stopped car with a lot of pictures of cups and bagels.  You’re at a drive-thru joint for breakfast.

                “Welcome to Breakfast Hut.  What can I get you?” comes the unclear voice.  Carly clears her throat.

                “Hi, I need one small decaf vanilla latte, and a caramel custard donut.”

                “Anything else?”

                “Nope.”

                “Just to repeat, then: small decaf vanilla latte and caramel custard donut.”

                “That’s right!” chimes Carly happily.

                “First window, please,” comes the final statement before the radio crackles out.  The car lurches forward to the window.  You hear the jingling of coins, the flapping of dollar bills, and a low voice that you can’t quite make out, probably the cashier.  Then you hear a brown bag rustling loudly as it enters the car.

                “Thank you very much!” says Carly sweetly, giving her famously disarming impression.  You groan, marveling at the number of people your sister fools on an everyday basis into thinking she’s… well, not insane.  The window snaps shut, and then the car takes off again.  After a few minutes of driving, you hear the bag rustling as your sister’s gargantuan hands rip through it greedily.  The top of Carly’s head that you can see from your cup holder leans forward as she tries to drive and sort through the contents of her purchase, and you can feel the effect slightly as she taps at the wheel every so often to ensure you stay on course.  Then, a moment later, a shadow falls over your face.  The paper coffee cup, right over you, gripped powerfully by Carly’s fingers.  You gasp, cowering, as the cup lowers over you.

                “NO!  Carly, STOP!  I’m in here!” you gasp as the paper cup heedlessly lowers onto you.  You ball yourself up, flattening against the base of the cup holder, and realize with an instant left that the edge of the holder’s base is elevated for drinks, leaving roughly an inch of space in the center.  You quickly drop into this space, just as the rough paper fabric of the cup comes down on top of you, boxing you in.  The heat instantly begins to build up, and your shoulder, which is brushed up against the material, is forced to endure the burning feeling.  You cringe, squealing in discomfort from the growing heat and eventual pain of the cup.  You try rolling into different positions, but it’s no use; some part of you has to touch the cup.  Your body beginning to perspire, you settle in painfully with your side against the cup, the rest of you pressed as hard as you can into the plastic base to avoid even more pain.  You begin to whimper, weakly, as you develop cramps all over, the scalding cup still warming you at an alarming rate.  You suck air from the little crack of space coming in along one side of the cup’s rim, as it’s leaning slightly against one wall of the cup holder, wanting your sister to take a damned sip of coffee already.

                It takes about fifteen minutes, but finally, you feel the pressure of the steaming cup lifted from you and out by Carly’s fingers.  You hear her slurping up the stuff loudly and gulping it all in one load.  The cup then lowers back over you, and you cower back against the base, but this time Carly leans over the holder, her blonde ponytail whipping over her shoulder.  She wrinkles her nose as if disgusted by something.

                “Whoops.  Sorry, bro, I forgot I put you in that one,” she says half apologetically.  And by this, of course, she means she’s not sorry at all, she didn’t forget you were in there, and she put her ridiculously hot cup of coffee on top of you just because… well, why not?  You’re there, and you can’t do a single thing about it.  Might as well nearly scald some of your skin off by using your body as a coaster for her drink, just because the other cup holder DOESN’T contain a small person who happens to have emotions and pain sensors.  Makes perfect, logical sense; anyone would do the same.

                You shake your head bitterly.

                Carly’s hand shifts over, slamming the hot cup into the adjacent cup holder.  Then, a second later, you see a napkin being dropped into the holder.  You dodge to the side, pulling the thick fabric of the paper napkin off of you and recovering.  Just as you do, however, you find yourself pinned down by a mass of bread and flaky glucose.  The fried smell fills your nostrils, and it actually causes your mouth to water a little as you realize you’re being pinned hopelessly back into the cup holder, this time by the delicious pastry Carly picked up at the fast food place.  Of course, no matter how good something is, it can still kill you if you can’t breath.

                You push your hands up against the doughy crust of the thing, breaking up the opaque chips of sugar coating it.  Powdered sugar, like chalk, begins to coat your body and it seeps into your throat, causing you to cough.  However, you now have a breathing hole.  Your hands becoming very sticky from pushing up against the wall of yellowish crust, the sugar flakes melting into the heat of your body.   However, just when your arms are getting tired, the bulbous donut is lifted from your body, leaving a few stray plops of powder to fall onto you as Carly lifts it from the holder.   You hear a chomping sound, followed by a squishy sound as Carly’s teeth force their way through the gooey interior of the custard.  You step into the center of the napkin, still in the cup holder, craning your neck to see better. 

Suddenly, though, the donut is swooping back down.  You look up just in time to see the opening of the donut where Carly took a bite pointed squarely onto you, a dribble of brownish gold caramel custard filling dripping out in a long, globular blob.  You yelp in fright as Carly rams the entire donut right onto you, forcing you inside the bite hole opening, and into the soft, warm interior of the donut.

                The caramel filling instantly sticks to you, pinning you into the interior of the donut.  You strain forward, and open your mouth, eating through a small pocket of caramel and into an air bubble, where you take a breath gratefully.  Your world flips upside down, then, as you feel the pressure on the caramel changing as Carly presses in with different amounts of strength from each finger, compressing in on the squishy exterior.  Her hand spins around, and suddenly you hear the sound of Carly’s voice, very close.

                “Ahhhh…” she moans, bored sounding, as if getting a doctor check-up for her throat.  She’s “opening wide.”  You gasp, clawing madly at the caramel, but it’s no use.  A second later, you watch as a shred of donut, connected to thick strands of custard, are shorn from the pastry.  You peep through the air pocket and see Carly’s massive ivory teeth plowing right through the middle, stained burnt orange by the gooey contents of her breakfast.  As her teeth part for a second, still visible through the small peephole, you see the chewed up pulp of the sugary treat inside of her mouth before her lips, slaked with powder, close back together.  Her tongue laps up the loose, white dreck into her slimy muscle before you watch her closed lips munching, pulsating as she grinds the bite up.  Then, you see her lips purse a bit, and she swallows hard, downing the bite down her gullet, the tiniest puff of white powdered sugar escaping the boiling cavern of her mouth.  You try to fight for a better, position, but can’t, and watch horrified as her teeth part again, coming nearer and nearer to your face.

                Her teeth smash easily through the delicious, juicy filling of the donut, coming together with a terrifying smack mere inches from your sweating face.  You can make out every detail of those things, the slight traces of tartar lining them, the pinkish inflammation around her gums.  You hear a squashing sound inside her mouth, probably her tongue hammering a stray shred of donut from the last bite back toward her greased throat.  Then, finally, the teeth rip away, pulling upward.  This time, Carly chooses to chew with her mouth open.  You watch as the flaky piece of fried bread, flecked with goopy custard, is laid upon her teeth.  They mash slowly downward, smushing it into a pulp.  You then see a little river of her saliva flowing over her teeth, soaking the gummy remains into a nearly liquid form.  With some rapidfire smashes, her teeth pulverize the bite into a glistening mess of saliva and sugar.  Her lips close as she loudly swallows the bite, her throat bumping out ever so slightly as the piece begins its journey down your sister’s digestive tract.  She murmurs pleasurably, sighing deeply after.

                “Wow… that was pretty amazing tasting.  Probably the best donut I’ve ever had.  I wonder what their secret ingredient could be,” she says, and suddenly she shifts  the donut upward, locking eyes with you, still tucked safely into her pastry, and winking.  “I mean, it could be just about anything… little extra sugar, some spices, a pinch of salt…” she says, her lips parting again as her tongue wriggles its way out of the hot confines of her mouth.

                “Or MAYBE…” she muses cheerfully.  “Maybe they use little, tiny, naked boys in their donuts.  Yep… that must be it,” she says, nodding approvingly to herself, batting her long eyelashes.  “That must be what makes it so… sweet to eat.”  On her last word, she suddenly sticks her tongue out quickly, like a lizard, and jams her warm, slimy, pink tongue hard directly into the opening in the donut you were using to watch her eat.  She jams it against your nose and mouth, forcing gooey caramel-spit against your lips and forcing it to leak inside your own mouth.  You cringe, pulling back, but her tongue follows, actually mashing you further into the pastry. You crawl backward, terrified, as her tongue snakes further in, knocking crumbs and powder loose like dust.  Leaving you trembling, bunched into a ball again, you watch as her tongue slips back out and she laughs loudly, still gripping the donut at face level.

                “Sorry, little bro, I just can’t help myself… the way you look in there, like a little elf boy spying on me while I eat my breakfast…” she giggles, regaining her composition.  “I can’t help it if your body makes things taste just a little bit better.”  With this, she lowers her hand and plops the donut back into the napkin-covered cup holder.  You clamber back out of the donut, landing at the base.  It’s at this point you realize you’re covered from head to foot, every inch, in a thick batter of caramel custard.  You hardly have a second, though, before Carly’s fingers are pinching your slick sides and lifting you out.

                She holds you at eye level, her vision shifting ever so slightly as she continues driving, while she tsks at you.  “Oh, no… look at the mess you’ve gotten yourself into, little bro.  Look at all the food you’re wasting, just all over you…” she says, sounding irritated.  “Hasn’t anyone ever told you about all the starving kids in Africa?”

                “Y-Yes?” you answer uncertainly.  “It was an accident.”

                She shakes her head.  “Well, accident or no accident, you still did it.  You still just wasted a bunch of custard by painting yourself with it or something.  Honestly, Jack, I don’t know when you’re going to outgrow this… phase of yours.”  You mentally roll your eyes.  Of course this is your fault.  Of course.  “But it’s okay, little bro,” she says.  “As your big sissy, it’s my job to have your back.  So, you’re forgiven for this.”

                Thank Jesus.

                “Although…” she says, and you quickly retract your thanks to the heavens.  Of course there’s a second part.  “My girls in the Green Club would just fry me if they knew I was going to throw out all of this food.  So… I guess there’s no point in it going to waste, is there, little guy?” she says cheerfully, and without another thought, her sticky, powder-coated lips are parting.  She shifts you into a horizontal position, your limbs flailing and knocking the occasional bead of caramel off of yourself as she pulls you closer to her gullet.  Your legs slide over her gooey, plush lips, your feet splashing into a pond of hot saliva inside.  Then, her lips clamp down gently onto you just as you get your bottom half inside her mouth, her glossy mouth flesh spreading out over your stomach, pinning you in place.  You receive a very strange sensation then as your legs, in the oven atmosphere of your sister’s mouth, are instantly heated, while the upper half of your body remains relatively cooled just outside.  A dribble of warm goop plops down inside Carly’s mouth, landing right on your knee.  You look straight up onto the humongous nose of your sister, her blue eyes now fixed straight ahead at the road while she drives.  She’s not even going to directly interact with you anymore.

                It is at this point that you feel the pressure being exerted on your lower body in quick pulses, the walls of Carly’s cheeks caving inward, squishing against your damp, custard-coated legs.  It happens slowly at first, then in quicker pumps, your legs being pressurized by the slimy interior of Carly’s mouth, her tongue having reared back against her throat to give you some room.  She’s sucking the custard filling right off of your body.

                As the discomfort builds, you grip her upper lip for support, as she’s no longer actually holding onto you with her fingers, but you can’t quite get a grip, your hands slippery with the donut filling and greasy sugar.  You resolve to just let your upper body hang, watching upside down at the front windshield of the car, Carly’s massive hands below turning the incredible-sized leather steering wheel along a highway.  Your legs become soppy as more and more saliva leaks down from all corners of her lips and mouth, soaking your lower body and washing every last sugary bit from you.  Once you feel no more of the thickness attached warmly to you, you assume this will end.  But it doesn’t.

                Instead, you feel Carly’s tongue sliding back into place, right where your legs happen to be.  She thins it, not flexing the powerful muscle, and easily gets past your feet because of how slimy it is.  You realize what she’s doing, and clamp onto it with your legs in an effort to stop this.  Carly can feel you attempting, and she chuckles messily at you as your weakling legs give in to her gooey, hot muscle, finally forcing your legs into a spread-eagled position inside her mouth.  Her tongue then curls itself around your dick, inflating, flexing hungrily against your genitals, hugging them in a sodden embrace, her taste buds rippling.  Your dick tingles almost immediately, springing to life.

                You’re sick with yourself as you feel yourself becoming bigger down there in record time under the intense pressure Carly is utilizing on your lower body.  Her tongue works methodically and firmly, squeezing against your jewels with just enough pressure and steamy wiggle to get your subconscious mind apparently very, very interested.  Leaking juices flow all over your legs and underneath your balls as she swallows them continually into the folds of her tongue, over and over.  You begin to convulse as you get closer and closer, your lower body now completely clean of any kind of food, coated instead in streaks of sweltering saliva.  Then, finally, you explode into your sister’s tongue, your body going limp.  You’re spent and shameful beyond belief.  You remain hanging limply as Carly plucks you by the arms out of her mouth, releasing her tongue’s power grip on you.  She dangles you before her again, your upper body still coated in a thick layer of custard.

                “WOW.  I guess that made somebody’s day, huh?” she gasps, winking.  You can’t even look her in the eye, you’re so disgusted.  “Well, you know me, Jack.  I hate to leave things unsymmetrical.  I’m so OCD about that kind of stuff,” she smirks, sliding her fingers around.  A second later, you are inverted, her fingers pinning onto your stomach as you hang upside down.  “I made ONE of your heads happy… so let’s make sure we get the other one too,” she giggles, opening her lips again playfully and expectantly.

                You are powerless as she inserts you, head first, into her mouth again, encasing you in sticky darkness as she pins her lips onto your midsection again.  Her tongue wraps itself around your head, her cheeks begin to pulse, and she gets to work sucking the top half of your body dry of custard.

                As she gets to work, shoveling gallons of glucose-thickened spit down your throat and nose, you feel a soft fingertip playfully poking at your exposed dick, which is currently leaning against her chin just outside her lips.  You kick your legs against her soft, wide chin in a request for her to leave you alone, but she only chuckles and presses her fingertip harder against your genitals, covering your face in her red tongue and sliming your eyes to avoid further futile protests.

                The next hour is absolutely peachy for you as Carly sucks your top half dry inside her damp, hellish cave of a mouth, occasionally lifting her lips for you to breathe but holding your head firmly in her lake of stifling spit still. Each breath you take is of the sugary bread combined with the bacteria-laden garden on the back of your sister’s tongue, your body beginning to sweat from the intense heat and muggy air.  The singing voice of who you believe to be Rihanna belts with a rumble from the car radio for the rest of the way there, with Carly humming peacefully along to the tune as she casually kneads at your miniature balls with her giant gentle fingertips to induce an erection before suddenly stopping, allowing you to deflate, and beginning the process over again in a sickeningly teasing fashion as your legs dangle helplessly from between her gooey, custard-caked lips.

Chapter 10: Dead on Arrival by Jacksmith

                You are vaguely aware of your entire body quivering, both from the cold and from some distant mental sense of the trauma you’ve endured, as you cower nakedly in the palm of your sister’s warm hand.  You can feel the harsh chill of the AC rippling over your exposed skin.  You can feel your red, burning, bruised skin tingling uncomfortably.  You can feel the thick, sticky, itchy layers of Carly’s dried spit slathered generously over every inch of your body, particularly your crotch region, where she spent a ruthlessly long amount of time, taunting you with powerful caresses from her tongue, all for the purpose of disgusting you and warping your mind beyond belief at the fact that, in all technicality, custard coating or not, you were getting raped yet again by your own “little” sister.

                You doubt, at this point, even Freud would have a shot at cracking the filthy death trap your brain has become.  You’re so dysfunctional, at this moment, so soon after having had your dignity stripped violently from you, you doubt just as well that you’ll ever serve a real purpose again.

                Unless serving as your sister’s breakfast utensil counts as a purpose…

                With your eyes closed, you feel Carly’s fingers close gently around you, tightly wrapping you in soft, sweet-smelling finger flesh.  Her long, controlling digits press your arms snugly against your body, securing you safely into her wide appendage.  The warmth is comforting, and despite the fact that these same fingers just spent an inordinately long amount of time molesting your helpless body while Carly sucked the caramel right off your raw skin, the heat they’re giving you is far superior to the coldness you just experienced.  There’s also the added benefit of not rolling off into the death-dealing depths between the car seats, as your sister’s firm grip guarantees you aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

                For once, it’s a good thing, because you doubt in your state of fazed semi-consciousness you could prevent yourself from rolling off the fleshy edge of your sister’s palm if she didn’t stop you.

                “Almost there, little bro,” giggles Carly, driving with the hand not gripping you, turning the wheel sharply and causing her whole body to vibrate slightly to counteract the directional pull of the vehicle on the curb.  “Almost home for Christmas.”

                You highly doubt Carly has a particularly merry Christmas planned for your damned self.  However, if you play your cards right, you have a feeling that there will be at least one opportunity to end this whole sordid ordeal once and for all.  The thought of such a prospect is almost enough to get the just-raped feeling out of your mind.

                It happens so often, after all, your brain gets a very particular sensation after such an event.

                Eventually, you feel the car come to a soft halt.  You can’t see high enough to see out the window, but you can feel the car resting at a slight upward angle.  Your parents’ house’s driveway.

Carly’s fingers re-open, allowing you to splay outward in her palm.  You groggily open your eyes again, but wish you hadn’t, as you get only a momentary flash of light before Carly’s humongous plush lips are descending on you, pursed into a ring shape just large enough to fit something roughly the size of your grape-like head.  She easily pops your entire head between her sticky lips, sucking hard enough to keep you firmly in the hot, wet darkness.

“Mmmmm…” murmurs Carly, the sound coming out in a deep, pleased rumble all around you.  In reaction to the vibration of her mouth, you feel a rainfall of gummy, fresh saliva pouring down over your face.  You spit away what you have to to breath, accidentally blowing a wet bubble right into your sister’s own spit as it coats your face once again, your neck held in place like a vice by Carly’s overpowering, caramel-coated mouth.  Outside your sibling’s mouth, you push your hands hard against her chin and lower lip, doing all you can to pull your head back out of the damp hellhole of your sister’s greedy, messy mouth.  Of course, you’re far too weakened and complacent by this point to put much effort into it.

After a moment of re-washing your face in her hot mouth juices, Carly slides you back between her lips, slicking your hair off to the side in the process, making a loud, obnoxious popping noise as if she had just sucked on a piece of candy.

“Who needs candy canes when I’ve got YOU, little bro,” she grins widely, pulling you back so you can see most of her gleeful, glowing face.  “You like that?”

“What?” you ask, half-awake.

“Being my candy, silly.”

“W-Wha…”

“Just answer the question, sleepyhead,” she chuckles.  “Do you like being my candy?”

“N… NO, I…” you begin to protest, but before you can get far, the very tip of Carly’s tongue has slipped out between her lips and struck out at your face like a snake on its prey.  Easily covering your mouth, your sister’s massive, writhing tongue stops your words in their tracks, sliming your face and making your body squirm with disgust yet again to feel the wet, muscular organ probing at your face.  With a final, messy lap at your head, Carly retracts her tongue, satisfied.

“Watch out, Jack, or I won’t get you anything for Christmas.  And you know what I bring little boys who’ve been naughty, don’t you?”

“N-N-No…” you whimper with defeat, batting goop out of your eyes.

“Well… how about we just don’t find out at all, hmmm?  That sound good?”

“Y-Yes…”

“Tell you what, Jack.”

“What?” you gasp.  Slowly, Carly’s fingers re-wrap themselves around your sticky, nude body, warming you again and sending goose bumps down your body.  Gently, she lays her thumb on top of your dick and gently begins to stroke at it, more to soothe you than to try and provoke you into growing.

“You be a REALLY good little boy, and I’ll give you another pair of my socks to sleep in.  I’ll even wear them a little first, just for you.”

“W-Why?” you ask, not really caring; your intent, at this point, is to keep Carly talking, because as long as she’s talking, she can’t jam you roughly back into her mouth for another rousing round.

“Well, you ARE my pet, after all.  Like a puppy.  And puppies like the smell of their owners, you know?”

“Oh.”

Carly grins ear to ear, a few stray flecks of the long-ago digested donut from breakfast still stuck between her otherwise perfectly white teeth.  “I knew you’d get it.  Because you’re a SMART little pet, aren’t you, bro?”  Slowly, she brings you closer to her lips again and exhales, allowing a cloud of vanilla coffee-scented breath, reeking of grounds and frothy whipped cream, to engulf you strongly.

“Mhm,” you cough, trying not to inhale the scent.

“AREN’T you?”

“Yes,” you answer obediently.

“That’s my good little boy,” she squeals in a cute baby voice, clearly playing to the whole “puppy” image she just forced painfully into your consciousness.  Swinging the car door open and popping her keys into her purse, she lowers you toward it as well.  “Now just hang tight in sissy’s purse for a little bit, bro, and I’ll take you out later.  I’ll even bring you some food, okay?”

“Okay,” you answer robotically.

“Sweet.  Have fun in there!” she giggles, gently releasing the grip of her soft fingers and allowing you to roll into the base.  You stand up, looking out of the zippered opening at Carly’s beaming face staring down at you, disbelieving.  What could she possibly be referring to?

“Uh…” you begin with a sigh.

“Seriously,” says Carly, raising her eyebrows, almost as if she read your mind.  “I’ll bet you could think of all kinds of things to do in there.  Paint yourself with my lip gloss, bowl with the coins in my change purse… God, you’re gonna be having more fun than I’ll be having!” she laughs, gripping at the zipper between two of her long fingers and beginning already to seal you into darkness.  “Or just take a nap.  I really don’t care.  Just behave yourself, and you’ll get your Christmas present, like I promised.  Catch ya later, little bro!” Carly muses before zipping the purse fully, plunging you into an obstacle-filled purgatory smelling faintly of old, zesty perfume.

End Notes:

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Chapter 11: Best Christmas Present Ever by Jacksmith
Author's Notes:

This is not going to be a very merry Christmas...

You press your ear hard against the worn-out black leather comprising the interior walls of Carly’s purse, trying to slow your breathing so as to hear better.  For a while, you just sat still, keeping your muscles tensed, listening for something.  Anything.  Nothing came, though.  Eventually, however, after remaining in your dark, leathery prison cell for what felt like hours (although there’s obviously no way to know for sure), you got the faintest hint of a sound.  A sliver of volume: like music to your ears.  It was a shout.  Not higher pitched and full of sticky sunshine like your sister’s voice, either; a deeper, throatier one.  One of your relatives, no doubt.

                Scrambling for the opportunity to hear more, you slammed yourself hard against the leather wall, nearly hurting your ears with the sudden change in volume inside your musty hovel, and waited breathlessly.  Nothing came at first.  But eventually, you realized you could pick up voices.  Not that they’re clear enough to understand, or identify for that matter, you’re hopeful.

                It occurs to you that you can barely remember what your parents’ voices sound like.

                At some point a while back, Carly must have returned to the car to grab her purse (and you), because although she didn’t open the zipper to so much as give you a greeting, you could feel all the items suddenly rolling about as the black floor began to shift tectonically.  It was a godsend, as it was getting admittedly freezing outside in the car during the snowy weather, but the alternative wasn’t much more appealing.  As a metallic tube of lipstick bounced upward, smacking you hard in the jaw and bruising it, you covered your head, rolling into a ball to await the end of the roller coaster ride.  Obviously, your personal safety during transit wasn’t a particularly large concern of your sister’s as she casually carried your fashionable carrying cage into the house you grew up in and would give just about anything to see again.

                The ride came to an end with a hard slam, although the force of the impact didn’t harm you near enough to cause permanent damage; you would guess you’re currently sitting on Carly’s bed in her room, amongst the other items she brought home for the holiday break.

                Even though you can’t see it, you can almost feel the presence of the room as you continue waiting for the muffled speech of your relatively-gigantic family downstairs, chatting happily about Christmas.  The evil, evil presence.  You suppose it’s not the architecture of the room, but rather the mental association you have with this place.

                You grimace, clasping your hands onto your cold arms to calm the tremoring, although you know full well that no physical action is going to be able to erase the feeling you feel right now.  The pure, untouched emotional agony.  This, after all, was where you first came face-to-face (or rather, face-to-foot) with the true devilry of your baby sister.

                It was on this bed that your sister, fresh from working on landscaping the backyard, came in, socks dripping with mud and sour sweat, plopped on the bed, and ordered you to give her foot a kiss.  You complied, debasing yourself further than you ever had in your life, only to find yourself forced to not only press your lips against your sister’s massive, soaked wall of a foot, but as well to lick the dribbling, oppressive sweat clean from your sibling’s filthy appendage.  And all for a broken promise of freedom.

                You never had a chance, ever.  Carly had you hook, line, and sinker, and was only glorifying her own power by turning you into her personal insect.  It was impossible.  Inhuman.  Unreal.  You could never have conceived of such a scenario if you had spent your entire life trying to come up with it: your life depended on you drinking your little sister’s sweat right off her ungrateful, humiliating foot while you listening to her childish berating and soul-crunching insults.

                You feel your face cringe.  You can still taste it: the sense is still clearer in your brain than anything you can touch or smell at the moment.  That first raw, crystalline, salty, cold drop of your sister’s sweat on your tongue.  In your throat.  In your body, forever.

                Death.

               

                Being in pitch black, you can’t be entirely sure of when it was that you started drifting off to sleep, but whether it was out of simple exhaustion or self-defense to block the terrible memories that happened five years ago in this exact spot rocking your consciousness, your next thought sees you translating a massive inflow of light into the darkness of the purse, causing your eyes to shrivel at the sudden change.  As you ball your hands into fists, rubbing at your watering eyes for support, you feel Carly’s warm, familiar fingers snaking around your sides and your legs, her thumb coming possessively to rest on your crotch.

                Your sister lifts you into the air, applying just enough pressure to your dick to remind you how easy it would be for her to smash it into a microscopic pulp with her fingernail, and brings you before her face.

                “Wake uuuuuup, ickle baby brother,” she coos softly, smiling lovingly at you.  At least she has the decency to let your ears adjust.  Her hand rocks from side to side, her fingers pressing more tightly against your cold skin to prevent you from falling.  Puckering her lips, she brings you close to her plush lips, pecking you lightly on the face before pulling back with a soft pop, leaving the tiniest trace of dampness around your cheeks.  “Guess what day it is?”

                “Oog…” you mumble, trying to shift your limbs out of her fingers so you can wipe your eyes again, but feeling this, she quickly snaps her long, muscular digits into place, pinning you against her creamy palm.

                “Wrong answer,” she beams in a whispered voice, taking you close to her lips again so you can hear the words more clearly.  “It’s Christmas Eve.”

                “Hmm,” you answer simply, having finally adjusted.  Your eyes dart around, taking in the room.  It appears some things have been moved around since you last saw this place, but for the most part, it’s as you remember it.

                “Have you been a good little boy in sissy’s purse?”

                “Mhm.”

                “What’s that you said, Jackie-poo?”

                “Y-Yes.”

                Carly’s lips part into a gleeful grin.  Her tongue pokes gently between her glistening white teeth.  “That’s what I like to hear.  I’ll bet Santa’s gonna come and leave you something really nice.  Wouldn’t that be fun?”

                “Yes.”

                “Don’t sound so sad, little bro.  It’s Christmastime.  You’re supposed to be happy.  Can you smile for me?”

                You look disbelievingly up into Carly’s face.  Is she joking?

                What in the name of hell could you possibly have to smile about?

                “C’mon, little guy.  Smile.  Make a cute smile, and you’ll get your Christmas present.”

                Grimacing slightly, you manage to curl the edges of your mouth into a fake smile.  Anything to please Santa, after all.

                “Good boy,” she says, lightly petting the top of your head with her finger.  After a few taps, she eventually settles in to stroking your hair with her cushiony fingertip.  She pulls you back in, planting a slightly more wet smooch onto your whole face, practically opening her lips and swallowing your head back between them like a massive vacuum.  “I always knew you could be trained.”

                Before you can react to this, Carly’s hand is lowering back toward the darkness of the purse.  Her fingers release gently, letting you drop a couple of inches back into the leathery bottom you’ve grown so accustomed to.  Her other hand, massive and imposing over your head, reaches forth, her fingers pinched together, and they grind, allowing a rain of crumbs to fall down into the purse.

                “Dinner’s on, little bro.  I’ll see you in the morning,” she winks before zipping the purse back up and allowing you to scavenge for the bread crumbs in the pitch black, the sound of Carly’s familiarly pious stomping out of the room the only thing you can hear besides your own heartbeat.

 

                The holiday spirit comes crashing into your face as you find your world flipped upside down and hurtling out of the darkness.  You flail blindly in the two-second fall before bouncing a couple times uncomfortably on Carly’s bed covers, rolling out of the way of a crumpled up piece of paper bouncing toward you.  You look behind you, upside down, to see Carly sitting at the head of her bed, legs outstretched.  Her bare feet are propped up, her toes wiggling freely in the coolness of the room.  For a horrible moment, you’re reminded of that experience five years ago in this room.  You shudder as you pull yourself to your feet, staggering a little as you adjust to the uneven terrain of the bed.

                Carly extends an arm, smiling slyly, and wriggles her pointer finger, beckoning you to come closer.  You comply, hoping that whatever this is, it will be made easier with your early acceptance.

                The trek across the bed and toward your titanic sister is surreal indeed, no matter how many times you’ve been forced to look upon the sheer, overwhelming size of Carly in comparison to yourself, particularly when each of her legs are taller to you than many buildings.  You look at the ground as you pass by Carly’s feet, wishing not to traumatize yourself by staring directly into the pale, wrinkled walls of death.  The place where you crucified your dignity with your tongue.

                As the path between Carly’s legs gets narrower and narrower, your sister lowers her hand, palm up, toward the covers.

                “Get in my hand, little bro,” she says sweetly.  You obey, clambering over her fingers and into the center of her warm palm, which quickly rises back up closer to her face.  “Merry Christmas.”

                “Yeah.”

                Carly coughs slightly, clearly wanting something more.  You refrain from rolling your eyes.

                “Merry Christmas…”

                “That’s the spirit.  I mean, after that, I’m not even sure you deserve your present…” she says, her other hand reaching behind her back, where she clearly has something.

                “Mhm.”

                “Ohhh, you’re ruining all the fun of Christmas magic, little bro.  You’re no fun at all on holidays,” complains Carly, reaching for it anyway despite your rejection of the mood.  “But luckily for you, your big sissy LOVES you SO much, that she got you a present anyway.”

                “Cool,” you manage to get out calmly.

                “You know how Santa normally comes and FILLS your stocking, little bro?” asks Carly, the playfulness rising like anticipation in her voice.

                “Yeah.”

                “We’re doing it a little different this year,” she says, a horrible grin playing across her lips.  Like a predator preparing the perfect pounce on its prey.  “This year, “Santa” BROUGHT you a stocking…” she continues, taking a deep sigh.  Slowly, her fingers rise up, curling in on you like fleshy cage bars, clamping you powerlessly into your sister’s hot fist.  “…and YOU’RE going to fill it…”

                What happens next takes place almost in the blink of an eye.  Carly’s other hand whips out a bright green woolen sock, adorned with stitching of reindeer, presents, and candy canes.  A hand-made Christmas sock.  Your world whips forward painfully as Carly’s fist comes to rest over the opening of the dark tube, and then her fingers are releasing you, allowing you to tumble down.

                Down.

                You roll uncomfortably into the base of the itchy material, your fingers getting caught on a couple of stray loose threads from the adequately made garment.  As you pull yourself up, staying on your knees (as standing is going to be impossible with the sock suspended in midair), you feel gravity shifting and tiny pockets of wind slipping through the tiny fabric cracks of the sock.  You gulp hard.  Surely this isn’t what you know perfectly well that it is.  It can’t be.

                God HAS to give breaks on Christmas…

                You hear the telltale, nearly-silent snapping as Carly’s toenails get caught on the stray threads.  You feel the green fabric floor, baggy and thick beneath your feet, expanding slightly, tugging.  As a few more folds of the wool come apart, you look up to see the wiggling, gleeful, tanned toes of Carly’s right foot pushing into view.  Slowly, her entire powerful, smooth, somewhat veiny foot is swallowing up the empty space, seeming to create area where there previously was none in the long, thin sock.  The sight is almost impossible, and yet its taking place before your very eyes.

                Carly’s toes tap you gently on your quivering face to get an idea of your position in the sock before splaying outward over your body, allowing the rest of her foot to press down hard onto you without fear of killing you.  The dry edge of Carly’s foot, just under her toes, bulldozes you into the green fabric of your “Christmas present” so hard that you actually get a couple breathes of fresh air and a view of the bedspread just outside before the authoritative toes are grasping you hard, compressing you into her soft flesh, lightly greased with night sweat.

                You got a good whiff of the old, dusty green fabric as soon as you landed.  You’d guess the material was over three decades old before it was actually made into something.  Like mothballs and rotting mahogany, rolled into one and ingrained in the essence of the sock.  Of course, it’s made all the worse as Carly’s toes curl themselves around you, wrapping you heavily in their light, fleshy musk, the obnoxious scent of her favorite lilac lotion stinging your nostrils and throat.

                Your sister’s toes grip you roughly, turning you around until your frontside is held firmly against her foot rather than the sock itself.  Then, shuffling her toes, Carly parts her big and second toes, pointing them forward so as to grip your head.  With nowhere to go and nothing to push against with your lack of strength in the face of this situation, your struggles are worthless as your little sister’s big and second toes calmly lock themselves around your head like a juicy, meaty, smelly guillotine.

                After a moment of this terrible discomfort, your body unable to do anything but hang under the weight of Carly’s toes, your head gripped firmly, your face pressed deeply into the skin of your sister’s wide, over-worked foot, you hear another soft whisper as Carly leans toward her sock for you to hear better.

                “I hope you like your present.  Don’t forget where your itsy bitsy head is, little bro.  One little squeeze, and… pop goes Jackie-poo!” she giggles.  “Now, don’t forget… what do we say when something nice is done for us?”

                You sputter hard, trying to free your mouth from the stale pad of flesh in between Carly’s toes that you’re currently being forced to taste.  “T-T-Thank y-you…” you manage to gasp weakly, your lungs compressed heavily by the pressure.

                “Show me.  Now,” hisses Carly, her mood suddenly turned very foul.  Her toes scrunch hard against your body, wracking you with pain and nearly popping your arms out of their sockets.  Burying your face back into the soft flesh again, voluntarily now, a couple of tears rushing down your cheeks from the effort, you pucker up and give your sister a hard kiss on her cushy big toe.

“I love you too, little bro.  Let’s go say Merry Christmas to everyone…”

                 Sliding to the edge of the bed, Carly plants her feet hard on the carpeted floor, keeping her right foot arched in front just enough to prevent you from being squashed into a bloody mess in the green sock, and begins taking confident strides for the door to her bedroom.

End Notes:

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Chapter 12: Holiday in Sissy's Sock by Jacksmith

                Your world shifts upward as if you were on a roller coaster car, driving up a creaking rail to the very top, your stomach lurching in preparation for the drop to come.  Cold wind whips through the tiny green holes in the woolly fabric, tickling your cheeks and arms, sending chills down your spine.  A warning.  Your body hardly knows how to respond, as the entire front side of your body begins to overheat and sweat, scrunched powerfully into the curled toes of your titanic sister’s right foot, held firmly against the smooth, rotund upper ridge of her ped right where her toes connect. 

Your body slides and jiggles ever so slightly against your will on a lubricant of Carly’s semi-sticky night sweat, never given the opportunity to be wiped off before you were jammed into her sock and held in place like a swatted fly by your sister’s thirty-ton leg and basketball court-worn foot.

Come to think of it, you doubt this was an accident.

Then, as Carly’s raised right foot hits the highest peak in the air, probably no more than eight inches or so off the ground, you feel the wind stop whipping your back, replaced by the slight tightening of the itchy green threads against your arms and legs like inescapable ropes, cruelly binding you even harder against your little sibling’s warm flesh with a thread sting to your shoulder blades.

Just as soon as the wind stopped, though, it restarts again, this time rushing out through the pockets of green sock thread rather than in as Carly’s foot descends toward the ground.  As her toes wriggle above you, you can feel the vibration of powerful muscles in her foot all the way down at her plush toe prints.  Weight being shifted for the landing.

The vibrations of Carly’s taut, tan flesh increase tenfold as her foot comes (to you) crashing down onto the carpet of your house’s hallway, the sock tightening even more against your back with a rope-burning scald as Carly’s heel lays itself down, followed quickly by her wide, wrinkled sole laying itself flat on the ground.  You hear one of her toes pop quietly, before the final segment of the weight is shifted into her long, dexterous digits.

Instantly, your body is compressed and folded into an overwhelming, slightly sagging ceiling of your sister’s warm, lightly sweat-greased skin, her cold toe flesh caving in around you like a coffin.  You gasp in a few breathes of precious clean air before finding your face once again gripped tightly between her big and second toes, your entire face pressed so hard against the tender skin in between her toes it caves in around the shape of your facial features, your neck precariously lined up between the firmer upper section of her toes.

Easily snapped with a single flick of Carly’s muscular toes, if she so chose.

You turn your head as much as possible with the extremely limited space you have, claustrophobia gripping at your heart icily.  You feel as if you’re swimming in a thick sea of your younger sister’s oppressive foot flesh, her firm toes tightened around your naked body like octopus tentacles gripping their helpless prey, as you can only turn your head partially to the side, as if you were breathing while doing the breaststroke.  You open the corner of your mouth, breathing gently and slowly through it.  Your only hope to avoid being suffocated in the massive, never-ending wall of your gargantuan sister’s warm skin.

Of course, having your neck twisted into Carly’s toes and your tiny face firmly pressed against her sweaty flesh, surrounded by a forest of stale green sock fabric, is enough even in mere presence to your oxygen to screw over any chance of making it through the ordeal with your lungs still intact.

The rotting, mahogany stench of the sock is invasive to your nostrils, smelling strongly of thick, furry dust ropes and balls that must have been collecting against the fabric along with an army of noxious mothballs in a drawer somewhere before they were knitted together for your sister to wear at Christmas time.  The vague whiff of fabric softener and dishwasher suds are no match for the upper lip-wrinkling cragginess of the smell: like wood and fungus-covered soil, wrapped up into a sock.

You inhale, turning your head back to the side, and receive a noseful of the other scent wracking the hot pocket of flesh and fabric you find yourself trapped in so hellishly, shivering painfully as you do so.

Wet, grimy, fleshy stink wallops you in the face, the bubbly, fruity remnants of some long-ago scrubbed soap on your sister’s soft toes and foot ball rippling through your brain and making you dizzy as you intake another breath.  Like watery oil stains, greasy and dripping, hanging in the air hot and thick against your cheeks: a fog of musky, feminine sweat vapor.

As you exhale, the vice of toe flesh shifts its grip on your grape-like head, pressing you back against the damp, enclosing wall of digits as your sister purposefully scrunches them around you painfully, bending your arms so hard you wonder why they don’t snap.  Gritting your teeth, your breath quickening, you make a note of this: you know perfectly well what she’s telling you.

You’ve learned very well over these five years what certain wordless actions mean for you.

You pucker your lips and kiss the cushy, cold, sour flesh of your sister’s foot skin, feeling the sticky dried night sweat encrusting against your lips, the stinging stench of unwashed, dirt and dust-speckled toe prints snaking their way through your nose and taking a cold death grip on your nerve endings.  You feel like your face is lighting on fire as your cheeks press harder and harder into the tender skin, caving wetly around your body, forcing you to make a snow angel in the soft, partially sweat-tickled foot of your goddess-bitch of a younger sister, towering over you like the arrogant, self-serving, well-toned monument of flesh, muscle, and unbalanced psyche that she is.

The mammoth toes curl harder and harder around you until your temple starts pounding, as if ordering you to heave the hundreds of pounds of cool, grimy pressure of your sibling’s heavy skin off of your screaming body.  You feel, at long last, a trickle of cold foot sweat running down your back from between Carly’s toes, overheated just a little too much from the needlessly thick woolen Christmas socks.

Clearly, you aren’t doing the job to your sister’s satisfaction.  You press your lips harder, kissing faster and with more intensity.  Anything to get the firm, painful pressure of her toes and greasy foot top off of your bruised body.  As Carly’s toes begin to quiver with the muscular requirement of staying clenched on your battered nude body for so long, you wrap your arms around her toes as hard as you can, your biceps flexing with the effort, your legs stiffened.  Playing your last available card, you close your eyes and open your mouth, laying down the hardest, wettest, most passionate kiss you can in between the vast valley of your sister’s meaty toes.  Biting on the hard, ridged exterior with your teeth before slicking the area with your tongue as much as possible, an insane inflow of grease, human flesh flavors, stale sock fuzz, and half-dried crusty sweat makes its way into your throat.

You swallow hard, your eyes watering from the absolute, all-consuming sting of sour sweat and bitter toe slime remnants slaking your cheeks and drying in your hair.  Your limbs go limp with the effort as you begin laying gentler kisses on your sister’s toes, hoping that your climactic smooch was enough to appease her.

Carly’s toes ripple over you before all coming down at once, stiffening and tapping themselves onto your body, laying you out helplessly in the damp toe section of the sock before re-gripping you, more gently this time, like a dead animal or random object she dropped on the floor and is trying to pick up.

Suddenly, her foot arches, her toes bending back down on you with full muscular force, training you down against the carpet through the sock.  You feel the vibrations of weight shifting again.  You gasp lightly for breath, quivering, hoping Carly realizes how painful this is for you.

Despite how hard it is to see in the darkness of the thick green Christmas sock, you feel a shadow casting itself over you.  You realize that Carly must be bending over, looking down at your pathetic lump inside her sock being kneaded so carelessly and overly playfully by her unclean toes.

Instinctively, a chill runs through your body, and you grasp your arms around Carly’s second toe again, pinching at it with your fingers as hard as you can, digging your fingernails at the dirt-lined toe print rings as if trying to clean them out a little in preparation for whatever is coming.

Your breaths come in shorter bursts as more and more weight bears down on you, the stench seeming to collect itself above you as if commanded by gravity to swim like a thick, smelly pea soup of Carly’s dingy, doughy, putrid peds in all of their athletic, sinewy glory.

Slowly, Carly’s toes pinch themselves possessively around your head again, and then you hear the girlish murmuring sound of Carly’s lowest, sweetest sounding whisper, denoted by a “loving” wiggle of her hulking toes against your head and sweat-sticky hair.

“Give them another kiss, little bro.  They’re the only girlfriends you’ll ever get to touch, after all,” she whispers slyly.  “Show me how much you love me.”

The word are poisonous in your ears, but you don’t have long to ponder it as the gripping comes back, burly and hard against your ribs.  Cringing and nearly crying from the pain, you dive your chin back between the toes and pucker up for another muggy, rancid make-out session.

“THAT’S my good little naked boy toy…” she giggles powerfully, her toes resorting to rubbing you hard around your stomach and crotch rather than just squeezing tortuously.  Instantly, you feel your dick beginning to grow at the warm touch of your sister’s endless sea of pale foot flesh, despite the soreness wracking the rest of your body, including your tired lips as you continue to kiss into the unholy corner of skin between Carly’s toes.  “Be good and don’t stop until I tell you to…” she continues, raising her foot to take another step. “…and then maybe I’ll let you out of your Christmas present tonight.  No promises or anything, though…”

End Notes:

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Chapter 13: The Great Escape by Jacksmith

                You feel nothing but cold and lingering sliminess as you lay once again at the base of your titanic sister’s purse, engulfed in darkness, remnants of dried toe sweat slicked over your every inch, your genitals throbbing from the beating they took between Carly’s thick, juicy digits.  Alone with your thoughts at last.

                As usual, these aren’t the type of thoughts you’d prefer to be alone with.

                With each breath you take, your chest instinctively expects to have itself restrained muscularly by a ceiling of cushy, cold toe flesh resting on top of you like mini sumo wrestlers as you were balled helplessly into the base of your “Christmas present,” Carly’s hand-sewed holiday-themed socks.  As it so happened, of course, you weren’t the only occupant of those socks at the time, as your sister had so casually worn you for the entire Christmas day, never once removing the socks to give you a breath, to feed you, to give you a drink of water as you steadily became dehydrated from the effort to keep yourself from being smushed into a pulp under the firm grip of your little sister’s toes.  You literally just spent the entire “best day of the year” with your puny head jammed roughly between Carly’s big toe and second toe, the pair of them scrunching moistly against your head, threatening to pop it like a cherry if you didn’t send a continuous shower of passionate kisses onto the tender skin between them.

                You remember back on a Christmas in your childhood where the stores had run out of Christmas trees, and your family had had to make do without for that year.  You remember telling yourself at the time that this would be the worse Christmas ever.

                Almost laughing to yourself, you realize a new Christmas now holds that lowly title, and is likely never to be beaten.  Until next year, that is, you note with a pained grimace, rubbing at your lips, sore from laying endless kisses on your sister’s repulsive foot.  The lingering flavors of staleness, salt, and flesh seem glued eternally to your throat and tongue.  Each time you swallow and can taste the horrid, ghastly spices of your hellish little sister’s filthy foot skin, you can swear you hear her laughing wildly in your ear.

                You open your eyes, shaking this image from your mind.  At least you can sleep alone, free from the overpowering influence of Carly’s toes tonight.  Most of the day had been spent busily pushing up with all your strength against the constantly curling, smelly digits, so you weren’t totally cognizant of your surroundings (being so near to the ground, as well), but you were easily able to pick out the voices of your extended family: your cousins, your aunts, uncles, grandparents.  Your own parents.  It was painful just to hear their laughter, knowing you were so close but unable to save yourself.  Irrational anger had risen in you: anger that so many of the people out there could relatively easily overpower Carly, force her down, and pull her sock off, ending your unreal nightmare forever.  Of course, fate wasn’t having any of that, and the day went on without a single risk, suspicion, or event.  An entire day spent under your cruel sister’s writhing toes, feeling the muscles in her leg and warm, wrinkled appendage flexing playfully over your body, as if reminding you of how precarious your situation was.  How easily she could unflex her foot, allow you to slide down into the base of the sock under her pale sole before snapping the green thread fabric hard against her flesh, snapping your spine and splattering you violently against your feminine sibling’s long, athletic foot with a soft pop.

                True to her word, your sister allowed you out of her sock right before turning in for the night because of your good behavior.  Obviously, you weren’t let off the hook easily, as she made a passionate show of the whole thing, gripping you by the legs with her toes as she regally pulled the entire sock off her foot before depositing you into the waiting purse with a lithe, tanned leg carefully poised.  Still, once you were alone, you were grateful.  This period of solitude is your REAL Christmas present from your sister.

                Having adjusted your eyes to the darkness over time, you find that you can just barely make out the outlines of a few items resting as well at the base of Carly’s purse, such as her lipstick and coin purse.  Something else catches your eye, though; something much more drastic.

                Light.

                It’s not your imagination, there’s actual light streaming into the purse.  You peer upward quickly, toward the upper ceiling of the leathery interior.  It’s a simple, dim glow, barely noticeable to anyone who hasn’t just spent the last several hours sitting at the base of this dark, plastic cave.  Luckily, that is precisely the opposite of your current state, and a second later you’re pulling yourself to your feet, crawling closer for further investigation.  Sure enough, a few teeth of the purse zipper at the very edge remain unzipped, allowing in a steady trickle of low light from Carly’s bedroom outside.  Your heart skips a few beats.  Could this be it?

                It doesn’t take long in your state of heightened awareness and eagerness to get the hell out of this purse to drag enough stray items close enough to the edge of the purse for you to climb up and have a chance of reaching the zipper teeth.

                You can only get a single hand through the open teeth, and in your place of zero leverage, it takes some effort, but with a mighty heave you manage to push the dangling zipper far enough out so that you can grab onto the metallic buckle with both hands and yank.

                You can feel the blood being squeezed from your clammy hands as you squeeze around the zipper, sliding it along until the opening is wide enough for you to slip through.  Grappling at the teeth of the zipper, you drag yourself upward, silently thankful for all those pull-ups in the drawer you’ve made yourself do now finally paying off, and slip over the edge of the purse, rolling roughly down the grooved side.  You smack the hardwood table uncomfortably on your bruised sides and legs but safely, coming to a stop at the base of the purse.

                You swallow hard, your throat going dry, your hands shaking.  You feel like you’re about to play Russian roulette, using your sister’s punishing fingers rather than a pistol.  And in this context, the no-doubt swift and near-painless death of a shot to the head seems preferable to what you know unflinchingly that your giant sister will do to you upon finding you’ve escaped your makeshift cage and her domineering clutches.  Whatever it is, you have a hunch it would be far slower, more horrifying, and more humiliating than anything some stupid firearm could dream up for your existence.

                Don’t fuck this up, you breathe steadily to yourself, repeating it in your head solemnly, teeth gritted as you stand up on the table next to the purse.  Don’t fuck this up.

                Looking to your right, you find Carly’s bed stretching on for what seems like forever.  And mercifully, it’s empty.  Stepping to the edge of the table and raising an eyebrow, your chest heaving with nervousness that the bedroom door will come swinging open at any instant, leaving you instantly as a sitting duck, you do your best to judge the distance.  A matter of inches.  A moderate long jump for you, not terrible, but disastrous should you miss it.  Disastrous, of course, meaning mortal in this context.

                With time running out, you swallow your sensibilities and step back, bracing yourself before taking off running across the wood, taking a hard leap off as you plant your foot on the very edge.

                For a moment, as you go flying through the empty space, time seems to stop, along with all sound and your own heartbeat, before you roll several times along the moon-like surface of your sister’s bed comforter, landing face-first in the side of a propped up pink pillow.  As you pull yourself off of it, you can swear you smell that same sticky-sweet strawberry shampoo Carly uses in her hair.  Obviously, you’re quite familiar with this hazy stench, as you so often find yourself tied like a prisoner in a dungeon upside down in your bratty sister’s silky forest of sleek blond hair.

                Running along the bed to the opposite end is an exercise in of itself, as you find yourself in your haste clumsily tripping over wrinkles in the fabric, as well as having to deal with the bounciness of the surface, but at long last you reach the end.  Peering cautiously downward, you gulp, taking another look at the door.  You have a feeling in your gut that your seconds of freedom for this daring bid at liberty are beginning to run preciously short, so again, not allowing yourself to think, you grip onto the thick folds of the sheet and set your legs down the edge, shutting your eyes.  And then you loosen your grip ever so slightly, digging your feet into the folds, allowing yourself to slide downward.

                Your stomach flips over inside of your chest, your lungs nearly bursting as you gasp from the simultaneous shock of wind rushing past your cold back and the rug burns being rubbed raggedly into your skin as you come coasting down the leveling slope of the comforter, crashing over yourself and landing in a pained heap on the carpet of the floor.  Alive.

                You allow your chest to rise and fall regularly a few times, soaking in the glorious silence, as you look back upward at the bed.  It looks miles high, and you decide it’s in your best interest to not consider how foolhardy what you just did was.  Now isn’t the time to think.  Now is the time to move your ass.

                You hop to your feet, still feeling woozy and cringing as the still-developing carpet burns from the rapidly sliding comforter settle redly into your skin.  You begin to take steps, marveling at the cavern of the room, stretching upward so high you feel like you’re in a skyscraper without floors.  You dash forward, seeing Carly’s dresser within three hundred steps or so of you.  The space underneath is plenty large enough for you to duck under in the cover of darkness and get your thoughts together for your next move.

                As you begin sprinting, your heart pounding so loud inside your chest from anxiety you want to scream at it to shut up, the exterior silence is shattered by the creak of the door hinges and the hurricane-wind slap of the door swinging open, well within viewing distance of you.

                You feel your feet stop, your body freezing with paralysis.  You watch, your jaw dropping, aghast, as the sight before you unfolds.  A bare foot rises into the air from the hallway, displaying a pale, wrinkled sole to you for the briefest moment before crashing back into the carpet with a hard thud, the firm, pink heel twisting roughly in a circular motion, the long toes bouncing and scrunching at the fibers of the carpet, a second toned leg following quickly behind.  Your eyes trace up the leg, along a thin, athletically curvy upper body, and up to the face.

                It’s not Carly.

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Chapter 14: Carly 2.0 by Jacksmith

                Your eyes boggle, drinking in the sight before you.  Having not fully laid eyes on another human being like this other than your sister in the last five years, the experience of seeing a human being taller than an office building is taking its toll anew.  For the first time in years, as well, you don’t feel dread and squeamishness at the initial vision of a towering youth large enough to stamp you into a crimson puddle with a single unintentional footfall.  Instead, you feel wonderment.  Awe.  It’s like watching some unimaginably powerful wild animal moving slowly about in its business, unaware of the pitiful life forms around it.  Like an elephant, or a blue whale, perhaps even some sort of mythical beast not adequately described by any existing creature.  So much raw strength and terrible destructive ability, distilled into the tanned, athletic, gargantuan body of your younger cousin Sophie, who happens to be the one standing in the doorframe of Carly’s bedroom.

                Reality comes crashing back to you in your mind, and you watch as the immense bare foot rises up again, suspended in midair for a few moments before thumping back onto the carpet.  The tremor of the ground beneath your feet is all that’s needed to get you moving again, and like a flash you’re off across the endless plain of carpet, headed for the bed.  It’s your best bet at this moment for taking cover.  Hardly daring to look over your shoulder, you sprint with all your might, feeling the approaching footsteps thudding and vibrating the floor beneath you, praying to the heavens that you haven’t been spotted yet.

                With every ounce of strength you have to expend at this moment, you thrust yourself under the loping curve of the corner of the bedspread, creating a makeshift cave of fabric for yourself.  If Sophie decided to stand on this exact spot, your defenses are at precisely zilch, but for the moment, you can breathe a sigh of relief.  Your chances of escape don’t seem to have been squelched yet.

                You peek out into the open again, the fear beginning to steadily rise in you.  Although your vision is filled mainly by the thick, muscular calves and soft, veiny boat-sized feet of your cousin at the moment, staring upward toward her towering torso far above you is all that’s needed to retrigger these feelings.  Despite her slightly darker dirty blonde hair and placement of a few freckles, Sophie is all but the spitting image of your sister.  And now, staring up at your cousin, who happens to be six years younger than you, you can’t help but feel an utterly crushing flashback of the past few years attack your psych.  It’s like looking into a time machine back at your sister a few dozen months ago.  And normally, if things were in this exact position, except with Carly stepping around the room rather than Sophie, you’d probably have reason enough to piss yourself with terror at the very thought of being found.

                Your memories of your family reunions are a bit foggy in moments like this, but as you stare upward at Sophie as she continues to calmly tread across the room like a lumbering titaness, you can’t help but be reminded of them.  You never really had much interaction with Sophie, mainly because the last time you saw her was when she was only eleven years old and preoccupied with more doll-oriented things than your seventeen-year-old self was.

                Unfortunately, though, your interactions with her weren’t as positive as you might have liked.  You remember Sophie admiring Carly greatly, and always striving to emulate her demeanor and actions; essentially, Sophie had been in training to be a mini-Carly for a number of years there, becoming more snobby, pious, and self-important with each meeting.

                You shiver as the possibilities finally begin occurring to you.  That was how things were five years ago.  Who’s to say things haven’t gone even further?  Who’s to say that by now, Sophie not only emulates your sister, but is the sixteen-year-old version of your viciously cruel and sadistic sibling reincarnated?  Who’s to say that, if you’re spotted right now, you won’t end up as the new captive toy of a far more immature and curious young girl?

                Hell, who’s to say that being under the repressive ownership of the sixteen-year-old goddess strutting around the room right now comparatively wouldn’t make being squeezed all day by Carly’s toes feel like a massage at a damned luxury hotel?

                Regardless of these questions, you know one thing for absolute certain: you aren’t willing to find out the elusive answers.

                You stare out, now trembling more fully, surveying the scene.  Sophie is now on the far side of the room, giving you a slightly fuller view of her towering corpus as it rises up into the sky, above the level of the dresser and vanity.  Sophie raises a hand up to her bangs, brushing them gently out of her face as she stares around the room with almost twinkling turquoise eyes.  After a moment, a victorious smirk curls itself into her lips and she begins walking back across the room, her feet seeming to land a little more violently than necessary with each step.

                Good God, she even has the same mannerisms as Carly.  You gulp hard, trying to stave off the nausea, as well as the frustration at the fates that seem so hell-bound and determined to conspire against you.  Bitterly, you shake a fist at existence itself.  Why couldn’t it have been your mother walking through the door?  Surely, the shock of seeing your parent standing so powerfully above your naked, less than three-inch-tall form would have been wholly overwhelming, just as it was seeing Sophie, but you would have been able to rush forward into the opening, screaming for help, waving your arms, without any fear of imprisonment.  Your mother is an observant person, and you know that you could have ended all of this right now.  Five years of pain and torture, ended easily in this instant.

                Tears well in your eyes to imagine the relief you would feel to curl up safely, at long last, into the warm palm of your mother as she gently lifted you from the ground, to protect you like a building-sized angel of mercy from the raging goddess of your satanically-suggesting sister.  The thought is mind-blowingly wonderful to you.  To you, at this moment, as awkward as you know it should seem to anyone else in the world besides someone in your position, your personal heaven is the idea of laying calmly and safely in the soft, tender flesh of your mother’s hand, knowing no harm would come to you while there.

                With an angry snarl, you know that, as usual, fate has taken a dump on your fortunes, forcing you to make do with the horrible dealings you are left with.  A moment later, Sophie comes back into view, clutching what looks like a tube of lipstick in her left hand.

                Good.  Maybe she’s leaving.

                A moment passes idly as Sophie treks steadily back across the carpeted floor, which to you looks like a mile-long snowfield.  She arches her right foot absentmindedly against the floor, bending her flexible toes against the beaten fabric of the carpet, stretching the wrinkled flesh of her sole out slightly in response.  She wriggles her toes thoughtfully against the carpet, roughly twisting the ball of her foot against the ground as if about to start dancing.  She suddenly stops dead in her tracks, then, slamming her foot flat against the carpet with a full-bodied thud.

                Come one, come on.  Go already.  Go.  You can practically feel yourself shouting out the words, but you don’t dare risk it, not even at this size with such powerless vocal cords.

                Finally, your heart begins regulating again as Sophie resumes her long, powerful strides across the carpet, heading back for the door and out.  Waiting for a few more seconds to pass before peeking again, you duck out from under your little tent of bedspread fabric.  As much as you feel the need to stop for a second and recuperate to come up with your plan of attack, you know you don’t have the time to afford yourself such luxuries.  At any moment, Carly could come dashing back into the room, no doubt with the intention of flicking you in the balls or something equally vile, to find her purse prison to be missing a key inmate.  By that point, your chances of escape would be all but gone and you’d be running on a significantly shortened lifespan.  You know beyond a shadow of a doubt that, at this moment, as far as you’ve gone into your “escape plan,” Carly’s rage would be at a point even the cruelly calculating and methodical girl would be incapable of keeping in check.  That, of course, could lead to any number of unthinkable possibilities, from having your limbs snapped like toothpicks under one of Carly’s thumbs, to having your entire body dragged wetly down your sister’s all-encompassing, mucus-clogged gullet once and for all.  Neither of these ideas, nor anything else in between, are things you are particularly inclined to spend much time deliberating on at the moment.

                Don’t fuck this up, you repeat to yourself again, blinking a few times.  Don’t fuck this up.  Taking a deep breath, you dash outward like an Olympic sprinter hearing the firing of the pistol, beginning the race.

                You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, wind whipping past your sides, as you sprint with all you’ve got across the inconveniently wide plain of carpet.  At this moment, in particular, you are incredibly vulnerable, not just to being accidentally destroyed by an unsuspecting party, but to being easily spotted by the keen eyesight of your sisterly captor.  With so many years of practice, you nod with a grimace to yourself, Carly is well skilled at picking out her weak and nude little toy from a room full of equal-sized trinkets.

                Reaching the dresser, you duck headlong underneath it, into the relative safety of the darkness beneath the wooden tower containing Carly’s hot air balloon-sized clothing articles.  Allowing your breathing to slow down somewhat before continuing on again to the closest cover, you reflect on this last bone-chilling realization. 

                A few years ago, in order to ensure she’d be prepared in the event of your attempted escape, Carly actually set up an exercise for herself to improve her ability to find you.  Placing old dolls and random items of approximately equal size on her bedroom floor, Carly played a fear-inducing game of hide and seek with you.  Placing you seemingly fairly into the furthest corner of the bedroom, your sister turned her back for a moment, counting to twenty and allowing you the chance to hide.  From there, it became a game of cat and mouse as you did your best to follow the instructions given to you by your sibling: make it to the bedroom door without being found.  Using most of your available energy, you did your best to obey, actually making it to destination.  Of course, in frustration that she had failed at her own test, Carly had scooped you back up into a firm, clammy fist, accusing you of actually trying to escape during the “exercise.”

                Typical.  Your next thirty minutes directly following that little activity involved being tied upside down by your ankles in Carly’s dirty clothes hamper, forcing you to fester in the decaying smells of sweat, grime, and body odor ingrained in her used shirts, socks, and panties.

                Of course, at the end of that repercussion, Carly set up the game again, setting out the same conditions.  This time, of course, your sister had wised up to your tactics, and not even a clever hiding place on your part in the darkness under the bed could save you from the horror of your sister’s firm fingers grasping roughly in the darkness, her palm sliding across the carpet, preparing gleefully to grab you with no possible escape for you.  The sight of her hand growing larger and larger, outstretched, preparing to consume you into a sarcophagus of warm, punishing flesh.

                “I won,” Carly had proclaimed proudly, smirking at you curled helplessly in between her probing fingers.  “And you lost.”  With that, she had proceeded to press your face against her lips and blow a vibrating, moist, loud raspberry obnoxiously against you until flecks of her cold spittle had encrusted into your hair.

                With a shiver and another frown, you brace yourself.  You know what you’re up against.  Carly is ready for this, and any lapse, even for a moment, in your tactics within the next few minutes could spell the end of any future escape attempts.

                It could spell the end of your life, come to think of it.

                Another deep breath, and you’re leaping out of your hiding place under the dresser and back into the warzone of your sister’s bedroom, this time going for the door.  You can feel your skin shivering, not just from cold, but from the tingling sensation that can only be described as the equivalent of having multiple laser scopes settling their sights on you from unseen snipers.  You can’t see it, and yet you have the ominous feeling it’s coming.  Your doom could be seconds away, and there’s nothing you can possibly do to prepare yourself for it.

                Your breathing is getting heavier as you continue in a full sprint over the majestically skyscraper-high doorframe of Carly’s bedroom, continuing along the hall carpet.  So far, so good.  Your eyes dart around frantically.  You’ve tested the waters too long; it’s time to get into a new hiding place before all this effort and exhaustion becomes nil.  Your pupils settle quickly on the laundry closet directly across from the stairs leading to the main floor of your house.  You can hear muffled voices conversing, with a few laughs tossed in, as your extended family interacts in the kitchen and living room, completely unaware of your plight at this moment.  Forcing yourself to focus rather than try to decipher what’s being said, you continue in full, exhaustive sprint for the closet, your chest heaving against your sore bones.

                Almost there.  Five more seconds of sprinting and you’ll be able to duck under the dark, protective barrier of the closet door in order to catch your breath before making your next move.

                Footfalls begin slamming on the base of the stairs, getting louder and louder with each thud.  Even being so far apart, you can feel the vibrations rattling through your body.  Your blood turns to ice.  You’d recognize that walking pattern anywhere.  Somehow, you manage to put a little extra juice into your sprint, rolling onto your side and ducking under the closet door in one move just as the terrifying, crashing steps of the leviathan feet behind you reach the top of the stairs.

                Your lungs rail painfully against your ribs as you attempt to catch your breath from the unhealthy amount of speed running you just did.  You double over, clutching your stomach and gasping, before hearing a sound far worse than the heavy thuds of colossal feet slamming into the carpet behind you.

                The squeak of the closet door handle.

                Scrambling back to your feet, you dash forward in the darkness, feeling yourself crashing into a high pile of softened denim.  Probably clean clothes folded up and waiting to be claimed by their owners.  Having no other time to look for a hiding place, you clamber over a layer of fabric and burrow into the first indent you find like a mouse in a garden just as you feel the overpoweringly bright lights of the hallway beaming into the closet as the door is swung open.

                You hardly have time to get into a safe, fetal position before the clothes begin to ruffle around you, gravity slamming you hard into the walls of fabric surrounding you.  You can hear the loud patting of wide hands slapping at the jeans absentmindedly, flattening them as they are scooped up into the air.

                Damn it.

End Notes:

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Chapter 15: A New Pair of Hands by Jacksmith

                You don’t want to believe it.  You refuse to believe it.  It can’t be.  It just can’t be.

                Half-jokingly and half-seriously, you note how much you would like to punch God in the face right now.

                Mere minutes after being airlifted by a titanic family member into the stratosphere of average chest level, your hiding place in the clean clothes in the laundry closet suddenly turned into a horrible idea, you felt the jeans being plopped down hard onto a plastic-coated surface.  Before you could even consider trying to listen for fading footfalls, signifying your chance to escape the jeans and move on with your original plan to get help, you heard a sound so bitterly painful to your eardrums, you might as well have been listening to the sound of a bullet being unloaded into your chest.

                The shrill sing of a zipper being closed above your head. 

                You don’t even have to climb out of your dark denim cave in a pocket of the folded up jeans to know what’s going on.  You’re in a duffel bag, and your fate was literally just sealed inside of it.

                Sweat forms coldly along your brow, your arms shivering, as you clutch your legs against your chest in defense of the jostling of the bag as you feel it being swung gently, carried to some unknown location. 

                The next half hour is a blur to you.  You can feel the loping swing of the bag being replaced by a steady vibration with occasional hard jostles.  Car along a bumpy road?  You feel sickened with how accustomed you are to figuring out what’s going on, even when too powerless to get much definitive information or chances of affecting it, for that matter.  It’s like telling a young child exactly how they’re going to die someday; it can’t be helped at all, and while it’s informative, there’s nothing but anticipation from there on out.

                Grimly, you disappear into a similar dream world of such volatile thoughts, not even noticing the steady vibration of the bag being replaced again by arcing swings, and finally the crash of the bag hitting a surface and stopping the motion altogether.  You don’t even dare move at this point, your plans of escape so thoroughly screwed over you don’t particularly care anymore about actively trying to escape.  For now, you’re choosing “flight” over “fight,” curling yourself silently into a ball and praying futilely to remain hidden until a new opportunity presents itself.

                Muttering pessimistically to yourself, you note how your entire life for the past five years has consisted mainly of you hoping against hope that you’ll catch a break and get off easy from a day in hell, that maybe you’ll be gifted with the eternal plan B of just surviving the next day unharmed and, if the fates are feeling kind, with some imaginary shred of dignity still intact.

                This so very rarely is the actual outcome, but it’s nice to have goals, you note sarcastically to yourself.

                Your bones are rattled back into the bitter reality of the present as you hear the zipper shrieking itself in the other direction, and the louder ruffling of clothes above you. 

                Unpacking. 

                Bracing yourself and even grasping roughly at the fuzzy interior of the jeans pocket, you try to ready yourself for what you have no doubt is incapable of being readied for.  Still, it’s nice to convince yourself that you have a shot at getting out in one piece.  It’s a comfort thing.

                Your turn comes up quicker than expected as you are shot into the air, jeans and all, like a buggy on a roller coaster being power-dragged up to the top of a slope, ready to be dropped into the loopy pits of wind-whipped doom.

                Your world does an abrupt 180 as the clothes begin coming unfolded, flipping over in the process.  Grasping with all your might at the pocket material, you can see light trickling into the pocket. 

                And not from above you. 

                With a gasp, you wrap your arms into the fuzzy fabric as tightly as you can, staring downward at a plummeting drop to the floor a couple dozen stories below, at best.  It’s hard to perceive as your vision goes into a swirling plooey of nausea and gut-wrenching terror.

                Don’t let go, you whisper to yourself, your arms already getting tired and shaking.  Don’t let go.

                The rebuttal to your silent pleading comes rapidly as the clothes are jostled so hard, your white-knuckle grip is no match any longer.  With a weak squeal of horror and despair, you cascade down the brief inverted slope of the pocket and out into the open.  Light from a window blasts onto you, burning your darkness-adjusted eyes.  Wildly, you grasp at the fabric, and miraculously, your fingers meet a curled edge of the jean waistline.  Gripping with so much adrenaline your fingers begin to go numb, your breathing heaves painfully as you attempt to blink the shock of the light out of your eyes.

                As your vision slowly returns to normal, you stare ahead, and find the darkness replaced with something far more overwhelming and shocking.  A face.  A very large face, obviously, but more specifically, a focused face.  A face focused directly on you.  Turquoise eyes bugged out, long eyelashes whipping and blinking in disbelief, plump lips poised partially open in surprise, nostrils flared, dirty blonde hair hanging loosely and messily over shoulders, warm air being gently exhaled from the darkness of the mouth.  A slight gasp escaping through the moist air being blown out to you as you continue hanging precariously over certain doom, held up only by your impossibly determined fingers gripping the edge of the upside down pair of jeans.

                You find yourself, hanging naked, two inches tall, sweating with life-rending terror, and bug-eyed, essentially in a staring contest with the IMAX-sized, angel-featured face of your sixteen-year-old cousin Sophie.

                You can feel your arms shaking violently again, pleading with you for release, and yet you aren’t even focused on the strain anymore as you continue to lock impossibly large, glowing eyes with the teenage girl currently holding the ultimate fate of your life in her right hand, where’s she was gripping loosely at the leg of her pair of jeans.  The position holds for a few moments, the world seemingly frozen.

                Suddenly, the silence and static image are shattered simultaneously.  Sophie’s free hand not hanging onto the jeans shoots into the air, causing you to wince, and stops short, just close enough below you that, in theory, you could let go of the jeans and land safely in her hand.

                You stare downward at the horrifyingly wide palm of your cousin, creased, outstretched, soft-looking.  Her fingers are flattened, her entire hand held perfectly still.  Waiting.  Anticipating.  Knowing that you can’t hang on for much longer.  Knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that, in a matter of moments, you’ll have no choice but to place your fate even more directly into her powerful hands.

                For the briefest of instants, you contemplate using the remaining shred of energy you have left to swing and get some momentum going to allow you to overshoot the distance of her hand, instead plummeting toward the ground far below.  In that way, you’d eliminate the potential for any unthinkable future scenario that, for all you know, is about to transpire and beat the previous five years’ efforts in terms of nightmarish quality.  You gulp, your eyes tearing up again. 

                You should do it.  It’s time to end all this for good.  You’re not going to let all of it happen again.  You’ve given up five years of your life, which has felt much more like fifty, in servitude to your giant sister, for the purpose of living onward, and for what?  This?  To find yourself in the hands of a younger and more immature clone of Carly?

                You think not.

                Swinging your legs, you prepare to get a flow going so you can dive-bomb to the carpet of the monumental bedroom, ceasing the pain once and for all.

                Your brain freezes in its tracks, though, as the softest and gentlest of whispers caresses the air around you.

                “J-J-Jack?”

                You stop swinging.  You don’t look Sophie in the face again.  You can’t, somehow.  However, you do manage to respond.  Nodding hard enough “yes” so that she can tell what response you’re giving, you stare back down at the imposing, wide, fleshy plain of her still-waiting palm just below you.

                “It c-can’t b-be…” she gasps, whispering still.  Your arms are shaking so hard you’re almost sure you’re going to sprain something if you don’t let go soon.  “J-Jack… please… it’s okay.  Let go.  Let go.”

                Regardless of whether you believe her or not, your fingers finally give out, forcing you into chilling free fall for half an instant before landing gently in the cushiony, warm palm of your cousin.  You had your chance to get out of this, and now it’s gone.  Now, you’re putting all your chips on the table.

                Closing your eyes and simply focusing on the soothing touch of the soft skin under your back, your splay your entire body out, beyond exhausted from all the energy you just expended in surviving.                You hear the flop of the jeans far below on the ground as Sophie allows them to drop.  Opening your eyes again, you wince to realize her digits are beginning to curl up around you, like a tidal wave of finger flesh on the gentle ocean of her palm.  You gasp, shaking harder, bracing yourself to be gripped into a hot fist and subjected to endless examinations and curious experimentation by your sister’s younger doppelganger.

                However, none of this happens.  You look upward, realizing Sophie was only cupping you more securely into her palm to ensure you don’t fall.  Cool wind tickles your cheeks again as you are brought slowly up to her admittedly beautiful, wondering face, which now fills most of your field of vision from your soft cradle of her cupped hand.

                She purses her lips gently, exhaling slowly so as not to blow out a blast of wind onto your trembling, tired form.  Her eyebrows arch.  You study the face before you.  It’s so strange to see one up so close and yet have it feel so different.

                In the face of Carly, you’re used to the usual tics and sights that tell you precisely how she’s feeling.  You see the curl of her smirking lips, showing her derision and pitiful humor toward you.  Her arched eyebrows contemplating what game she might play with you, completely leaving your feelings out of the equation.  Her eyes fastened on you, looking you over for weaknesses like a lioness might on a zebra before pouncing.  When you are in this position, steadied before your sister’s tremendous face and about to face certain pain and humiliation, you know you are nothing more than a toy, a prisoner, a distraction, and an experiment to her.

                But this is different.  Very different.  The eyes are soft and patient, looking you over not with gleeful contemplation of the fun possibilities, but of surprise and even concern.  The lips are frozen in place, partially opened, and not at all out of joy at the thought of your helplessness.  Genuine shock at the situation.  For a moment, as you stare into the enormous face of your cousin Sophie, with such similar features to Carly, you can’t help but wonder how your history with your family have might turned out differently if Carly was capable of expressing these kinds of emotions in her face.  In that same moment, you feel as if you are staring up into your sister’s face not with fear, but with something else.  What is it?  You can’t quite identify it for a moment, and then with a sigh of surprise, you realize what it is you’re feeling.  You can’t understand it, but you feel it welling warmly and comfortably inside of you.

                Relief.

                “Oh… m-my… G-G-G…” stutters the girl, still understandably unable to process the sight of her tiny, helpless cousin sprawled weakly in her hand.  More specifically, a cousin whom she had believed to be dead for the past half a decade.  “No…”

                Your throat is bone-dry from dehydration after your full sprints back at your house, but swallowing a few times, you manage to gasp out a gummy answer, coughing a little.  “S-S-Sophie.”

                She blinks hard, her eyes widening brightly at the novel experience of hearing your little voice, as if finally getting reassurance that you are, in fact, a sentient human being merely superimposed into a size small enough to fit comfortably into her hand.  She swallows hard, her throat gurgling slightly, still trying to drink it in mentally.

                “It is you, isn’t it, Jack?” she whispers softly.  Her tone of voice is ambling and gentle, without a single note of shocked accusing or crazed discovery.  However, it’s not even the condescending tone used to speak to a toddler with that Carly often uses to embarrass you.  It’s unassuming, worried, and tender: like speaking to a wounded animal, afraid it might pass away if the words are spoken too loudly or forcefully.  It’s comforting to be spoken to in this way after so many years of angry orders interspersed with domineering callousness from Carly.

                “Y-Y-Yes…” you gasp out, coughing.

                Her voice goes even lower, as if trying to keep it a secret from the rest of the world.  “They thought you r-ran away.  They thought you… y-you w-were…” she gasps, her voice choking back a soft sob.  “…dead.”

                “I didn’t.  And I’m not,” you answer simply, deciding, at this moment, the best course of action is to give brief answers while your cousin still tries to get over the difficult reality of the situation on her own terms.

                “How?” she whispers painfully, and you watch as her eyes begin turning pink, dampening with thick, salty tears.

                “I’ll tell you about it,” you gasp, coughing again.

                “What’s w-wrong?” she answers, watching you hack a little into your fist.

                “I’m t-tired… I… I… w-water…”

                “Oh my God… yes, water, right,” she sputters, getting ahold of herself and making briskly for the door of her bedroom, still keeping you safely cupped into her palm.  Her pace is measured and steady, careful not to jostle you.  Caring, even.  The heavy footfalls you felt before are gone, replaced with gentle, powerful tiptoes across the carpeted hallway of your aunt and uncle’s house.

                “S-Sophie…” you gasp out slowly as she steps into the bathroom and heads for the sink to get you a drink.

                “Shhh…” she whispers, clasping a finger over her soothingly smiling lips as she twists the metallic faucet of the sink to get the water running.  “Don’t worry right now, just wait.  I’ll take care of you.  I promise.”

                For the first time since you can remember, a small, weak, but genuinely hopeful smile appears on your face.

End Notes:

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Chapter 16: The Revenge Fantasy by Jacksmith

                You can hardly dare to believe that your escape plans could have turned out this unfathomably fortunate.  After getting you a drink and bringing you back from the brink of complete dehydration, Sophie had rolled up a Kleenex and given it to you to robe yourself in.  You haven’t felt the reassuring touch and privacy of actual “clothes” in five years, and for a few moments it feels foreign to you, but after you realize you can now freely look your gigantic cousin in the eye without being mortally humiliated that she has full view of your junk, you become accustomed to it again rather quickly.

                The next hour is spent sitting in Sophie’s two cupped palms, her fingers wrapped gently and protectively around you to help warm you up, the girl herself reclining on her bed and listening intently to you as you relate the extremely condensed version of this entire insane and dream-like five-year ordeal.  It doesn’t take long to get the tears welling back in Sophie’s eyes, and you can feel her fingers quivering and her palms getting clammy as you describe in vague detail some of the horrible crimes violated against your life by your sister.  So, for the sake of the girl’s sanity as she continues trying to accept the reality of being able to hold her doll-sized, presumed-dead cousin in her hands, you withhold the vast majority of the despicable events you’ve somehow managed to live through with your psych more or less intact.  You feel you owe Sophie that much courtesy, at least.

                “Jack… so… you’re telling me that this entire time you’ve just been at your own house?”

                “Well… almost the entire time, I just spent the first semester of college in a dorm room, but yeah.”

                Sophie has to fight back a gasp at this.  She shakes her head, and wipes her damp eyes after freeing one of her hands.  “But… but… I just can’t believe… I mean, Carly…”

                “Yeah…” you grimace, knowing there’s little point in trying to debate the deeply disturbed mind of your unassuming and sweet little sister.  “I know.”

                “How could she… how c-could she…”

                “Yeah…”

                “How could she not d-do something… how could she not try to find some way to h-help y-you?”

                You shrug, trying to move on from the subject of Carly and more into ending this once and for all.  Eventually, you know you’ll have to have the very real consideration of whether or not it’s possible to ever return to normal size in your life, but for now, all you can do is sit and bask in the safety you feel perched in the warm, nervously trembling but trustworthy hands of Sophie.  “I really don’t know,” you answer as honestly as you can.  “I guess… that’s just the way she is.”

                “She’s always… so happy, so excited about things.  I mean, people LOVE her, they practically WORSHIP her.  She’s the center of everything, she gets so much attention, how… h-how…”

                “She’s good like that,” you mention off-handedly, knowing full well how skilled Carly is at keeping secrets.

                “How could she DO this?” blurts Sophie painfully, clearly building up some steam over the fact that one of her idols is, in fact, a demented psychopathic tormentor and brilliant liar.

                “I… don’t know.  I’ve tried to understand that for a long time,” you answer earnestly.  “But really, Sophie…”

                “What?”

                “I need you to help me get back to my parents.  I have to…”

                “Do you want me to call them?” she asks more suddenly.  “Or… no, no, wait.  I… I can take you home right now if you want, I can…”

                “Sorry, hold up,” you say more sternly than you intended, clutching your temple in thought.  Even being delivered directly into the hands of your parents and feeling momentarily safe, you have a bad feeling about this whole situation.  Carly would still be there, and, in the heat of the moment and the shock of seeing both their son alive again and finding out that he’s no larger than a child’s toy, your parents might accidentally leave themselves vulnerable to the sugary-sweet deception of Carly.  You’re not sure of specifically how, but you’ve got a feeling in your gut that your sister would use her knowledge of the situation fully to her own advantage in that moment.  In turn, this would spell physical vulnerability for you, and you have a feeling that once the jig is up and Carly is faced with having her entire life’s empire of mad power and slave-driving control collapsing in on her all at once, smashing you into bloody jam under her punishing heel will not even appear as a blip on her moral radar.

                “What is it?” asks Sophie, sounding surprised.

                You quickly explain your concern to her, and she nods approvingly.

                “I get it.  I mean, I guess she’s pretty smart, to have hidden you so well for all this time…” admits Sophie dejectedly.

                “Right.  I… I can’t go back now.  She’d… she’d…” you begin, but can’t quite get the words out.

                “I know,” butts in Sophie, not particularly wanting to hear you say it either.  “I get it, really.  What do you need me to do?”

                “We need to get Carly out of that house somehow.”

                “I could offer to go shopping with her!  She’s pretty cool with me, we actually… hang out sometimes,” says Sophie, the audible disappointment swelling in her voice.  You can’t help but have sympathies for the girl in this situation.  In the last hour, she’s managed to find that her dead cousin is not only dead, but also the breaker of several scientific and physical laws in the process.  Additionally, she’s had to accept that one of her most respected cousins and even friends is something of a monster.  “So it wouldn’t be weird, really,” finishes Sophie.

                “Good!” you answer approvingly, before something else strikes you.  “No!  Wait.  Wait.  I… I mean, she hid me in her purse, that’s where’ve been during Christmas.  She’s going to-”

                “Wait,” interrupts Sophie, confused.  “You’ve been in her purse for the last two days?”

                “Well… more or less, actually I spent a lot of it in her fancy socks when she wore them on Christmas, but that’s not important,” you continue on casually, barely thinking of much of it because you are so used to it, as a look of horror crosses Sophie’s face, her hand quivering at the thought of such a thing.  “The point is, she’s going to have to grab that to go shopping, and… well, when I’m not there, you know she’s not leaving the house, she’s going to stay there until she finds me.”

                “Okay,” whispers Sophie quietly, looking you over with extreme concern.  “Oh my God… she actually…” she gulps, hardly daring to say the words in conjunction.  “She actually… put you… inside her sock… while she was wearing it?”

                “Umm… yeah, I guess so,” you answer nonchalantly, realizing you probably made a mistake in sharing that little tidbit with your overwhelmed cousin.

                “What the hell… who… who would…” she sputters.

                “It doesn’t matter now, I’m never doing that again, Sophie.  But right now, we need to think of a way to get Carly out of that house without her purse.  I think…”

                “God…” blubbers Sophie, her throat gurgling a few times before the tears begin flowing more freely, the sobs choking in her throat.  “Oh my G-God…”

                “Sophie, really, we need to-”

                “That’s so sick…”

                “I know, but…”

                “She’s a freak… a f-fre…” mumbles Sophie, hardly able to process the idea as her eyes fall back to you rather piteously, her features softening even more as the tears streak down her face.  “You’re… you’re just a tiny little person.  You can’t do anything to stop her.  How can she… how could she hurt you like that?”

                “Sophie, please, it’s okay.”

                “NO!” screeches Sophie, the dramatics rising quickly.  “No, Jack.  You can’t say that.  It’s NOT okay.  It’s NOT okay for your sister to treat you l-like… l-like her PET or something!  Oh my G-God…”

                “Sophie.”

                “Tell me what we’re going to do, Jack,” whispers Sophie again, her voice instantly becoming more focused as her eyes narrow cunningly.  “I’ll help you.  But… but Carly has to p-pay for this, she can’t… I mean, she can’t just… get away with what she’s done.  She deserves to… to…”

                “She’ll get what’s coming to her, Sophie, believe me.  I don’t know how, but if we do this right, I’m sure they can get… some kind of legal involvement here.  But really…”

                “NO.  That’s NOT what’s coming to her,” says Sophie, her voice descending into a growl of sorts.  You can tell the cogs in her brain are really whirring now.  She seems to be plotting something, and whatever it is, no matter how well Sophie seems to mean in the favor of your wellbeing and no matter how much you subconsciously would tend to agree with her sentiments against Carly, seeing her aggression rise so quickly is making you uneasy.

                “Sophie…”

                “God, if I had her…” hisses Sophie.  “Like… like she had you… tiny and helpless…  I wouldn’t help her, either.  I’d… I’d…”

                “Hey, no, no, wait a second…”

                “I’d do everything to her that she’s done to you.  Everything.  I… I’d put her in my sock, and… and I’d keep her in there for a week,” she grumbles with almost devilish glee, so desperate is her desire to avenge the wrongdoings against you.  “A whole week… and… when I let her out, I’d… I’d put her in a cage, and keep her in there like a hamster, and… and I’d take away her clothes, too, so she’d be cold, and if she asked me to help her get warmer, I’d put her in the refrigerator!” declares Sophie, rapidly getting lost in the sadistic fun of her daydream as she continues to pour out her raw anger at Carly.  “And… and then, if she asked me for food, or… or water, I’d just eat something right in front of her and… and not give her any…”

                “That’s… actually usually what happens,” you point out against your better judgment.  Despite the immediacy of your desire to return to your parents, you can’t help but realize how much you share your cousin’s plight, and having someone empathize so radically with you is so refreshing that hearing each acidic word coming angrily from Sophie’s lips is like music to you.  The mutual feelings of detestation at Carly’s cruelty are swirling so powerfully around you with Sophie’s vivid suggestions that you don’t blame yourself at all for wanting to bask in them.  “Actually, she’d chew it up, spit it out, and make me eat it.”

                “T-T-That… That… that BITCH!” shrieks Sophie, after sputtering again for a moment.  “Oh, I’d eat it in front of her.  And swallow it.  And then I’d puke it back up, just for her to eat.  And if she didn’t eat it all, well… I’d… I’d…” stutters Sophie in white-hot rage, trying to get ahold of herself.  “I’d eat HER!  That little… I swear to God, I’d dip her in chocolate so she wouldn’t taste as bad and chew her up until there was nothing left.”

                “Sophie!  C’mon!” you shout out, shocked to hear this last bit.  “There’s no need to think about killing here.”  Despite how hypothetical the situation of your sister being shrunken is, it scares you anew to hear your cousin so willingly describing the murder of Carly, even if in enraged fantasy.

                “I know, I know, I know…” sobs Sophie, a fresh wave of salty tears streaking her cheeks.  “But… but that wouldn’t stop me, still.  She’s… she’s kept you for five years like… like you’re her PROPERTY or something, and… and the things she’s done to you.  I’d make her feel like she’s made YOU feel… I’d… I’d…”

                “Sophie, please, really, it’s fine now.  I’m safe.  It’s over.”

                “No.  It’s not over, Jack.  It’s not going to be over.  Carly deserves it.  She deserves to be sitting here, down there, on the floor where she belongs, begging me to let her live.  And… and I’d let her live, but… but only if she bowed.  Until she believed that I didn’t care about her,” growls Sophie, closing her eyes and letting the tears continue to plop onto her shirt.  “And… and… what you s-said about her… when she first found you.  Instead of saving you.  She… she… made you k… k-k-k…”

                “Kiss her feet,” you grimace.

                “Oh… she’d learn how that feels.  I’d stand on top of her stupid little body and make her kiss the bottom of my foot even after her little fucking lips fell off…” sighs Sophie in near ecstasy, clearly enraptured with the very idea of taking such ironic vengeance.  “And God damn it… I wouldn’t let her stop until she liked it and was begging me for more like the stupid little whore that she is!”

                You can’t lie to yourself.  The idea of your colossal sister’s sickest scenarios involving you being reenacted on Carly herself with such glorious attention to detail brings a smile to your face and a sense of satisfaction to your mind.  For a moment, your deepest wish is for such a thing to actually take place, with you in the first row to watch your suddenly equal-sized sister bruised, crying, pathetic, defeated, and completely subjugated by your apparently incredibly creative cousin’s bare foot, arched possessively over her body like a barely merciful god, allowing Carly to live only because she paid continuous tribute to it with the last dregs of human dignity she had left: each kiss on Sophie’s fleshy sole a sign of her utter surrender to her fate and what she deserved for her crimes.

                It’s an appealing concept to see Carly rightfully reduced to dirt, you have to admit to yourself, but there will be plenty of time for fantasizing about revenge later on.  For now, you have bigger things to worry about.

                “Sophie.  We can… talk some other time about that.  But really.  Really.  Right now, we have to act.  And I think I have a plan.”

                “Tell me,” whispers Sophie with an eager smile, bringing you closer to her gorgeous face to listen in.

End Notes:

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Chapter 17: Rescued At Last? by Jacksmith

                “Okay.  Now, can you go over that one more time, just to make sure I’ve got it?” asks Sophie softly, peeking up over the edge of the dresser to check on you, having returned back to your house again to put the plan into effect.  This time, though, you find yourself in the relative safety of the guest room Sophie happened to have slept in the previous night.

                “Sure,” you shrug, tightening the wrapped up Kleenex toga around your waist as you walk across the wooden surface, walking around a purple hair barrette resting on its side.

                “Is that… gonna hold up?” whispers your cousin nervously, resting her chin on the top of the dresser to get a better look.

                “Yeah, it’s fine,” you answer simply.

                “I’m sorry I don’t have anything better right now, I’m betting you’re… kind of embarrassed right now, huh?”

                “Don’t worry about it,” you say with a reassuring smile.  “Honestly, I haven’t worn clothes in five years.  I almost feel weird WEARING them!” you chuckle, then cough uncomfortably, realizing how odd this sounds.  “That was a joke.”

                “I got it,” she smirks.  “Okay, so just to make sure…”

                “We go downstairs, you find Carly, and tell her mom needs her to swing by the grocery to grab some more vegetables for dinner tonight.”

                “But won’t she go and get her purse for…”

                “She won’t need it.  Tell her mom said to grab the grocery card from the home office before she goes.  Believe me, Carly’s not the type to bring that purse with her unless she needs it.”

                Sophie nods at you, frowning a bit.  “Yeah, I… I guess you’re right.  You sure know her well, don’t you?”

                “Yeah,” you grimace sheepishly.  “Anyway:  we don’t want a lot of attention on this, so after that, you need to go grab my mom and ask her to come upstairs.  Then… I guess just get her in here, make sure you give her some space.  I don’t think this is going to go smoothly no matter what we do, but we can at least soften the blow.”

                “Right,” sighs Sophie, closing her eyes and running a hand through her hair, still a bit overwhelmed.  “Okay.  You ready?”

                “Hell yes,” you breathe heavily, your head swimming at the mere idea of it.  This is it.  You’re finally about to wake up from the nightmare.  Five years of mind-blowing, unreal torture and agonizing dehumanization, all about to come to an end right now.  You practically want to double over in ecstasy, but now is not the time.  “Let’s do this.”

                “Okay,” she answers sweetly, raising a hand up to the top of the dresser and laying it, palm up, in front of you.  “Climb in.  I’ll take you with me.”

                “Thanks,” you answer, gingerly clambering over her fingers and into the center of her hand.  It’s a unique experience to you.  Despite all the time you’ve spent at this inhumanly small size, you’ve never once had a good reason to climb into a person’s hand.  In fact, more often than not, you’re not offered the chance so much as grabbed roughly up into some probing fingers like a helpless ragdoll.  The realization that you are, in fact, handing your safety over to Sophie willingly as you take a seat in the center of her soft, fleshy palm is new and startling and you can’t help but feel slightly exhilarated.  This is what it feels like to be safe again.  You had entirely forgotten up until now.

                Sophie’s fingers curl around you, circling into a protective layer of flesh without actually constricting you cruelly into her clutches, but instead allowing you the freedom to move your arms.  Gently, she raises her hand up to chin level to more closely examine you.

                “You feeling all right, Jack?” she whispers softly, careful not to breathe too hard on you.

                “Yep.”

                “I’m… I’m so sorry about… everything,” she coos, her eyes beginning to glisten with tears again.

                “Sophie, it’s fine.  I’m serious.”

                “Just… tell me one thing.  I have to know.  I… I want to start trying to find out what happened to you.  Something.  I don’t know.”

                “What do you mean?”

                “How did you… get like… this?” she asks carefully, probably not wanting to sound politically incorrect.

                You nod, catching her drift.  You’ve had a long time to sort through this, and now know precisely what it was.  You quickly rattle off the chemistry lab elements that were used, how they were prepared in the burner, and your electrification a matter of hours later in the day.  She nods, wiping the tears.

                “Okay.  Thank you.  I… just had to know.”

                “Sophie, really, we can talk about this later.  We need to do this now.”

                “I know,” she nods, lowering her hand back down to waist level.  “I’m going to put you in my pocket, okay?  I don’t want anyone to see you while I’m finding Carly and your mom.”

                “That’s fine,” you answer almost confusedly, noting how this is probably the first time you were actually asked by a comparatively giant person to be put somewhere, rather than being forcibly inserted there without consent.

                “I’ll be careful with you, I promise.  I won’t let you get hurt.  Don’t be scared,” she reassures quickly as she slowly tips her hand into the crevice of her fresh jeans pocket, allowing you to slide gently down the fleshy slope of her fingers.  “Just hold still in there.”

                “Will do!” you gulp as you land softly in the darkness of Sophie’s pocket, the claustrophobic fabric ensuring that you have to practically keep yourself pressed against the denim-lined wall of firm quadriceps contained behind the pocket in order to stay in one piece.  You breathe slowly and methodically, the air around you becoming warmer already with the reduced space, but you mentally repeat Sophie’s comforting words before depositing you into her pocket, and soon find your breathing returning to normal again.  Delicately, you feel a wall of her fingers outside the pocket patting gently you to ensure you landed safely.

                God damn it, you wonder aimlessly.  Why couldn’t it have been Sophie that found me five years ago and not Carly?

                A second passes, and soon you feel the wall of toned leg muscle beginning to pump gently behind the layer of jean pocket.  Sophie must be walking.  You close your eyes, focusing your attention on the steady vibrations of the fabric against your skin.  A few minutes pass.  You hear the hum of voices and the occasional popping through the chatter of high-pitched laughter.  You hear your youngest cousins squealing as they charge around the house, hopped up on too much Christmas candy.  You hear the clinking of wine glasses.  You hear the crackling of the fire in the hearth.  You hear the clattering of pots and pans as the food is prepared.

                The last time you were exposed to these sounds, despite how wonderful it was to hear everything again, the experience was severely tainted.  After all, you note to yourself, being separated from the world by a massive padding of your sister’s disgusting, lint-laced, unwashed toes while being worn around Christmas day was probably going to make anything unpleasant.  

                You almost chuckle at this last thought.  That’s the understatement of the year.  You have a strong feeling that even if you were being handed a million dollars, the keys to a sports car, and the number of an available swimsuit model, the thrill would be significantly dampened if it was happening while you were pinned under five juicy, line-backer sized, grime-coated toes for an entire day.

                Now, however, that you’re not being subjected painfully and dangerously under your super-bitch of a sister’s foot, and instead are residing safely in your cousin’s warm pocket, you can actually concentrate more fully on the sounds, and even the smells of fresh Christmas cookies wafting in the air.  It reminds you so readily of the wonderful holidays of your childhood that you’ve been unable to participate in for so long, and you almost want to cry as you are tempted so potently with the potential to experience it once again.

                No.  Focus.  Can’t get distracted, you remind yourself.  The plan is sound, but there will only be one shot at it.

                It occurs to you suddenly that Sophie’s leg hasn’t been vibrating for a few moments.  You listen as hard as you can, trying to make out what’s going on through the fabric.  You’re not sure over the overwhelming hum the rest of the family is making around the colossal body of your cousin, but you’re pretty sure Sophie is talking to someone.  Apparently she’s found Carly.  After a few more minutes pass, you can feel the steady steps resume.  If all is going as planned, Carly is on her way to the grocery now.

                You wipe a bead of sweat off your forehead.  So far, so good.

                The walking continues, and stops again in a place where the light streams more readily through the extreme filter of the jean pocket.  Probably the brighter bulbs of the kitchen.  You hear speaking again, and this time because it’s more secluded from the crowded hustle and bustle of the living room, by straining your ears you can actually make out a jumbled bit of the exchange.

                “Aunt Leah?” you hear Sophie query innocently.  “Could you show me where Carly keeps her hair products?  She told me where to look, but I can’t find them, and she said she had to leave for a minute.”

                “Of course, honey,” answers your mom enthusiastically.  “Give me two minutes to finish slicing the fruit here, and then I’ll come up and show you.”

                “Thanks!” says Sophie cheerily before continuing onward.  You can’t help but smile smugly to yourself.  This is going beautifully.  In a matter of minutes, your rescue will finally come.  You can hardly stand the anticipation.  You feel the slightly more violent pumping of Sophie’s legs as she scales the staircase to the upper level again.  A few more steps, the creaking of a door once as Sophie enters and again as she closes it behind her, and you feel her come to a stop.

                Slowly, the fabric of the pocket is pushed apart, and light flows through as Sophie’s hand creeps slowly in, her fingers curling as if fishing for you.  Taking the cue, you clamber into the makeshift shelf of skin on her firm fingers and are quickly lifted out.  You grip your fingers tightly around a single crevice between Sophie’s enormous middle and pointer fingers, wind rushing past you for a moment before her hand comes to rest on top of the dresser again.  Catching your breath in your chest, you step slowly off of your cousins’ soft fingers and back onto the dresser.  Turning to face your beaming cousin, you nod approvingly.

                “You did it, Sophie.”

                “I… hope so,” she answers nervously.

                “That was perfect.  Thank you so much.”

                “It’s fine, Jack, really.  Don’t worry about it.  You’d do the same for me, I know.”

                “Of course,” you smile warmly, receiving a gleeful grin in return from the tremendous glistening white teeth of your cousin.  “Now… I guess… we just wait a minute…”

                “Right,” she nods confidently, swaying slightly from nervousness.  “Jack….”

                “Yes?”

                Before her next word can come out, a sound that makes your heart fall directly from your chest and into your ankles cuts through the soft silence.

                “SOPHIE!” exclaims Carly loudly from the hallway, exasperated and clearly stressed about something.  You hear the slamming of her footfalls, and a second later the doorknob to the guest room is being twisted.

                There’s no time, and the next thing you know, you’re being plunged into darkness.  You look up just in time to see Sophie, as an emergency response, pinching a red scarf between her fingers and plopping it gently enough on top of you to conceal from your rapidly approaching sister.  Holding as still as possible, you peep through a few fibers of the loosely knit scarf, ensuring you are still shrouded in darkness.

                Carly enters the room so forcefully her blonde hair is whipped messily across her face as she almost allows the door to slam against the wall.  Her face is tensed, her deep blue eyes narrowed, her fists clenched at her sides.  You can tell something’s up, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that, despite what you believed, for whatever reason, your sister found a need to go to her purse before heading out for the grocery.  And, you’re willing to bet, she found it necessary to check the purse for a certain pet sibling of hers before heading out.

                “Hey… uh…” gulps Sophie, composing herself despite the surprise and near-horror of seeing her taller and more high-powered cousin entering the room.  “Something wrong?”

                “Is something wrong?  I… I mean…” sputters Carly, clearly panicking internally over what’s going on.  Never, in all these five years, as Carly not been able to find you exactly where she left you.  Despite her affinity for cruelty and calculation in your subjugation, Carly is always a person totally in control of the situation.  Right now, though, you have a feeling that your totalitarian sister is experiencing the closest thing she ever has to true “helplessness.”

                “Calm down, cuz,” says Sophie as nonchalantly as she can.  “What’s up?”

                “Did... did you go through my purse?” hisses Carly accusingly, before coughing lightly to correct herself and starting again.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like that.  But really, did you get in my purse?  I… don’t care if you did, I just want to know,” she says more slowly, trying to cover up her shock and deep care for the scenario.

                “Umm, no, not that I know of, Carly.  You know I wouldn’t do something like that to you.”

                “Okay.  Good.  I’m sorry, girl,” laughs Carly, clearly trying to help cover up her brash approach to the questioning.  “I’m willing to bet it was one of the younger kids.  But listen, one of them got in there and took my…” she says slowly, pausing for a moment.  “…make-up case, and I… I kind of need it back.  So, could you go downstairs and help me ask some of them about it?”

                “I’d love to Carly, but I need to stay here for a minute, I…”

                “Why?” questions Carly again, narrowing her eyes.  This time, the look freezes for a second.  “I mean, c’mon, why not?  I need you to give me a hand before they decide to cover the walls with my blush or something.”

                You peer through the fibers of the scarf over at Sophie as she chews this thought over.  You can see it in her eyes and understand what needs to happen right now.  Explaining the same story she told to your mom would blow your cover.  Carly is obviously still suspicious, and the only way to get her off of Sophie’s back is to leave the room and help out, if only for a few minutes.  You gulp hard, but know what must be done, and know that Sophie is smart enough to do it.

                “No reason.  It’s fine, I’ll help you ask them for a few minutes, sure,” answers Sophie a bit hesitantly.  You see her eyes glance for a nanosecond over at the scarf, as if to reassure you that she’ll be back, before following Carly back out of the room.

                You swallow hard, counting the seconds in the silence.  Just a few minutes.  Just a few.  Just hang out, and Sophie will be back.  Nothing to it.  A brief flaw in the plan.  Sure, Carly isn’t going anywhere for the time being, but it’s okay.  Your mom will be upstairs as soon as she finishes chopping up the food for dinner, and your little rescue rendezvous can still take place.  It will happen.  It will still happen.  You’re saved.   It’s over.

                You feel yourself wince as the silence is broken again.  Peering out the fabric of the scarf, you see an even newer complication.

                Chloe.

                Sophie’s twelve-year-old sister dashes frantically into the guest room, looking wildly around for something.  Her blonde bob cut seems to bop lightly as she turns her head quickly from side to side, searching for whatever it is she’s lost in here.  As she walks past the dresser, you shiver a little.  Just get what you need and go, you whisper to yourself in your head.  Just get it and leave.

                “SOPHIE!  I CAN’T FIND IT!  WHERE DID YOU PUT IT?” she half-shouts, half-whines, cupping her hands around her mouth for volume.  The cry is so jarring you have to clasp your hands over your ears.  Despite her smaller stature compared to her much lankier sister Sophie and cousin Carly, Chloe makes up for her shorter frame with a spry, energetic kind of presentation that rattles your bones with anxiety.

                Readjusting herself after screaming out, Chloe pats her hands along her sweat pants and ruffled pink t-shirt reading “Floyd Middle School: Varsity Soccer Team” with a design of a flying checked soccer ball printed on the front.  Having done this, your cousin blinks her green eyes a few times and scratches, puzzled, at her hair before placing her hands on her hips and doing a final scan of the room with her squinted eyes.

                Just go away.  Just find it.  Find it and go.

                Suddenly, her eyes fall onto the dresser.  Her green irises light up like Christmas lights, and her mouth spreads into a victorious smile.

                “THERE’S my scarf!  Never mind, I found it!” she cries out.

                You feel your stomach flip over inside of you as, an instant later, the scarf is whipped right off of you and into your cousin’s hands.  Not more than a second goes by before you, sitting very plainly and exposed in the center of the dresser, find yourself directly in the gaze of your younger cousin.

                Chloe’s green eyes widen wildly, and her jaw drops completely open, practically putting her tonsils all the way in back of her throat on display.  She gasps loudly, as if all the oxygen is being yanked from her lungs.

                Slowly, you pull yourself to your feet, gulping.  Not all is lost yet.  Play your cards right, and maybe, you think to yourself, you can get Chloe on your side too.  After all, you don’t have the same kinds of memories with her that you do with Sophie.  While Sophie always prided herself on copying the pious nature of Carly, Chloe was always considered more of a tomboy, off doing her own thing, coming up with creative and goofy new games while also being the kid in the family who tended to get her cheeks pinched the most often, as she had what the grandparents called a sort of baby face, with her cherubim-like rosy cheeks and dimples.  So maybe, you think again to yourself, this is doable.

                You open your mouth to speak, but before you can say anything, the rushing wall of Chloe’s right hand is flying at you so rapidly, the wind is knocked from you as her fingers wrap powerfully around you, clasping so hard against your back you think your spine might have been put out.  As you are pressed painfully into a massive pad of sweet-smelling palm skin, you feel your feet effortlessly lifting from the ground, and you powerless to stop it.

                You huff and puff wearily, trying to catch your breath, as you soar through the air and off the dresser, still clenched tightly in the fist of your twelve-year-old cousin.  A moment later, you come quickly into view of her whole titanic face, her green eyes still frozen, her jaw still hanging widely.  So shocked is your cousin, in fact, you can tell she’s not bothering to keep most of her normal functions in check.  Rolling wave after rolling wave of hot breath is expelled from your cousin’s lips, and you’d prefer it if you could cover your nose, as it smells strongly of day-old, gooey macaroni and cheese.  Unfortunately, with your entire body pinned into the tightly wound wrap of Chloe’s fingers and hand, this is not a viable option.

                “C-C-Chl…” you gasp weakly in her grasp.

                “No way…” she whispers, still clearly in shock.  “It’s a little person.”

                “No C-Chl…” you try again.  “It’s m-me… J-J-J…”

                “Are you real, little man?” questions Chloe simply as her facial expression suddenly reverts to normal.  “I’m not dreaming, right?”

                “P-Please… l-l-loos…” you wheeze, as Chloe’s death grip on your body is still intact.

                “Whoooaaa… you TALK, too!  This… is… so… cool…”

                “Chloe…” you cry out desperately, before hearing footfalls on the staircase.

                Finally.  It must be Sophie coming back to your rescue.  You shiver, terrified, in the overly firm grip of your elated cousin Chloe, trying your best so squirm in your vice of finger flesh but finding it impossible.

                However, before you get the chance to see Sophie rushing through the door, Chloe’s hand is shooting back downward, and wind is flashing past your face again.  Roughly, the fist gripping you is jammed into a sweatpants pocket and releases, allowing you to tumble downward into the darkness.  Violently, you try to claw your way up the pocket, but find it impossible as the crack of light is slowly closed off again, sealing you into your little cousin’s pocket.

                You listen as hard as you can for a voice.  Something.  Anything.

                “Hey there, sweetie,” comes the voice of your mother.  “You hungry?  Dinner’s in about an hour.”

                “Okay, Aunt Leah.  Thanks!”

                “Do you… need something in here?  Isn’t this where your sister is staying?”

                “Umm…” hums Chloe playfully.  “Nope!  I just… came in here looking for something, but…” she giggles, and you can feel her fingers pat at her pocket, pinching at your legs through the fabric of her pants, just to remind herself that you exist.  “…I found it.  It’s fine.”

                “Have you seen your sister?  She wanted me to show her something,” your mom responds.

                “MOM!” you scream at the top of your lungs.  “PLEASE!  MOM!  I’M HERE!  HELP!” you shout out so loudly you feel like your vocal cords will burst.

                “I haven’t seen her, Aunt Leah,” says Chloe shyly.  “Maybe she’s back downstairs.”

                “No, no, it’s fine.  She probably found it on her own,” your mother answers simply, chuckling a little.  “Why don’t you go find your cousins and hang out with them instead of being alone up here, sweetie?”

                “Sounds good, Aunt Leah,” answers Chloe, and a moment later you hear your mother padding out of the guest room and back downstairs.

                Clutching your sore throat in vain, you stare upward with horror at the opening of the pocket as Chloe’s hand slides back in, her fingers arched like claws preparing to scoop you up.

                “Hey, little guy!” she whispers.  “C’mon back out!  It’s safe now.”

                You feel a new sense of deadness settling inside you as your twelve-year-old cousin’s firm fingers fix themselves around your body, grip you like an action figure, and slide you back out into the open from Chloe’s pocket.

End Notes:

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Chapter 18: When Giant Cousins Attack by Jacksmith

                You shiver, cowering coldly and so scared you feel like you might vomit, as you wait helplessly in the tight grip of your cousin Chloe’s fist.  Currently, you find yourself residing in her possession as she reclines on the other guest room bed in your house, the door locked tightly, keeping all others out, including any hope you have right now for a rescue.

                Finally, her grip loosens, and, gasping, you sprawl out in her hand, which she leaves palm up.  As you begin to stand up, you feel two fingers from her other hand come smashing down onto your back, forcing you flat against her palm.  A moment later, you feel her two fingers stroking up and down your lower back and legs, and over your Kleenex toga.  The pressure from her digits is so strong you doubt it would be of much use trying to stand up right now.

                “I can’t believe you’re real.  You’re actually… real… in my hands…” she gasps, continuing to stroke you roughly, completely mesmerized.

                “Chloe… Chloe… please, stop, stop,” you gasp, and she actually obliges, finally allowing you to pull yourself upright in her palm.

                “What is it, little guy?”

                “I’m not just… a little guy.  I’m your cousin.”

                “What do you mean, you’re my cousin?” she giggles.  “You’re not my cousin.  You’re a tiny little man.”

                “Right.  But… I’m… JACK.  You know me, right?” you say as innocently and gently as possible.

                She squints at you for a moment, then slowly begins curling her upper lip into a sneer.  “No, you’re not.  You’re not Jack.  You can’t be.”

                “Chloe, please, I know it’s hard to believe, but…”

                “Jack died like five years ago.  And besides, you can’t be Jack.  Jack is normal.  You’re tiny.  Like… a bird.  Or a mouse.  Or a doll…”

                “I know that, Chloe.  Please believe me.  It was an accident.  I didn’t die, I was just… made smaller… somehow, and…”

                Your words are cut off as Chloe’s fingers find their way to the hem of your Kleenex toga and begin pinching playfully at it.  She smirks coyly.  “What’s under there, little guy?”

                “Please… stop, these are my… clothes,” you answer slowly, knowing how ridiculous you sound.

                She laughs loudly, throwing her head back and letting her blonde bob cut bounce cutely before returning her gaze to you.  She stares at you so condescendingly, you assume she finds you to be the dumbest creature she’s ever laid eyes on, and your education has become her responsibility.  “These aren’t clothes, little guy.  This is a TISSUE.”

                “Right, but it’s all I’ve got, and…”

                “Tissues aren’t for clothes.  Not even for little people like you.  Tissues are for sneezing.”

                “True, but…”

                “Like THIS!” she giggles, dipping her face suddenly much closer to her hand holding you.  You collapse again, splaying once again in her palm.  Her massive nose descends quickly on you, and an instant later is being rubbed hard against your clothes.  For a moment, you come face to face with the wide bridge of her nose, and can make out all the individual pores and microscopic dabs of skin oil.  And then, she begins demonstrating her point, rubbing her nose from side to side against your tissue.  You can feel the bumping and sloping of her nostrils against your body through the fabric of the tissue, you can hear a wet snorting sound, and after a second you can feel thick moisture dampening your skin as she slabs some mucus into the fibers.  You cringe, trying to squirm away, but it’s no use as your cousin continues using your clothes to wipe her runny nose.

                This continues for a very painful thirty seconds or so, much of your chest and stomach being draped in the now thoroughly mucus-coated Kleenex, which feels heavy and disgustingly damp against your cold skin.  You shiver, but hold firm.  Gotta keep it together still.

                Chloe wipes her nose unabashedly and sniffs hard to clear out her nasal cavity at long last, then grins down at you.  “See?  That’s what they’re for.  Now…”

                “No… please, Chloe, listen, I…”

                “I think this needs to come off now.”

                “No!” you gasp as she pinches at the hem of the Kleenex and tugs.  As the material of the tissue has already been so saturated and weakened by her liquid mucus, the soft paper shreds off of your body easily, and the next instant you are laying horribly embarrassed, naked and exposed, in the somewhat moist palm of your cousin.

                “See?  Isn’t that so much better?” she snickers before raising an eyebrow.  “What did you say your name was again?”

                “It’s JACK!  I’m Jack, your cousin, JACK!”

                Chloe wrinkles her nose as if smelling something rotting.  “No.  I don’t like that.  That’s not your name.”

                “What are you talking about?  Of course it is!  Chloe, please, just stop this right now, you’ve got to LISTEN to me!” you beg, shifting your body so as to more strategically cover up your horribly exposed genitals.

                You gasp as Chloe’s fingers curl in on you, crumpling you awkwardly back into her fist.  Her fingers are quivering, and you can feel cold perspiration softening her clammy palm as she clasps you against it firmly.  The experience of cradling a tiny person in her hands is obviously a bit more than the girl’s nerves can handle adequately.

                “Your name’s not Jack anymore.  It’s…” she whispers slyly, grinning deviously at you.  “…Kenny.”

                “What?”

                “That’s right.  Your name’s Kenny, not Jack.  You know, like Barbie’s husband.  Like the doll.  And that’s the way it’s going to be.”

                “What do you mean, that’s the way it’s going to…”

                “Well, I mean, you HAVE to have a name, you know, if you’re going to be my pet.”

                “Chloe…” you croak weakly.  “I’m not just something you can… t-take…”

                “Oh, yeah?  Well, finders keepers, little mister!” she chuckles.

                “Chloe, listen to me closely.  Remember me?  Look at my face.  Please.  It’s me, Jack, I…”

                “Stop lying about your name, Kenny.  And besides, I don’t have to listen to you if I don’t want to.  You can’t do anything about it.”

                “C-C-Chloe… n-no…” you wheeze as your lungs are once again constricted by the punishing fingers of your youthful cousin.

                “Yep.  That’s right.  No more talking.  If I want you to talk, I’ll tell you, but if I don’t, you get to be quiet.  Got it?”

                You cough weakly, unable to muster the will to say anything at this moment, your chin drooping forlornly.  You can practically feel the tears welling in your eyes already.

                “Good,” coos Chloe smugly, her dimples forming radiantly in her slightly chubby cheeks.  “Don’t be sad, Kenny.  I’m a nice girl, I promise.  And I’ll take good care of you.  But you have to promise to do everything I say, or else…”

                You stare upward again from your depressed hanging head position, into the towering, angelic face of Chloe, looking so expectant and calm about the whole situation as she holds a naked twenty-two-year-old in her fist as if he was a plastic doll.  You grimace a little, and feel a tear roll down your cheek.

                “You’re going to like me, Kenny, I can tell.  You’re a good little guy.  You’re probably the best pet I’ve ever had.  Really, I’ll make sure you have everything you need.  I’ll get you some food and water from the pet store, I’ll get you a little cage, maybe even a little wheel if you want one.  I mean, I guess I’m going to have to hide you under my bed so my parents don’t see you, but mostly, I promise I won’t keep you there.  I’d rather play with you, anyway,” she states snidely, finally releasing her death grip on your body and allowing you to splay, wheezing for oxygen, back into her sweaty palm.               

                After giving you a moment to pant from the strain of being squeezed, your cousin speaks up even more perkily than before.  “Where did you come from, Kenny?”

                “My house, I told you that, I…”

                “No.  Stop lying.  You’re not Jack.  You’re Kenny.”

                “I’m not LYING, I’m…”

                “Are there more like you?” gasps Chloe, the thought occurring to her as her eyes simultaneously light up with greed and hunger.  “Do you have a tiny little family somewhere?”

                “No.”

                “Awww… no tiny little wife?”

                “No.”

                “No tiny little kids?”

                “No!”

                “Are you sure?  I’d take good care of them, too, I promise.  I’d put them in their own little cages, and I’d play with them too to make sure they’re happy.”

                “Chloe, I don’t HAVE a little family, because you ARE my family, I…”

                “I’m getting sick of your fibbing,” whispers Chloe sternly, closing her fingers back over your mouth to silence you, balling you up into her hot fist again like a crumpled piece of paper.  “And besides, I don’t like you calling me just… Chloe.  That’s stupid.  You’re my pet, you have to call me something different.”

                “Mmff… mmf… what?” you gasp, fighting to get her thickly padded fingertip off of your lips, almost angrily as you struggle for breath in her tight fist again.

                “That’s right.  From now on, you don’t just call me Chloe.  You call me…” drawls your cousin, thinking it over.  She hums for a moment in deep thought, before sighing with relief.  “You have to call me Princess Chloe.”

                “Princess… WHAT?”

                “Not Princess What, Princess Chloe.  And if I don’t hear the princess part…” she warns softly, squeezing with even more crushing pressure in her sweltering, doughy fingers.  “…I won’t want to play with you anymore.”

                “You… you w-won’t?” you gulp.  You’re not sure what it is, but somehow this simple, nonchalant statement of fact sends a fresh chill down your spine.

                “Nope,” she answers matter-of-factly, shaking her head.  “Something bad will happen to you instead.”

                “What?” you whimper, struggling uselessly against the muscular fingers gripping you.

                “I’ll show you,” she says, reaching forward closer to the end of the bed and releasing her fingers a few inches from the bed cover.  You plop down on the soft surface, just a bit beyond the ends of her idly wiggling bare toes.  Confused, you turn and stare up at her still-reclining form.  “Go ahead,” she prompts.  “Call me Chloe.”

                “C-C-C-Chloe…” you cough nervously, having a feeling this was required of you.  “But please, really, I believe you, I…”

                “Oops!  THAT’S not good!” she laughs piteously at you.  “You didn’t call me by my name.”  Smugly, she lifts her left leg high into the air, fully extending it.  She rotates her ankle a few times, and arches her foot a few times high above, wrinkling her sole, wriggling her short toes.  Then, all at once, it descends like a missile of firm muscle and doughy flesh onto your doomed body.

                Almost shrieking, you dash off to your side as fast as you can, but you already know that escape is going to be impossible.  A dark shadow casts slowly over you as you sprint.  You stare up at your cousin’s face pleadingly, seeing only a grinning, triumphant gleam in her eyes.  You blink, and the next thing you see is her gleefully squirming, juicy toes, each one larger than your head, arching themselves aggressively mere inches from your face as her foot slams roughly down onto your body.

                For a moment, you are pinned firmly to the bedspread, buried in the sheets by the heavy, cold weight of Chloe’s foot flesh.  You can feel the arch of her sole sliding sleekly over your body, until finally her toes rest on top of you.  Scrunching banefully over your cowering body, she grips you between two of her thick, supple toes, twisting you around her big toe in the process.  Your air catches in your lungs as you instinctively wrap your arms around her smooth toenail for grip support as you are lifted off the bed about two feet into the air by this method.

                “THIS is what happens when you call me the wrong name, Kenny,” explains your cousin calmly, keeping you still in the devilish grip of her squishy digits, her tender toe flesh caressing you gently, kneading you around their grip as she continues to speak.  You quiver in soreness and fear.  “Do it again, and I won’t just do this.  I’ll STOMP on you!” she chuckles warmly, clearly enchanted with the fun of such a concept, giving you an extra hard squeeze with her toes on this final word.  “I’ll put you on the floor, and I’ll tell you to run.  But you won’t get very far from me.  I’m soooooo much BIGGER than you!” she laughs victoriously, swinging her leg up and down like a roller coaster, sending you on a bumpy ride as you remain in the wicked clutches of her firm toes.  “And I’d come up behind you, and I’d raise my leg waaaaaay up over you like a big tower!  And then…” she coos, suddenly lowering her leg with a softened crash to the bedspread, pressing you back down into the sheets with her toes.  “…and then I’d SMUSH you EVERYWHERE.  Like Jell-O.  Allllll oooooover the place!” she sings, relishing the emphasis on each sickening word.

                For a few moments, Chloe wriggles her toes powerfully over you as a final reminder of her dominance, burying you in cushy, peachy foot flesh and the overpowering, wretchedly sticky stench of a girly bubble gum body wash scent practically emanating from Chloe’s pores.  At long last, the burly grasp of Chloe’s rampaging foot comes to an end, and her toes release you roughly onto the bedspread, defeated.  You fight back to a standing position and turn to watch Chloe’s leg return to its original position, resting comfortably on the bedspread.

                Now, filled with newfound fear of the sight, you nervously eye Chloe’s feet as they rest but a few short steps away from you, her soft toes curling deeply into the sheets as if reminding you of the incredible muscle behind each piggy.  She sighs, extending them upward to stretch, and you cringe to see the pink, toe-printed undersides again of each digit, fully reminded of the horrible sight of them descending on you like hungry predators.

                “So you’d better listen to me,” smirks Chloe, her green eyes glowing in that all-too-familiar way of someone completely power drunk.  Somehow, all of this reminds you of an experience you had just about five years ago, and the similarity to it all makes the tears start flowing again.  “So.  Now that you know, Kenny.  What’s my name?”

                “P-P-Pri…” you gasp, choking back a low sob at your predicament.

                “Huh?” she questions lightly.

                “Princess Chloe,” you swallow painfully, staring at the ground.

                “There.  That’s much better sounding, isn’t it, little guy?” she whispers, extending an arm.  You don’t even fight it as her fingers wrap themselves around your naked body like boa constrictors again, gripping you against her nervously damp palm and lifting you back up like a doll.

                “Yes,” you state simply.

                “Yes, what?” she asks cutely, clearly wanting the whole thing.  You sigh dejectedly.

                “Yes, Princess Chloe.”

                “Good.  Now bow to your princess,” she says, hardly able to contain her giggles.  “Right now.”

                Gulping, you oblige, dropping to your knees and laying your arms on the ground in reverence to the twelve-year-old goddess reclining before you who has apparently taken full responsibility for calling all the shots in your one-sided relationship.  Looking back up at her, you rise to your feet again.

                She beams proudly at your obedience.  “I love you so much, Kenny.  I can’t wait to show you your new home.  You’ll like it a lot, I promise.”  Gently, a pair of her fingertips extend upward and begin tickling your chest with the utmost care, her eyes focused intently on your face.  “You’re excited about it too, aren’t you, Kenny?”

                “Yes, Princess Chloe,” you practically weep.

                She nods approvingly.  “That’s right.  You’re such a good little boy for me.  I wish I had more of you…” she drawls sadly for a moment, clearly enamored with the idea of having an entire set of tiny people at her disposal to toy with and tease at her leisure.  “But it’s okay.  You’re all I need.”

                Slowly, you watch as Chloe’s legs swing out over the side of the bed as she stands back up tall on the carpeted floor with a hard smack of her feet to the ground.  “Now.  Let’s play a game together, little cutie.  I promise I’ll let you win… sometimes…” she snickers maliciously, reaching down greedily for your naked body again, scooping you up, and squeezing you tightly and lovingly in her warm, soft fist.

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Chapter 19: Your New Home by Jacksmith

                Leaning against the bars of your new hamster cage, cloaked in the musty darkness underneath Chloe’s bed back at her house, you feel your arms trembling.  Cold?  Fright?  Anger?  All of the above?  It’s unknown to you, and what’s more, irrelevant.  Everything is irrelevant right now.

                You’ve been sitting in this cage in near-total darkness for what you’d estimate has been about five hours, with almost nothing to do.  You have a small dish of water you can scoop out of, and a few baby carrots to gnaw at that Chloe tossed in for you to eat, but other than that, you’ve got nothing to do but sulk painfully in the soft wood chips lining the base of the cage.

                You’ve only been in Chloe’s clutches for two days, and already you’re beginning to wonder whether or not things were better off with Carly.  Logically, you know this is a stupid thought, but you can’t help but think it.  Thus far, Chloe hasn’t necessarily threatened your life, beyond the warning that she’d crush you under a thundering heel if you neglect to call her “Princess Chloe,” but you can sense the same kind of off-balance mentality that you do so readily in your sister.  Your only hope is Chloe’s obvious disadvantage to Carly in terms of experience and age.  At this point, you can only pray that Chloe is operating more on overly curious and captivating exploration of an unreal situation, rather than the single-minded determination to emotionally and physically torture like Carly.

                On the other hand, “praying” hasn’t done jackshit for you in the last five years, so you doubt rather heavily that it’s going to start working now.

                Suddenly, your empty solitude is put to an end as you hear the slamming of the bedroom door and heavy footfalls on the carpet.  You can actually feel the wood chips jumping like popcorn kernels around you in response to the vibrating pulse of your new twelve-year-old tormentor’s crashing steps.

                “CHLOE!” comes the call of your Aunt Selina through a wall.  “I have to go outside for a few minutes to shovel snow off the driveway so your dad doesn’t get stuck trying to park the car when he gets home later.  Don’t walk around the house!  You need to take a shower!”

                “I WILL!” calls Chloe irritably, her response obviously much closer.  Clearly, she’s already in the room.  “In a few minutes!”

                You have a feeling what that means already.  You clamber to your feet, hoping to stand tall.  Not that this helps, but you figure anything to help your cause it good, and if that means standing up proudly at your helpless doll size rather than lying down meekly, that’s what you’re going to do.  Your blink a few times as the blinding light sheds on your darkness-adjusted pupils, and the familiar fingers slip between the bars of the cage, gripping it and sliding it across the surface of the carpet back into the light.

                You stare out into the expansive world of Chloe’s bedroom.  It looks like someone dropped a massive payload of pink paint on the place before sending down a torrent of glitter glue and sparkles, because the whole place is so sugary-sweet themed it might as well be made of candy.  A few posters of professional women soccer players adorn the walls, but aside from these, the rest of the room is drenched in pink, purple, sparkles, rainbows, and ponies.  It’s almost sickening to look at.

                Chloe crouches over your cage, still wearing her blue soccer practice uniform, staring down with an eager smile into the cage.  She seems to have noticed you eyeing her room, because she does the same with a proud grin before returning her gaze to you.

                “Like it, huh?  You probably think I’m a tomboy or something.  Nope!  I like pink stuff too.  Really.  I USED to only like the soccer stuff, but now I like it all.  I’m going to be thirteen in a month, you know.”

                Internally, you almost want to laugh.  The room seems more fitted for someone at the age of seven or so.  It seems Chloe, in her effort to establish herself as a sweet girly-girl rather than just the rough-and-tumble soccer player, got confused about how to play the situation and ended up believing she had to outfit the place with enough hot pink and glitter to make an elementary school drama queen blush.  Subconsciously, you wonder if this social confusion of hers has anything to do with her apparently twisted set of morals towards those beings weaker and less capable than herself, although at this moment, you’re not quite sure of how it all connects.

                “SO!” she sighs loudly, pinching her fingers around the cage latch.  “Wanna play?”

                All you can do is stare up at the ceiling of the cage as it opens up, making way for the fleshy tent of a firm hand to descend slowly and expectantly down to you, pressing you down slightly against the wood chips before gripping you comfortably into the slightly stubbier fingers.  Chloe is, on average, a bit shorter for her age than you would normally expect, and so naturally the rest of her somewhat follows suit.  Of course, when you yourself are small and insignificant enough for her to grasp up at her leisure with a single hand and toy with, her shortness makes little legitimate difference in the scheme of things.

                You are lifted slowly through the opening of the cage and brought before Chloe’s face.  She wrinkles her upper lip, frowning confusedly at you.  Running a fingers up and down your right leg, stroking you absentmindedly, Chloe ripples her fingers around your body to get your attention.  “Hey, Kenny.  Are you deaf?  I said, do you wanna play?”

                “No, Princess Chloe.  I’m tired,” you state as simply as possible, although you doubt that’s the correct answer.

                For a moment, she actually appears somewhat hurt.  “But I thought you liked me.”

                “I do.  It’s just that…”

                “Then why won’t you play with me?”

                “I’m really tired.  When I’m tired, I can’t play very well.  It would be boring for you,” you try to explain as reasonably as possible.

                She shakes her head at you, unconvinced.  “I don’t think so.  I could never get bored of you.  Ever,” she answers calmly.  Slowly, she brings you closer to her lips.  For a second, your spine tingles chillingly as you are reminded of the countless times Carly has popped you between her lips and sucked on you mercilessly, turning her muggy spit-reservoir of a mouth into your personal hell.  However, rather than open her smiling lips to make way for your helpless form, with a sigh of relief, you watch as Chloe simply puckers her pink lips together to kiss you.  She pecks you lightly directly on the face, which feels somewhat like having a damp pillow squeezed gently around your head, before pulling you back and smiling at you.  “I love you too much to get bored of you.”

                She’s got a funny way of showing it, you note bitterly to yourself, but you don’t show it in your face.

                “So.  We’re gonna play…” she says slowly, thinking deliberately about the possibilities.  “…tag.  I like tag.”

                You don’t even answer.  At this point, your fate is decided.

                “I’ll give you a head start.  And then I’ll come get you,” she giggles.  Great.  This already sounds like a barrel and a half of laughs.  You merely nod.  Lowering you toward the carpet, Chloe loosens her fingers around you, allowing you to drop gently to the ground, before bringing both hands to the laces of her cleats, which are still tautly tied from soccer practice.  She quickly sets about loosening and undoing the laces of the grass-stained footwear, the sleek black and silver design of the shoes long since scuffed into barely recognizable patterns from such frequent use.  Within seconds, she has the laces undone on both, and she’s slipping her fingers under the flaps and yanking them off.  Having removed them, then, she tosses them across the room carelessly into a random corner.  And you, unfortunately, are left to focus on an unpleasant new reality.

                You have a feeling Chloe’s been playing soccer for the past three hours at least at some kind of tournament with her school league.  Even when she lifted you out of your cage, you couldn’t ignore the musty dampness of the air surrounding her like a cloud of gaseous sweat, the microscopic particles of dirt and salt seeming to swirl all around and creep up your nostrils in an unwelcome fashion.  However, for appearance’s sake, you had managed to keep your cool.

                But not right now.  Your eyes fall over to the socked feet of Chloe, and it’s all you can do to not start gagging violently.  Her white striped knee-high uniform socks, while seeming well-worn around her ankles and shins, look beaten to a fabric pulp below this line.  Fuzz and bits of thread jut off in random directs, and tiny holes seem to be appearing in corners.  The sock looks like it was hand-crafted to be form-fitting to your cousin, because each one hugs the curves of her foot so well becomes clear the sweat has glued it almost permanently to her foot.  You can see the distinct outline of each rounded toenail and each crevice between each plump digit, a few loose grass blades trapped helplessly in these locations, the entire dingy sock absolutely soaked in her cold, grimy perspiration and flecked throughout with bits of sand and dirt.

                You can’t help but cover your nose and try to filter your breathing, although it does little good.  The rank stench of balmy excretion, sour flesh, sopping wet fabric, and slimy outdoor flavors hang so heavily in the air you almost feel the urge to crumble to your knees in weakness.  The heat from her overworked soles and heels is tangible, even from this distance, her foot acting like a radiator of both sweltering steam and unbearably murky, detestable body odor.  The starchy, spicy whiffs all combined into one singular broiling, grody atmosphere, and all you can do is stand as still as possible and hope with all your might that the walloping punch of the putrid stench from your cousin’s sweaty peds doesn’t knock you out cold.

                Chloe giggles, wriggling her toes playfully in their tight fabric prison, creating new taut wrinkles in the dungy gray sock, and wrinkles her nose.

                “P.U. Kenny, that is NOT good!” she laughs, drinking in your less-than-enthusiastic reaction.  “I’m sorry about that.  I don’t like stinky feet, either.  Especially MINE.  But it’s okay.  Run fast enough, and maybe you won’t have to worry about that anymore.”

                Already your heart is pounding in your chest.  You don’t like the sound of that.

                “Run, little guy!” she whispers intently, grinning wildly and widening her eyes almost hungrily with anticipation of the game to come.  “Run as fast as your tiny legs can carry you.  I’m gonna come get you.”

                You don’t need any more prompting to start dashing madly across the carpeted floor with all you’ve got, away from your crouching cousin and her cloud of oppressive BO.  You have a feeling this is partially futile on your part but, with a gleam of optimism, you make a mental note about one important difference between Carly and Chloe.  Carly would play games with you as well, but there was never an actual way to “win” the game.  The point wasn’t to have fun but simply to drain you of hope and humanity, hurting you and humiliating you in the process.  With Chloe, it’s a bit different.  For the time being, at least, she seems legitimately to enjoy “playing” with you, and as such, she’s not doing this for the sake of torturing you so much as amusing herself.  Therefore, you have a feeling that if you play your cards right, you might actually come out of this game with your dignity still intact.

                Of course, that doesn’t mean Chloe’s going to make it easy on you in the slightest.

                “Okay, that’s a big enough head start,” concludes Chloe calmly after you’ve been running for ten seconds or so.  “Better go faster, because I’m coming to GETCHA.”

                You feel the telltale hulking thump of the ground, and you don’t even need to turn around to know Chloe has clambered to her feet, and suddenly the carpeted ground gets into a predictable, rattling vibration pattern as your cousin slowly but surely stomps her way towards you like a lumbering dinosaur.  She’s walking at a very slow pace, but even this probably isn’t enough to keep you in the lead for long.  All you can do is pick a point in front of you and single-mindedly sprint toward it, drowning out all noise so you can concentrate.

                As you run, the hefty thundering of your cousin’s footsteps behind you getting heavier and heavier as she gets closer, your mind begins wandering aimlessly.  You wonder and worry about Sophie.  No doubt, the poor girl is absolutely wracked with guilt and sorrow at this point.  She was barely able to hold it together when she heard of your pathetically tragic plight, but now that she’s lost you and the chances of immediate escape are at an end, she’s probably not taking it well, and you have a feeling she’s a bit emotionally crushed at the moment, wherever she is.

                One thing you know for certain is that Chloe, at least for the time being, is probably not a suspect.  After finding you hiding under her scarf in the guest room, rather than take the scarf with her, your crafty cousin had put the woolen article back onto the dresser in the exact position she had found it in to cover her tracks; then, after hiding you roughly in her sweatpants pocket, she had dashed downstairs to play with the younger cousins a bit and remove herself from the scene entirely.  You’re not sure what happened after that exactly, but it seems obvious Chloe succeeded in relieving herself of suspicion on her sister’s part.  After all, as Sophie had pointed out about Carly’s purse, you have a number of very young and mischievous cousins, and any one of them could have, more than likely, been the culprit rather than Chloe for your theft, and what’s worse, you know Sophie is well aware of this.

                The family Christmas festivities ended a day ago.  Now, you don’t have any more frequent opportunities to make contact with your parents in your own house.  You’re trapped in Sophie and Chloe’s house, and no one except your colossal twelve-year-old cousin is aware of your current lodging in an old hamster cage Chloe had found in the house’s attic.  For now, you’re completely on your own.

                “TAG!” cries out Chloe triumphantly as you are pounded directly into a spread-eagled position by the charging force of five wriggling, socked toes.  The falling weight of Chloe’s right foot was all that was needed to incapacitate you, and with you flat on the ground, your giggling cousin has you at her mercy to subdue.  Slowly, the squishy, soggy weight of her dingy sock lowers itself onto you, burying you alive in the wrinkled hills and valleys of her over-worn footwear, pressing into you hard enough that you can feel the cold, damp layers of foot flesh pressing you down cautiously, yet gleefully enough that you can feel your bones ready to snap if contorted incorrectly.

                For a few moments, your entire world becomes a rippling, writhing ceiling of damp, cool fabric, glued taut against the sea of your cousin’s sole, as Chloe twists her foot over your body just gently enough to not knock you unconscious.  The thick air is so clogged with nauseating transudation that it seems all the oxygen has been expunged, and what you’re breathing right now is pure sweat mist and flecked dirt.  You gasp weakly, moaning in soreness and desire for a single breath of fresh air, as Chloe’s foot continues kneading placidly over your helplessly naked body, all but making you a mold in the carpet.

                The ordeal comes to an end after twenty seconds or so, although it feels like far longer, as Chloe’s foot lifts itself off of your crumpled body, the shadow falling away as well.  For a moment, you don’t move.

                “C’mon, Kenny.  Get back up.  I’m coming to get you again!” she chuckles.  “And no more Mrs. Nice Guy this time.  So, you better start going a little faster.”

                Grimly, you nod to yourself, knowing she isn’t kidding about this last quasi-threat.  Coughing meekly as you catch your breath and filter the horrid, grassy scents of seeping sweat out of your nostrils, you clamber back into a standing position, and stare upward just in time to see Chloe’s right foot rising up into the air, casting a shadow over you.

                In the tight fabric of the sock, directly in the center of the sole, you can make out what looks like the unmistakable shape of a snow angel made in the dingy, sweaty fabric.  Your body was pressed so squarely into your cousin’s socked foot it left an imprint, and being reminded so visually of just how powerless you are against the awesome strength and size advantage of your young cousin is simply another unpleasant blow to your already dwindling hope.

                You shiver uncomfortably before dashing out of the circle of your cousins’ shadow as fast as you can, leaving your towering captor behind you, knowing she’ll probably have caught up to you again in less than a minute.

                “Ready or not, here I come!” she laughs after waiting only about half the time of before, and you can feel the heavy footfalls coming with greater frequency and strength.  The vibration is so intense, you are actually jostled from your feet after a few seconds, landing flat on your back.  You don’t even have time to look up before a dark shadow is looming pitifully over you.  You want to cry but you don’t have the tears at this moment.  All you can do is gasp.

                “TAG AGAIN!  I love you so much, my little Kenny,” coos Chloe as she gently lowers her sweat-soaked sock back over your body, drowning you again in hellishly damp fabric and the lingering salty, greasy stench of her unwashed flesh as it violently caresses your body.  “You’re soooo much fun!”

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Chapter 20: Feeding Time by Jacksmith

You sit, arms crossed, on the softened wood flakes in your hamster cage once again, the cover of darkness offering you respite once again from your cousin’s twisted little game of tag.  You haven’t been dragged out from under the bed since last evening, and although you’re not really even sure what time of morning it is yet, you’re beginning to hope again (probably foolishly) to be let out of the darkness again soon.  The stuffy, swampy stench of your cousin’s heinously sweaty socks still hangs thickly on your skin, and each time you inhale near any part of your own body, your brain automatically tenses you up as if waiting for the thrashing, wet weight of the maniacal sole to come crashing back down on you to flatten you into the carpet.

                You know that Sophie has probably been mentally destroying herself for allowing you to be taken away when rescue was so close, but you can’t help but also wonder about Carly.  She, you imagine, is even more of an emotional wreck right now than your guilt-ridden cousin.  Having had constant access to you to please herself with for five solid years, suddenly having the option of teasing and playing with her favorite toy in the world taken away is probably something of a shock to your power-drunk titaness of a sibling.  You’d bet that, without regular playtime sessions with you, she’d start to go a little out of her mind, being unable to play out her insane little control fantasies on a being infinitely weaker than herself.  For now, she’s being left to deal only with normal humans that she can’t turn into her personal pathetic naked playthings, and you have a feeling this idea scares Carly to death.

                Perhaps more than this, though, you know that you have become a major liability for Carly.  She’s committed some of the worst crimes a person could, and despite the entirely crazy and never-before-seen legal scenario that would be presented, it’s only logical that Carly has earned herself perhaps a lifetime in prison for what she’s done to you all these five years without ceasing.  Carly knows this, and it makes your blood turn ice cold to imagine what she’d plot to do with you if you actually did something to bring her world crashing down on top of her.  For once, the tables would be turned, and you would be the one in control of her fate, and you know very well your sister would rather disappear from existence than surrender control of herself over to you.

                While you know you should be worried about the consequences of being found by Carly if you ever manage to escape this new situation with Chloe, for the moment, all you can do is smile.  It’s satisfying to you to picture how much mental agony your sister is in for a multitude of reasons, and all you can hope for is that it continues for as long as possible.

                The silence and darkness are broken again as you hear the slamming of Chloe’s bedroom door, followed by the beating of her running feet against the carpet.  The light seeps under the bed and the cage is grasped roughly, yanked more forcefully than before out into the bedroom.

                You don’t even get an introduction today.  The cage door is opened, and your cousin’s hand descends like a hawk on you, clasping you easily into her clammy fist and raising you back out for examination.

                Bringing you to her face, Chloe’s eyes are pink and puffy around the edges, with glistening dampness filtering her irises.  After blinking a few times, you realize she’s crying pretty hard.  Her lips scrunch painfully together, trying to keep it all together as her cheeks puff with air.  She closes her eyes as the hot tears begin rolling down her angelic face and fights back gasping sobs in her throat.

                “Ohhh… Kenny…” she weeps, rising to her feet and sliding into a sitting position on the bed, gripping you in her firm fingers like an action figure again.  “I d-don’t know what to d-d-do…” she cries, sniffling hard and swallowing.

                “What’s wrong Chl… I mean, I mean, P-Princess Chloe?” you whisper as gently as possible, correcting yourself in the nick of time.

                “They’re… they’re going to take you away from me!” she sobs.

                Your heart skips a beat.  Does this mean you’ve been discovered at long last?  Is Sophie about to come crashing through the bedroom door at any moment to scoop you up into the safety of her kind, soft hands and carry away to protect you, never to let you see harm again?

                Nothing happens for a few moments.  Confused, you turn your head and peek over at the door before looking back up at the tear-streaked cheeks of Chloe.

                “Who’s going to take me away?” you ask hesitantly.

                “THEY are!  M-M-My s-sister…” she gasps weakly.  “She was f-freaking out about s-something… I don’t know… something about a l-little p-person.  And… and she was getting mad at me and telling me she didn’t believe me that I hadn’t d-done it, and asking me where I was h-h-hiding you…”

                Your heart does a little dance in your chest.

                “I told her I d-didn’t know what she was t-talking ab-bout…” wheezes your cousin, continuing.  “B-But she didn’t b-believe me, and said she was g-going to look all around the s-s-shed by the pool because that’s where I k-keep my soccer stuff, and she said when she found you, I was gonna GET IT!”

                So far, so good.  Your heartbeat rises quickly.

                “She just w-wants you all to herself, K-Kenny.  She… she’ll b-be m-mean to you, I know she will be, she’s so mean to m-me…”

                “No.  It’s okay, really, I’ll be fine!” you answer soothingly, seeing an opportunity.  “And you don’t have to get in trouble at ALL.  All you have to do is put me somewhere where she’ll find me.  Then I’ll tell her I just showed up there, and that I don’t even know you!”

                “N-N-No…” she warbles, sniffling hard again.

                “It’s okay.  Really.  Believe me.  If you take me out there and put me where she’ll find me, it’ll all be okay, but if we…” you breathe heavily, realizing it’s time to take a gamble with your personal safety, “…if we stay HERE, she’ll come in and find me, and then she’ll be mad.”

                Chloe’s eyes sparkle with tears as they widen in horror.  “I don’t want her to h-hurt y-you.”

                “She won’t hurt me.  I promise.”

                “She will.  YES, SHE WILL!” shouts Chloe, terrified.  “She’ll do all k-kinds of mean things to you.  I know it.  And I’m not going to LET her!”

                “Please, it’s okay, really, I…”

                “Kenny, stop it, you’re making me sad,” she whines as another wave of tears rolls down her damp cheeks.  “But don’t worry.  I won’t let her come in here and hurt you.  I won’t let her EVER find you.”

                “She’s going to come to this room and look for me!” you answer.  “But you can save yourself from her!  All you have to do it…”

                “I know she is,” interrupts Chloe, causing you to breathe a sigh of relief.  It sounds like you got through to her.  “I know she’ll find you if you stay here.  I c-can’t protect you f-from her, little Kenny.  I’m soooo sooorry…” she moans, bawling a bit.

                “Don’t worry, Princess Chloe,” you answer coolly, stroking her pinky finger wrapped around your side in an attempt to comfort her.  “Everything will be okay.  I promise.  I’m not scared of her.  Just take me outside, and…”

                “If she takes you, she’ll hurt you for a long time, Kenny.  And you won’t be able to get away.  But…” she gasps, getting an idea and grinning.  “I can save you!  I know how!”

                “There’s no way to save me, I…”

                “Yes,” she answers simply, nodding her head.  Clearly, she’s cemented this decision in her mind.  “Yes there is a way.  And I’ll tell you how.”

                “H-How?” you answer nervously.

                Chloe lowers her voice, bringing you closer to her lips, which still appear sticky with what you would assume is waffle syrup from breakfast.  Rotting morning breath seeps stickily over you as she opens the vast, hot cave of her mouth and whispers with proud joy into your ear.

                “I’m going to eat you so no one will ever be able to hurt you again.”

                Your skin feels like it’s just caught on fire as your brain leaps into overdrive.  Instantly, you begin squirming violently in the hard grip of your cousin’s soft fingers, but their muscular grasp only becomes more robust, and the wind is shortly knocked from your lungs, but you continue flailing and wriggling with all your might to escape her hand.

                It can’t be.  She can’t be serious.

                “NO!” you scream as Chloe breaks into another wave of tears.

                “I’m sorry K-K-Kenny…” she cries weakly.  “But it’s the only w-w-way you’ll be safe.  And this way, we’ll be together.  For… always!”

                “You can’t eat me, I’m a PERSON!” you squeal desperately

                “You’re a LITTLE person,” she corrects condescendingly.  “And people can hurt you.  A lot.  This won’t hurt.  It’ll be really quick, I promise.  I’ll just slide you riiiiight doooown and then you’ll be gone, and it’ll be okay.  And I can protect you forever.”

                “Oh, God, no… no… no…” you weep, ceasing you struggling at last, coughing.  “No… no…”

                “It makes me s-sad t-too Kenny,” sighs Chloe, wiping her eyes with her free hand and sniffling hard as her nostrils begin leaking.  “I d-don’t want to do it, but I don’t have a c-choice.  You’re my pet, and I’m going to protect you from people, just like I said I would.  Just like I promised.  And when I say my nighttime prayers before I go to bed, I’ll say one for you.  Every single night.  That you’re happy inside me and not hurting.”

                You close your eyes, hanging your head.  You have nothing more to say.

                “Good-bye, little g-guy…” she chokes, slowly opening her syrup-sticky lips.  “It’s been soooo much fun, and I’ll never ever forget you.  I love you so much, Kenny.  But now…” she sighs, tipping her chin back and raising you over her gaping maw just below.  “…it’s time for you to go away inside me.”

                You do nothing to fight it as Chloe’s fingers release their grip on you and you descend briefly through the air in free fall, into your young cousin’s waiting craw.  Almost immediately, you become awkwardly lodged between your cousin’s sopping, gooey tongue and the roof of her mouth.  You can tell quite plainly that this is a much smaller mouth than you’re accustomed to being in (as sick as it is for you to be able to make that comparison at all), and you have much less room to maneuver around; whatever’s about to happen is going to be claustrophobic beyond realistic belief.  The light is squeezed out of the steamy, damp cave of Chloe’s mouth as her glistening teeth slowly come together with a forceful ivory clack.  You feel her tongue wrapping itself around your body slimily and possessively as you are sealed into the slobbery tomb by wet darkness.

                For a moment, you wrestle violently with your cousin’s velvety, sopping tongue, becoming drenched from head to foot immediately in her sodden juices caking and dripping from every square inch of her saturated jaws.  The stench of morning breath is even worse being so close to the source, and as her tongue slips its way around your stomach, splashing you with spit and pushing you hard against her cheek, you can feel the white, gooey remnants of bacteria formed along the back of her tongue.  You hear a deep gurgling emanating from the depths of her dark throat as the feverish, repellant tongue fogs you in stale, foul stench and slides you easily toward the back of Chloe’s mouth, where your fate awaits you in the twelve-year-old goddess’s digestive system.

                You feel yourself receive your final intake of smelly, damp breath from the horribly fatal environment filling your lungs.  The depression is so overpowering you want to scream, but you know no one would hear it, and the thick, greasy walls of Chloe’s mouth would swallow up the sound anyway, similarly to the way you are about to be swallowed down her esophagus. 

                For a fleeting moment, you curse yourself for renouncing your life while in the hands of Carly.  At least then, you were allowed to live.  Now, even that is being taken away from you by a misunderstanding and horribly selfish act of a terrified young girl unprepared to deal with the reality of the situation that she’s about to eat her own older cousin in a single frothy gulp without even batting an eyelash.

                The pitch black, heavy air of your final resting place suddenly is wrenched from you as light comes streaming back in, glistening off of Chloe’s teeth.  You hear a deep hacking sound from the back of her throat, and you go careening forward out of the wetness, globs of saliva and loose mucus bubbles dangling off of you.  You gasp loudly before landing softly in a wide palm that closes onto you quickly, the fingers wrapping themselves easily back around you.  You don’t even need to look up to know this hand.  So large, firm, and muscular while also having such soft skin and a practiced grip that doesn’t choke the life from you while holding you.  The pads of the fingers grooved and toughened from gripping a basketball so much of the time, the cool and reassuring touch of the creamy palm.

                You’re currently in Carly’s fist.

                You are incapable of coming up with any kind of mental or emotional reaction, and can only look on with shock and awe, incoherently processing the scene.  Crying wildly, your twelve-year-old cousin lunges quickly for you, arms outstretched, fingers wriggling in desperate hope of retaining you and jamming you back into the “safety” of her gurgling throat.  However, your tall and athletic sister is quick to react, blocking her leap with a single arm, grasping at Chloe’s elbow and pushing her back onto the bed.

                “No!  Give him b-back!  Now!  You can’t have him, I w-won’t l-let you h-hurt him!” sobs Chloe dejectedly, hanging her head.

                “Listen, Chloe,” hisses Carly meaningfully.  “Say a word about this.  A single word.  And you’ll wish you’d never been born, understand?”

                “N-N-N-No…”

                “Understand?” whispers your sister poisonously.  Quickly, Chloe nods her head.  “Now.  Have you shown him to anyone?  Anyone at all?”

                “No one…” whimpers Chloe.  “I just w-wanted to protect h-him… he’s so little… he needs someone like m-me to t-take care of h-him…”

                “If you’re lying to me, I swear to God…”

                “I’m not LYING!” screeches Chloe.  “P-Please… don’t hurt him… I love him a lot, he’s so cute and he loves me too!”

                “I’m sure he does,” answers Carly sarcastically, shooting you a dirty look down in her fist and giving you a threatening little finger squeeze.  “Never say anything about this.  Anything.  Not to your parents, your friends, or your sister.  If you do, I’ll hurt him.  A lot.  I’ll make him cry, and scream, and bleed…”

                “NO!” cries out Chloe before having her mouth clasped over by Carly’s wide hand.

                “Shut up.  Stop shouting.  Now.  Understand me?  Say ANYTHING at ALL and I’ll make him hurt so much he’ll say he doesn’t love you anymore.”

                Chloe nods obediently, wiping more tears from her eyes.  “I’ll never say anything, I p-p-promise!”  You can tell she means it.

                “Good.  Don’t forget what I said, Chloe,” sneers Carly, sauntering quickly from the room while depositing you roughly into her jeans pocket.

                You hear the soft cries of your young cousin back in her bedroom, whom you somehow manage to find a shred of sympathy for for reasons you can’t quite explain, as you are carried off to what you have no doubt will amount to certain doom in the pocket of your incredibly enraged “little” sister.

End Notes:

Hmm, well this probably isn't good for him, is it?  Comment!

Chapter 21: Back in Sissy's Clutches by Jacksmith
Author's Notes:

This isn't going to end well, is it?

You cower, shivering and vulnerable, crumpled up in the center of your sister’s enormous palm, her fingers caged aggressively around you.  She glares down at you while sitting cross-legged on her bed back in your house, her luggage all packed and ready to go on the floor.

                “You…” she whispers threateningly, hardly able to utter the words as her voice drips with so much acidic rage.  “You… stupid… little…”

                “Carly…” you gulp dryly.

                “Stop talking.  God, what would you do without me?  If I hadn’t connected the dots like that and figured out it was Chloe that had you and raced over to their house in time… I mean, you’d kinda be roasting in someone’s tummy right now.  I hope you realize that, you little freak.  I hope you realize what you’ve done to yourself, and… that what I’m going to DO to you because of it was only brought on by your own stupid actions.”

                “Carly, listen to me, I swear to God, it wasn’t my fault!” you say as calmly as possible.

                “You’re lying to me,” she scowls, bringing you closer to her face.  “I know what you did.  Don’t try to hide it.”

                “It was Chloe, I swear!  I swear!” you repeat uneasily.  “She came into your room, and found your purse!  I tried to hide, but I couldn’t do anything to stop her!”

                Carly raises a disbelieving eyebrow at you.  “Why would she be going through my purse, little bro?”

                “I don’t know!  But she did, I swear, I… oh, fuck,” you mutter under your breath as your sister’s soft features contort into a beautiful portrait of spite and hatred.

                “Shut up before I tie your little legs together and bite them off of you, like you deserve.”

                You nod obediently, your head hanging, the beads of sweat pouring liberally from your forehead.  Chills ripple violently down your spine.

                “You know Chloe.  She doesn’t like jewelry or accessory type things.  All she cares about is soccer.  She wouldn’t have any reason to get in my purse.”

                “But she would!” you blurt against your better judgment.  “You saw her room!  It’s all pink and purple, like that kind of thing.  She’s not LIKE that anymore, I swear!  Please, please, Carly, please, you SAW her ROOM!” you shout, tossing out words haphazardly in the desperate hope that one of them will work.

                To your surprise, rather than giving a seething retort, Carly actually begins biting her lip, raising an eyebrow.  For once, she seems to actually be hearing the logic in your words.  At this point, you figure, now that you’ve convinced her of your little lie, she’s searching desperately for a reason to fault you in this whole thing anyway.  That tends to be her ultimate goal of any interaction: to place all blame of any situation upon you so as to have solid reasoning to leave you stranded in a precarious position, be it straddling her sticky tongue, her muscular thumbs, her sweating sole, or her silky hair.  This kind of twisted reasoning always factors into Carly’s games.  Even if the reason is ridiculous and unfounded, she always gives one for why she’s doing what she’s doing to you, without fail.  Whether it’s to serve her monstrously mutated morality or simply to toy with your feeble brain, you’re not certain.  It’s a little sick, but it’s at least something on which you can rely, and in this case it just might save your neck.

                “She said you LOVED her,” sneered Carly.  “What did she do for you?  Bring you breakfast in bed?  Give you little back massages?  Show you her feet?” adds your sister with a devilish grin.  You don’t even want to honor this question with an answer.  “You would be sick enough to get off on a kid’s feet, wouldn’t you, bro?” accuses your sister with a contorted upper lip.  “Wouldn’t you?”
                “Carly, I swear to God, nothing happened at all like any of that.  She kept me in a cage pretty much the entire time.  Really.”

                “You must have talked to her,” whispers Carly, practically spitting the words out.  “You must have talked to her about our time together.  I know it.”

                “I didn’t do anything like that.  I swear, I…”

                “I’m not sure I trust you, little bro,” states your sister simply.  Slowly, her fingers begin curling back around your body.  “But I’ll tell you one thing.  I’m going to get the real answer, one way or another.  Now tell me: what did you tell her about me?”

                With this, Carly brings a thumb down on your crotch and begins twisting.  Rather than mind-bendingly raping you like normally by stroking you gently, you are shown none of that petty “kindness” by your giant sibling.  Instantly it feels like your balls are being compressed with a sledgehammer.  You scream bloody murder, flailing your limbs helplessly, as your sister continues jamming her powerful thumb down onto your family jewels.

                “Tell me, little bro,” orders your sister calmly, in control, as always.  “And I’ll stop.”

                “SHE DOESN’T KNOW ANYTHING, CARLY!” you scream, writhing as the brain-scrambling burn rips through your insides.

                “Tell me now,” insists Carly.  “And maybe I’ll decide not to turn you from a little boy into a little girl.”

                “She… didn’t… believe… me…” you groan through gritted teeth.  “I told her who I am, but she didn’t believe me.  I don’t… know… who she thought I… w-w-w-was…” you grimace, shaking violently.

                “That’s all?  That’s all you told her?”

                “She wouldn’t listen to anything else.  She told me she’d…”

                “She’d what?” growls your sister, twisting her thumb 180 degrees on top of your aching, dwarfed dick.  “What did she say?”

                “She said she’d…” you gulp hard.  “…she’d step on me if I didn’t stop talking and call her Princess Chloe.”

                At this, Carly’s face practically glows with joy.  She nods, smirking, and finally lets up on your crotch, allowing you to sprawl, moaning in pain, into her palm again.  “THAT’S my cousin,” she says proudly.  “God, if she hadn’t taken you away and almost swallowed you like a little sausage, I’d be tempted to let her babysit you sometimes for me.”

                You cry weakly, cradling your brutalized junk and hoping to high Heaven that Carly hasn’t just rendered you incapable of fathering.

                “PRINCESS Chloe,” laughs Carly, throwing her head back in ecstasy.  “God, that’s beautiful.  I freaking love that.  I mean, geez, why have I never thought of that?”

                You feel a sinking sensation in the pits of your stomach.  You’re not sure you like where this is heading.

                “How about I come up with something like that?  For you to call me, I mean,” she drawls, tapping her chin ponderously.  “But let’s see… it would have to be something good.  Something that would show me how much you respect and love me as your owner.  But what?”

                “Carly…” you croak out, strained.

                “Shut up,” she snaps.  “You don’t call me by my name anymore.  Only people can call me that.  And you’re not one of those anymore, remember?  You’re my pet.  You don’t matter.  No, you get to call me…” she sighs.  “…Aphrodite.”

                “Oh, Jesus…” you whisper quietly to yourself, groaning.

                “We’re actually learning about this in History right now,” explains Carly.  “Aphrodite is the Greek goddess of love, beauty, and…” she giggles.  “…pleasure.  And I’d say I’m an expert on all three of those, so… it’s perfect!”

                You stare disbelieving into your sister’s excited face.

                “That’s our new rule.  Sure, I’m still your big sissy, but I’m also your goddess, and you will call me Aphrodite.  Know why?”

                You shrug uncaringly.

                “Because I said so, that’s why.  Got that, little boy?”

                You nod, coughing.

                “Let’s hear it, then,” she encourages.  You moan but decide not to put up a fight.

                “Yes, Aphrodite.”

                “Good, little bro, you’re catching on.  Now: I’ll deal with you more later; we’re not done with this conversation.  We’re going home now, because I’ve got a big tournament tomorrow at the stadium.  Hope you’re all packed!” she jokes with a girlish chortle.  “What am I saying, of course you are.  Let’s go.”

                A matter of minutes later, with you tucked safely back into your sister’s purse, you hear laughter and goodbyes as your sister prepares to leave.  You claw at your head, growling, ready to explode with rage at yourself.  You’re about to leave your house, and who knows when it is you’ll be back?  For now, you’re going to be trapped back in the brave new world of that college dorm room, with your sister as your only “friend.”  You had a window, and you blew it sky high.  Escape was within your grasp, but you screwed it all over at the most critical of moments. 

                Well, you didn’t blow it.  It was a combination of factors, as usual, all in a conspiracy to ensure your life is not only torturous, but disappointing in every facet as well.  That, and the fact that at least a couple of your female family members seem to have a twisted affinity for playing with and humiliating living creatures.  Absentmindedly, it occurs to you how desperately the Arton family needs a massive psychiatric intervention in certain places, and fast.

                You remain in Carly’s purse for the entire duration of the ride home.  Considering the hellish way in which you arrived here by spending half the time getting your head dunked in your sister’s soupy saliva, and the other half having your crotch teased, having some peaceful solitude in the purse would normally be a nice respite.  However, you’re far too bitter at this moment to consider such a thing.  You barely even notice it as the purse zipper is undone and Carly’s long fingers descend into the leather darkness, hunting for you to snatch out and bring back into the prison of her dorm room.

                “So… little bug…” coos Carly, taking a seat on her bed with you cupped into her palm.  “Tell me one thing.”

                “What?”

                “Chloe said you loved her.  Was she lying?”

                The question has come up again.  You almost want to laugh in your enormous sister’s face.  Despite the façade of complete anger she’s been putting up for the past couple of hours, you can sense something else entirely.  It takes you a moment to identify it from the subtle curling of her upper lip, the gleam of her eyes, and the tilt of her head, but once you figure it out, you almost want to smile.  You know exactly what it is you see in your sister.  It’s practically radiating off of her.

                Jealousy.

                “Of course she was lying.  It was horrible!” you shout without reservation.  At this, Carly grins, seeming relieved.

                “I thought it might be.  That’s good.  I wouldn’t want someone else stealing my little baby brother away from me, you know?” she giggles.  “You would have missed me.  Admit it.”

                “Yes.”

                “Yes, what?”

                “Yes, Aphrodite.”

                “That’s right, little bro, and don’t you forget it, or… I’ll find a really special way to make you remember,” she chuckles, unable to hide her cruel smile.  “And believe me, I don’t think you’ll like it very much.”

                “I’m sorry, Aphrodite,” you answer, trying not to sound sarcastic in your bitterness.

                “Well, you’re forgiven this time.  JUST this time, mind you.”

                “Thank you,” you answer, which comes a little more easily than the last response.

                “Hey, what wouldn’t I do for you, little guy?  You’re the most important man in my life, you know that, little Jackie-poo?” she almost sings.  “You know I love you that much, don’t you?”

                “Yes, Aphrodite.”

                “More than ANYTHING.  More than my friends.  More than Mom and Dad.  More than basketball.  More than…” she says at length, listing each one proudly.  “Even more than when you were big.  Especially more than that, actually.  The less there is of you, the more I love you.  I mean, just imagine if you were this small,” she laughs dreamily, bringing up two fingers and pinching them about a half inch apart to demonstrate how tall she’d prefer you to be.  “Just imagine how much fun we’d have together.  Just imagine… how well I could show my love for you THEN…”

                You stare blankly forward, haunted endlessly by the very notion of being a half an inch tall, as Carly’s fingers curl back around you and she stands up, walking slowly toward the drawer.  Grasping the knob with her fingers, she yanks it open.

                “But as much as I love you, if I don’t feel like you love me back… it just won’t work,” she explains, bringing you closer to her face.  “And it hurts me a lot when you try to get away from me.  It’s like you don’t appreciate everything I’ve done for you.”

                “I do appreciate it, Aphrodite, really, I…”

                “Shut up.  I’m talking, little boy,” she orders, the sweetness in her voice draining away.  “So, make no mistake.  I love you.  But.  Remember this,” she whispers, lowering her voice to a spine-tingling hiss and rumble as she brings you directly in front of her lips so you can hear it plainly.  “Try to get away again, and I will kill you.”

                With this, her moist lips part and her drool-caked tongue peeks gingerly between her them, lapping almost seductively at your face.  You shiver, pulling back as she licks upside your face once more, stroking your whole head with her putrid sputum.  “Sweet dreams, my little baby boy toy,” she whispers before depositing you into the drawer and slamming it shut, sealing you in total darkness.

                You double over on the floor of clean socks and cry until you have no tears left, finally drifting off to sleep in order to have nightmares that are more pleasant than your real life.

End Notes:

Comment!

Chapter 22: Return to the White Room by Jacksmith
Author's Notes:

A small throwback to A Little Blackmail 2.

Your eyes snap open, your whole body trembling groggily, as you peer around, getting your bearings.  You feel weary and a bit dizzy, as if you’ve been sleeping for a long time but still haven’t quite fully awoken.  Your eyes sting as you stare at the brightness of your surroundings. 

                White. 

                Lots of white. 

                All of it encasing you.  It’s a room.  Four walls, a ceiling, a floor, and a chair that you happen to be sitting in at the moment.  You look down at yourself, slapping your stomach to make sure it’s real.  You’re wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of jeans. You swallow hard, your throat going dry.  You should be elated.  You’re sitting in a chair.  You’re wearing clothes.  But you’re not, for a very simple reason.

                You’ve been here before.  And your last visit was not one you want to repeat.

                You propel yourself in a flying leap from the chair, rushing forward.  You reach one of the plaster walls and slam your hands against it.  Then again.  And again.  Your hands become sore, but you continue pounding.  You have to get out of here.  Nothing else matters.  Your life depends on leaving this room right now.  You continue pounding, your knuckles and fingers going numb with desperation, but you continue.  Not a single dent is made in the wall.  You step back, kicking at the wall as hard as you can and almost break your ankle.  You shudder, collapsing back in pain and looking hopelessly at the untouched wall, your leg throbbing from the pain you just exerted on it for absolutely no reason.  You scream at the top of your lungs at the wall.  No response.  Not that you were expecting one.

                “Well, THERE’S my favorite stupidface brother!” comes the singsong voice from behind you.  You were expecting this, of course, but you just didn’t want it to happen this soon.  “I’ve been looking all over the place for you, Jack.  What’s up?” she says.  You lean your head against the wall, closing your eyes.  You wonder if there’s any possible way to kill yourself in this room before Carly reaches you.  You doubt it severely, though.  Mental lock, you tell yourself.  Picture something else.  Something else, anything.  Surely that’s what they tell rape victims, right?  Right?

                Who the hell cares?  Lock.  Lock.  Lock.  Nothing’s going on.  Nothing.  You blink and turn to face your sister.  As soon as you do, you do a double take as you look upon not as your sister as she is right now, but in a dreamlike quality, your sister as she looked at the age of 14.  The first time she took possession of you.  The first time you visited this room.  You place your hands on your chin and upper lip.  No five o’clock shadow, no nothing.  You look over at Carly.  You’re several inches taller than her, just as you were at the age of 17.  Your mind swims; it’s as if you’ve stepped into a time warp and been sent back half a decade.

                “Aren’t you going to say hi to me?” she whines at you.

                “Umm… hi?”

                “Whatever.  I know you don’t mean it, you jerk.”

                “Uhh…”

                “Yeah, that’s right.  No answer.  That’s all you are.  A big, fat, stupid meanie.  And that’s all you’ll ever be, no matter how much I try to tell you.  Why don’t you listen to me, bro?”

                “I… I just…”

                “I guess you can’t do stuff like that, huh?  Like THINKING?  Remembering?  Because… it’s not even worth it anymore.  Trying to make you learn, I mean.”

                “What?  No, I just…”

                “Shut up.”

                “Okay…” you whisper meekly.  You watch, horrified and unable to do a single thing as your sister, wearing a yellow shirt and white short shorts that just barely come down a few inches along her tan thighs, stomps towards you in a pair of blue flip-flops.  Despite her smaller size, you remember very well what happened in this room last time you were here in this dreamscape.  She stops walking just a few feet away from you.  Then, with lightning speed, she swings her foot up into the air, smashing the foam of her shoe against your stomach with such speed you have to cough heavily to get another breath of air, the pain shooting from your midsection in all directions.

                It seems the conditions of this surreal place are the same as last time; your little sister, despite her size and age, possesses the strength and power equivalent to that of when she’s the size of a malevolent goddess.  And as you well remember, she’s fully capable of beating the absolute living shit out of you with barely any effort on her part.

                You double over on the ground, clutching your stomach and gasping for breath on your knees.  You sister’s feet, just around a foot away from you, clench inward a few times, bending at her sole, her toes wriggling in anticipation of whatever is coming.  A second later, you watch the foot that just kicked you rising slowly up.  Carly places it calmly on your shoulder blades, then presses down hard, forcing you to slam against the ground in a full laying down position.  You turn your head to the side, your eyes now level with the blue flip-flops and terrible peds of your sibling.  Carly giggles, twisting her heel in a few different directions and sending shooting pain along your spine.

                “You look a lot better when you’re down there, Jack.  Let’s just do things like this from now on.”  You, still unable to move, watch with utter horror as Carly kicks her other flip-flop off and moves her bare foot closer to your face.  She raises her big and second toe up regally above your face, before planting them on the top of your head.  Then, in a display of showmanship, she smears her soft toe flesh down your face, along your eyelids, and to your nose, where she plants them firmly, engulfing your breathing space in her peds, clenching her toes against your cheeks playfully.  “You know the drill,” she says simply.  You sigh, holding your breath.

                You think it through quickly.  You are vaguely aware that this isn’t really happening; it’s just a terrible nightmare.  It’s a dream.  It’s a dream.  It has to be a dream.  Your dreams come from your mind.  And that means that if you’re in the right frame of mind, you can change what’s happening.  Right?

                “Carly!” you sputter, taking in a deep breath of her foot odor as you speak.  Coughing in reaction to the balmy sudor coating your nose now, you struggle for air and try to follow through on this desperate plan.  “Please, just listen to me for one second.  Please?”  Carly’s toes continue their pressure on you, her other foot still standing firmly on your back, immobilizing you, but she doesn’t press harder on you like you thought she might.  Is it working?  Could it be possible?

                “What do you want, Jack?  And make it fast.”

                “Please… you don’t have to do this to me.”

                “Why not?” she says simply, rippling her toes across your nose.  Unable to go another second without breathing, you inhale slowly, trying to filter the smell, but it’s no use.  The salty mist of her sweat creeps back inside your nostrils, causing you to quiver a little bit from the pure rank.  She laughs, feeling you vibrate under her feet.  “That bad, huh?” she chuckles, pressing down particularly hard with the toes covering your nose, forcing the smell back inside of you.  You shiver again, but she does nothing.  “Well?” she asks expectantly.

                “Y-Y-Yes…” you mutter weakly, realizing how badly this plan of yours is failing.

                “Really?”

                “Y-Yes…”

                “Are you saying you want me to take my foot OFF of your face?” she giggles girlishly.  “Already?”

                “P-Please.”

                “And why would that be, bro?”

                “What do you m-mean?”

                “Tell me why you DON’T want my foot on your stupid little face, bro.  I’m just curious.”

                “B-Because it’s… it’s…” you begin, but as you say these things, Carly moves her foot down, tapping your lips with her big toe before returning it to over your nose.  You gag just from this simple preview, sputtering in a vain attempt to rid your taste buds of your sister’s domineering mark.  “It’s t-t-terrible…” you mutter painfully, just wanting so desperately for it to be over.  You look up.  You still can’t get over this image, how impossible it should seem to your mind.  Your little sister Carly, looking like a 14-year-old 8th grader once again.  Innocent and sweet looking, her glowing hair bounced over her shoulders, her deep blue eyes practically swirling with delight, her perfectly straight white teeth gleaming in a row, in good shape for her age but still pretty small compared to you at around 5’ 9”.

                And she’s turning you into a floor mat.

                “It’s terrible, huh?” she asks, chewing this over, still keeping her toes firmly planted over your nose.  “HOW terrible?  Like, just stinky, or REALLY bad?”

                “R-Really b-ba…” you begin, but before you can finish the word, Carly’s toes have released their sweaty grip on your face.  She pulls back about a foot, then slams her foot back in, kicking you squarely in the nose with her toes.  You squeal in shocked pain.  You’re pretty positive she just broke your nose.

                “That’s enough from you, I think,” she says calmly.  “Talk like that to me again, and I’ll kick you in the eye…” she says, raising her foot up.  Your heart pounds hard in your chest as she teasingly brings her big toe closer and closer to your eye, the tanned, dry flesh practically filling your vision.  She wiggles it, bending it, changing the color slightly to make sure you understand well.  And you do, unfortunately.

                Offhandedly, you ponder who the jackass was who decided that you can’t control your own dreams.  Whoever it is, you have a feeling it’s the same person that decided you deserve to be trapped in this 5 year long, never-ending night terror that has become your life.

                “I think it’s time you made up for the bad stuff you just said, bro.”

                This is starting to become an old hat trick for you.  You swallow hard, the smell of Carly’s reeking toes leaking like a ventilation system through your body at this point, and nod.

                “I’m sorry, Carly.  I really am.  I didn’t mean it.”

                “I didn’t say to me, Jack.  Stop being such an idiot, okay?”

                “I… what?” you gulp, confused.

                She lowers her foot back over your face, leaving everything smushed underneath her soft foot flesh except for your mouth.  “Apologize to my foot.”

                “What the…” you say, instantly getting an even stronger taste of the sweaty air through your mouth, and you almost choke.

                “Apologize to my foot NOW.”

                “Okay, okay… um…”

                “And if you sound like you’re joking, my… foot won’t believe you…” she says snidely.  You decide you’ve got a pretty decent idea of how Carly’s “foot” reacts when apologies aren’t up to snuff.  Time to swallow your pride (and the haze of foot sweat in the air) for the fifty billionth time in the last five years.

                “C-Carly’s… f-foot…” you mumble, your vision filled by Carly’s soft foot skin, flexing ever so slightly as she maintains heavy pressure over your face without killing you like you know she could.  “I… I… I’m s-sorry for what I s-said…”  You feel hilariously degraded.  You imagine if anyone ever, in real life or their worst nightmares, has ever had to do something like this.

                “That was okay.  Now show my foot even more how sorry you are.”

                “Okay, um…”

                “Kiss it.  Now.  On the heel,” Carly commands briskly and powerfully.  She lowers her heel back towards your mouth, clasping it over your lips.  You pucker against the dry, peeling skin, tasting the odd flavors, wetting her heel as you obediently pay homage to your sister’s disgusting, grimy foot.

                “More.  In the middle,” she orders, sliding her foot over your face and placing her sole over your lips.  “Kiss it again.”  You grimace and press your lips against her sole, feeling so soft and buttery it wouldn’t be a terrible thing to have to touch, if you don’t think about the fact that it’s your little sister’s foot bottom and you’re touching it with your mouth.  Despite the cooling, gentle touch of the flesh, you feel disgusting beyond belief at this remembrance.  The white wrinkles tickle your face as you kiss against your sister’s sole with gentleness, hoping not to experience it as painfully.

                “Harder.  That last one stunk,” she orders.  You close your eyes and kiss again, practically suckling your sister’s creamy sole, the slightly sweet flavors leaking into your mouth from the cushy dampness pressing against your face.  Her sole flexes, feeling hot, against your lips as if in gratitude.

                “Nice.  Now the last part.  Toes.  Get them,” she says simply, utilizing few words before slipping her wet sole off of your face, rolling the ball of her foot along your cheek and lips before she places her toes over your lips, wiggling them and tapping at your lips as if knocking on a door, wanting to come in.  You pucker, feeling the small bulbous quality of most of her toes on her lips.  As soon as you begin, though, her foot is rising back off of you.  “No.  That’s NOT what I mean…” she says.  You feel great relief flow through you as she finally takes her foot off of your back, allowing you a second to stretch out.  As soon as you do, though, you feel her hands gripping at your shirt.  She pulls you straight up.  Her arms rise into the air, holding you solidly above her head as far as she can reach.  Because of her incredible strength, you don’t stand a chance of touching ground even though Carly is technically smaller than you at this moment.

                Enraged now, wanting so desperately for your stupid subconscious to stop this insanity and let you control the dream, you wrap your legs around your sister’s thin midsection, tugging with all of your might.  She doesn’t budge an inch.  She chuckles at you.  “That’s it, bro.  Fight me.  C’mon.  Try to stop me with those, big, strong, impressive muscles of yours.”  You growl, twisting around her with your legs and clenching as hard as you can, grappling both of your hands around the fingers of just one of Carly’s godlike hands.  You watch her grin at you cheekily as you continuously fail to force this nearly superpowered fourteen year old bitch off of you.  Finally, not able to take it anymore, you let go, shaking a little from the physical and emotional strain.  “Awww… is my big, tough bro getting tired already?  From little ‘ol me?”

                “Wake up.  Wake up.  Wake up…” you order yourself in a whispered voice.

                Carly laughs haughtily at you, spraying a mist of saliva at your face as she does.  “This isn’t a dream, bro.  It’s real, just like always.  You’re… all… MINE…”

                “Carly… p-please…” you sputter, feeling tears coming down your cheeks.

                “Don’t cry on me, Jack.  You’re fighting something you can’t stop.”

                “But… but Carly, please…”

                “WHAT is it now?”

                “You… you can’t do this…”

                She chortles deeply.  “You, it’s funny you say that, Jack, because I don’t seen anyone who’s going to STOP me!”

                “It’s… it not RIGHT!”

                “Oh?  What’s so not right about it?”

“I’m your brother!”

                “So?”

                “Don’t you remember?  I know we argue a lot and stuff, but… but… remember when we were little?  We used to play together, in the backyard.  Hopscotch.  Jump rope.  Tag.  Remember?  Playing?”

                “Now you’re being silly, Jack.  We are playing.  Except this time, I get to choose the games we play,” she smiles.  Suddenly, one of her hands releases its grip on you (although she’s perfectly capable of keeping you level in the air with just one arm) and latches it around your throat, choking you.  You gasp for breath, latching your hands around her fingers as she releases her other hand from your shirt, holding you up in the air solely by the hand gripped tightly like an iron noose around your neck.  Carly’s sweet smile never fades as you gasp for breath.

                “G-G-Gaacck…” you grunt, losing oxygen fast as your sister’s soft fingers clench with metal might around your neck, cutting off your air supply with such terrifying ease.  “Let… me… g-g-g-go…”

                “Stop talking and listen to me.  I’m done playing this dumb question game with you.  It’s boring, bro.  I’m sorry, but it is.  You keep asking me to let you go, and stop hurting you.  And I will, as soon as you show me what a good brother you are.”

                “P-P-P…” you try to sputter, but her fingers clench harder around your throat, stopping your words in their tracks.

                “And you KNOW the only thing a good brother is meant for, right?”

                “P-Plea…”

                “I said shut up.  Now you’re going to suck on my toes nice and long, because I said so.  Right?”

                You nod slowly, finally admitting defeat.  “Y-Y-Yes…” you gasp, ready to do just about anything to avoid death in your sister’s adolescent grasp.

                “Good.  But that’s not everything.”

                “W-Wha…”

                “Yeah.  You’re also going to do it because you LIKE to.”

                “Huh...” you say weakly, feeling your world begin to spin a little.

                “Yep,” she chuckles matter-of-factly.  “You’re going to do it because you LIKE how your sissy’s toes taste.  You LIKE them in your mouth.  Like little candies.  Don’t you, Jack?”

                “Mmmphmm…” you struggle.

                “Loud and clear, bro.  Say yes, and then, because you’ve been such a good, stupid brother, I’ll let you suck on them.  But just for you.  Only because you like it.  Right?  Say yes.”

                “Y-Yes…” you gasp, your oxygen about to go out permanently.

                “There…” murmurs Carly, low and satisfied, and she lowers you towards the ground.  The pressure begins to release around your neck, and your feet tap the ground.  Carly’s face comes nearer to yours and she plants a kiss on your cheek, wet and lengthy.  After a moment of this, she pulls your ear closer to her mouth.  “That’s big sissy’s good boy…” she coos, kissing the edge of your ear almost tenderly before slamming you so hard on the shoulder you instantly fall to the floor.  You hit your broken nose against the ground, trying to refill your lungs with air, working through the pain, your body still shaking from the tears and trauma.  Before you lie Carly’s toes, wiggling expectantly.

                “I’m not going to stand on you, bro.  I shouldn’t have to.  Just get over here and wrap your lips around my foot before I kick all of your teeth down your throat,” she says, crossing her arms casually and tapping her bare foot against the ground with a loud, fleshy slap.  “Hurry.”

                You crawl forward a few inches, your cheek coming to rest on top of Carly’s toes.  “If my toes aren’t in your mouth in three seconds, Jack…” she begins to threaten, but you’re already on it.  You don’t care anymore.  You slide your face off of her foot, and open your mouth as if waiting for a dental procedure. 

                Carly instantly jams four of her toes inside your mouth as far as she can, clamping your jaws open at maximum width.  You close your eyes, tears rushing from them unstoppably, and take it.  The fleshy rank of your sister’s raw, peeling skin lining her toes rakes across your taste buds violently.  The stale flavor of Carly’s nails, scraping against the inside of your cheeks as she shoves her toes deeper and deeper into your mouth, nearly touching your throat, wiggling her muscles violently against your tongue and forcing it down.  With your tongue pinned, she begins sliding her toes rhythmically, side to side, along your tongue, scraping dried sweat flakes down onto it, where they melt directly into your cheeks, the taste lingering forever in your very DNA.  Opening her toes, she clamps your tongue tightly between her big and second digits and squeezes, forcing a muted squeal from your mouth that’s mostly covered up by your sister’s large foot. 

                “I don’t feel you yet, bro.  Get to work.  Suck.  Suck until you can’t taste anything anymore.”

                This offer sending a veritable chill throughout your entire body, you clamp pressure around her toes, biting down on them a little (knowing it couldn’t possibly hurt her), chewing against the skin while working your tongue into the crevices between each toe, flecks of dirt and dry skin traveling down your throat like a conveyor belt.  Your cheeks undulate as you savor the flavor of your sister’s sweat-ridden foot like a dog, each pump of your cheeks sending another massive punch of taste down your throat and into your stomach: sweat, grime, dirt, grass stains, salt, dead skin…

                “There you go…” she coos so gently she might as well be speaking to a sleepy baby.  “That’s how I like you to do it.  Keep it up.  Don’t stop, just keep going.”  This continues for an invariably long amount of time.  You keep your eyes closed, your sucking becoming less intense as your mouth gets tired, but Carly doesn’t seem to mind this, leaving you be, keeping her foot expectantly jammed into your throat just as deep as before.  Finally, when you’re so tired you don’t feel like you can continue without a break, your tongue stops working.  Carly’s foot has become pruned from how much work you’ve been doing on it, wet from your mouth, and pretty warm from how much exertion was being put on it.  She lets it alone for a moment, leaving your tear-stained face to just breath heavily, the salty scent having become the smell of your very world a while back.  She wiggles her toes against your limp tongue, trying to force some more life out of it, but it’s hopeless.  With a final squeeze against your tongue with her toes, she pulls them from your mouth, the taste so thoroughly ingrained into your tongue you don’t even realize at first that she’s removed the massive hunk of meaty flesh from your sore and aching jaws.

                “That should be okay for now, bro.  Do that a little sooner next time, and I won’t have to beat you down.  Just stay there and rest, I’ll be back a little later, and then I’ll feed you again…” she says coyly, turning around and walking back the other way, her head held high, stomping in her uptight and regal way.

                It is at this moment that you feel your brain go into autopilot.  You don’t know why you say anything or do anything that happens next.  All you can tell yourself is that you feel like a druggie who just had his entire stash taken away by the police, and you’re aching for a fix to the point that it’s almost painful.  Your head pounds.  You swallow, close your eyes, and speak.

                “Carly?”

                She turns, surprised that you have the strength to speak.  “Yes, favorite brother?” she says with feigned politeness.  You cough.

                “Could you…”

                “What?”

                “Could you come… back?” you ask uncertainly, not even bothering to consider what it is that you’re saying to your sister.  She nods, looking bewildered at you, and returns, standing just over you.

                “What is it?”

                “I… I was just wondering…”

                “What?  Come on, Jack, this is the kind of talking that made me have to punish you before…”

                “W-w-wondering…” you sputter, gasping, the pain in your head becoming worse and worse with each passing second, your vision blurring out into nothing so much that you barely can see the fit form of Carly standing over you.  “Wondering if… you wanted… the other one done?”

                She looks confused at you, and suddenly it all dawns on her.  And she seems to understand your words a lot better than you do.  “Really?” she says, raising an eyebrow.

                Apparently not even this subconscious dream version of Carly that your sadistic brain has cooked up for you in your sleep is believing a word you’re saying.  “Yes.  I mean, if you… wanted… I… I could…” you stutter uncertainly, like a small child who doesn’t know how to ask for seconds of dinner.

                “Just shut up,” she says, smiling triumphantly, but somehow she says it a lot more kindly than before.  Almost as if there’s no need to be crazed or evil anymore.  “Open wide for me.”  You do, opening your quivering, anticipating jaws, still sore from what just happened.  “Wider.  I can’t fit them all in.”  You gulp, nodding, and do so.

                With odd and uncharacteristic gentleness, Carly slips her other blue flip-flop off the “fresh” foot.  She slaps it to the ground, then brings it closer to your face.  Her toes dance softly across your lips and plant themselves on your tongue, sending a fresh batch of Carly’s sweaty, grungy flavors into your throat like a sewage pipe.  You gasp air around the toes for a moment, readjusting, as she settles her terrorist appendage into place, a drop of sweat plunking from between her toes and onto your tongue as if giving a free sample of your upcoming meal.

                “Close your lips, bro,” she whispers quietly, knowing there’s no longer a need for command.  And you do, sucking heartily on her toes like a baby on his mother for milk, inexplicable desire flooding you.  “I hope you’re hungry…”

 

                You awaken from the dream, sweat soaking your body and the sock you happen to be lying on top of.  You shudder violently as you recall what went on in the dream, your stomach gurgling as your subconscious shift settles in.  What happened in that dream… What you did… What you wanted…

                What you now realize with perfect clarity has become your reality.

                You lean over to your side and vomit.

End Notes:

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Chapter 23: A Little More Blackmail by Jacksmith

                You stare blankly at your shivering hands, still gagging from throwing up out of disgust with yourself, realizing what’s going on.  You don’t want to admit any of this to yourself, but your dream just revealed it to you, and even in your sickness, you note how true the feelings were.  You just weren’t ready to face yourself about it.  Subconsciously, you realize your mind has been on this track for some time, but it’s only now that it’s come to the visible forefront in your dreams.  Slowly, you repeat the truth to yourself in your brain, almost stumbling over a few of the words but knowing the veracity remains.

                You, Jack Arton, two-and-a-half-inch tall prisoner of your younger sister Carly, enjoy your captivity.  You have developed an insane, endless need to not only be the property of your sister but to have her use you for whatever cruel, merciless game she sees fit to utilize you in. 

                You enjoy being talked down to by your sister: being called her pet, her toy, her pleasure object.

                You enjoy when she places you inside her mouth and body slams you with her slimy tongue, threatening to swallow you whole. 

                You enjoy when she ties you tightly into her locks of hair and leaves you there to have all the blood rush to your head. 

                You enjoy when she grips you in her firm fist, giving you no chance for escape and taking complete responsibility for your life.

                You enjoy laying on her warm, firm abs and feeling her stomach rise and fall with each calm intake of breath.

                You enjoy being trapped in her shoes while she wears them and being exposed to the stale stench of sweat and fabric with each breath of air you take.

                You enjoy kissing and licking every square inch of flesh along those sloping, creamy, wrinkled bare soles of hers as they stamp you mercilessly into the carpet.

                You enjoy when she runs her soft fingertips over your crotch until you are forcibly brought pleasure and raped.

                Your head swimming, you lean over and throw up again as everything hits all at once in your mind.  You can hardly stand it.  For a fleeting moment, you feel the overwhelming desire to kill yourself, for the sake of what an inhuman creature you have truly become.  You hardly dare consider what has happened to your brain. 

                What you feel for Carly is nowhere near the normal “love” a person feels for another person.  What you feel is the overwhelming desire to please.  To be of some small use to your veritable goddess of a sister.  To make yourself completely available for her omnipotent whims.  You don’t just want to, you have to.  Your existence depends on it. 

                It’s hard for you to make sense of.  All you know is that it’s time to get out of this at this precise moment, now and forever, and if that means ending your life, then so be it.

                No.  Not yet.  Never.

                A part of your brain that you thought had silenced itself long ago reawakens at these suicidal considerations, forcing you to focus on something fresh in your brain.  You’re not through.  You’re not going to kill yourself.  You don’t want to die.  You want to get out of this place that would make hell look like a peaceful glen of wildflowers.  And finally, you think you know how.

                You dash for the edge of the drawer, which is now opened just a crack.  Carly must have done that before leaving for her basketball tournament.  On top of a sock by the edge, there’s a small post-it note resting idly with some writing scribbled across it.  You grab ahold of the paper edge and pull it into the crack of light shining into the sock drawer in order to read.  The letters are written in loopy, overdone swirls in a sparkly pink gel pen, and all the “I’s and “J’s” are dotted with tiny hearts.

                You read: “Little Bro, I’m sorry about yesterday.  I hope you’re not mad at me.  I’ll be back by 9 tonight.  Be a good boy, and we’ll cuddle when I get back.  Be a REALLY good boy, and I’ll let you play with my toes.  XOXOXO Carly”

                From this alone you want to vomit again, but you can’t.  You force yourself not to.  For the first time in a very long time, a new kind of determination and focus has entered your mind.  Sure, you’ve had plenty of moments where you wanted to escape or get back at Carly for what she’s done to you, but not like this.  You’re not mad.  You’re not vengeful.  You’re not sad.  You’re just in control, and you’re not sure you know how just yet, but your brain seems to know what it’s doing, so you shrug this minor detail off and begin following pure instinct with the single-minded determination of a samurai.

                Grabbing ahold of the thick woolen sock you normally sleep in, you take a deep breath, almost feeling some level of guilt for what you’re about to do to your loyal and comfortable bed, and find a fuzzy loose thread.  Wrapping it several times around your hand, you begin tugging, etching along the entire sock until you have a rope of loose thread coming undone like a fire hose.  Winding it around your shoulder, you walk toward the crack of light entering the drawer without disconnecting the thread from the sock.  Looping the end of the rope into a triple knot like a lasso, you spin the end around and toss it up and over the edge of the drawer, then tug.

                No go.  The lasso comes flopping back into the drawer next to you.  Closing your eyes and doing your best to imagine the layout of this drawer that you’ve seen so many times from the outside, you make another toss, this time further to the left, and tug.

                It tightens, catching on the drawer knob and securing the line.  You gulp, knowing the terrifying part is about to take place.  Wrapping the line around your hands again and pressing your feet against the drawer to test the tautness of the line, you take a deep breath and begin rappelling up the side of the drawer.  It doesn’t take long to grasp the edge of it, but this is what you weren’t looking forward to.

                Carefully, you clamber upward, going into a crouching position as you stand precariously on the ledge-like cusp of the drawer, staring at a death plunge directly to the ground below.  You swallow and close your eyes, turning instead to the other direction.  Reaching outward, you can just manage to touch the top of the dresser.  It’s going to hurt if you fall, but you’ve got little option at this moment, with a swan dive of doom being the other prospect behind you.  Grappling at the edge of the top of the old dresser, you leap outward, pushing off of the drawer edge, and clamber up top with strength to spare.

                Righting yourself and looking around, you place your hands on your hips.  The danger is becoming real again, and it’s spiking your adrenaline like never before.  The thought crosses your mind to find a way to the floor so you can slip under the door and search for safety, but this sticks out in your mind as a bad idea.  On a day like this, after the Christmas holidays, when a lot of the residents of this hall are liable to be at least minorly tipsy and probably not capable of seeing clearly all the people right in front of their faces (let alone the ones less than three inches tall), you decide you’re less likely to end up as a gory stain on the bottom of some nineteen-year-old’s shoe tread if you find an alternative method in this case.  Dashing to the back edge of the dresser touching the wall, you just manage to climb up to a wall shelf normally used for books that Carly instead uses to house all of her basketball league trophies.                

                Dashing between the gleaming faux-gold trophies as if you were going on a jog through a museum hallway full of old statues, you reach the other end of the shelf and, looking down, realize you are now directly over Carly’s homework desk, full of supplies, textbooks, and her open laptop.

                Bingo.

                The drop is a little too long for comfort, but after looking around for a moment, you notice that Carly has a bright purple squishy pillow resting on the desktop for use in resting her head during late night study sessions.  It’s not going to be pretty, but it’s your best chance, and you figure your odds are stacked mainly at you getting a couple bruises, and worst case scenario a twisted ankle if you land wrong.  Breathing steadily to yourself, you smile.  The spirit of rebellion you once had is back in full force, and it’s like it’s never left, except this time the urgency is far greater than ever before.  Closing your eyes, you dive over the edge, plunging downward toward the pillow.

                You bounce once in the silky fabric folds of the pillow before coming to rest in the center.  The landing didn’t feel terribly comfortable on your legs, but you can tell you can still walk, and that means nothing was twisted.  Good.  Clambering over the awkward layers of soft pillow fabric, you make it to the frilly edge and finally find yourself standing on the desk, with the laptop laying before you in all of its opened, fully charged glory.

                Stepping up to it, you slam your fist a few times on the touch pad mouse and the machine springs to life.  You’re in.  Instantly, you pull up the email program on the computer and prepare to compose a note to your mother and father.

                Grasping at your chin to consider what to do, you stop yourself, and exit out of the program.  Despite how desperately you want to solve things with this particular method, it entails far, far too much risk.  You heard Carly’s threat last night loud and clear.  Never have things become this serious, and you know that she actually means she will snuff the life right out of you without a problem if you so much as dream of another escape attempt.  If your parents come over and Carly becomes at all suspicious, you have a feeling there would prove to be little difference between you and a fly trapped in pasty form under the heel of Carly’s tennis shoe.

                No.  You have to be smarter than that.  You have to make sure there’s a guaranteed safety net.  You stare questioningly at the glowing screen of the laptop.  Five years ago, you were a pretty skilled programmer.  You’re aware that things have changed greatly since then, but from the numerous times you’ve gotten to watch Carly working at her laptop for homework while simultaneously playing with you, you are familiar with the most basic of changes.  You stare at the clock in the bottom right corner of the screen. 

                8:23 AM.  You have 12 hours and 37 minutes until your sister returns.

                “I’m a fast learner,” you reassure yourself smugly as you crack your knuckles and drop to your knees over the mouse pad to get to work, a determined smile on your face.

 

                At 9:04 PM, the doorknob to the dorm jiggles a few times before swinging wide open, revealing an out-of-breath and entirely exhausted Carly, freshly showered after her day-long tourney at the campus stadium, her sweaty clothes packed up in a duffel bag, a simple t-shirt and sweatpants adorning her towering form now.

                You happen to be observing this from behind a flowery designed cup full of pencils on the desk.  You peek slyly out, watching her plop her gear on the floor and run her fingers through her hair before heading toward the drawer.  Goose bumps ripple along your skin, satisfyingly. 

                You absolutely cannot wait for her to discover you’ve gone missing.

                “Sorry I’m late, little bro.  Some of the girls wanted to go out and dance a little afterward, but I told them I had things to do back here, I…” she says jovially before opening the drawer.  Instantly her cheery, smiley expression reverts into stone-cold anger and fear, her eyes bugging, her lips pursing.  “All right, you little motherfucker…” she growls.  “Now you’re going to get it.”

                Bring it on, bitch.  You feel your breathing actually slow down, as if you were falling asleep.  Somehow, you are calm.  Completely, one hundred percent peaceful, at least for the time being.

                “All right, Jack,” she drawls coolly, beginning her search of the dorm, peeking under the bed and under shelves.  “You have ten seconds to come out.  If I have to come and find you… God, you don’t want to know what’s going to happen.  I’ll tear your stupid little arms off, I swear… okay, I’m counting.  Ten.”

                You smile to yourself, tapping your foot.

                “Nine.”

                You scratch at the top of your head absentmindedly.

                “Eight.”

                For the first time in years, you feel nothing negative impacting your system.  No fear or pain.  Only optimism and sheer, unavoidable glee.  What’s even better, you feel a refreshing sense of control in your life.  Despite the fact that your colossal sister is currently stamping around the room in search of you while fantasizing about all the violent acts she could perform on your God-forsaken body, you are in complete control of the situation.  You aren’t the toy right now.  Carly is.

                “Seven.  Oh, I swear to God… Six.  Five.”

                You’re exhausted, hungry, and thirsty beyond belief, but none of these are even enough to drag you down.  You wouldn’t want to miss what’s about to happen for all the world.  This whole day, as you sat at Carly’s laptop, busily familiarizing yourself with new programming rules, all while you were working quickly and efficiently you had a single, beautiful image in your mind.

                The image of your sister crying pitifully for her own sake.

                “Four.  Jack, if you don’t come out right now, you’re going to wish you never asked to be my pet.  God damn… I… Oh, you stupid little… Three.”

                You smirk to yourself, drumming your fingers against your hip.

                “Two.”

                You inhale.

                “One…”

                “Over here, Aphrodite!” you call out pleasantly and lovingly, leaping out from behind the pencil cup.  “I’m over HERE!”

                Her gaze falls to you, and her eyes are burning with so much passionate rage you think she might just be capable of shooting flames from her deep blue eyes.  Her fingers curl together into tight fists and her knuckles crack simultaneously.  She’s pissed, all right.

                You smile, crossing your arms.

                “You stupid… little… son… of… a… bitch,” she curses through gritted teeth, stomping over to you in one fluid, flashing motion, standing over you so angrily she can’t even come up with another reaction.

                “Woah, watch your language there, sis,” you chuckle.  “That’s your mother, too, you’re talking about, after all.”

                Carly’s hands come crashing down on the desk right in front of you, her fingers splayed out, her nails digging into the soft wood of the desk.  Her hands quiver violently, as if about to pounce on you and break you in half like a wishbone.

                “What do you think you’re doing?” she asks with sudden calmness, her voice returning to its normal sugary sweetness.  “Did you… FORGET… what I told you yesterday?”

                “Oh no, not at all.  I actually thought a lot about it today.”

                “Then WHY are you…”

                “Well, see, here’s the thing, sis,” you say nonchalantly, beginning to pace across the desk back over to the laptop.  “I know you mean what you say.  And I’m cool with that.  You’re a girl of your word, like you tell me all the time.”

                Carly raises an eyebrow and withdraws slightly, taken aback by your sudden calmness with a situation in which, by all rights, you should be pissing in fear.

                “And so, while I was escaping again today which, by the way, was reeeeally easy…” you continue with a piteous laugh.  “I thought, after you’d treated me so… fairly… like that, telling it like it is and whatnot, I thought I owed you the same courtesy.  Believe me, I was just going to send an email to most of the people you know…”

                At this, Carly’s eyes narrow so much, and her throat opens so wide, her teeth baring, it looks like lava might come spewing from the back of her dark mouth at any moment.  Her hand descends and, using her thumb and forefinger, she pinches you by the right arm, lifting you directly into the air and up to face level.

                “You little fucker,” she sneers.  “What did you DO?”

                “DO?  Oh, nothing.  Nothing yet, anyway,” you add helpfully, grinning into the enormous, enraged face of your sister, locking sights with her stormy blue eyes.  “Seriously.  Believe me.  Check your outbox if you want, I didn’t send any emails, I swear.”

                “What do you mean nothing yet?  You’re not going to get another chance.  I swear to God, you’re never getting another chance at anything.  We’re done.  Completely done.  You’re never leaving this room again.  You’re…”

                “Hold up, Aphrodite, you may want to hear the whole thing before you go that far,” you interrupt, taking Carly by surprise and actually causing her to shut up for a moment.

                “Whole what?”

                “The whole deal I’m about to offer you.”

                At this, Carly can’t help but break her dagger-eye glare, and she snickers in spite of herself, her eyes squinting condescendingly at you.  “A deal.  Really.  YOU… want to offer ME…” she breathes, barely able to process the humor of such a concept.  “…a DEAL.”

                “That’s right,” you answer simply with a smile, your arm beginning to go numb as you continue dangling above the death plunge carpet, held up by the loose grip of your sister’s two fingers.

                “Let’s get something really clear right now, little bro, because I think you must have found some weed or something today after you got out…” chortles Carly, barely able to contain her throaty laughter.  “You don’t call the shots here.  I do.  That’s why I’m big, and you’re small.  I’m the goddess, and you’re the pet bug person who does what I tell him to.  Make sense?”

                “Oh, absolutely,” you grin.

                “In fact… here’s MY deal for you, Jack!”

                “Can’t wait to hear it.”

                “You stop speaking right now.  Don’t say a single word ever again.  Don’t look me in the EYE ever again.  Look straight down.  Do EVERYTHING I tell you to.  Anything.  And then… if you do all that… I’ll consider not eating your stupid little fucking arms and legs off.”

                You nod before making clear eye contact with Carly.  “Sounds like a plan, sis, but tell you what: I’ve got a better deal.  You can tell me what you think.  I’ve got a video minimized at the bottom of your desktop on the computer there.  Why don’t you pull that up and play it?”

                Unable to muster a response to your insane defiance, Carly instead takes a seat at the desk, too flustered to hide how intrigued she is by your ballsy confidence, and plops you down on the table.  Reaching for the mouse pad, she moves the arrow down toward the video viewing program and clicks.

                “Enjoy,” you encourage warmly as the video starts up.

 

                The screen is fuzzy for a moment before coming clearer.  It shows Carly’s desktop, a few pencils and lipstick tubes strewn about, and in the middle of it all is you, wearing a Kleenex wrapped around you again for modesty’s sake, your hands proudly on your hips, a smug smirk on your face.  You clear your throat.

                “Hello, everyone,” you state simply, stepping forward to the mouse and clicking a few times before it zooms in more closely on your face, instantly giving a clear and identifiable image of your features.  “My name is Jack.  Jack Arton.  You may or may not have heard of me, but I guarantee if you check the online public records with my parents Jonathan and Leah Arton you’ll be able to find me.  As you can probably figure out with a little bit of research… I’m dead.  Or at least, that’s what everyone thinks.  I was pronounced dead in a statement by the police after they gave up on a months-long search that didn’t turn up a single clue about my whereabouts.  But, as you can see…” you drawl snidely.  “…I’m not dead.  In fact, I’m… for the most part… very much alive.  And where do I happen to be?  I happen to be in my younger sister Carly Arton’s college dorm room at St. Helena Catholic University on the east coast, where she’s been keeping me this entire time.”

                Taking a pause, you reach down and nudge at the mouse a few more times, zooming the camera out just enough to get another good look at the desk and room, which is almost fully lit by the sunlight trickling in between the cheap window shades and the computer backlight being turned up to full power.

                “Now, I guess I’ll address the elephant in the room,” you answer nonchalantly.  “Or, I guess you could say… the MOUSE in the room because, well, in case you can’t already tell by all this stuff around me, I stand at less than three inches tall.  I wasn’t born this way.  I used to be just like you.  Maybe taller.  Six foot one, actually.  This was all because of a few scientific laws going screwy that even I haven’t been able to work out for myself, but here’s what I need you to be aware of.  The very day this happened, while my parents were gone, my sister.  Carly.  Fourteen years old at the time.  In the eighth grade.  Found me.  Kidnapped me.  Hid me.  Tortured me.  Lied to my parents about where it was I’d gone.  And has kept me as her prisoner for FIVE YEARS!” you bellow loudly and clearly at the camera, clearing your throat again.

                “But hey, listen, I know all this must be a lot to take in.  And if you know Carly personally… well, this might actually be impossible to believe.  It’s all good.  Maybe THIS will help convince you…” you chuckle, clicking again at the mouse.

                The video cuts off for a moment, going fuzzy, before reverting into a slideshow style presentation.  It’s a series of pictures Carly has taken on her phone of her pastimes with you that she uploaded to a secret file on her computer, purely for her enjoyment and your humiliation.

                A picture of you dangling upside down, your leg pinched between two of Carly’s fingers as she laughs maniacally in the background, her face fully visible in the frame.

                A picture of Carly pulling your arms behind your back so far that you’re screaming violently.

                A picture of you hanging from a few tied threads of her long blonde hair, contorted into a dangerous position.

                A picture of you fighting to escape from under the hulking, sweating mass of her big toe, painted a gleaming purple and bearing down on you with supreme muscle.

                A picture of you laying, clearly bruised, battered, and even bleeding a little, in the center of the palm of her hand.

                A picture of your arm poking out from between her lips as she smiles devilishly.

                A picture of you cowering powerlessly at the bottom of a tennis shoe as her socked foot, toes gleefully wiggling through the fabric, lowers toward the mouth of the shoe to seal you in.

                A picture of you plastered against her palm as she flattens her entire heavy, sopping tongue against your body and slathers you in saliva.

                A picture of her holding you under some bath water in an attempt to nearly drown you.

                A picture of her holding a pair of scissors near your leg as you cry uselessly, threatening to snip your limb right off.

                A picture of you at the bottom of her sock drawer, looking pitiful and hopeless, as the shadow of her hand, fingers outstretched, descends fatefully toward you.

                Static crackles rip across the screen momentarily before transitioning into a separate video feed from the one containing your confessional.  As it comes into focus, you, sprawled in a helpless ball in the center of Carly’s wide palm as she films the scene from about two years ago, comes into focus.

                “Smile for the camera, Jack!” she giggles, tickling you with her thumb and forcing you to splay out in her hand.  “I want you to look happy.”

                “C-C-Carly… n-nooo…” you sputter weakly, fighting against her finger, which remains firmly in place.

                “No dice, bro.  We’re filming for a reason.”

                “We a-a-are?”

                “Sure!” she smiles cheekily.  “I’m making an instructional video.  It’s going to be called “How to Brush Your Teeth” and you’re going to be the star!” Without another word, she opens her jaws wide, and flattens her palm against her lips, forcing you to tumble downward into the darkness of her mouth.  She opens her lips widely for the camera, laughing as she does so, in order to reveal you kneeling fearfully on top of her tongue, which instantly begins flapping wetly around, knocking you against her cheek.  She chuckles heartily, a few spit dribbles sloppily leaking down her chin.

                “Ow et ‘oo ‘ork!” she mouths, unable to speak clearly as she holds her lips open to keep you in full view of the camera.  “Ick the ‘ood ou ugh aye ‘eeth!”

                The camera fades into black as you pitifully begin scraping at your sister’s gunk-flecked teeth with your bare hands, with her snickering wildly the whole time, the camera jiggling as she is barely able to contain her chortling.

                The video static pops for a moment before returning to the footage of you standing on the desktop, hammering away at the mouse.

                “See that?  If you need more convincing… well, I’d say there’s plenty of physical evidence around this room, but I’m not really in a place to get to it.  Here’s the point.  Carly is not who you think she is.  She is a sick, sadistic, scheming, selfish BITCH, and she is going to KILL me soon.  I know she is.  She told me so, and after you’ve seen those pictures… and that video… do you honestly doubt that?”

                You stoop back down over the mouse pad to zoom in a final time.

                “Maybe you’re not buying this whole scenario.  Hey, I get it, I wouldn’t believe it either if someone told me they’re only a few inches tall and being held captive by their sister in a freaking sock drawer.  But nobody.  NOBODY.  Can deny that this face…” you state indignantly, leaning forward and allowing your features to be even more clearly seen, “…is the face of Jack Arton, a seventeen-year-old who died five years ago, according to the world.  And honestly, if you’re seeing this, I may be dead, or will be dead very soon.  In that case, I need you to do everything in your power to stop Carly Arton and see that she pays for what she’s done to me.  Because someone has to make her burn, and if she’s already smashed me into the concrete or eaten me or whatever, I NEED… someone… to make sure she burns… for me.”

                The video snaps to black.

End Notes:

Turning point time.  Please comment!

Chapter 24: The Fall of Carly by Jacksmith

                Not a single second passes at the conclusion of your video masterpiece before you feel the painful slamming wall of your sister’s palm flesh whacking into you with such speed you’re surprised you haven’t blacked out.  Her fingers clasp aggressively around you and begin squeezing, causing your bones and joints to pop a few times and threaten to snap simultaneously like twigs in her grasp.

                You are swooped up to Carly’s face, and you remain calm as you stare into the fuming, red-cheeked, wild-eyed stare of your sister.

                “You… stupid… little… mother… FUCKER!” she screeches, barely able to contain herself.  “You know what I’m going to do with your stupid little project?  I’m going to dump it in the recycling bin on my computer so no one will ever see it, and then I’m going to lay your precious little head against my back teeth and crunch it like a fricking gumball.”

                You watch Carly angrily clicking around onscreen, deleting the video from her computer, sending it to the recycling bin, and then removing it permanently from the computer’s memory.

                “What do you think of that… little bro?” hisses Carly, her eyes narrowed into slits.

                You laugh.  “It’s all well and good, sis.  Do what you want.  It’s already out in cyberspace.”

                The fingers tighten around you, and you can’t help but cry out in pain as you are jolted so close to Carly’s lips you feel flecks of frothy spit being ejected from her moist mouth with each word.

                “WHAT… did… you… just… say?”

                “I said it’s out in cyberspace.”

                “You mean THIS is… on the…”

                “Oh, relax, Miss Aphrodite, relax.  It’s not on the internet.  No one can see it right now.”

                “Then WHAT are you talking about?”

                “Well, it wasn’t easy.  Had to learn a lot of new things about even the programming languages I already knew…” you shrug.  “But it’s okay, I remembered enough from everything I did back in junior year to get what I needed done.”

                “You better start making sense, little bro, or I’m going to be chewing up my little gumball sooner than I thought.”

                “That video hasn’t been posted anywhere on the internet.  No one’s seen it…” you sigh.  “Yet.  Like I said, it’s out in cyberspace, just floating around.  For a while, at least.  In forty-eight hours, it’s going to go live all on its own.  Youtube.  Dailymotion.  Your Facebook account.  Your Twitter account.  It’s going out as an email attachment to every single person in your address book.  Mom, Dad, the rest of the family, all of your friends, a lot of your classmates, even a few of your teachers and former employers…”

                Carly opens her mouth again, but no sound escapes her speechless lips.  Her fingers retain their numbing grip on your nude form.

                “But it can be shut off with a password.  A password only I know.  And a password I’m ONLY going to GIVE to you…” you state slowly and clearly so your sister won’t miss a word.  “…if you get me safely back to Mom and Dad.”

                Carly’s lips continue to dangle silently open, warm air being expelled onto you slowly.

                “You’re probably trying to think of how to get out of this, so let me make it easier for you.  You might have guys on campus here who could hack into that program and shut it off, but I guarantee you that nobody here is skilled enough to do it on such short notice with so little time and no real REASON to do it, because I know you won’t explain it to them.  You can’t.  So that’s gone.  Other thing you need to think of: you have no reason to believe I won’t show this video to people once I’m safe.  Believe me, I can’t access it.  It’s either getting posted in two days or it’s never going to be seen again, I swear to God.  But you’ve got no other option than to trust me on that.  I swear on the fucking lives of my unborn children I won’t ever tell anyone about you or what you’ve done to me.”

                The silence continues from your stoic sister, so you clear your throat and go on.

                “I’m not asking you to turn yourself in.  Get me to the house, and get away.  I can come up with a story.  Science experiment gone wrong, I’ve been delirious, my memory’s blank, whatever.  I can leave you COMPLETELY out of it, but ONLY if you do this within the next two days.  Those two days go by, I’m not safely back home, and that video suddenly becomes the property of everyone in the world with internet access.”

                You pause for a few minutes, letting it sink in.  Carly’s face is frozen, it seems, in time, her eyes glazed over as the realization sinks in.  Slowly, you begin to feel the nerves take hold after you managed to put up that whole act of being one hundred percent in control of the situation.  This is the moment of truth.

                “So… what you’re telling me is, you stupid little worm,” growls your sister, barely able to spit out the words as her rage bubbles up.  “…you’re BLACKMAILING me?”

                “Um… yep!  That’s exactly what I’m doing,” you state simply, shivering with terror.  “Although I’d prefer to think of it like a business deal, sis.  So, tell me.  Do you want to make a deal?”

 

                It could be worse.  A lot worse.

                For example, you could be dead right now.  And you’re not dead.  Which, you remind yourself, should never be discounted as a plus, no matter the situation.

                Of course, there are situations where it can be difficult to consider being dead much worse of an option, but so steady is your resolve thus far, you’ve decided to will yourself into believing that things could be much, much worse.

                Granted, things could be a lot better, too.  A hell of a lot better.

                You struggle violently, shaking your limbs as hard as you can to loosen the tape binding you firmly to the carpeted floor of the dorm room in a snow angel position, but it’s duct tape, and the glue is holding fast.  You gulp, staring upward at Carly, who seems even taller than usual as she stares down at you, pinned helplessly to the ground by the silver tape, her hands on her hips.  Her droll, condescending face seems so far away it’s almost inconceivable to you that the entire skyscraper-sized, athletic body towering before you is being controlled by the same consciousness, and yet the slight shifting of one of her tanned, toned legs reminds you firmly of this fact.

                “So, you think you’re smart, huh?” she coos down at you sarcastically.

                All you can muster is one defiant nod.

                “I seem to remember you trying something like this before… but… but when was it?” she ponders goofily, tapping at her chin.  Slowly, she begins to pace, walking in a circle around your position in the very center of the dorm room.  “Oh, THAT’S right.  All… that… time ago, when you were just… a little bit bigger, and you were so much more annoying.  You tried to blackmail me then, too.  And remember how that ended?”

                You nod again.

                “I made you my little bitch, didn’t I?” she hisses, raising a leg in the air above you and lowering a pointed toe down toward your body.  “And I made sure you learned it, then and there: you don’t screw with me, and I don’t have to punish you.  Scratch my back, I scratch yours.  It’s all even.  But you… you just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?”

                Gently, she taps her cold big toe against your stomach before retracting her whole foot and planting it hard on the carpet.  She slams it down in a position such that her big toe rests just between your legs, a millimeter or so away from your crotch.  It sends a chill down your arms to see the massive, juicy, powerful digit so close to so vulnerable a position, and you can’t help but flinch.

                “You just had to have more.  Had to show me that you haven’t appreciated everything I’ve done for you.  I mean… Jesus, look at the kind of life I’ve given you!” she accuses.

                Normally you’d roll your eyes at this, but you’re far too nervous with Carly’s toe so close to your genitals to follow through.

                “I give you a warm place to sleep in my socks.  I give you food to eat.  I give you baths like a little baby.  I play with you everyday.  Hell, I even…” she giggles, flexing her toe forward and tapping your crotch with a tender touch.  “…make sure all of you is satisfied.”

                You gulp, feeling the familiar tingling in your dick.

                “And what do I ask in return?  NOTHING.  Nothing at all.  All you have to do is show me a little bit of respect and don’t disagree with me when I decide something is best for you.  And maybe, just… from time to time… worship me a little.”

                Gently, her toe creeps up your leg again, stroking it, until finally the tip of her big toe lays itself heavily on top of your crotch, burying your poor dick under the cool, wrinkled flesh.  Slowly, then, she begins kneading at it, flexing and unflexing her toe with the slightest of motions that almost instantly causes you to painfully react in your groin: the warm, guilty sensation shooting into your limbs, and you powerless to stop the sensuous onslaught.

                “See?” she whispers quietly as you begin to convulse under the seductive stroking of her big toe.  “Life with me isn’t all that bad, now is it, little bro?”

                You shake your head no instinctively, getting lost in the trance again.

                “Go on.  Tell me who’s your goddess.”

                “Y-Y-You a-are…” you shiver, feeling the effects of her long, dexterous toe’s rubbing becoming more intense.  She presses down with it just enough to get a reaction, causing you to gasp and feel the tingling increase wildly.

                “Who’s your goddess, my little toy?”

                “Aphrod-d-dite…” you wheeze, trembling.  Just before you reach climax, your sister’s toe abruptly retracts from your body, leaving you breathing heavily and shaking, still taped firmly to the carpet.

                “Good boy.  Remember that.  Now.  Let’s try this again, okay?  I know you love me.  I know you love how I make you feel.  Down there on the ground where I can do anything to you.  You’re a little masochist, I just know it.  And it’s okay… I understand you.  And I’m willing to feed your gross little desires, Jackie.  I’m even willing to forgive everything you’ve done in the last few days.  I’ll let you come crawling back on your hands and knees and kiss the ground I walk on to show me how sorry you are.”

                At this request, you are snapped out of the momentary mental lock and reminded painfully of your desperate mission.  Frowning, you try to summon enough raw courage to speak and manage to spit out the words loud enough for Carly to hear: “NO!  SCREW YOU!”

                Carly shakes her head disapprovingly.  “This is a bad time to try and grow some balls, little bro.  If you aren’t ready to try and apologize, don’t forget I could also just stomp your stupid little face so hard it leaves a permanent stain on the carpet!” she thunders, her voice rising suddenly, as her foot rises up, this time crossing over you and shrouding you in shadow.  You let out a weak gasp as the endless plain of her soft, pale sole lowers itself fully onto you, sliding a few thick foot wrinkles along your chest.

                The suffocating sensation of having your little sister’s doughy, slick sea of a sole coldly caressing your entire body lasts for only a moment before there’s a knock at the door.  Planting her foot back on the carpet with an irritated stomp and turning around in annoyance toward the door, Carly grabs a pair of running shorts off the bed and tosses them down toward you like an unfolding parachute, burying you in the fabric of her shorts on the carpet and concealing you from view.

                You can’t see a thing from under the darkness, but luckily, these are airy shorts with thin fabric, and you can hear everything going on above and through the wall of colored cotton.

                “Carly?  Hi, hon, I’m sorry it’s so late,” says a voice sweetly.  At first, your heart skips a beat, thinking it’s your mother, until you process it for a moment.  It’s the voice of a woman in her forties, to be sure, but it’s not your mother.  It’s her sister, Selina, Sophie’s mother.

                “Hi, Aunt Selina.  It’s totally fine, I just got back anyway.  How are you?” replies Carly in the same sugary-sweet voice she uses to charm the pants off of just about anyone she talks to.

                “Oh, I’m just fine, but listen, could I talk to you… for a minute?” she asks, sounding concerned.

                “Of course!  Come in, come in…”

                “Sophie, can you wait out here for a minute?” asks Selina before the dorm room door closes with a loud slam.  Butterflies are set loose in your stomach.  Sophie is here!  And so close, just outside the door…

                “The reason I came here is… well, I’m sorry, I hate to do this, but… it’s Sophie…”

                “What is it?  Is she okay?” asks Carly worriedly.

                “It’s just that… I guess she’s going through some kind of a phase, and I know… I know you don’t like talking about your… brother.”

                “It’s fine, Aunt Selina.  What’s the problem?”

                “She… took it pretty hard, as you know, and now, she seems to be re-entering that place in her mind.  She… well, there’s no easy way to say it, and we’re taking her to see a therapist soon to talk about it, but she’s been… hallucinating.”

                “Hallucinating?  Like how?”

                “She thinks… she saw your brother.”

                There’s silence for a moment.  You can almost picture a flash of a flustered wide-eyed stare on Carly’s face before she recomposes herself, adjusting to the emergency situation.

                “Saw… Jack?  She thinks she saw Jack?”

                “Well… not exactly.  I’m sorry, it’s hard to explain, but…”

                “Try, Aunt Selina.  It’s fine.  I know it’s hard.”

                “She thinks she saw him, alive and well, but… well… she thinks he was much… smaller.  As if he had… shrunk, or… something like that.  I know, I know, it’s crazy sounding and whatnot, but…”

                “I totally get it, Aunt Selina.  I went through something like that five years ago when it happened.  Do you want me to talk to her?”

                “Would you?  I know it must be painful to have to think about…”

                “I’ll survive, Aunt Selina, really.  I just want to help Sophie,” says Carly assuredly.  “Could I talk to her alone in here?”

                “Of course, let me just get her,” answers your aunt.  You hear the creak of the door again.  “Sophie?  C’mon in.  I’ll wait outside for whenever you’re done, okay?”  The door closes again.

                There’s an uncomfortable silence for a moment.

                “So… what’s up, babe?” asks Carly nonchalantly.  “What can I do for you?  I don’t want you to feel bad about Jack or anything, so if you need to talk about something, I can…”

                “Where do you have him?” comes the forceful whisper of Sophie, cutting Carly off.  There’s a surprised pause.

                “I’m… sorry?” queries Carly, sounding bewildered.

                “Don’t act stupid, Carly.  I know about him.  I know what you did to him.  I know about… ALL of it!”          

                “All of what, Sophie?  You’re sounding a little off right now, I gotta admit.”

                “You can lie all you want.  And I know I can’t prove it.  But I know you have your poor little brother hidden somewhere.  Or… or…” she sputters.  “…or maybe you don’t have him hidden anymore.  I don’t know.  Maybe you… did something to him and I’m too late,” she whimpers, nearly ready to cry.  “But I’ll tell you something.  He’s not just some… some… animal you can keep cooped up like in a zoo.  He’s a person.  He’s got FEELINGS, and he’s AFRAID of you!  But… but I’M not afraid of you!”

                “Hmm… you’re not, huh?” whispers Carly, dropping her voice down so Selina can’t hear through the door.  “Maybe you should be…”

                “W-What?”

                There’s another awkward silence.  “I’m just messing with you girl.  But seriously, I think your mom’s right.  You need to go have a nice chat with someone who can help you, I think you’ll feel a lot better afterward.”

                “Sophie!” comes the concerned interjection of Selina, opening the door again. “Were you shouting?  What do you think you’re doing?”

                “I was… I w-was…” stutters Sophie.

                “We were just finishing up, Aunt Selina.  She’ll be fine.  I know her.  She’s a strong girl, aren’t you, Sophie?  All of us lady cousins are like that: we know how to keep it real.”

                “Thanks so much for talking to her, Carly, I’m sure it meant a lot.  Sophie’s just… stressed, and…”

                “No need to thank me, Aunt Selina, that’s what family’s for.  Love ya, Sophie, get better!”

                “But… but…” cries out Sophie, jostled about as her mother pulls her toward the door.

                “I’ll be in touch,” laughs Selina uncomfortably, embarrassed for her daughter’s seemingly random outburst, closing the door behind the pair of them.

                You have another moment of solitude before Carly is whipping the shorts off of you, allowing the light of the room to flow back over you.

                “So… you DID met someone else, huh?”

                “Carly, I swear… she doesn’t know enough to bring any of this back to you.”

                “You better hope so.  And anyway, it doesn’t matter.  In less than two days I’m going to have you begging to give me that password so you can live here with me, forever, under my feet where you belong.  Now: give me a kiss good night!” she orders firmly and sweetly, lowering her pinky toe just over your face.  Grimacing, you lean upwards and plant a light smooch on the sweat-soured skin.  Satisfied, Carly pulls back and drops the pair of shorts back on top of you, leaving you in your miserable new bed.

 

                You open your eyes to the sight of light streaming in the window of the dorm, the shorts no longer draped over your body.  You yawn, realizing how tired you must have been, then shiver as the cold of the room’s draft breezes over your naked body still taped to the carpet.  You look behind you and, shivering, realize Carly has been standing behind you the whole time like a statue, observing you while you slept peacefully down below.

                “Awake, little bro?  Ready for the day?”

                You nod weakly.

                “That’s good.  Because today is going to be… a lot of fun.  I know for sure.  Know why?”

                “Why?” you croak.

                “Because we’re having a visitor.  An old friend of ours, actually.”

                You wrack your brain, attempting to think of a single person both you and your sister are friends with, but come up with nothing.  Puzzled, you stare back up at your sister’s face.  She snickers before stooping down to the ground and, grasping at the tape edges, unsticks you from the ground and raises you up in her open palm.

                “Still don’t get it, huh?  That’s okay.  You’ll find out in a min-” she begins, but is cut off by the knocking on the door.  “Oooh, there we go!  Company’s here!  All right, little bro, try to contain your excitement for a few more minutes,” she coos, depositing you into her pants pocket.  You tumble down, becoming tangled up in the thick bonds of the tape as you hear the door opening.

                “Hey!” screeches Carly with girlish excitement.

                “Well, hey!  Long time no see, huh, lady?  God, I missed you…” comes the voice, low and almost femininely husky.  “It feels like it’s been ages since high school basketball…”

                “Oh, you know it, girl!” laughs Carly.  “C’mon in!”

                “Thanks.  So, what’ve we got planned for the day?” comes the cheerful, confident reply of the voice, and suddenly, you get it, and your brain seems to die a little as you recognize the voice with perfect clarity.

                It’s Jenny.

End Notes:

Comment!

Chapter 25: Jenny by Jacksmith
Author's Notes:

A much-requested character makes her return.

                “Well?” laughs Jenny expectantly to your sister, blissfully unaware of you sitting discontentedly in Carly’s pocket.  “I’m here!  You gonna show me around or something?  C’mon, what are we doing?”

                “Oh, I don’t know…” drawls Carly playfully.  “I have a few ideas.”

                “A few, huh?  What’s on your mind?”

                “Well… it’s hard to explain, I guess.”

                “Try me,” chuckles Jenny. 

                “You might want to sit down, Jens,” suggests Carly slowly and calmly.  You’re not sure you like the tone of Carly’s voice right now.  She’s clearly planning something, and you have a feeling it isn’t good for you or your wellbeing.

                “Carly, I’m a big girl.  I can take it.  What’s up?”

                “You’re sure?”

                “You’re seriously starting to get me curious now.  C’mon, fess up.  What’ve you got up your sleeve?”

                “A… little surprise, I guess you could say.”

                Jenny giggles.  “Well, I love surprises.  Lay it on me.”

                “Okay.  You’re really ready?”

                “Oh my God Carly, I’m gonna bust if you don’t tell me whatever this thing is right now.”

                “You have to swear to not let what you hear or see leave this room.”

                “Sure.  Okay.  I swear.  Now tell!”

                “All right,” shrugs Carly, and suddenly you feel the fabric of her pocket being forced apart as her probing fingers fish down into the darkness for you.

                Fuck.

                Carly’s warm fingers curl completely around you, trapping you in a ball against her clammy palm as she lifts you out in her fist.  The sounds are muffled through your sister’s skin, but you can still make out the conversation.

                “Woah, woah, woah…  What’ve you got in there, Carly?” asks Jenny slyly.

                “Something… pretty special.  Something I’ve kept a secret for a long time now.  But… I’m trusting you now to help me keep it.”

                “Jesus… Carly, what is all this?” asks the confused Jenny, sounding slightly concerned by all of the fanfare being made over the mysterious object in Carly’s massive fist.  You squirm a little in the claustrophobic sweat box of your little sister’s fingers, praying Carly will change her mind and put you stealthily back in her pocket, but you have a feeling it’s already too late.

                “It’s Jack,” says Carly simply, opening her fingers and allowing you to spread out awkwardly in her open palm.

                You stare up at the dumbfounded face of Jenny, and almost go into shock.  The girl had always been tall.  In the 8th grade, she was just shy of six feet tall, but the five years since you’ve seen her have transformed her into a fully developed, athletically curvaceous, glowing amazon of a woman.  You’d guess she peaks at six foot three, and as such, to you she’s a tower of tremendous, muscular, tanned woman.  A cataclysmic monument of unfathomable power.  Her long, dark hair hangs sleekly over her shoulders, draped as well by a fuzzy blue winter coat and a white sweater.  A simple pair of faded jeans completes the immense hulk of femininity down to the ground.

                Jenny’s jaw hangs wide open, her brown eyes crackling with curiously sparkling fire as her brain tries unsuccessfully to process the sight before her.  Quivering, her hand rises into view, reaching toward you.  For a moment, you curl up against your sister’s palm (as if you would receive protection there), shivering at the thought of being snatched up into that foreign hand, but she stops, her fingers outstretched toward you longingly.

                “C-Carly…” gasps Jenny.

                “I know.  It’s weird.  Just… try to believe it.  I know it’s hard.”

                “I… I… what the f…”

                “Yeah.  I know.  He’s not dead.  He was never dead.  He just got… smaller.”

                “H-H-HOW?” blurts Jenny, clasping a hand over her mouth, her pupils bulging.

                “I don’t know, and I don’t think he does either.  He just kind of… did, five years ago, at our house.  When it was just us.  Back when he was being a humongous jerk and making me do all his chores and stuff…”

                “God…” whispers Jenny, calming herself, hardly hearing a word her friend says as her eyes remained glossed over and focused single-mindedly on studying you in wonder.  “And… and you just…”

                “Took him.  Couldn’t let him get hurt, could I?  I mean, what was I supposed to do?  Just leave him there?  I don’t think so.”

                “Right… yeah, gotcha…” gasps Jenny, still not listening very closely as she finally retracts her hovering hand away from you.

                “After what happened to him, I knew I wouldn’t get another chance, so I took it.  Mom and Dad wouldn’t understand, though, so I had to keep him hidden.  And I’ve been taking care of him ever since.”

                There’s a moment of stunned silence.  Jenny takes a hesitant step backwards.

                “Say something, Jens,” begs Carly.  “Tell me this is safe with you.  Tell me you won’t tell anyone about him.”

                At long last, the reality seems to come crashing back into Jenny’s consciousness.  The color begins returning to her face, the quivering slowly stops, and her pupils shrink back to normal size.  Clutching uncomfortably at her stomach, Jenny takes a step closer, then holds out a steady hand, palm up, fingers outstretched.  Once again, you begin to remember the terrifying visage of the over-confident, domineering girl from five years ago, whom you met by having her sit her fit, athletic shorts-clad ass on your face as part of a prank your sister constructed.  Already, you can imagine just how much more fully she’s developed into this smug and overbearing role at the age of nineteen.

                “Can I hold him?” requests Jenny simply.

                “Of course you can,” smiles Carly, moving you closer to her friend’s waiting palm.  Shaking your head no pleadingly up at your sister, all you get in return in a disapproving frown and the fleshy ground below you slipping out as Carly tips you directly into Jenny’s waiting hand.

                You haven’t felt this vulnerable in years.  You stare up into Jenny’s face, then watch apprehensively as her other hand approaches, her pointer finger outstretched.  It jabs firmly at your side, causing you to wince.  Jenny blinks, astounded at this confirmation that you are, in fact, a living creature and not a figment of her imagination.

                “So… he’s just been here the whole time?” asks Jenny disbelievingly.

                “Yep.”

                “With you?”

                “That’s right.”

                “Like… just having a camp-out or something in your dorm room?”

                “I prefer to think of him as my pet instead of a camper, but sure.”

                “God…” laughs Jenny slowly, drinking it all in.  “He’s… pretty bare, isn’t he?”

                “What, do you put clothes on your pets?” snorts Carly, amused at the very idea.

                “Geez.  You’re not kidding about any of this, are you?” remarks Jenny as she turns her hand, getting a view of your every angle.  She smirks.  “Hey, little Jaaaack…” she sings.  “I can see your puny little rod.  Barely, but I can see it.”

                “Jenny, that’s always the first thing on your mind.  Good God.”

                “WHAT?  He’s naked, of course it’s the first thing on my…”

                “Well, sure, but he’s like two inches tall!  What could you possibly do with… with THAT?”

                “Oh, I’m sure all kinds of things…” giggles Jenny, moving you closer to her face.  “What do you think, little guy?  Could you take a girl like me?”

                “Jenny, don’t be gross.  God.”

                “What?  I was just asking him.  I mean… I’m betting he doesn’t get a lot of action around here, does he?” says Jenny, winking at you.  “I’ll bet that messes with your mind, huh, Jack?  All these hot singles mingling around this dorm, and you can’t fuck a single one of them, can you?”

                “Oh, you’d be surprised.  That little mind of his is… pretty twisted, I gotta tell you.”

                Jenny raises an eyebrow at you, as if this is all your fault.  “Oh?  Is that so, little dude?”

                “I’m not kidding,” laughs Carly ironically.  “The kinds of things that get him off… I swear.  He’s almost too easy, you know?”

                At this, Jenny wrinkles her nose a bit, looking up at Carly in disgust.  “Are you telling me you sexed him up a little?  For real?”

                “Yeah, why not?”

                “Isn’t that just a little bit… I don’t know… um, off?” mumbles Jenny, slightly embarrassed.

                “Oh, relax, it’s not what you’re thinking.  Believe me, I hardly have to do anything.  It’s all him doing the work.  It’s a good thing I took him when I did, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had turned out to be a pedophile if he’d stayed a normal person.”

                Silently cursing your sister’s name as she trashes you aimlessly and falsely to her friend, you quiver uncomfortably, feeling Jenny’s soft skin under your naked ass.  Somehow, you feel more exposed than normal, possibly because you’re being more or less felt up by someone entirely different for the first time in five years: a friend of your sister’s, no less, and it’s downright freshly humiliating to be manhandled by this arrogant and athletic amazon of a college freshman.

                “So… lil’ Jack…” coos Jenny with false sweetness in an overly exaggerated baby voice, lowering her chin back down toward her hand to get a better view of you.  “Word around here is that you’re quite the lady’s man.  Or… at least, you think you are.”

                “Oh believe me, Jens, he thinks he’s all that and more.  I’m pretty embarrassed for him, honestly.  Guy’s small enough to fit in my purse but still thinks he’s got a shot at making some sort of impression.”

                “Will he let you… play with him a little?” asks Jenny slyly.

                Carly looks down at you, then nods knowingly, winking.  “I’m sure he’d get a real kick out of that.  Wouldn’t you, little bro?”

                “Carly,” you state dryly, clambering into a sitting position in Jenny’s palm so you can look up at your sister’s face.  “Are you forgetting something?  Our deal?”

                Jenny chuckles, the tender flesh of her palm vibrating gently against you as she does so.  “Is he kidding, Carly?  You actually have some kind of deal?”

                “Long story, I’ll tell you later,” states Carly simply to her friend before turning down a condescending glance to you.  “Nobody’s agreed to anything yet.  Got that straight, little bro?” poses Carly slowly.  “Don’t worry.  You’re not going to get hurt.  I promise.  I know what’s at stake.  Instead, I’m going to show you why this is so much better than what you’ll have to go back to.”

                “Carly…” you growl.

                “Go ahead, Jenny,” giggles Carly, interrupting you.  “Play with him.”

                “Really?  Like, anything?”

                “Well… don’t go crazy.  I don’t want you to kill him.  I’ve only got one of him, after all, and he’s got to last me a long time,” points out your sister.
                “Whatcha say, lil’ dickens?” coos Jenny, suggestively stroking a pointer finger along your toned arms and chest.  “You seem like a tough little guy for someone your size.  What do you say we have some fun?  Hmmm?”

                “L-L-Like what?” you gulp.

                “Wanna see how I get my twerk on?” she whispers coyly.

                “Oh, God Jenny, NO.  You’re not putting him anywhere near that ass of yours!” blurts Carly disgustedly.

                “Awww… c’mon, Carly, have a heart.  The little guy’s been deprived for so long.”

                “You heard me, he’s not going near your ass.”

                “Give me ONE good reason why not!”

                “Well, for one, I… sort of… stick him in my mouth sometimes,” drawls Carly, causing Jenny’s eyes to bug with delight.  “Relax, I don’t eat him or anything obviously.  I just have to sometimes to remind him who’s boss around here.  It’s like… time-out, or something.”

                “No kidding,” guffaws Jenny, shaking her head in disbelief.  “I guess… you do look pretty good, mini man.  It might feel nice to have a little dude in there… polishing my teeth… tickling my cheeks… making out with me using his whole body,” whispers Jenny excitedly.  “God, Carly, why did you never show this guy to me BEFORE?”

                “Oh, just shut up, girl, and stick him in that skanky mouth of yours,” laughs Carly sarcastically.

                “I was already going to in about five seconds, I can hardly stand looking at him anymore without feeling him in there…” hums Jenny, opening her jaws wide and moving her hand closer to it.  You clamber further across her fingers, but realize rather painfully for this particular moment, you just need to wait it out and avoid injury.  Pressing you uncomfortably against her lips with her fingers, you fight to push yourself up, but find it becoming pointless as her palm slams into your butt, sending you tumbling forward into the damp, musty darkness of her mouth.

                “Suck on him, Jens.  Hard as you can.  He can take it,” chuckles Carly as Jenny’s lips close back up again, taking the last of the light and fresh oxygen away and plunging you fully into stale, mushy, slobbery blackness.

                You find none of the playfulness and coy teasing you normally receive from Carly in her own mouth.  Jenny means business.  Almost instantly, her slimy tongue is rolling itself under your stomach and slamming you against the dank roof of her mouth.  You struggle to avoid having a limb pinned under your back, squirming against the wet, rippling, bubbling muscle mass of her tongue, and as usual find it impossible to have the slightest effect on the slimy pink monster’s movements.  If anything, Jenny’s tongue is even more fibrous and tough than Carly’s, ensuring you not only can’t win the saliva-drenched wrestling match with it, but you can’t even begin to compete.  You get the impression Jenny is trying to get a feel for your mobile abilities, or lack thereof, while in the hellishly twisted playground of her mouth, and as her tongue releases its writhing, grungy grip on you, allowing you to splash into a dense puddle of frothy, odorous drool at the base of her jowls, you feel her waste no more time in caving in her slippery cheeks around you.  Almost immediately her entire mouth begins undulating in and out, her soggy tongue tightening with each pump, tubing around your fragile body and caressing it wondrously.

                Jenny seems to be taking Carly’s advice to suck on you, and from the increasing power of each foul, soppy hug of her cheeks and tongue, you can tell she’s bumping up the intensity quickly.  Within moments, she’s got a firm pattern going, squeezing her cheeks and tongue all the way back in with each pounding thrash of her slobber-plastered mouth.  You wince painfully as a particularly tremendous squirm of her tongue forces your face to dunk down into the gooey no man’s land underneath her tongue, nearly drowning you in a well of hot, plaque-spiced spit.

                Just when you think you might scream out from the unbearable claustrophobia and raw soreness settling in as your younger sister’s best friend continues suckling at your body, obediently tubed into her tongue like a Jolly Rancher, with reckless abandon, light comes flooding back into the slaver-dripping cave of a mouth.  Jenny’s lips part slowly, loose, crystalline dribbles of spit dangling precariously from her teeth as you are sloshed messily toward the light.  You come flying out of the darkness, froth clinging and drying gummily onto your skin, and land with a soft plop back in Jenny’s cool palm.

                “Holy shit…” breathes Jenny dreamily as you absentmindedly cough up some loose dregs of her spit that you accidentally swallowed during the onslaught.  “That was fucking incredible.”

                “Thought you’d like him,” laughs Carly knowingly.  “Go on.  Give him another try.”

                “Whatcha say, Jack?  Wanna try something new?” pleads Jenny childishly.

                “Not really,” you answer simply.

                “Nothing at all?  Hey, how about this.  If you purr for me, I’ll lick your little dick for you.  Wouldn’t that feel nice?  I mean, c’mon, I know you’ve gotta at least be thinking about that a little bit after what we just did.”

                “No,” you answer curtly, trying to hold it together, swiping a glob of Jenny’s saliva out of your hair.

                “You know, I’m sure if we were in normal circumstances, buddy, that kind of answer would fly.  Unfortunately, you’re tiny enough that I could totally swallow you like a gummy worm if I felt like it, and since I don’t think you’re going anywhere unless I decide to put you down, which I’m not, I’m the one in charge here,” she whispers spitefully to you, curling her firm fingers around your naked body, clearly well over any embarrassment she first felt at seeing so much of you on display.

                You groan painfully, defeated for the moment.  Somehow, you’re getting the distinct impression that this day is about to feel really, really long.

 

 

                The afternoon and evening have dragged on even more slowly than you initially anticipated.  Not even bothering to try and recount the innumerable games you were subjected to today at the colossal hands of both your sister and her twisted best friend, you close your eyes, focusing instead on your breathing.  At this moment, concentrating on something purposefully is your best defense against going stir crazy as you hang limply by your legs from the top of Jenny’s stylish strapped snow boots, your ankles looped tautly with the cold fabric of the laces.  Every once in a while, the gargantuan young woman’s leg shifts a bit across the floor, bumping you against the freezing rubber of the boot, but for the most part, you’re being left alone finally.

                Carly and Jenny seem to have resorted to catching each other up on the massive quantities of gossip they’ve missed since their last meeting, and at this point seem content to leave you literally hanging near the floor and out of sight, which is definitely favorable in your book.  After having spent the better part of a day learning exactly what it’s like to have Jenny’s attention focused squarely on you, you’re quite confident you’d settle for being turned into her makeshift boot ornament any day over the awful alternative.

                “God… I… I just still can’t get my head wrapped around all of this…” sputters Jenny, still in ecstasy over the fun she’s had with you all day.

                “I know.  It’s hard to figure out, but believe me, once you get it all together, you can be so much more effective.”

                “Effective?”

                “Right.  You know, at getting a message across.  Jack has to realize he’s not my brother anymore.  He’s more like a hamster, or a gerbil now.  You know?” explains Carly calmly.

                “Yeah, yeah, definitely, I get it.  It’s just… well…”

                “What?”

                “I don’t know how you keep it under control.  I mean, damn, if I had something like him?  All to myself?  I swear, I’d be in this room all the fucking time just playing with him.  Seriously.”

                “It’s… hard sometimes,” chuckles Carly with a smirk.  “But I have a life, too, and I have to make sure I’m out there enough so no one thinks I’m turning into some creeper who just camps in her room all the time.”

                “What about your friends around here?  How haven’t they…”

                “I just cut if off when it needs to end.  All I really want to do is come back here and… be with him.”

                “You mean screw with his little brain, right?” giggles Jenny.

                “Right,” answers your sister smartly.

                “How are you even supposed to get a steady boyfriend when you have to live like this, though?”

                At this, Carly cackles aloud.  “Are you kidding me?  Seriously, why the hell would I want a boyfriend when I’ve already got him?  It’s like all the fun of having a boyfriend without having to serve his stupid whims all the time.  I don’t have to worry about saying the right thing or looking hot or whatever, I can feel loved 24/7, and when I’m ready to be done with him, I put him in my sock drawer and he shuts up.  And that’s that.”

                “God.  You’re right,” laughs Jenny appreciably.  “I need one too.”

                “Yeah, well, hands off.  Jack’s mine, and he’s staying that way ‘til he dies,” says your sister sternly.  “I wouldn’t give him up for all the money in the world.”

                “No shit,” snorts Jenny, agreeing.  “Well, it’s starting to get late, so I guess I better head over to the hotel for the night.  Call you in the morning, maybe we can go grab coffee?”

                “Yeah, that sounds fine,” Carly muses.  Slowly, the pair of titantic college freshmen rise from their seats.  You are jostled roughly against Jenny’s boot, and you can hear the slight squeak of black leathery ripples inside the shoe.

                “Looks like I’ve still got a passenger,” laughs Jenny, and both girls stare down at you, biting their lips and widening their eyes with mixed pity and amusement.  “Want me to untie him now?”

                You stare up angrily at Carly’s face so far above you.  You observe as she pokes playfully at her lips with a pointer finger, as if chewing something over in her mind.  Finally, exhaling slowly, she opens her mouth.

                “No.”

                You’re pretty sure your heart just gave out.

                “What?” gasps Jenny, dumbfounded.  “You mean…”

                “That’s exactly what I mean.  I’ll see you in the morning, right?”

                “Well, yeah, but I mean…” mumbles Jenny.  “You’re sure that…”

                “I’m sure you’ll take GREAT care of my baby brother, Jens.  Really.  Just remember not to kill him, like I said,” she winks down at you, clearly enjoying your horrified reaction.  “Might want to hide him a little better than that, though, when you leave.  If he doesn’t get slammed in a car door or something, he’s liable to be seen by one of the other girls in the hall.”

                “Like how?”

                “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back,” reassures Carly, dropping down to her haunches and grasping you roughly in her fingertips to pick at the knots binding your ankles.  You squirm in your sister’s overbearing grip, fighting for a good look at her face.

                “Carly…” you hiss.  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?  Did you forget what I said?  I’m serious about all of this, if you don’t end all this fucking craziness right now I’ll make sure you never see the light of day again.”

                “Relax, little bro, I’ll see you in the morning, and we’ll talk then about all this.  Consider this part of your… psychological treatment.”

                “TREATMENT?”

                “That’s right.  I’m pretty sure you need it.  I mean seriously, what kind of little sicko wouldn’t want to live with me?” she questions, clearly unable to fathom such a thing.  “So, I figure one night with Jens here will make you realize how good you’ve got it with me.  And when you get back, I’ve got a feeling you’ll be begging me to put you back in MY shoe instead!”

                Smirking triumphantly at your defeated face, Carly slips you out of the knots, and without further ado, inserts you into the top of Jenny’s winter boot, allowing you to slip halfway down the rubber chasm alongside Jenny’s pant leg, surrounded by musky warmth.

                Standing back up to full height, Carly shares a smile with her friend.  “Don’t be afraid to give him a good show,” whispers your sister.  “And don’t be afraid to get a little rough, either.  He’s a big boy, he can take it… figuratively speaking, of course,” she adds quickly after seeing her friend’s bewildered expression.

                Laughing riotously, Jenny wishes Carly good night and saunters out the door of the dorm room energetically, with you literally tucked firmly in stride.

End Notes:

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Chapter 26: No Ifs, Ands, or Butts by Jacksmith

                Your heart is pounding wildly in your chest as the steady shuffling of Jenny’s winter boots finally comes to an end, the rough jostling of your body against her pant leg ceasing.  Wedged into the cold, dark rubber of her boot, your world for the past twenty minutes has consisted of nothing more than the vulnerability of being pinned by Jenny’s considerable calf against the squeaky rubber of the winter boot, the frigid temperature practically icing your skin, the damp, cave-like stench emanating from Jenny’s snow-soaked socks, and the occasional sound of a closing door or a honking horn.

                Without warning, you are spun roughly around inside the boot as Jenny’s leg begins shooting upward out of the boot as she takes it off.  You are slapped uncaringly against the side of the boot by the heel of her foot, garbed in a thick, insulated sock, before plopping down to the slippery base of the winter footwear.  Gathering your bearings and rubbing at your bruised shoulders wincingly, you peer upward to the mouth of the boot far above, and see Jenny’s proud face smirking victoriously down at you as she pulls her auburn bangs out of her eyes to see you better.

                “How’s the view from in there, shrimp?” she giggles.  “Like it down there?”

                Shivering from the cold, you clamber to your feet, clasping your arms around your sides for warmth.  “No,” you answer simply.

                Jenny pouts.  “Aww… that’s too bad.  Maybe a change of scenery would make it all better for you?”

                “Jenny, listen,” you call upward.  “I don’t think you fully get what’s going on here.  Carly is…”

                “Yeah, yeah, shut up,” she interrupts quickly with a giggling snort.  “She told me all about your little plan, don’t worry.  You probably couldn’t hear her because you were having a party between my tasty lil’ titties,” she smiles, running a hand provocatively across her chest.  “And I’m sure you couldn’t be bothered with anything while you were in there.  Could you?”

                “I’m serious, Jenny.  She has until tomorrow night, and then it’s curtains for her.  And the more you associate with us, the more risk you’re going to be in.  Hell, think about it: you turn me in to my parents, tell them what happened, and you’d not only be cleared of all this, you’d be a hero!  Geez, there’d probably be a reward, or a prize of some kind!”

                “HERO, huh?  Lil’ old me?  Sounds tempting, I gotta admit…” she wheedles.  Her sarcastic and overly glowing tone of voice suggests otherwise to you, though.

                “Jenny, I’m not kidding.  THINK about it!”

                “Oh, don’t worry, I’ve given things a lot of thoughts, little guy.  And here’s the deal… I don’t really give a shit about having your parents getting all goo-goo ga-ga on me about bringing you back.  Never really liked them.  I don’t need their praise.  And besides, I’ve got all the prize I could need, right here, right now.”

                “Jenny…”

                “That’s enough small talk, I think.  Why don’t you come on out and join me?” she grins devilishly, gripping the lip of the rubbery boot with the fingers of her right hand.  You are knocked cleanly to your feet as the boot flies upward into the air, swinging gently, before being tipped directly downward.  You gasp, trying to grab uselessly at the slick walls of the smelly, damp boot before sliding down like a tube slide and out the mouth of the boot.  Your fall is fleeting, though, and an instant later you find yourself bouncing lightly on the buoyant surface of a hotel room bed.

                Staggering to your feet, you stare upward as Jenny casually tosses the boot off to the side of the room, where it smacks the wall and flops over on its side on the carpet.  Then, curling her lips almost sensuously into a pleased grin, Jenny places both gargantuan hands on her hips, looming over you like a shadowy monument.  You stare straight ahead, realizing with stomach-rending fear that you are just about level with Jenny’s knees while standing on the bed like this.  Your eyes trace upward slowly along the seams of Jenny’s jeans, practically bulging with her larger-than-average feminine quads and shapely thighs, up along the flattened, waving flag of her white winter sweater concealing rock-hard abs and those rotund, hot air balloon-sized breasts that you were forcibly made a bit cozier with earlier this afternoon.  Finally, your eyes stop at her face, which is tilted down at an angle to observe you, her luscious brunette locks hanging untangled and flowing like a silky river down her shoulders.

                Her fingers drum impatiently along her hips, and opening her mouth, Jenny lets out a deep sigh before speaking up again.

                “You wanna know something funny, little guy?” giggles Jenny.

                You shrug, still trying to mentally process the overly immense visage of this goddess.

                “I knew we were going to end up here about thirty seconds after we were re-introduced,” she smiles.  “Well, I mean, I didn’t know Carly was going to give you to me.  I actually thought I’d have to come back at night and take you.  The important part is that I knew we’d get here, together, alone, finally.  I mean, really, wasn’t all that goody-two-shoes stuff we did this afternoon just a little bit… I don’t know, boring for you?”

                Ordinarily, you’d be hard-pressed to find being jammed between a couple of firm, bulging breasts, being sucked on between someone’s cheeks, being probed over every inch of your body by a set of curious fingers, being slipped into several different pairs of winter socks, and being sneezed, coughed, and breathed on from every angle imaginable as “boring,” but considering the fact that you’re now in the solo clutches of Jenny, a girl with one of the most aggressively twisted and unabashedly creative minds you’ve yet come across, you have a very bad feeling that in relativity to whatever’s coming, these past activities were, indeed, “boring.”

                “No,” you lie as calmly as possible as your knees begin to quiver with apprehension.

                “Really?  I mean, from what Carly says about you two, you go through the same kind of stuff all the freaking time.  It’s really not starting to get even the teensiest bit stale for you?”

                Once again, you find it hard to imagine anything Carly does to you, regardless of repetition, ever being counted as anything more than horrifying and mind-numbing shock and humiliation rather than yawn-inducing routine.

                “No,” you state again, quieter this time.

                “It’s just… so hard to BELIEVE… seriously, how has Carly never, ever thought to…”

                “What?” you croak dryly, afraid to hear the answer.

                Jenny smirks coyly.  “Getting eager, are we?  All good things come to those who wait, little boy.  And hey, maybe I’ll tell you what it was I had in mind, on one condition.”

                “Jesus…” you whisper absent-mindedly to yourself.

                “You’re gonna need to do a little groveling.  A little sucking up.  A little pampering.  A little…” she coos, thinking it over.  “…a little ASS-kissing.”

                A steady stream of your piss begins trickling down onto the hotel’s dusty old bedspread as your fears get the better of you.

                “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it at all, with all that time we spent together today.  I mean, c’mon, I’m pretty sure if I was lesbo, I’d be turned on by my OWN ass!” she jokes, slapping a palm hard against her tight butt cheeks with an ear-splitting crack that makes you flinch from the volume.  “So don’t try to tell me that itsy bitsy brain of yours hasn’t already gone to work, not even a little bit.  Seriously, little guy… do you like what you see?” she whispers, turning around and leaving you to stare upward at the colossal, toned twin hills of her denim-clad cheeks.

                Objectively, you can admit to yourself that in any other situation of life, providing you weren’t less than three inches tall and instead were sitting on this bed at normal size, the sight before you would be enough to make you think you had accidentally stepped into some immaculately conceived wet dream involving Jenny’s angelically formed butt.  As it happens, though, with the shadow of Jenny’s taut ass bearing down over you, close enough that if she chose to sit down right at this moment you’d be squashed into a paste beneath the hefty weight of those two muscular cheeks, all you can do is grasp weakly at your knees in a failed attempt to get them to stop shaking in horror.

                Getting no reply from you, Jenny turns back around and begins lowering a hand toward you.  Still frozen in place, you are powerless to resist as her fingers, even longer and tougher than Carly’s, wrap possessively around your sides and lift you into the air, palming you easily in her grip.  Jenny questioningly raises an amused eyebrow at you as you are brought to a half just in front of her nose.

                “Don’t worry, you little jerk.  I’m gonna give you a break later on.  But you’re going to have to work for it.  Now get ready to pucker up,” she grins, fumbling with the button on her jeans and allowing them to slip down to the ground, leaving her only in a thin pink thong.  Flopping down on her stomach onto the bed and still gripping you in front of her face with one hand, her other descends down to her waistline and begins tugging.  You can’t see what’s going on, but from the jostling motions and the triumphant, anticipatory insolence smeared over Jenny’s admittedly gorgeous and tremendous face, you have a sinking feeling that she’s about to be missing a rather vital piece of undergarment.

                Your suspicions are confirmed as Jenny brings her hand up, waving the thong giddily over her head before tossing it onto the floor at the base of the bed.  Winking and making an obnoxious clicking noise with her tongue against the roof of her mouth, Jenny raises you up and gently sets you down on top of her head in a silky nest of her hair.

                “You’ve got a double date with my cheeks, little guy.  Don’t keep them waiting, or they might get… impatient,” she chuckles, resting her head on top of her hands and waiting.  “You’ve got thirty seconds to get down there before things have to get messier.”

                You waste no time in sliding down the soft slope of Jenny’s hair and onto her shoulder blades.  Clambering up, you trek quickly across the cushy, woolen surface of her white sweater until you finally cross the threshold of her hips, and find yourself face to face with none other than the towering, tight naked butt of Jenny, the two creamy, firm hills of smoothness only interrupted by the sloped valley of the dark doom contained within the curve of her loping crack.

                “Pick one, Jack.  Whichever one you like better,” Jenny snorts girlishly, her skin vibrating beneath your feet as she chortles.

                Shrugging dejectedly, you begin the uncomfortable slight incline up Jenny’s right cheek.  Her skin is cold beneath your feet from the walk out in the winter, but still jiggles slightly with each of your miniscule footfalls.  Each time you take a step and you feel the slightest of bulbous indents into Jenny’s skin, you feel as if you’re climbing on a rounded moonwalk.  Finally, at the peak, you come to a stop, observing the sight before you.  Your skin crawls to stare at the narrow crack dividing the two pale, fleshy hills of muscle and skin.  You can hardly fathom the suicidal horror of accidentally slipping inside that dark crevice.

                “Counting down here, little guy.  I reach five, and you’ll be spending the whole night making up for it.  Now… one… two… three…” orders your unconventional babysitter, dragging the numbers out dramatically.

                Trembling at the vague notion of whatever this paragon of feminine insanity has in mind for a night of “make-up,” you drop to your knees, placing your hands gingerly on the tender flesh of Jenny’s right butt cheek.  Your arms begin shaking harder.  You’ve certainly been violated before in your life; dozens upon dozens of times, in fact, by your own sister no less, but this is different.  This is on another plane of existence in terms of impossible molestation.

                “Four…” drawls Jenny in a higher pitched voice.  “Last chance.  If I don’t feel your lips on my ass by the time I’m done talking to you…” she warns, her words drifting off into nothing, but you’re already convinced, and with a humiliated shiver, close your eyes and pucker against the cold, soft skin, offering a passionate peck to your little sister’s best friend’s godlike butt.

                “Harder.  It barely feels like a raindrop fell on me.  C’mon, put your heart into it.  I know you’ve been thinking about it, so why hold back?  This is your chance, you little perv.”

                Not really knowing how to interpret Jenny’s mixed messages, you try to quell your still-quivering arms and press your face back down against Jenny’s soft skin, wanting to vomit from sheer terror and disgust at yourself.  As you continue puckering your lips wetly against Jenny’s mountainous ass cheek, laying down kiss after kiss with all the enthusiasm you can muster in order to satisfy the young woman’s apparently insatiable demands for fantastical servitude, all you can do is let your mind wander as a defense mechanism to keep yourself from collapsing in vile horror.

                The good thoughts are what you have to focus on.  There aren’t many, but they’re there, and you have to force yourself to think about them as hard as you can right now to avoid emotional collapse at this particular moment.  Frantically, you search your memories for things to put emphasis on.  Getting a good grade at school.  Shooting hoops with your friends.  Watching a movie you like.  Hugging your parents.  The feeling of safety you had when you were in the loving, warm palm of your cousin Sophie, the only person you’ve met in the last five years who hasn’t treated you like a two-and-a-half inch tall gimp.

                “That’s enough, you horny little worm.  God, I can totally see what Carly’s been talking about.  You say you don’t want it, and then you go and do something like THAT.  Jesus, I mean… what even are you, little guy?  Definitely not a person anymore, that’s for sure.  Jesus…”

                You want to break down and cry.

                “Okay, that really is enough now,” continues Jenny calmly, brushing over her prior statements as if they were nothing.  “…on that side.  Don’t want anyone getting jealous now, do we?” she giggles, and suddenly she’s reaching back with her right hand.  All you can do is cower meekly on your knees, still perched in the center of her right cheek.  Her palm descends quickly, pressing down and pancaking you against her ass firmly.  You sputter for air as you are practically molded into the vast plain of malleable flesh and kept down by the coffin of Jenny’s sadistic fingers.  Then, after a moment of simply stroking along your stomach and rubbing you from side to side against her cheek a few token times as if massaging herself, Jenny’s fingers begin sweeping you off to the left, closer to her left cheek.

                Horrified as you feel the sudden decline, you battle uselessly against the low ceiling of Jenny’s fingers as you slip into the precarious position directly on top of the college freshman’s crack, the rising curve of each cheek flanking you from each shadowy side.  Gently, Jenny’s fingers remove themselves before pinching at the skin of her cheeks and probing around at the firm flesh.  Confused at first, you watch as she digs her nails at her own skin, trying to pull her cheeks further apart a few half millimeters, and suddenly it all makes sense.

                You scream as half of your body slips down into Jenny’s crack, leaving only your upper torso and head above the surface, hugged by the cushy, enveloping power of each ass cheek.  The moist, musty environment thickly hugs your lower body and makes you even colder.  You shiver violently and uncontrollably, the tears flowing in embarrassment and fear.  You open your mouth again to begin yelling agonizingly at your tormentor, but this time no sound escapes your lips.  So great is your mixing fury and depression that all you can imagine is how desperately you want to attack Jenny, and yet there’s not a single thing you can do in any way to even come close to annoying her from this position, let alone affecting her totalitarian acts of unusual torture with pain.  You clench your fists, weeping bitterly and trembling.

                Tightening her cheeks together deliberately, you squeal in pain as Jenny’s legs swing out over the side of the bed as she stands back up.  So tight is her grip on you between her cheeks, with half your body wedged firmly into the horrifically damp and squishy entrance to her anus, you are completely unmoved as Jenny goes into a vertical position.  You stare down at the ground far below, watching the toned slope of Jenny’s calves flex as she stoops before standing back up fully.  You watch as she lifts up one foot and brings it out in front before stomping it back onto the carpet and following suit with the other leg.  Confused, you stare downward again and see the tight pink fabric of her thong working itself back up her legs, Jenny’s thumbs pinned underneath the strap and tugging.

                She’s putting her underwear back on.

                Yelling violently and fighting with all your might against the crushing embrace of Jenny’s ass, wiggling your legs around the wet environment of her dark butthole, banging your fists against the firm, vibrating surface of each taut, flush cheek, you find your efforts entirely fruitless as Jenny’s thong uncaringly finds its way over you.  The fabric instantly pins you back down slightly deeper into the apocalyptic crevasse of the nineteen-year-old’s juicy butt, making further attempts to fight the strength of her ass’s grasp on your helpless body even more useless.

                “JENNY!” you scream at the top of your lungs, tugging aimlessly at the fabric and struggling pathetically in the fleshy valley you are being slowly but surely wedged into.

                “Sup, little guy?  Enjoying the ride yet?” giggles Jenny loudly enough for you to hear.

                “LET ME OUT!  PLEASE!”

                “Oh, relax, all in good time, dickwad.  I told you I’d give you a break if you did some ass-kissing, didn’t I?”

                “God DAMN it, PLEASE!  STOP THIS!” you roar, your voice going hoarse.  “YOU CAN STOP ALL THIS INSANITY RIGHT NOW!  JUST HELP ME!  PLEASE!”

                “Let’s get this straight.  There’s no “you.”  There never really was a “you.”  There’s just me, this legendary ass of mine, and its new tenant.  I don’t really care if you like it or not, all I’m saying is, you might as well try to enjoy yourself, because you’re gonna be in there for the long haul.”

                “Holy FUCK, I’m a PERSON, JENNY, A PERSON!  HELP ME, GODDAMN IT!”

                At this, Jenny’s Olympian-sized palm slaps down against the thong on her ass with another loud smack, jostling you roughly and leaving a large bruise on your face.  You cry out in pain, unable to do anything to lessen the soreness as her cheeks vibrate effectively against your nude body.

                “Say another word and I’ll push you in.  ALL the way in.  Now, I’m going to turn out the light.  I’m going to go to bed.  And I’m going to sleep.  And you’re going to stay right where I put you, you stupid little twerp, or else there are going to be problems in the morning.  Got it?”

                Finally, allowing yourself to settle more loosely into the claustrophobic grip of Jenny’s toned cheeks and the dark, blanketing strip of pink thong cotton stretching over your entire field of view, you close your mouth.  You have nothing left to do but tremble.

                For a few more seconds you feel Jenny’s ass rumbling around you as she walks.  You hear the click of a lamp switch before feeling everything go horizontal as Jenny lays out flat on her stomach in bed, remaining motionless as she begins drifting off into a peaceful and entirely uninterrupted sleep.

                “Don’t feel bad, Jack,” whispers Jenny in a falsely reassuring voice.  “I won’t roll over on you.  And hey, I’ll even promise to get you out of there before I take a dump in the morning.  Just give me a pinch to remind me, okay?” she giggles quietly, yawning and silencing herself at long last.

                You remain awake all night crying to yourself as you remain jammed unabashedly into Jenny’s buttery, stale butt crack, wishing with some degree of seriousness that you had just jumped off the dresser to your doom back in Carly’s dorm room when you had the chance.

End Notes:

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Chapter 27: Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Freezer by Jacksmith

                You are barely conscious of anything during the morning hours as you lay despondently.  You’re vaguely aware as Jenny calmly strips down of her underwear, plucks you from your dehumanized perch jammed halfway into her gargantuan place where the sun doesn’t shine, and washes you off in the bathroom sink so that Carly will be none the wiser to the previous night’s antics once you are returned to your sister’s possession.

                You’re not even sure Jenny needs to bother with rinsing you off.  Solemnly, you vow to never breathe a single word of what took place the previous night to a single living soul.  Upon further mental examination, you realize that you’re going to be doing your best to avoid thinking about it even in the privacy of your thoughts for the foreseeable future.  The simple notion of recalling the precise sensation of being clamped into Jenny’s heinous ass crack is enough to send fresh shivers down your spine and intense nausea into the pits of your stomach.

                By the time you’ve sorted out this agreement with yourself to never speak or think of these particular anal shenanigans again and actually do your best to sort your thoughts into some kind of logical order, you realize you’re wedged upside down into Jenny’s pocket.  You’re not alone, either; the enormous young woman has decided to leave you the company of her hand, and at this moment, is idly thumbing your dick with surprising tenderness, her other fingers stroking your back as if petting a cat.  It’s not the most ideal of situations, but there’s no way in hell you’re going to complain about being massaged when you’re fully aware of how infinitely more loathsome Jenny could be making this for you.  Gently, she scrunches you up into her palm, balling you up with her fingers while continuing to tickle your crotch with her thumb.

                Ignoring the slight perspiring of Jenny’s warm palm, you close your eyes and try to lock yourself into your thoughts.  You have to focus.  The road is almost over.  You survived the previous night with your sanity somehow more or less intact.  It’s morning.  Carly has roughly twelve hours to deliver you home to avoid having her entire life destroyed by your video sending program.  Knowing your sister, she’s going to drag it out as long as possible, but you also know how important her life is to her.  How much it would pain her to lose the admiration of her family and peers.

                “She’ll break.  She has to,” you whisper under your breath, reassuring yourself.  Suddenly, a breeze whips through the cracks between Jenny’s fingers as you are lifted out of her pocket, still crumpled into her first and brought out into the light.  The single stream of sunlight is blocked out, though, as Jenny presses her lips against her fist for you to hear loud and clear.

                “You never say anything about last night, got it?” hisses Jenny threateningly.  “I ever hear a single thing.  A single… fucking… thing… from Carly about what we did, and I’ll be back.  I’ll find you and I’ll push you in so deep not even a doctor would be able to get you out.  Got it?”

                You tremble.

                “I said, got it?” she growls.  “Hit my finger if you understand me.”

                You comply, slapping a soft fleshy digit with your fist.

                “Good.  Just remember that, worm.  And don’t you dare act like a dick to your sister again.  She’s given you so much, and all you can do is be ungrateful.  Get it through your head, you little motherfucker.  She owns your tiny little ass, and there’s nothing you can do about it.  Nothing.  Got it?”

                Still shivering, you punch Jenny’s fingers again.  Seemingly satisfied with these decidedly uncomforting parting words, she moves her lips away from her fist and opens her fingers, allowing you to sprawl outward in her palm just as Carly opens the door to her dorm room.

                “Morning, Jens!” smiles Carly, staring with a wide-eyed smirk into her friend’s hand.  “God.  Did a number on him, huh?”

                “Oh, you might say that…” laughs Jenny.  “I showed him who’s boss, let’s just say that.”

                “Okay, tell me honestly.  I’m not kidding,” drawls Carly sternly.  “You didn’t… twerk him, did you?”

                Jenny scoffs heartily, waving a hand at the ridiculousness of such an idea.  “Oh, don’t freak out on me, Carly, you’re not gonna taste my ass the next time you suck your bro’s dick.  God, and you think I’ve got problems, huh?”

                “Okay, okay, let’s drop the smartass routine, you hoe, and go grab some breakfast,” giggles Carly teasingly at her best friend, giving her a sporting slap on the cheek for her snide commentary.

                “What do you want me to do with this little number?” chuckles Jenny, prodding at your limp form with a thick pointer finger.  “He’s looking a little whipped, do you think he’ll be much fun to bring along?”

                At this, Carly giving a disbelieving glance to her friend.  “Believe me, Jens, if he’s not in the mood for fun, we can make our own.  Just… put him away somewhere, before someone comes out and sees,” she whispers hastily, her eyes darting down the hallway.

                Jenny shrugs.  “Suit yourself.  Okay, little guy, down the hatch… so to speak…” she smirks, pinching you between her thumb and forefinger and releasing just above the neck of her shirt, allowing you to slip roughly down the slope of her soft skin and become wedged in her sports bra.

 

                As was the case the previous day, time drags on abnormally slowly.  For the better part of the morning, your two titanic female companions are content to leave you be tucked awkwardly between Jenny’s supple jugs.  Strictly speaking, it’s not such a bad place to be for you, as you can at least claim some level of comfort when in the soft, sensitive embrace of the two bulging hills of flesh.  What makes it worse is the anticipation.  You have a bad feeling that, even once the relative threat of Jenny is eliminated for the time being, everything is coming to a head soon.  You’re not sure what yet, but you have a feeling Carly’s not going to go down without a showy and desperate fight for your affectionate worship and ownership.  The only problem is deciphering what line of satanically demented reasoning your sister will go down when picking an ultimatum with you.

                One thing is for certain: you have to keep your mind focused on the end result.  Freedom is within your grasp.  You simply have to survive that long, physically, mentally, and emotionally.  It’s a juggling act, to be sure, but with the sweet thought of liberty so close at hand, you don’t intend to let fate stamp out your hopes for the quadrillionth time.  This time, it’s your turn to take back control of your destiny. 

                You grit your teeth determinedly.  Fight. Fight.  Fight.

                By the time Jenny’s fingers are fishing down into her bra to slip you out of your pornographic prison your resolve is so tight that you’ve locked your face into a stoic expression of stone.  By your estimation, your release is just a matter of hours away.  All you have to do is not allow your exterior to crack before then.

                Jenny deposits you into her palm and pokes at your side, rolling you over, as you glance around the darkly familiar environment of Carly’s dorm once again.  “God, I’m gonna have to come back real soon to visit, Carly.  It was sooo good to see you.”

                “Oh, really?” smiles Carly sarcastically.  “Are you sure you weren’t happier to see him instead of me?  A girl’s liable to get jealous, you know, when her little bro goes stealing all her friends like that.”

                “Don’t be ridiculous, lady, of course I’m glad to see you,” giggles Jenny, her eyes still glued to you as she continues twirling her pointer finger playfully around your limbs.  “I AM gonna miss this little sucker, though.  Try not to break him before I come back, okay?  I want there to be something left to play with, you know?”

                Carly winks.  “You know it, girl.  I’ll keep him in one piece, just for you.  Don’t take too long, though, or I might have to go ahead without you.”

                You shiver coldly in Jenny’s clammy palm as the pair of monumental nineteen-year-olds converse absentmindedly about you as if you weren’t even present to hear the uncaring comments.  Finally, with some hesitation, Jenny moves her hand closer to Carly, who reaches upward with arched fingers to pluck you back into her exclusive ownership.  You obediently remain motionless as your sister’s fingers curl around your legs and stomach, lifting you up and giving you an obsessive little squeeze of twisted affection.

                “Love ya, Carly.  Stay out of trouble, you hear?” giggles Jenny before looking right at you in your sister’s fist and raising an eyebrow subtly.  “And as for you, you little nudist,” she chuckles.  “Remember what we talked about.  I’ll see you real soon, trust me,” she winks.  Reaching in one final time, she pinches her long thumb and forefinger gently around your head.  “Kitchy-kitchy-COO!” she babbles in a faux-baby voice before puckering her lips, blowing you a dramatic, popping kiss, and exiting out into the hallway of the dorm.

                Carly closes the door softly behind her friend before looking down at you, frowning slightly.

                “So… what did you two talk about?”

                “Uh…”

                “What kinds of nice things did you chat about?  What did she say to you?” asks your sister politely, sauntering across the dorm room slowly.

                “We said that…” you begin slowly, clearing your throat.

                “Oh, cut the bull, little bro.  I mean what did she do to you?”

                “She… poked around a bit.  I don’t know…”

                “Mhmm… I’ll just bet she did,” murmurs Carly delightedly. “C’mon.  Tell me about it.  I promise I won’t do it back to you… unless it sounds really fun, that is,” giggles your sister, wriggling her fingers around you.  “In that case, I wouldn’t have a lot of choice, now would I, little bro?  Now tell me.”

                You quiver, violently reimagining the hair-curling horror of having your entire body used as Jenny’s anal instrument of amusement.  You can feel it just as clearly as if you were still wedged between her muscular cheeks.  The bulbous, fleshy feel of each rounded hill hugging you and trying to force you deeper into her crack.  The stale, fusty aroma hanging around her ass.  The moist, cold environment your lower body was being clenched into in the dark depths of the aggressive young woman’s smooth anus.  It doesn’t take long to get the tears flowing again, either, and it’s all you can do to prevent yourself from hugging your sister’s warm thumb for protection and support in your moment of emotional agony.

                Carly sniggers, entirely amused at this wordlessly depressed reaction of yours to the mere memory of the previous night.  She nods.  “Never mind, little bro.  The look on your face right now is enough for me,” she coos, her lips curling into a devilishly satisfied grin.  “Now.  Do you get it?”

                “Get what?” you sniffle, trying to work through your pathetic display of waterworks.

                “What do you mean, get what?  The reason why you’re going to give me that password and stay here with me forever, that’s what, little bro.”

                Clearing your throat and gritting your teeth, you frown up at your sister’s glowing face with every ounce of courage you can muster and bite your upper lip.  “NO.”

                Carly blinks, her smile remaining, although you know the massive details of your sister’s face well enough to read her every expression like an open book, and right now, your gargantuan sibling keeper seems surprised.  Taken aback, even.

                “No, huh?  Well, that’s okay.  I was expecting you to still not quite get it.  I’m not quite sure where you get the balls to constantly do this all the time, no matter how many chances I give you, little bro, but it doesn’t matter now,” you sister drawls, gently setting you down on the bedspread before stalking off to the other side of the room.  Stopping at her mini fridge and freezer combo, Carly stoops down, grasps at the handle, and opens the door.

                “Carly, you’re making this harder on yourself than it has to be.  You have a chance to get out of this entire thing scot-free if you take me back home now.  Do you not understand that?”

                Your sister seems to be ignoring your earnest squeaks from her bed as she begins rummaging around the freezer, humming a cheerful tune to herself as she does.  You take a few steps to the side, trying to see around your sister’s body and into the icebox to get a sense of what’s coming.  Finally, standing back at full height, you hear the clink of glass as Carly sets a bowl down on top of the fridge, followed by the pop of a thick paper carton being opened and a spoon chinking against the glass bowl.  Puzzled, you take a few steps closer to the bed just as Carly turns around and begins walking back toward the bed, gripping the bowl in both hands.  With a grin, Carly bends over and scoops you up into a free hand, holding you like a pencil and allowing your legs to dangle terrifyingly out of her loose fist.

                Looking onward, your heart begins to race.  In your sister’s other hand is a bowl of vanilla ice cream, filled nearly to the top and looking almost perfectly smooth on top.  That is, except for a tiny spoonful removed right in the center of the mass of creamy dessert.  Squinting, your skin chills as you recognize the relative size of the indent in the ice cream.

                It looks just large enough to fit your body inside.

                “Carly… what the hell are you doing?” you growl up at your sister, who still seems completely bent on ignoring your every word for the time being.  Peering over toward the bedside table, you read the digital clock.

                7:38 pm.  1 hour and 12 minutes until the video goes out.

                “What does it look like I’m doing, little bro?” questions Carly innocently.  “You’re smart.  You can probably figure out when two things go together what they make.”

                “I’m serious.  We’re running out of time, and you have to have me BACK with Mom and Dad before I give you that password, do you understand me?” you shout as authoritatively as you can muster.

                “Perfectly, little bro.  Now, you might wanna save your breath.  You’re gonna need to conserve your energy.”

                “Why?” you hiss.

                “Because it’s been a long day, I’m hungry, and I want a little ice cream.  And I think you’re going to be just the thing to sweeten it up,” she smacks, licking her lips wildly with her slimy, sinewy snake of a tongue and clacking her teeth together dramatically.  Without another word, your sister plops you, yipping, directly into the domed center of the bowl, twisting at your shoulders roughly as if you were a screw fitting into a board.  Finally, satisfied with your deeply wedged position in her ice cream, Carly lets go, staring down at you condescendingly while palming the bowl with one hand.  “But I don’t think you’re gonna go well with my dessert yet.  I think maybe you need to… chill out a little bit first,” your sister murmurs, eyeing the freezer door with a raised eyebrow, thinking quickly.

                “C-C-C-C-CARLY!” you shout as your teeth begin chattering uncontrollably.  “I’M NOT K-K-K-KIDDING!  YOUR L-L-LIFE IS OVER.  OV-V-V-VER!” you continue desperately, stumbling over the words in exasperation.  “THIS IS YOUR LAST C-C-C-CHANCE.”

                “Nope, Jackie-poo… it’s yours.  You’re going to think about all of this while you cool off a little, and maybe, when you come out, you’ll be in a better mood to talk to me,” your sister explains calmly, clearly not unnerved at all by your threats as she slowly places the bowl in the freezer with you still jammed inside.

                “CARLY, NO!” you scream a final time as your giant sibling slowly closes the door, staring in at you through the opening with a victoriously bratty smile.

                “Have some SWEET dreams in there, little bro… because I’ll probably want to lick them right off of your stupid little body once I let you out!” your sister scowls before slamming the freezer door, leaving you totally and fearfully alone in frigid, numbing, painful blackness, unable to move and unable to draw a breath without having the sensation of your lungs being punctured by icicles.

                A tear rolls down your cheek and freezes solid.

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Chapter 28: We All Scream for Ice Cream by Jacksmith

Light fills your eyes as you come to suddenly once again, the small door of the freezer slamming back open.  You groggily stare forward, seeing a vaguely peachy shape reaching forth and gripping the edge of the bowl.  You realize you, literally, must have been out cold.  Honestly, it’s probably a miracle you didn’t freeze to death inside your icy prison.  You can’t see much, but you can tell that the ice cream has solidified so hard that you can’t move a muscle, not even if you had the energy to try effectively.  The freezing seems to have formed the top of the ice cream even better into a perfectly flat plain.  It looks a little like a tiny ice rink to you.  An ice rink with you frozen directly in the center, you note grimly, as you are finally pulled back into glorious, room temperature air.

                You shiver profusely, most of your body numbed.  Your head is pounding so hard you can barely see straight, and the parts of your body you can still feel are racked with so much pain, you don’t think that even if you were capable of moving yourself, you would want to.  You look down at your shoulders and chest, the only parts still exposed above the sea of vanilla ice cream at the moment, and notice the bluish hue they’ve taken on.  You wonder how much longer you could have held out in that box.  Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been long.  The body can only take so much, even one such as yours that’s been through the wringer so many times you’ve nearly thought yourself invincible at times.  But right now, you’re not feeling too hot (literally).  Shaking uncontrollably again, you raise your head up and look at the mind-screwing image before you.

                Carly’s massive thumbs are curled into the lip of the bowl, pressing tightly against it to ensure she doesn’t drop you; the rest of her hands are, presumably, clutched underneath the freezing glass.  Her face fills your entire view, the depth of her blue eyes practically digging into you as she gazes over your frail, freezing form with an enamored zeal.  Her glossy lips have curled into a wide, all-encompassing grin, showing her glistening ivories inside her jaws, looking ready to bite a car in half if put to the test.  Her nostrils flare slightly, as if smelling the air around you.  A few of her stray hairs that she didn’t comb as well float uneasily in the air, the rest of her dirty blonde mop hanging along her shoulders.  Normally she would have been quick to fix it, generally liking her hair to look as perfect as possible, but you get the feeling she’s not particularly concerned with her physical appearance at the moment.

                Her lips compress a bit as the tip of her tongue curls out from the dark pits of that salivary cave, the pink muscle sliding along her lips like a dial, re-coating them in her spit.  She does three complete laps with it, very slowly, letting you watch it like the hands of a clock signaling your incoming doom.  Finally, she exhales deeply, and the warm air rushing out from her mouth feels so good you actually get goose bumps.

                “You know, Jack…” she says slowly, trying to savor every second of having you frozen so completely into her bowl.  “Every once in a while, it’s a good thing to reward yourself, if you’re stressed.  It helps you… unwind,” she says decisively.  “Some people like to go to the movies, or go on a trip with their girlfriends.  But me?” she says sweetly.  “I’m not a complicated girl.  All I really need is a little… treat… to satisfy myself every now and again.”  The bowl shakes, and her face comes even closer.  Now more than ever, you can see clearly her skin cells, the laugh creases around her eyes, her deep dimples as she smiles so widely at you.  That mouth of hers is so terrifyingly disarming; if you were normal sized, and just walking by Carly on the street, and she flashed those pearly whites at you like this, you honestly think it would make your day.  She could probably use that smile to charm just about anyone she wanted: she could improve a grade, get a job… maybe get a boyfriend, if that was something she was interested in.

                Or, she could always just use it to terrify the ever-loving shit out of her helpless brother by reminding him how easy it would be for her to pop him onto her tongue and swallow him like a stale gummy bear.  That works too.

                She chuckles, slowly and in a low voice.  It’s not quite cartoonish, but its definitely one of the most condescending sounds you’ve ever made her make to you.  It’s the kind of laugh you’d hear her making to a cute little baby who just poured his bottle all over himself.  Utterly beneath her.  Then her mouth opens wider, and she groans, as if trying to pick out her word choice.  For an instant, you can see her uvula dangling in the back of her throat, glistening from the rays of light bouncing around the room and off the glassy bowl.  “I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot lately, Jackie, and I don’t like that.  I don’t like it when we argue.  But since you’re my little brother…” she continues.  “And I love you so, so much… I figured it would be RUDE of me to eat in front of you.  I thought maybe I’d try to make it all… better between us.  So, why don’t we share my tasty treat together?  Like a good brother and sister should.”

                You shake harder and harder.  You can’t tell if she’s trying to use the “I’m going to eat you” scare tactic like she so often does.  That doesn’t faze you anymore; you’re about 99.9% sure she’ll never do it.  What DOES scare you, though, is the inevitable promise of pain instead of the mortal alternative.  In your weakened state, where motion is impossible, you doubt you have the strength to defend yourself against whatever she’s about to do.  And without you to defend yourself, there’s no one.  Because you don’t expect Carly to start caring about your wellbeing, beyond whether you’re alive or not, at this very moment.

                You’re in so much pounding, freezing pain, your head swimming so dizzily, you just want it to be over.  You’re willing to try anything.  You’ve got a feeling that it won’t make it go any faster, but if you can just get Carly to hear you grovel a little bit, it might help alleviate some of the fact that you’ve been (heaven forbid) trying to be the boss around here lately.  Your eyes shift to the clock beside the bed.

                8:47 pm.  Only 13 minutes left.

                You swallow hard, and go for it.

                “P-P-P-P…” you stutter, realizing how difficult it is to speak when you’re this cold as you try for the first time in a while to utter a legitimate, linguistic sound.  You feel your voice cracking and shaking, your teeth chattering so severely, you doubt coherency will be an easy task, but you’ve got to try.  You’ve just got to.  “P-P-Please, C-Carly…” you sputter.  “I-I-I’m… I-I’m… I h-h-hurt s-s-s-so m-m-much…”

                Carly’s face softens, and she tilts her head at you, seeming to have legitimate pity as she purses her lips.  “Oh… I’m sorry about that, little bro.  Where does it hurt?”

                “A-A-All o-over…”

                “All over, huh?  Why?”

                “C-C-Cold…” you stutter with the strain of speaking.

                “You’re cold?  I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make you hurt.  I just wanted to share my ice cream with you.  Don’t you want some ice cream?”

                “P-P-P…”

                “I’ll take that as a no,” says Carly snidely.  “That’s fine.  If you don’t want any, well… let’s just say I feel like I’ve got a really big appetite right now.  In fact, I’ll bet it’s big enough for you too,” she says ironically, and in the moment of silence, you hear a deep, snaking, rumbling growl.  Carly’s stomach, echoing up to you off the walls of the bowl.  “Hear that?” she asks coyly, clearly pleased with herself.  All you can do is shudder.  In response to the trauma, your eyes begin to tear up severely again.  Carly squints at you, trying to gauge your reaction.  Your lip quivers as the water streaks across your cheeks, making you colder.  “Are you crying, Jack?”

                “N-N-N…”

                “Don’t lie.”

                “Y-Yes.”

                “Ohhh… poor little boy…” she coos in her singsong baby voice.  “There’s no need to cry.  Your big sissy’s got you nice and safe.  Here, I’ll show you.  You’re cold?  Don’t move.  Big sissy’s gonna make it ALL… BETTER…” she laughs, breaking the fake caring-about-you act.  With that, her lips pop open again, and her tongue stretches out, glistening, as another stomach rumble sounds from far below.  Then, she presses it downward very close to you against the flat, vanilla floor.  You watch, horrified, as her hot, slippery muscle applies pressure into the cold ground.  Slowly, you watch her saliva leak down it, and pool into the ice cream.  After a moment of this, that spot becomes more and more liquid-like, the ice cream melting under the incredible sloppy warmth, the surface taking up a glistening sheen.  You’re actually pretty sure you saw the tiniest steam cloud that only someone of your size would see rising from the space underneath the massive organ of your monumental sister.

                Then, contorting from the muscular work going on under the bumpy flesh, Carly’s tongue begins sliding almost provocatively across the surface of the ice cream, avoiding you.  You watch helplessly, having no energy left to protest beyond a weak groan.  The terrible muscle, thickly coated in her steaming mouth juices, effectively begins melting the layers of ice cream.  The more you watch her slide it around, the more she tubes it up, popping a saliva bubble in the space as she uses her tongue like an industrial plow, curling the white, creamy ground in thick, dripping waves.  As this happens, dribbles of cold cream begins sliding up Carly’s tongue and into her mouth like a ramp, coating her damp lips in the pasty residue.

                Once the surface of all the ice cream surrounding you has been thoroughly churned, Carly pulls her head back, and closes her eyes as if in a wonderful dream, whipping her hair back over her shoulders to get it out of the way.  Her tongue, stained partially white by sticky melted treat, swirls around her lips, lapping up the excess cream and allowing it to be sucked back into her smelly mouth cave, although much of it dribbles down her cheek, along her chin, and to the ground far below your field of vision; as she does this, she emits a low, satisfied moan of delight.

                “Oooohhh… oh my God… so… good…” she mumbles disjointedly, still lapping messily around the corners of her lips for any missed sugar droplets.  “I honestly think I could just eat this all the time without stopping…” she drawls, popping her sticky lips together.  As she does, she sends a single blob of ice cream spraying out.  It hits you squarely in the face, stinging your eyes.  She laughs at you.  “Go ahead.  Try some…” she says, bringing her lips closer to you again so you can hear her even at the lowest volume.  “It’s GOOD for you…” she smiles, speaking so quietly it’s like a rumbling whisper coming from a PA system overhead.  Then, just as suddenly, she’s pulling back, and you feel the bowl rocking as she walks.  You hear the sound of a suction-operated door opening and shutting.

                “It’s really tasty right now, little bro.  But you know what would make it so much better?”

                “N-N-N…”

                “I don’t know what it is, but chocolate just makes everything taste a little… sweeter.”  Your field of vision is suddenly filled with gigantic, white bubble letters saying, “CHOCOLATE SYRUP.”  Carly brings the bottle up towards her ice cream-covered mouth and sticks the opening into her teeth, pulling the pop tab up.  Your skin crawls as you watch Carly raise the bottle far over your head, flip it over, and squeeze into the plastic siding with her mammoth fingers.  A thick stream of dark, syrupy liquid slowly sifts through the air from between the bottle opening to the ice cream.  And of course, you’re right in the middle.  The chocolate goop absolutely coats you from every inch, eventually flowing off of your body and forming a gooey lake around you.  The thick cocoa haze fills your nostrils, and it’s actually not so bad.  It reminds you of going to the dentist as a younger kid and having some sort of flavored toothpaste to help you with the difficult and painful procedure.

                Having no use of your arms to slick back the brown mess from your face, you blow outward and spit, making room for you to breathe through the liquid coat now covering you; you intake a few stray mouthfuls of the sugary stuff, and it feels pretty good on your throat as, despite it being in the fridge, it’s still warmer than you are right now.  With almost the entire visible layer of the churned ice cream covered in a chocolate swamp, Carly stops squeezing the bottle; it makes a short puffing sound as it re-inflates, and Carly puts it back inside her dorm mini fridge.  Finally, with you thoroughly coated, Carly grips the bowl again with two hands and studies you closely, fascinated and deeply appreciative of your predicament.  You try desperately to force your arms and legs into work, but they are still frozen solid into the icy treat.

                Your sister snickers, seeing your futile efforts.  Knowing you can’t do a single thing about it, she plants her tongue firmly at the edge of the bowl and begins sliding it along the surface, straight towards you.   With so much chocolate filling the bowl, her tongue rakes it heavily along, browning her tongue quickly in the gooey stuff.  And then, she reaches you.  Her wet tongue presses heavily against you, smushing you into a pile-drive of her gummy saliva and the rich syrup.  Despite how disgusting and uncomfortable it is, you can’t help but admit how amazing it feels to have something so warm pressing against your ice cold body from most of the important angles.  She works you for a few seconds, groaning from the effort to keep her mouth so wide open and spraying flecks of sticky ice cream drops from the insides of her cheeks.  You struggle for breath, taking in massive mouthfuls of the thickened syrup, which has now been thoroughly mixed with your sister’s spit.  Slipping her tongue over your face and allowing you to breath finally, she snuggles it against your filthy hair before going down to your back.  Instantly, she tightens the muscles in her tongue, making it taut and inflated; this forces you as far forward as you can lean as she holds you down firmly, rippling it.  Her chin and upper lip now right in front of you, a drooble of slightly brown-colored saliva drips down from her chin and is inhaled accidently into your nose as you struggle for breath, the wall of Carly’s tanned neck flexing as she swallows thick globs of ice cream and chocolate syrup from along your back.  Finally having a satisfactory mouthful, Carly’s chin lifts away, leaving a chocolatey strand of goopy saliva attached to her lips, but it quickly breaks, clinging to your shoulder.  You look down at yourself.  You’re no longer coated from head to foot in the thick, delicious syrup, but instead smeared brown and glistening by your sister’s powerful, soaking behemoth of a muscular tongue.

                You stare up weakly into Carly’s glowing, satisfied eyes.  She does one last quick lick of her lips to show her happiness, but she doesn’t blink, her blues locked solely on your chocolate saliva stained body, still cuffed hopelessly by the solidified dessert treat.  “You know, Jack…” she says, her voice sounding a little muffled; her throat is probably clogged up with all the stickiness she just took into her body.  “Ice cream does taste pretty good.  It’s really sugary, you know?  But… somehow, it just doesn’t hit the spot by itself…” she says, bringing her face back closer to you.  “Wanna know what DOES hit the spot?”

                “N-No… p-p-please…”

                She lowers her voice again, bringing her lips so close to you all you can see are them, her hot, chocolate-smelling breath washing over you comfortably and almost melting your icy bonds.  “YOU do.  My little sugar boy,” she says, grinning slyly, her lips glossed over with cream residue.  You struggle violently, as fast as you can, to get out of the stuff.  Slowly, uncaringly, knowing she can take as long as she pleases without you escaping her, Carly widens her mouth again, sending an oven wave of heat out upon you.  And then her teeth are stretching over you, the top row passing over your head.  You are encased in darkness as your sister plants her entire mouth over you, trapping you inside as her top teeth touch down into the soft treat just behind you.  They begin to dig, almost silently, sliding through the whiteness like butter.  You shiver, feeling your body temperature returning to normal as Carly’s hot saliva melts the ice cream around you.  With a little slurp, Carly sucks you back onto the suction-tipped material of her tongue, closing her lips and smiling, pleased to have you once again “safely” inside.

                Carly’s tongue indents as she pressurizes the inside of her mouth, sucking you hard directly onto her sticky tongue.   You’ve been in this situation numerous times before, of course, but never quite like this; the entire interior of your little sibling’s mouth has been coated in a grimy layer of chocolate and vanilla ice cream residue.  You yank an arm off of the tongue, stuck to it like fly paper, as your sister vibrates the organ beneath you, sucking the last chocolate remnants from your defenseless naked body, her teeth parted far enough so that she can do this without having to open her mouth.  You begin to sweat in the heat, your body temperature having changed dramatically very quickly, and your breathing becomes more labored, each inhalation filling with the hazy thickness of cocoa goop and your sister’s bad breath.

                Suddenly, you are given a fleeting breath of air.  You gasp in oxygen, unpeeling yourself from your sister’s sticky mouth organ and dropping to a crouching position, only to look on with horror at the sight coming from the flooding light of the outside world.  A white, smooth ball of ice cream is coming careening into Carly’s mouth as she takes another bite.  It smacks you hard, cooling your sweating form briefly before rolling onto Carly’s tongue, melting almost instantly into the cracks between her taste buds like a snowball.  You hear her laugh triumphantly at your useless efforts, the rumbling feeling rolling through the base of her mouth and your entire body.  Her sticky lips close while curled up in a gleeful smile, leaving you in the muggy, sugary hovel again.  You ball yourself up into the fetal position, knowing it’s the safest way to inhabit your sister’s mouth whenever she decides to do this.  You’re small, but you’re not so small that, with a slip of the teeth, Carly couldn’t snap you in half, or at least hack off a limb.  You can’t picture that going over too well for anyone.

                Warm goo sifts past your ankles, a foamy substance forming and sticking to your body.  You dip a hand through it and recognize it as a mix of Carly’s bubbly spit and the tacky ice cream swallows; this touch alone coats your arms in the stuff.  You try to scrape at it, but it only seems to spread more quickly to whatever touches it.  Carly’s lips part again, sighing low and sweetly, as another quick ball of ice cream comes sliding in.  This time, though, it plops right onto you.  Carly’s tongue is quick to work, though, slipping stickily along you and reaching the ice cream.  Then, finding the ball to be malleable as it melts, Carly pins you directly into the ball with her mouth muscle, coating you fully in the sticky stuff.  You struggle, grasping at her hard, slippery teeth, but it’s no use.  Balling you into it, you bang your head angrily against the slimy roof of your sister’s mouth as she drags you onto her tongue fully, your body still encased in the quickly disintegrating dessert morsel. 

                Then back further. 

                And further.

                And further.

                Realizing how dangerous the situation is becoming, you claw madly in the pitch blackness, feeling your hands slipping aimlessly along ribbed walls.  You press your hands against them and can feel Carly’s muscles at the top of her throat contracting and sliding, in and out, like a factory machine.  You gasp what little oxygen you have left as you are swept quickly into the opening of Carly’s esophagus, your little sister’s powerful throat muscles gripping you slimily and baking the sticky ice cream remains into your skin; the space has become so small, your body is pressed against itself by the pulsating, slick skin of Carly’s throat like a pipeline.  You feel a final, obnoxious, rumbling laugh from your younger feminine tormentor as you are dragged powerlessly toward your probable doom in her stomach, listening to the gurgle of her throat and the popping of soupy spit bubbles on the way. 

                “No…” you groan to yourself painfully, trembling as the realization sweeps back over you just as quickly as the goopy rivers of your little sister's saliva.  “I don’t want it to end.  I don’t want to leave… you... Aphrodite...”

End Notes:

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Chapter 29: Her Toy Forever by Jacksmith
Author's Notes:

The ultimatum to end all ultimatums.

                You open your eyes suddenly as you come to, gagging as your lungs force out the inevitable throatfuls of your sister’s sea of spit you swallowed while beginning the long, unfortunate slide down her digestive tract.  You blink a few times, wiping the gritty, yellowish goop of Carly’s phlegm coating the back of her throat out of your eyes and stare upward.  You’re resting on the dorm table again, and your sister is wiping her lips, coughing lightly after having forced herself to puke you back up.

                You gulp hard.  You’re still alive, but it doesn’t change the fact of what just happened prior to your being upchucked back to the land of the living.  Carly didn’t just swish you around and play tongue hockey using you as the puck.  She swallowed you.  She honest-to-goodness swallowed you.  Your little sister actually just ate you in one pathetic, insignificant, humiliating slimeball of a bite as if your life meant nothing.

                With a sarcastic groan, you realize that you just found the answer to the issue on your own with that last little statement.

                You, yourself, feel a bit like vomiting at this moment.  Slowly, the tears begin flowing again, and you have to choke back the sobs in your throat.  You don’t particularly care about anything right now.  All you want is to feel safe again.  Your eyes shift over to the bedside clock.

                8:52 pm.  The video goes live in 8 minutes.

                Something’s wrong with you as you stare at the clock.  You don’t feel the kind of gleeful anticipation you felt two days ago while creating the computer program intended to save you from your sibling-mandated slavery at Carly’s hands.  You don’t feel joy or elation at the mere idea of being rescued soon.  You don’t feel relief to think of Carly’s life as she knows it coming to a halt as everyone she knows gets ahold of that video and becomes wise to her five-year-long crimes.

                Instead, you feel something else.  As usual, it’s hard to put your finger on, as you constantly feel such a mixed rush of adrenaline and confused emotions, but all at once it becomes clear to you, and it makes your arm hair stand on end, your spine freeze, your fingers curl, your eyes bug, and your throat go dry.  You tremble.

                What you feel is remorse for blackmailing Carly.

                Gently, your sister’s colossal fingers wrap themselves under your back, scooping you up into her warm palm as she stands up slowly, looking down at you with far more concern and care than you normally see, except when she’s trying to play mind games with you.  But somehow, this is different.  It looks almost genuine this time, as if she semi-gives a crap about your wellbeing.

                “Are you okay, little bro?” coos your sister.  “I didn’t mean to hurt you too badly.  Please say something.”

                “C-Carly…” you croak, unsure of what exactly it is you want to say as you sprawl helplessly in the familiar, wide palm of your sibling.

                “Okay, good, you can still breathe. You don’t have to say anything, I know it hurts.  And I’m so, so sorry that I had to do that to you,” she apologizes.  You squint at your sister’s enormous face, searching for a sign of sarcasm or malice concealed in a dimple or a nostril flare.

                You see nothing.  Your sister seems to be trying to make legitimate amends for the moment, although you remain on your guard; every time Carly puts up the “nice” act, it’s always simply connecting means to an end, and while she’s a bit harder to read than usual right now, you remain confident that this is still the case.  It must be.

                “But I know you understand,” she continues softly, seemingly to avoid harming your eardrums.  “I only do those kinds of things to you because… well, because I love you.  A lot.  And all I want is for you to love me back.  So, tell me, little bro.  Do you love me?”

                You are silent as your thoughts begin racing wildly.

                “I know it hurts, but I want you to answer me.  Just nod your head yes or no.  Do… you… love me?” your sister asks brightly and slowly enough for you to grasp each heavy word.  Comfortingly, Carly brings the pointer finger of her other hand up to you and begins stroking along your stomach and chest with the utmost tenderness.  “C’mon, little guy, I know you can do it.  Just nod.  Nod for big sissy.”

                Swallowing, with nothing else to do, you nod “yes” for Carly to plainly see.

                “I’m so glad,” she whispers happily.  “And I know something else about you, too.  Maybe you don’t know it yet, but I do.  I’m going to explain it to you right now so you’ll understand…” begins Carly, sighing sweetly and innocently.  “You belong with me.  Forever.  This is where you’re going to stay for the rest of your life.  With me.  Where I want you, when I want you, how I want you.  And you know it, too…” she drawls slowly, taking another deep breath before opening her lips with a soft pop again.  “DON’T you, little bro?”

                Your brain feels like it’s caught on fire.  Something seems to be going incredibly wrong, as if every system in your body was malfunctioning and altering to a completely opposite position, and yet it all seems to still tick harmoniously.  It confuses you feeling like you’re about to shut down at any instant and yet you don’t.  Like a ticking time bomb that just reached zero and hasn’t blown up yet.  Without warning, this feeling of brokenness and fear begins to crack away from your hardened surface and fade softly into something unexpected.  It’s bravely new and confounding to you, but what you recognize above all else is that it feels right in your heart and mind.  Correct, even.  The emotions and logic swimming freely in your head all seem to have melded together into one freakish contraption that wouldn’t make the slightest bit of sense to anyone in the world except you, and perhaps Carly.  Like a language all your own that only you can translate and speak with perfect ease, in free fall amongst the crackling synapses and nerves of your teetering brain.  No more guilt, sorrow, loss, heartbreak, rage, terror, wistfulness, or pain.  All of these dark and painful distractions to your happiness and contentment with existence seem to simultaneously melt away as your titanic sister’s warm, heartfelt words sink into your skin.  You physically shiver, still trying to find your way through the foggy maze of all these new thoughts, and yet somehow you know exactly what you should do.  What you have to do.  What you need to do in order to continue on living.

                “Yes,” you say simply without an ounce of pain in your voice.

                Carly murmurs, closing her eyes and lowering her lips to you.  With incredible gentleness, your sister plants a soft, sticky kiss on your torso, popping gingerly on your skin as she lifts away and studies you again with opened eyes, her lips curled upward into the most joyous smile you’ve ever seen on her face.  It’s not like normal: there’s no sadism or sheer, bratty condescension in her smile as she glares down at your puny body laying helplessly in her hand, at her utter mercy.  Instead, it’s happiness.  Pure, unadulterated glee and almost thankfulness to some higher power.

                Blinking, you notice something else.  It’s Carly’s large, baby blue eyes glistening.  Not with an evil, scheming gleam as per usual.  Instead, it’s water.  Salty, sparkling beacons of joy.  Your sister is crying.  Slowly, several of her tears dribble down her rosy cheeks and down her chin.  She sniffles happily, coughing and grinning, seeming almost out of her element and unsure of how to proceed.

                “It’s okay, little bro.  You don’t have to be afraid of me anymore,” she giggles elatedly.  “I was confused about it for a long time, too.  I mean, we’re brother and sister.  We’re supposed to like each other.  But we never did back then when you were normal.  I hated you, you hated me… it was awful.  It was stupid, and I wanted it to be different.  And you know why it was like that?” she coos.

                You shake your head no, in a complete mist of non-comprehension of the situation beyond the words being spoken to you.

                “God messed up,” Carly explains cheerfully and rationally.  “He made us brother and sister at first, and that didn’t work.  That’s why He fixed you and made you smaller five years ago.  That’s why we’re here, together, now and always, like this.  You were never meant to be my brother, and I was never meant to be your sister.  You were meant to be my… well, my person.  My little, tiny, toy person.  My pet.  And me… I was supposed to be your goddess.”

                You swallow, shifting your position in your sister’s steady hand slightly as you process the words without a single bit of reproach in your mind.

                “Don’t you see?” Carly pleads, almost begging you to grasp her viewpoint.  “Don’t you understand now, Jack?  Why you can’t go back, ever?  No one would understand this.  Understand… us.”  Why we’re supposed to be together like this.  They wouldn’t like it, and they’d take you away from me.  We’d never be together again.  And you don’t want that, do you, little guy?” she pleads.

                You shake your head “no.”

                “Neither do I,” continues your sister.  “I love you too much.  Not in a gross way, obviously.  The way I love you is… so much better than the way Mom loves Dad.  I love you because you’re mine.  And that’s all there is to it.  You’re mine, forever, for whatever I want you for.  And you… love me… for making you into whatever I want.  Right?”

                You nod affirmatively.

                Carly’s voice drops to a whisper as her lips lower closer to your body: “All of this.  The way we live, what I give you, what you give me… all of it would be gone in a second if you went back home, away from me.  It’s too late for that.  We’re here now, and all we can do is just keep living like this, Jack.  For as long as we both are alive, we have to.  I know we do.  I never want to let you go again, ever.  You’re my drug, little guy, and I think as long as we’re together, I’ll be high… on you.”

                You swallow, nodding understandably.

                “And as for you…” she continues.  “I know I used to scare you.  You used to hate me.  You used to feel embarrassed by everything I made you do.  You used to hurt… a lot.  But… but not now.  Not anymore.  Not for a while, actually.  I can see it in your little face.  You try to hide it from me and yourself, but I know it’s there, inside of you.  And I want you to know… it’s okay.”

                “W-What is?” you ask dryly.

                “It’s okay that you like your life with me, Jack.  I know you must’ve been scared to tell me for a long time that you… enjoy… what I do to you.  All of it… every single bit of it.  I know you must’ve been afraid of what I’d do to you if I knew that you actually were being honest every time I’ve made you tell me you enjoy it.  It’s okay, I totally understand,” breathes your sister slowly and clearly, her voice beginning to waver as the tears of bliss continue rolling wetly down her tanned cheeks.  “But I know now, and you know I know.  And there’s no need for you to be scared anymore, because I’m okay with it.  I… actually like it.  I love it, even.  Just as much as you, probably more than you actually.  I swear, I’ll never make fun of you for it, because there’s nothing wrong with it.  At all.  And now, for as long as you want me to do something to you…” she breathes, taking a seat on the bed cross-legged, “…you can ask me.  And I promise, I’ll do it until we’re both satisfied.”

                Slowly, your sister lays her palm flat on the bed in front of her, allowing you to roll out onto the fabric of the bedspread.  As you steadily regain your strength, you pull yourself up and stare straight ahead at Carly’s right foot: bare, peachy, and wrinkled as can be, her toes arching slowly in rhythm, her creamy sole laying as a soft, barren plain of angelic flesh.

                You clamber forward, staggering to a standing position, your breath catching in your chest.

                “Go ahead, my little man,” your sister encourages sweetly and softly.  “Believe me.  You don’t have to be embarrassed anymore about it.  About the way I make you feel.  The world out there doesn’t understand you and your feelings.  But I do.  Big sissy does.  And I swear, as long as you’re with me… as long as you’re mine… I’ll do everything I can to make you feel the way you crave.  Now go ahead.”

                You look up at Carly, somewhat confused as to what she’s suggesting.  “You m-m-mean…” you stutter slowly, not sure of how to say it.

                Your younger sister nods, knowing precisely what you’re going to say.  “That’s exactly what I mean, Jack.  Please believe me.  I love you so much, and I want you to be happy with me.  That’s all I’ve ever wanted.  Now do it.  I know what you need, so what are you waiting for?”

                Without dawdling for any more prompting from your sister or trying to think over the implications of what you’re doing, you take a few steps forward and wetly kiss Carly’s plump middle toe lightly, closing your eyes and savoring the salty, fleshy flavor.  Finishing a long smack, you take a step back and stare up at your sister.  She cocks her head at you, raising an eyebrow and sighing.

                “You still don’t believe me, huh, Jack?  After all this time we’ve spent together, you still don’t trust me when I tell you that I accept you for the little bug of a person you are and that you can play with me however you want?” she coos, slowly parting her middle and fourth toes ever so slightly and tapping gently at the space in between with a fingertip.  “So I’ll get you started so we can get past all the awkward stuff.  Stick your teensy weensy cock right in there and get it while it’s hot.”

                Feeling goose bumps ripple along your skin, you swallow hard and step forward.  By doing this of your own free will, you realize you are admitting with great finality that you do, indeed, believe every last insane thing your sister spouted just now.  You recognize whole-hearted and sarcastically that this situation could not possibly become any more fucked up unless it involved time-traveling, singing animals, and magic, and yet you can’t possibly pull yourself away from the sight before you.

                Your sister’s wall of a foot towering before you: so beautiful, pure, and sweet.  Flawless.  Like the forbidden fruit, hanging in the tree of the Garden of Eden.  You so desperately want to know what it feels like now.  Obviously, you’ve been subjected to it on innumerable occasions against your will, but this is far different.  This is a question of your quickly crumbling liberty of self and asking yourself what you’re willing to do to deny your true twisted nature.  You reach forth, caressing the space between Carly’s toes with one of your hands and feeling a warm shiver rush over your body.  Her skin is so soft and tender, scented lightly of stale sweat and bubbly fruit body wash.  An immaculate massage that practically makes your genitals tingle just to imagine so sinfully.  You gulp again to yourself, feeling your resolve weakening and your erection growing embarrassingly rapidly.

                Hoping that God isn’t watching, you take the metaphorical forbidden fruit and slip your dick between your sister’s two massive, bulbous toes.  Satisfied, Carly gently caves her other toe on top of it, sandwiching it meekly but carefully between her firm, gripping digits.  You gasp delightedly at the shooting, tingling sensation and absence of revulsion you feel at your corrupted self for this.  You shed the few remaining tears of embarrassment and soiled dignity you have left as you tightly grasp your sister’s mammoth toes, jerking up and down as you jack yourself pleasurably into the fleshy crevice of her foot.  Carly’s toes squeeze aggressively against you, pulsing warmly around your dick, causing you to wheeze meekly and break out in a sweat at the subconscious fear that she’ll accidentally snap this vital organ right off of your body in the fleshy carnage, but somehow you know this won’t happen.  You trust your sister’s control of the situation and know no real harm will come to you.

                Your warm-up time is shockingly short as you are brought to exploding orgasm, convulsing weakly and flopping down onto the bed before Carly’s tanned ped, much in the same way it happened five years ago when your sister’s foot first stole your virginity.  Giggling, Carly’s fingers slip under your body and lift you up to her face as she climbs off of the bed and ambles to the laptop at the desk.

                “Good?” your sister questions at you simply in a whisper as she busily begins tapping at letters on the keyboard and clicking around with the mouse pad.

                “Y-Y-Yes…” you gasp, still trying to recover from the single greatest feeling of sexual euphoria you’ve ever so wrongfully allowed to consume your corpus.

                “Good.  That makes me happy,” your sister confirms with a nod, licking her lips carnally.  “And guess what?  You can do that as often… as… you… want…” tempts Carly slowly.  “Not just there.  Anywhere you want.  Hell, anything you want me to do for you, I can, within reason, obviously.  Things are different now, I promise, because you finally understand.  It took you five years, but I know that you aren’t just telling me what I want to hear now, you know it’s true, too.  You belong to me.  You are mine.  From the second you were born, you were always destined to be here, in my hand, under my foot, in my mouth.  Mine.  Forever.”

                “T-Thank… y-you,” you cough in disbelief, still not understanding why all this is happening so fast, but only realizing that you don’t want any of it to stop for all the world.

                “You’re welcome.  But now,” your sister snaps slightly.  “I’ve done something for you.  It’s time for you to do something… for me,” she drawls, finally bringing up a window on the computer screen representing the interface for your program.  It’s of simple design, with a countdown timer reading “2 minutes, 36 seconds remaining” with a password bar underneath, along with a link to pages upon pages of code you composed especially for this devious blackmailing plot.  “I found this ticking at the bottom of the screen and figured we need it to make sure our lives don’t go back to the stupid, horrible way they used to be.  Looks like there’s room for 9 letters, Jack.  Now what are they?  Hurry, the clock’s running low.”

                Your throat seeming to dry again, you answer implicitly without a second thought or any conception of what’s going to happen next.  “APHRODITE,” you spit robotically as Carly obediently and accurately types out the letters of the ironic password.

                With a satisfied smile, Carly clicks the enter key just as the clock hits “1 minute, 46 seconds” and freezes in place, the code running through hundreds of complex lines of functions and essential programs.  An internet browser and Carly’s email pop-up as the program invades these, pulling the video once and for all off of cyberspace and away from the prying eyes of the internet or Carly’s friends and family.  You watch as the program fades to black, digitally sealing your ultimate fate.

                It’s finished.

End Notes:

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Chapter 30: A New Life Begins by Jacksmith

With a peaceful ripple of your brain waves, you realize that your full, five-year-long transformation is at last at an exhaustive end.  You are, for all time, in body, mind, and spirit, your goddess of a little sister’s piece of property.

                And you feel just fine with that statement of your ultimate reality. 

                This is your fate: it always was and it always will be to be your sister’s holy pleasure object, and nothing more.  The very thought of this fills you with overwhelming desire to be of use and a tingling sense of unimaginable joy and meaning to existence.  At long last, you understand the purpose of your life with such clarity it pains you to think of the time before this wonderful revelation.

                “That’s my boy…” murmurs Carly seductively, kissing the back of your head with her moist lips again.  “That’s my sweet, sweet little boy.  I’m so proud of you, and I love you more than you can ever know.”

                “I love you too, Carly,” you whisper, respectfully kissing her soft fingertip in kind, as Carly rises from the chair and steps toward the middle of the room again.

                “Let’s play a game, Jack,” your sister sighs dreamily.  “Something BOTH of us will have fun with, okay?”

                “What do you have in mind?” you say calmly, no longer having fear or apprehension about what’s coming.  No thoughts of the uncertain future loom in your mind.  You are fully focused on the unimaginably marvelous present moment.

                “Oh, gosh, I just don’t know,” she coos, staring down towards the floor and wriggling her naked toes pensively against the carpet.  “I mean, I could let you fuck my toes again with that insatiable little wiener of yours, but we’ll save that for later.  Too much of a good thing will make it boring, you know.”

                “Yeah, right,” you mumble disbelievingly under your breath.  “Not in this case, though.”

                “I could wear you for a bit down there,” she says thoughtfully, pointing down into the gaping neckline of her shirt towards her sports bra, containing both of her firm, mountainous breasts.  “You know… getcha a little chesticle action?” she smirks playfully, trying to gauge your reaction.  “You might like that.  You would like that, actually, I’m sure of it.  We can do better, though.  Much, much better.”

                “Okay,” you answer simply, shrugging, accepting the answer without question.

                Carly smiles, pleased.  “I love this.  You’re so agreeable.  God, why did it take you so long to come around, huh, little guy?  I mean, Jesus, you COULD have been doing this for years already.  I would’ve made you the happiest little man alive if you’d just admitted to yourself and me the truth that’s been there all along.  It was hanging under your teeny little nose the whole time and you never took advantage of it.  How come?”

                “I… don’t know,” you swallow, bowing your head before your beautiful and merciful deity of a sibling. “But I was stupid.  And I’m sorry…” you drawl as a few more tears cascade down your cheeks from the sheer overwhelming nature of it all.

                With the tenderness of stroking a baby’s face, Carly’s pinky fingertip caresses your damp cheeks, drying the tears before her lips set about pecking the top of your head lightly again with a wet smack of love.  “Don’t cry, Jack, don’t cry.  It’s all okay now.  I forgive you for everything.  Everything ever.  And it will stay like this.  All you have to do is stay here with me forever, and I’ll give you just what you want, which happens to be the same thing that I want.  That… feeling.  Under our skin.  I know you feel it too.  The creeping.  God, it’s like Heaven, I swear… I… I love you, Jack.  So much.”

                “I know,” you sniffle.

                “I’m not going anywhere,” she coos, lowering her palm down to chest level and staring down at you almost provocatively.  “And neither are you, my little toy.”

                You collapse over your sister’s palm, kissing the creases of her soft flesh with every drop of passion you have, sobbing with relief and joy that you, at long last, have made your way home.  It wasn’t where you expected it to be; you can grant yourself this much.  You had imagined for so long during this supposed imprisonment that your real home was back with your parents and friends at your house, at normal size, going to school, getting a job, finding a significant other, starting a family of your own someday, and dying peacefully surrounded by loved ones and a full life of various successes.  But that was wrong.  All wrong.  In hindsight, such an idea of a “home” is foreign, unwanted, and grotesque to you.  Almost alien.

                You true home is here.  Sprawled, naked and helpless, in the firm, smooth palm of your little sister, hidden away in her dorm room, taken out of your dark drawer only for enlightening sessions of pseudo-sexual play and abject worship to your sibling god.  A life of wonderment, pleasure, happiness, belonging, near-religious love, and base respect.  Your home is anywhere here.  Your home is on top of Carly’s tongue, nestled in her breasts, under her shirt, dangling from her fingers, in her pocket, under her wrinkled sole, between her toes, in her palm.  Your home isn’t a house.  It’s your sister Carly herself in her entirety, and you now realize that it always will be, and that you never, ever want to leave.

                For the first real time in your life, you feel safe and secure in your future.  No aimless wondering about your job prospects or about having a successful family.  No questioning whether you can make ends meet.  No pondering the mysteries of the universe.  No hurtful thinking or stress about what’s to come or what you have to do to make it in this world.  Your future is set and completely taken care of by your loving and powerful owner.  All you have to do is reciprocate her love as a faithful pet plaything, and Carly will take care of the rest.  It’s the greatest deal you imagine that has ever been presented to a human being, and right now, you consider yourself to be the luckiest man on the face of the planet.

                Carly’s hand continues lowering you like an elevator of animated flesh and muscle down her body, past her chest and stomach, as if putting on a show for you.  Displaying the full playground of amazing opportunity for pleasure that lies before you.  All you have to do is satisfy her whims and allow her to control you, and you’ll get exactly what you want as well from this towering goddess of a young woman.  You tingle with excitement as you stare up and down at the full length of your sister’s impressive body, at once filled not with fear and apprehension of what it might do to you, but instead sheer awe and appreciation for this dream world you’re embarking into.  You know now that Carly is comfortable doing whatever she wants with you, and in return, you have full access to this tight, tanned, model-esque form standing like an enormous skyscraper of infinite strength and ability.  You can only imagine how many guys have fought uselessly for Carly’s affections just to get into her pants, and yet here you are, being given this essential reality on a silver platter.  It’s sickeningly twisted and wonderfully fulfilling to you at the same time.

                The hand you’re perched in stops at Carly’s waist, and soon her fingers are fumbling with the button connecting the fly of her skinny jeans.  Doing away with this, your sister allows the denim folds to flop roughly to the carpet below, leaving only a plain pair of white panties separating you from the netherworld of Carly’s reproductive region.  You gulp, trembling slightly, as your mind begins to wander.  What’s going on?  This can’t possibly be what it looks like… can it?

                “It’s time, Jack,” whispers Carly lovingly.  “Time for you to know for yourself.”

                “Know… what?” you gasp, staring blankly at the satin fabric resting peacefully over your sister’s massive crotch.

                “How important you are to me, of course.  I’m about to put you where dozens of pathetic losers have been trying to get for the past four years without success.  I’ve… saved myself, Jack.  For your little body.  The whole thing.  I’ve never believed I could be happy in a regular relationship, I realize that now.  All that… equality, partnership, pleasing one another on even playing fields.  It doesn’t work for me.  No, what we have between us isn’t like that.  It’s not useless or selfish or stupid.  It’s right, and it’s beautiful.  You… are mine… my little thing.  My toy.  My pet.  My tiny little love slave,” drawls Carly almost drunkenly.  “And now you’re finally, finally, FINALLY going to fulfill your real purpose.  I’m sure you’ve wondered before why I haven’t tried this, and it’s because you weren’t ready.  But now that we’re here, and you accept me as your goddess, and you as my bug boy, we can… finish it.”

                You squint at the satin underwear, and feel your arm hair stand on end as you realize a distinct color change is taking place in the soft, off-white tone.  It’s becoming darker in the center, in a splotchy, glistening oval.  And it’s at this moment that you realize with bone-warming and mind-altering shock that Carly is actually moistening her panties as her crotch begins pumping small droplets of hot, gooey, anticipatory juices out in preparation to ceremonially receive your body inside your sister’s most sacred of locations.

                “Holy shit…” you whisper under your breath, unable to process the sight before you in any meaningful way.  All you can do is watch and accept the impossible reality before you.  The thumb of Carly’s other hand finds its way into the strap of the panties, preparing to tug hard enough to slip the underwear off and leave you in your final position to be inserted into her best-kept secret, thusly completing the pleasing of your new goddess and essential religious figure.

                Time seems to come to a halt, then, as the door to the dorm room swings open.

                You turn around, still locked into a place of solid mental insanity, and see none other than Sophie standing in the doorway, two objects gripped in her fists.  It takes her no more than three seconds to survey the scene and fight back a horrified scream as she realizes what Carly is about to do to you.

                Carly frowns, backing up closer to the bed and raising you up back to chest level, away for the time being from her private goods.

                “You sick bitch,” hisses Sophie, raising up a squirt bottle to face level with Carly.  “You’re going to pay for this… ALL of this!”  Squeezing the bottle handle hard, several pumps of fine mist are sprayed into the air, catching your unfortunately confused sister in the eyes and mouth, off-guard.

                “What the FUCK is THIS?” screeches your sister in shock, rubbing at her rapidly reddening eyes and trying to cough the consumed gaseous spray out of her throat.  “SOPHIE!”

                “Don’t talk to me, Carly.  Ever again.  And not to Jack, either.  You’re through.  I’m going to make sure you wish you were never BORN!” cries Sophie, allowing the arm holding the spray bottle to drop and raising up her other hand, which happens to be clasping a small black discharger.

                “Is that a…” gasps Carly as Sophie fires the small taser at her, hitting her squarely in the chest and sending a sharp electric charge into her body.  Your sister convulses a few times, flopping backward onto the bed.  You go crashing downward as her fingers loosen their protective fleshy fence around you, rolling a few times as you hit the bedspread running.  Carly’s body slams ungracefully onto the bed from the shock of the irritating liquid in her eyes and throat followed by the full-on taser assault by your quick-acting cousin.  Groggily, Carly tries to pull herself up, but can’t, her arms and legs twitching violently.

                And suddenly, it all becomes clear to you what’s happening.

                “SOPHIE, NO!” you scream, horrified, as your sister begins rapidly shrinking, disappearing into the seemingly abandoned pile of her clothes.

                The room goes silent.

End Notes:

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Chapter 31: Carly's Last Game by Jacksmith
Author's Notes:

Final chapter.

                You stare ahead, feeling as if someone just cracked you across the skull with a baseball bat, hardly daring to believe what is happening very plainly before your own eyes.  Even harder to scale in your mind is just what the hell happened to your brain in the last ten minutes as Carly very nearly turned you into nothing more than waste product and essential protein for use in her body’s health upkeep before dragging so many subconscious ramblings out of you.

                You had known the potential was there for a long time, but you had refused to acknowledge it, and having it pulled out so roughly into the open with just a few simple strokes of your chest and some rare words of kindness from your sibling keeper was a bit of a mind cluster-fuck.  At this point, it’s hard to say how much of your transition was based on your actual desires and how much was based on Carly’s practically hypnotic ability to get her way, but the point is moot right now.

                Nothing would have prepared you for the sight of Carly’s shirt and sports bra flopping onto the bed where she went down, her stained panties slipping to the carpeted floor.  Gulping, you stare up at your towering cousin Sophie as she calmly lays the discharged taser and chemical compound spray bottle on the dorm room desk before turning around to the door and shutting it behind her for added security.

                “Sophie!  Hey!” you shout out, your voice cracking slightly as you try to process all of this at once with little success.  “How did y-y-you get here?”

                “Don’t worry about it now, Jack.  Everything’s going to be fine.  I’m here to save you,” your cousin says with a warm smile, padding back across the floor toward the bed.  “You don’t have to be afraid ever again, I promise.  I’ll never let a single person hurt you again.”

                “Just… just g-get me out of h-here…” you wheeze, your breath catching in your chest.

                At this request, though, Sophie raises an eyebrow and places both hands on her hips, biting her lip.  “I will, Jack, don’t worry.  I will.  In a minute.”

                The blood begins rushing rapidly to your head and your throat goes dry.  “W-Why?  I n-need help.”

                Sophie’s expression softens.  “I know you do, little guy, and you’ll get it really soon, I swear to you.  We’re going to go on a little field trip.”  With this, your cousin plucks at the abandoned shirt with her thumb and forefinger, lifting it slightly off the bed and looking underneath for your newly shrunken sister.  You swallow hard, your heart rate rising with fear for your damaged goddess.

                “Sophie… listen to me.  I… know you w-weren’t serious when we were t-talking about this before… right?” you whimper, taking  a few tentative steps forward.

                “Of course I was serious, Jack,” Sophie answers simply, barely paying attention to you as she lifts the shirt higher off the bed, discarding it off to the side.  “Heeeere, Carly.  C’mon out, little Carly, I know you’re in here somewhere,” sings your cousin, her attention clearly diverted fully away from you.  “I just wanna talk, you don’t have to be scared of little ol’… well, okay, big ol’ me, but you still don’t have to be scared.  I mean, you could be, if you wanted to, but this is going to be so, so much easier for both of us if you just come out and don’t freak out on me.”

                Your skin begins to crawl.  This is turning bad very, very quickly for all parties involved.  Quickly, you begin dashing toward the place in the bed where Carly disappeared.

                “Sophie, really, LISTEN to me!” you shout as the determined sixteen-year-old’s giant hand comes to rest on the bedspread, grasping at the sheet to pull it aside.  Lithely, you hop aboard without being asked, tugging at her finger politely.  “Please!”

                “Jack, just give me a few seconds, and then we’ll go,” she answers sweetly, plucking you gently from her hand into her other free palm, softly wrapping her fingers around your nude body with some degree of uncomfortable hesitation at having to handle your entire bare body so freely.  “We’ll find you another tissue, too…”

                “Sophie, I’m SERIOUS!  I don’t want you to do something you’re going to REGRET later!  I’m FINE, really, but we need to GO!” you cry with rising intensity.

                “Oh, believe me, Jack,” breathes Sophie heavily as she begins sauntering back across the room with you still in her firm but careful grip.  “What I’m about to do?  There’s not a thing I’m going to regret.  Not a single thing.  Get me?”

                “But… but… you gotta… you gotta think this through!” you breathe, panic-stricken, as Sophie slowly lowers her hand toward her jeans pocket and opens it, allowing you to slip easily into the denim darkness.  You clamber uselessly at the slick fabric sides of your teenage cousin’s pants pocket, desperately hoping for another chance at pleading your case, but you have a feeling it’s already too late.

                You feel some shuffling around for a few more moments before Sophie begins walking, her firm leg pressing through the fabric of the jeans.  You hear the squeak of a hinge, followed by the slamming of a car door a minute later.  The fumbling of jingling keys.  The hum of a car starting up.  The sassy purr of Fergie’s voice on the radio.

                You spend a silent forty-five minutes in your cousin’s pocket in a state of shock, quivering slightly as you feel bumps in the road rock Sophie’s powerful thigh gently.  You swallow dryly a few times, trying to soothe yourself, but it doesn’t do much good.  The mental roller coaster ride you’ve been forced to ride this evening has drained you of just about everything you’ve got.  It’s hard to believe that a mere three hours ago, you were prepared to send your sister to prison if she didn’t comply with your admittedly well-executed blackmail plot.  From there, you went into a state of defeat and release as Carly very nearly swallowed you whole.  This was followed by your total subjugation of mind and body where you promised yourself to your sister now and forever, only to have it all crushed minutes later by the colossal rescue party of your pretty cousin and her apparently empathetic and vengeful tendencies.

                From time to time, in a mindset of thoroughly sour anger and unrequited desire, you wonder how another person would handle this brain-warping hell of an existence you lead.  If logic still holds, you have a feeling they wouldn’t have held out as long.  Idly, you wonder what that makes you.  Strong, for holding out against the physical, emotional, and even sexual onslaught of your unusual prison?  Or just twisted beyond belief for being capable of stepping in and out of your humanity like an outfit, playing the part of someone’s shrunken pet for a matter of years?  A bit of both?  You don’t particularly care at this moment, and you don’t really have time to, as you hear the hum of Sophie’s car stop and the clap of her card door handle twisting to open.

 

                You peer down over the edge of the desk in Sophie’s room at the death drop to the carpet, desperately scanning the area with your eyes for a way down. 

                There doesn’t seem to be any.  For now, all you can do is watch and scream inside your head at your inability to act.

                Sophie sits calmly on the edge of her bed in the middle of her room, her hands clasped politely together.  She stares down at the carpet by her tennis shoes, raising an eyebrow and smiling triumphantly.

                Between her shoes happens to be the naked, trembling form of your now three-inch-tall sister, staring up at her captor with what you imagine must be the same kind of passionate fear you used to look up at Carly with.  You easily recall the raw emotions you experienced the very first time you, in your newly shrunken state, looked up at the towering visage of your then-fourteen-year-old sister as you stood pitifully at the base of her worn-out flip-flops, finding yourself face-to-toe with what would become one of your greatest tormentors over the next five years.  The dread.  The hopelessness.  The realization that, at least physically, every last bit of your control had been handed over to Carly on a silver platter, and you had no say in the matter.  All you could do was stare upward and pray to an apparently deaf God that you would be saved before Carly could grind you into the rippled treads of her immense shoe.

                “So… Carly… honey…” begins Sophie slyly, a sugary-sweet tone coating her voice rather falsely as she glares down at the living doll below her.  “How are we doing down there?”

                You hear nothing from Carly.  All you see is uncontrollable quivering.  Sophie frowns, stroking at her chin and sliding a hand down her rose-colored tank top to smooth out the wrinkles, then opens her mouth slowly, exhaling.

                “Okay, rule number one, girl,” continues Sophie, sarcastically tossing out pet names to her cousin and former friend.  “I talk to you, you have to talk back.  It’s just kind of a courtesy thing.  You respect me, and I’ll give you the kind of respect you deserve.  Don’t… and, well, things get more complicated.  Got it?”

                A moment passes and then, by straining your ears, you hear Carly squeak, “YES!”

                It’s a strange sound to hear.  Undeniably, it’s your sister’s voice, but you cannot remember a time when she sounded so afraid.  You never hear anything but condescension, confidence, and piousness projected from your sister’s sultry vocal chords.  The sound just made, despite belonging to Carly, is incredibly foreign to you.

                Sophie nods, smiling appreciably down at Carly.  It’s a smile not so much of gladness at your sister’s cooperation, but more akin to satisfaction at successfully training a dog to perform a trick.

                “Good girl,” giggles Sophie, driving the point home.  “Now: here’s the deal.  On the way to get you, for a while I actually considered giving you a chance to talk.  I figured it would be fair and all, you know?  Every story has a side, and maybe yours wouldn’t sound so good, but hey, I know you.  You used to be my friend.  You deserve a chance.”

                At this, you see Carly’s shaking momentarily stop.  “Oh, thank God… THANK you, Sophie.  Please, please, just listen to me.  I can explain EVERYTHING, I swear to God, just let me...”

                “ENOUGH!” screeches Sophie suddenly, her face twisting into an enraged frown.  Carly freezes, shocked, before starting to shake again.  “Shut up.  No, like I said.  I was considering it.  But then I remembered what you did to Jack.  How YOU handled things when you found him, all alone on the floor in your house, tiny and scared.  He’d already been through a lot just getting inside.  And… and what did you do?  Did you give him a chance to explain himself?”

                Carly is silent.

                “No.  No, you didn’t,” growls Sophie.  “You just picked him up and turned him into your guinea pig.  He’s… he’s your fucking brother, for God’s sake.  He’s your FAMILY.  And you… you… just m-m-made him…” stutters Sophie, her voice cracking and her eyes watering with tears as she relives the vivid stories you relayed to her earlier about your experience in Carly’s captivity.  “So that’s what we’re going to do for you.  You don’t get to try to tell me what happened.  You’d probably lie, anyway.  No, instead, we’re going to do something different,” hisses your cousin, leaning over closer to the ground and causing Carly to drop to her knees in fear as the humongous feminine face closes in toward her.  Gingerly, Sophie places a hand flat on the carpet directly in front of your sister, tapping her fingers against the fuzzy fabric of the ground.

                “Sophie…” wheezes Carly fearfully.

                “Instead, you’re going to tell me what you’re willing to do,” states Sophie simply, curling the fingers of her hand inward.

                “Willing to… d-do?  For w-what?” stutters your sister, shaking so hard it looks like her knees might give out.

                Sophie nods, biting her lip, and waits a moment without answering.  Then, without warning and without flinching, flicks all her fingers out with great force and speed, catching your sister directly in the chest.  You cry out in shock as you watch the fully stunned and immobilized Carly fling through the air like a ragdoll, landing what looks to you on your scale like twenty feet back from where she started.  You hear Carly scream in pain as she strikes the ground, bouncing once before landing hard again, her arms trembling and probably broken as well.

                So focused were you on your helpless sister tumbling across the carpet that you didn’t even notice as Sophie calmly rose from her bed, walking forward in a crouching position.  You watch as the pained and bruised Carly pushes off the ground, trying to stand up, but your cousin’s gargantuan thumb comes down hard, pinning your sister easily to the carpet.  With the wind already knocked out of her, your sister is no match for the hulking sixteen-year-old’s finger as it kneads at her bare back.  Carly moans in agony, still extremely sore from the painful flight she took across the carpet, as Sophie’s fingers curl unceremoniously around the tiny body and pluck your sister from the carpet.  You gasp, making another futile check around you for something you could use to help, but there’s nothing.  You open your mouth, wanting to cry out and say something, but no sound escapes your lips.  It’s like you’ve been locked in a nightmare, forced to watch the most surreal of scenes, all the while completely unable to make even the tiniest peep to remind you that it’s real.

                Except this time, it’s not a nightmare.  It’s just as real as anything you’ve faced in the last half a decade at the cruel hands of your sibling goddess, and it burns you to your core to have to watch.

                You hear Carly sobbing violently and piteously as she is raised up to eye level with your cousin, who shows no signs in her crackling eyes of softening up.  In fact, Carly’s tears seem only to fuel the fire.  Sophie is getting exactly the reaction she had hoped for.  You see a tremendous smile curl across her plush lips.

                “You want to know what for, huh?” queries Sophie.  “Well, for starters, you can show me what you’re willing to do to keep me from letting you take a dive down into my stomach as my appetizer,” she says simply before parting her lips and dangling your sister’s almost limp body toward it.  You wince, wanting so desperately to help but knowing you can’t, as Carly is lowered purposefully between the open pink lips of your determined cousin before being encased in darkness by the closing of Sophie’s mouth, followed by a satisfied sigh.

                Almost immediately, your cousin gets to work, shifting her rosy cheeks side to side and swishing your sister around between them.  You hear the liquid sloshing of her saliva, no-doubt practically drowning the unprepared Carly in the damp, sticky nightmare, and the popping of the huge tongue flapping against the roof of her mouth and the foreign, sentient object currently inhabiting her hellish cage of a mouth.  Sophie frowns, clearly very focused on crafting an exquisitely horrific ride for your sister between her jaws, as a glistening dribble of thick spit trickles down her chin.  You’ve often wondered what it would look like to an outside observer as Carly sucks your entire body for sheer entertainment and torture value, but now that you’re experiencing this view, you wish you had the power to close your eyes and make it go away.  You feel a twinge of agony in your heart as you watch the tiniest pinpoint press out against the inside of Sophie’s cheek before being rocked away again by her monstrous snake of a tongue: clearly, Carly was trying to press against the inside of your cousin’s mouth in a vain attempt at oral salvation.

                All you can do is stare, unblinkingly, so badly wanting to look away, but the sight is already burned into your retinas.

                It feels like hours go by, although it’s only minutes, before Sophie crouches down on the ground, lowering her head toward her knees, and opens her mouth, retching.  The slimy body of Carly tumbles out and plops wetly to the carpet, along with a cascading river of hot saliva that pools thickly around her and soaks into the carpet.  Although it’s slight, you can see Carly’s limbs writhing and trying to break free, practically glued to the carpet by the heavy adhesive of Sophie’s squalid slobber as it remains stuck to your sister’s arms in long, crystalline strands of goop.

                Smacking her lips a few times to recover some kind of equilibrium in her mouth, Sophie’s eyes squint and her nose wrinkles.  At first raising a hand toward her mouth, your cousin instead slyly smiles and faces directly down at Carly, still fighting to escape the swamp of spit.  Opening her lips again and groaning, Sophie sneezes loudly, releasing a rain of yellow, globular snot down onto your already severely weakened sister.  Intermittently, you hear your sister crying throatily and coughing harshly as she attempts to breathe somehow through the soupy film of your cousin’s dribbling boogers.  You cringe, watching as Sophie’s disgusting bodily liquids wash over your helpless sister, who at this point seems to have given up the hope of breaking through the gummy layers of goo and instead lays flat.

                Sophie giggles, wiping her nose.  “Oh, Carly.  What’s the problem?  Can’t even say God bless you?  I thought we were trying for respect here,” she taunts.  There’s no response from your sister.  Sophie squints in disbelief.  “You trying to play dead?  Cute, but it’s not going to work.  I know you can take a lot more than that.  Now, get up.”

                Still no response.  Sophie shrugs.

                “Suit yourself, girl.  Just don’t say I didn’t give you a chance,” she states absentmindedly, brushing a smooth blonde lock out of her eyes, before calmly working at the laces on her tennis shoes, loosening the fabric flap.  Successful, she yanks them off and tosses them to the side of the room, leaving your sister cowering pathetically before the twin powerhouse altars of Sophie’s slender, tanned bare feet.  Her toes part and wiggle, airing out, as your cousin sighs with relief.  “Ohhhhh, God… THAT feels good…”

                You know perfectly well what your cousin is planning right now.  Frantically, you turn around, taking one final scan of the room, hoping against hope to catch something you missed.  The desk is reasonably clean, with only a few pencils, a notebook, and a few books stacked together.  These will do you no good.  However, in your state of panicked focus, your eyes snag on something new concealed behind the pile of books.  Unsure of what it is, you dash to the far side of the stack of books, peering around cautiously, and find a yellow pompom.

                Of course.  Sophie is on the cheerleading squad at her high school.  Gulping, you step forward into the crinkly brush of the pompom, fighting your way toward the epicenter.  Finding it, you begin tugging with all your might at the base of one of the strands.  With some effort, you loosen it, and from there you are able to tear it free with some rocking.  The strand is long, but not long enough for your means.  Sighing and taking a deep breath, you grasp around another strand and begin tugging.

                “Last chance to get up, girl,” you hear Sophie offer falsely to your sister.  “You could run.  Hey, maybe it would surprise me so much that you’d be able to…” she begins before breaking into uncontrollable snickering.  “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I know it’s a ridiculous sounding joke, but I just couldn’t resist.  You know just as well as I do that I’d have you before you’d made it three steps toward that door.  And even then, there’s nowhere for you to go.  No one’s home.  It’s just you, me, and your poor brother for a couple hours.  And that’s all I really need.  You’re going to learn a few things tonight that you will never, EVER forget, you little bitch.  Right now, you… are mine.  Mine.”

                You break a third strand free and drag the three thin streamers roughly out of the yellow forest of the entire pompom, laying them end-to-end across the desk.  Panting from the effort of tearing them off, you set to work tying the ends together, crafting a single rope of pompom material.  Then, at one end, you tie a loop together and step slowly toward the edge of the desk.  Just as you had expected, there’s a long drawer just below the surface of the desk with a bronze knob.  Dangling the loop low enough, you catch the handle and toss the rest of the pompom rope over the edge of the desk.  The end just barely touches the carpet.  Taking a deep breath again and steeling your already fried nerves, you lower yourself down to the knob without slipping and wrap your clammy fingers around the slick rope of the streamers.

                Sophie rises back to full standing height, placing her hands on her narrow hips and smirking down at Carly, who still seems to be making no real effort to escape her gooey fate beneath a pile of spit and snot.  Your cousin chuckles deeply, raising her right foot off the ground.

                “C’mon, Carly, nothing?  Nothing at all?  No fight in you?  You’re making this sooooo much less fun than it could be for both of us.  Think about it.  The better mood I’m in, the better off you’re going to be.  Common sense.  But hey, who am I to argue if you like it a little rougher?  I’ll get you to learn, one way or another.”

                Deliberately, Sophie lowers her foot down toward your sister, her big toe pointed elegantly outward as she taps it against Carly’s stomach.  No reaction.  Wrinkling her lips in disgust, Sophie rears her foot back and wipes the droplet of spit on her toe off on the carpet before raising it back over Carly.

                “Phase two, you little whore.  Show me what you’re willing to do to keep me from liquefying you under my heel,” threatens Sophie, lowering her sole down onto your sister.  You see some token squirming coming from your terrified sibling as she disappears into the darkness, her body covered completely by the soft, fleshy ceiling of Sophie’s foot.

                Sweating in fear, you slide down the streamer rope like a fireman, reaching the ground much sooner than you had expected and landing roughly on your ankles.  You groan, feeling an extremely painful burn rip through your left shin.  You’ve twisted your ankle, you can tell already.  Nevertheless, it was necessary; your time to act might be running out quickly.  Clambering to your feet, you begin hobbling across the wide plain of the bedroom carpet.  You’re not sure you’re willing to even consider whether or not Sophie plans on snuffing the life out of Carly, but that’s not even the issue.  The sixteen-year-old, in her state of rage and inexperience dealing with doll-sized people, is roughing up your sister with no signs of stopping, and you have a feeling it won’t take much at this point beyond an accidental shifting of Sophie’s weight to end your sister’s life.

                Moving as quickly as you can, you watch as Sophie’s foot rotates, rubbing itself all over Carly’s phlegm-drenched nude body before twisting her wrinkled sole roughly onto her criminally insane female cousin.  Then, sliding slowly over Carly’s body, you watch as Sophie’s dexterous toes curl themselves around your sister’s head and shoulders, dragging her backward across the carpet.  You hear screaming as Carly thrashes uselessly against the iron grip of her cousin’s sweaty toes, the carpet raking rug burns across her tender skin.  Setting Carly back down, then, Sophie wraps her big and second toes around your sister’s waist, gripping her firmly between them before beginning to knead.  In and out, your cousin’s toes pulse powerfully around Carly’s bruised sides.  Your sister screeches in pain, wincing each time the two mammoth toes pump inward on her.

                Your leg stinging wildly, you manage to limp into the vicinity of this awful spectacle.  Sophie seems to not even notice your presence as you move closer, as she focuses entirely on making it abundantly clear to your sister where her place on the social totem pole is now.  You stop just short of Sophie’s burly foot, watching almost mesmerized as the smooth, meaty flesh wracks horrible pain into the tortured body and mind of your sister.  You watch as Sophie’s toes curl in and out like a machine, meticulously and rhythmically giving your sister her comeuppance between her rudely caressing, dingy, stale-scented toes.  You stare at the tear-soaked face of your naked sister, her eyes closed, her body trembling violently.  You hardly recognize her.  You reach out a hand, not really sure of what you can do to overpower Sophie’s leviathan toes, but something stops you.  You retract your hand.  You stare.

                What you’re witnessing is a summary of your life for the past five years.  It’s so strange and unbelievable to see it happening to someone other than you, and yet here it is, right in front of you.  A human being.  A tiny, tiny human being, but a human being nonetheless.  Jammed roughly between a pair of grimy, unwashed toes on the filthiest part of someone’s body and ground so hard against the smooth skin they might as well be melding into the foot itself.  Carly’s dignity and worth being robbed of her with each squeeze of Sophie’s toes.

                You crumble to your knees, breathing heavily, as the reality of things comes flying at you all at once.  The reason you just fought so hard to get to your sister in time wasn’t because of some great desire to save your goddess and return to the life you had finally learned to love.  You’re doing it because your sister had programmed you so well to do her bidding, even when freedom is finally at hand, you choose to remain her slave.  You cough, your arms shaking, as you drink it all in.  What you’ve become.  The freak person of a being.  Are you even alive anymore?  Are you even conscious?  So few creatures are advanced enough to make decisions beyond those based on primal instinct.  What you did was based on a will twisted and molested so many times it’s not even recognizable as human anymore.

                Human.  You’re not even sure what that means anymore.  You highly doubt you are one anymore, particularly after what Carly did to you an hour ago.

                One thing is clear, though.  By reaching forth to free Carly from the tormenting torture of Sophie’s rigorous foot rub, you would go beyond confirming your ownership to your sister.  You would confirm it to Sophie.  The world itself.  You would be proclaiming your inhumanity to all of existence.  And that’s just not something you’re willing to do.  You might have hit rock bottom, but when you squint, you can see the light still at the top of the tunnel.

                And by God, you’re going to fight until there’s no breath left in your body.  You frown.  You bite your lip.  You clench your fists tightly together.  You open your mouth, and finally, sound comes out.

                “FUCK YOU, CARLY!” you scream at the top of your lungs.  “FUCK YOU!”

                From above, you hear laughter from your cousin as the intensity of Carly’s beating heats up.  “Glad to see you join us, Jack,” she chuckles.  “I’m sure your sister could really use the support.”

                You fume as you stare ahead into Carly’s eyes, which lock with yours on an equal size plain for the first time in a very long while.  Slowly, she recognizes what’s happened to you.  All her work over the past five years converting you into her mindless toy and pet was just undone in an immaculately revelatory picosecond.  You’re not willing to sit still and let her subjugate you any longer.  You’re going to be a human being if it kills you.  She quivers harder, hatred exuding out of both your pairs of eyes so much you wouldn’t be surprised if one of you passed out from the sheer, unbridled rage connecting you in a cataclysmic bond.

                “Tell you what, Jack,” says Sophie slowly, finally releasing the slimy, bruised, battered, spit-coated, tear-stained, shaking body of your sister onto the carpet.  “Give me one more minute with Carly.  And then I’ll let YOU be the one to finish her off,” she winks at you, leaning over and gripping your sister into her palm.

                You breathe heavily, smiling.  “With pleasure, Sophie,” you answer snarkily, anticipating the pleasure it’s going to bring you to deliver the final blow to your demon of a sibling.

                You glance up, then dodge quickly to the side as Sophie’s jeans come barreling softly down to the carpet, still wrapped around her ankles.  Confused, you watch for a moment as Sophie picks at her light blue panties for a moment, before turning around and tugging them off her tight butt cheeks just enough to reveal her menacing crack.  You cock your head, your breathing slowing down again.  Surely she wouldn’t.  She couldn’t.  Not sweet Sophie.  Could she?

                Oh, God, yes, please.

                Giggling maniacally and abandoning all reservation for the situation, Sophie grips your sister like a dildo and jams her quickly and deeply into the dark, rank interior of her butthole.  Your sister’s legs, now the only two things not completely submerged in your cousin’s anus, kick wildly in a fight for freedom, but this is quickly given end as Sophie sighs girlishly, pressing two fingers against the bottoms of your sister’s feet, pushing them in too.  You gasp, hardly daring to believe the sight before you, as your tiny devil of a sister disappears into the darkness of Sophie’s ass.

                Sophie grips her firm, muscular butt cheeks and rocks them from side to side for a moment, flexing them and smiling down proudly at you.  All you can do is gaze upward in wonder, your skin tingling to imagine the absolute hell your sister is currently being forced to endure.  You wonder if she’s managed to maintain consciousness in there.  Without a trace of guilt, you hope not.  Frankly, your darker side half-wishes Sophie found herself in sudden need of a restroom, but somehow, this is enough for you.

                A few more minutes pass before Sophie tugs at her panties again, nodding to herself and then looking down at you.  “I think she’s had long enough in the holding cell, wouldn’t you say?” she grins jokingly.

                “Ohhh… I guess,” you answer, smiling slyly.

                “Let’s end this, Jack.  You and me, right now,” she urges as her fingers begin fishing into her bottom.  After a moment of uncomfortable shifting, Sophie plucks out Carly’s body, which seems to have gone limp, and lowers it toward the ground, laying Carly in front of you.

                It’s your turn.

                You’re so determined and ready for this moment, the damnable stench of Sophie’s damp ass wafting off of your sister’s body doesn’t even bother you.  You step forward, standing over Carly, and watch with glee as her eyes open.  She frowns at you, coughing and crying silently now, no longer caring about voicing her agony to either you or your cousin.

                “Hey… little bro,” she says slowly.

                “Hey, Aphrodite,” you answer sarcastically.  “Enjoying yourself?”

                “Hell, yes,” your sister responds darkly, coughing lightly.  “Don’t know why you used to complain so much.  Having the time of my life here.”

                “Glad to hear it,” you say, and for a minute, there’s silence.  Sophie towers over the two of you, but remains quiet, giving you your moment of peace to talk a final time with your sister.

                “Been a long time.”

                “What?” you say, surprised by the breaking of the silence.

                “I said it’s been a long time.  Since I’ve looked up at you.  Instead of… well, you know.”

                “Yeah.  I get it,” you answer, genuinely agreeing with the oddness of the moment.

                “I’m gonna miss it.  A lot of it.  Having you all to myself, I mean.”

                “I got that, too… Carly,” you say slowly, clenching your fists.

                “And now you’re going to finish me.  That’s what she said, isn’t it?”

                Another moment of silence.  You can feel your blood beginning to boil, your face flushing crimson.  You grit your teeth, then spit out the words all at once.  “You STOLE FIVE YEARS OF MY LIFE, YOU BITCH!”

                “I know,” calmly responds Carly, remaining in her lying down position.

                “I did EVERYTHING you EVER asked me to, and STILL you NEVER let me go… you… you kept me like your personal THING… BRAINWASHING me…”

                “Oh, c’mon, little bro, don’t be silly.  I did a lot of things to you, I know, but I never brainwashed you.”

                “What the fuck does THAT mean?”

                “Exactly what it sounds like.  I may have worn the pants in our relationship, so to speak, but I can’t control what’s in your brain.  That’s alllllll you, little bro.  And you know it,” articulates your sister with ominous clarity, as if wanting to get her final thoughts out in the open before she loses the chance forever.  “You can make that choice.  You made the choice to love me finally.  Nobody could make you do that.”

                “Shut up.  Just SHUT UP!” you growl at your sister, chilled by her words.  “You’re a liar.  A fucking freak.  You… you took my life away… what makes you think YOU deserve to have YOURS?”

                “The world out there can’t protect you like I can, Jack,” your sister states weakly, coughing again.  “Oh, sure, we played pretty rough.  I fucked you up pretty badly.  But I never hurt you so much that you had to worry about dying.  I kept you safe.  You know that too.  You’re too important to me.  Or… you WERE too important to me.”

                “You never even gave me the choice…”

                “You wouldn’t have wanted it,” your sister states softly.  “You wouldn’t have known what was best for you.  You were always so caught up in being the best and being the boss of me that you couldn’t see the kind of life you were heading toward.  So fine.  Now you’re going to go out there and figure out that the world is going to want to kill you sometimes.  And nobody’s going to stop it from doing that.  I won’t be there anymore to protect you.”

                Silence again.  You swallow slowly, clenching your fists.  “I’m okay with that, Carly.  It’s my life.  MY LIFE!” you roar, the rage bubbling up again.  “And it’s worth the risk to me to live it fully out there, instead of half-alive inside your drawer.”

                With what strength she has left, Carly shrugs, then leans over, vomiting onto the carpet near her head as she succumbs to the stench of Sophie’s moist anus still clinging to her skin before flopping over again, staring up at you.

                “So go ahead.  End it, little bro.  I deserve it, don’t I?  That’s what I’m getting from what you’re saying.  A life for a life.  I had my fun, and now you get to have yours,” your sister croaks.  “Kill me.”

                You dive to the ground, ignoring the pain in your twisted ankle, crouching over your sister’s badly injured body, still caked in your cousin’s steadily drying bodily juices.  You stare into those blue eyes.  Those bright blue eyes hiding so much madness.  So much darkness.  So much evil.  To snuff them out would be doing the world a favor.  The Earth would shine with a little more light at their loss.

                You raise a fist, preparing, then quickly exhale.

                “No,” you answer slowly.

                Carly raises an eyebrow.

                “I kill you, and I give up what I’ve been fighting for all this time.  I wouldn’t be a person anymore.  I’d be… like… you…” you growl slowly, and watch as Carly’s face pales, her eyes glistening frostily.  As the realization rushes over her.  All your fears transferred directly into your sister’s tortured mind with a few sentences.  Fresh tears roll down her cheeks as it all sinks in.  You watch for a moment, pausing, savoring the sight of a punishment far more fitting than death as your sister drinks in her own self-perpetuated dehumanization.  “You’ve worked so hard to take away my humanity, sis,” you continue steadily.  “That you didn’t even realize… you gave up your own in the process.  Congratulations.  BITCH!” you shout at the top of your lungs, bringing your fist down onto Carly’s face, five years of fury rolled up into it.  Smashing down with all your strength, you hear the snap as your sister’s nose breaks and she goes unconscious.

                Breathing heavily, swear pouring down your back, you rise, staring down at your sister’s beaten, broken, yet alive body.  Your ultimate foe finally fallen before you.  Spitting on the ground as a final sign of your bitter detestation, you step forward toward Sophie’s waiting palm and climb in.

                Sophie’s eyes are watering, her fingers trembling as she soaks in the scene she just witnessed.  You, however, take a calm seat in her warm palm, quivering gently in the coldness of the room.

                “Oh my God…” gasps your cousin, unable to process it all fully.

                “We need to get her some help, Sophie.  A doctor.  She could really use it.”

                “I know, I know, but…”

                “And… I’d kind of like to see my parents again, if that’s all right.”

                “Of course!  It’s just that… that…”

                “It doesn’t matter.  Don’t say anything about it, please,” you ask gently, and your cousin closes her lips for a moment, a tear sliding down her cheek, nodding and respecting your wish.

                “It’s done, Jack.  For real now.”

                “Yes,” you answer simply, smiling slowly with relief and laying back in the safety of your cousin’s soft palm.  “It’s really over.”

In your mind, you can hear the faint echo of the old but simple battle cry that's kept you alive for this long, and as a few tears of genuine joy roll down your own cheeks as well, you repeat it softly to yourself.

Human being.

End Notes:

Stay tuned for a brief epilogue.

Epilogue: Six Months Later by Jacksmith

                You open your eyes.  Groggily, you blink a few times as the world comes back into focus again.  Above your head is a tree towering over you like a maple skyscraper, the jungle of leaves at the top looking like a storm cloud of wind-rustled emerald smoke.  You sit up on the dish towel resting on the soft blades of grass, and look around.  Your backyard stretches before you like an unexplored wilderness, and some primal desire in you wants to leap forward and search every nook and cranny of every blade of grass.

                Something inside of you has changed in the months since your five year captivity in Carly’s hands ended.  With the knowledge that you are, at long last, free to pursue your own aims and intentions rather than simply surviving a vicious onslaught at the behest of a cruel goddess, a new, more adventurous side of you has awakened.  You yearn to seek out the wonderful things you’ve been missing in your life and somehow fill that poisonously hollow, five-year-long space that was occupied by so much darkness and fear.  You know that those years will always remain as a scar in your mind, but for the first time in as long as you can remember, the idea of a brighter horizon for your existence gives you the courage to stand up, take a deep breath, and smile at the world.  That big, big world that just happens to be a bit bigger to you than it was a matter of years ago.

                Part of you doubts things will ever return fully to normal as you continue to remain at just under three inches in height, even while medical experts your parents have found scramble to find a cure for your alien ailment.  In fact, when you are honest with yourself, you believe you will spend the remainder of your days no larger than a child’s action figure.

                Somehow, though, in this moment, as you recline comfortably on the dish towel and stare up into the sky as warm waves of orange and fuchsia wash over it, sending the floating clouds drifting again on the loping plain of open air, you don’t care about this fact.  For the moment, you can simply be.

                “Finally awake, sleepyhead?” coos a voice jokingly to your right.  You grin, looking up at Sophie as she leans comfortably against the tree watching over you while you nap, her legs outstretched and crossed, a paperback book in her hands.

                “I guess so… I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to last, though.  Pretty tired,” you admit, standing up.

                Sophie frowns, concerned.  “Are you sure it’s not too chilly out here for you?  I don’t even know how you were able to fall asleep with this breeze blowing through.”

                “Believe me, when you’re tired enough, you find a way,” you chuckle.

                “Do you want to go inside now?”

                “No, no, no.  I… like it out here.  It’s peaceful,” you state, nodding and glancing up at the sky of the setting sun again.

                “I know what you mean,” agrees your cousin sweetly, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes and staring upward as well at the sky.  “It’s like looking at the ocean, somehow.”

                “I could stay out here all night,” you smile.

                “Are you kidding?  You’d freeze out here.”

                “Okay.  What would you suggest, then?”

                Sophie turns her head back down to you, then sets her book down at her side, and lays her hand flat on the grass next to your dish towel, palm up.  “Can I give you a lift?”

                “Sure,” you answer trustingly, stepping forward without reservation into your cousin’s warm hand, careful not to trip as you cross over her fingers.  Slowly, you take a seat in the center of her creased palm, ruffling the cotton doll clothes that adorn your body for warmth (the closest thing you’ve had to legitimate clothes in years, and it feels fantastic finally having some privacy again).  Gently, Sophie raises you up higher toward her face.  You yawn loudly, covering your mouth.  “Excuse me…” you say sheepishly.

                “No need to be excused.  You’re tired, aren’t you?”

                “Yeah.”

                “Well, do you think it would be more comfortable to sleep here?”

                You look down at the soft, fleshy ground of Sophie’s hand, confused for a moment, then look back up at her face, your eyebrows raised.  “You mean… in your hand?”

                She shrugs.  “Sure, why not?  Not like I have somewhere else to be right now.  I want to finish this book, anyway.”

                You smile.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’d like that.”

                She nods, grinning cutely.  “Good.  Want some extra help keeping warm?”

                Again, you look up at her confusedly, but rather than answer, Sophie simply wraps her fingers tenderly around your body, clasping you just firmly enough to keep you in place without restraining you too tightly.  Instantly, the warmth of your cousin’s skin curled around your entire body fights back the chill of the air, and already you feel like you could fall asleep.

                “Cozy?” whispers Sophie, gently rocking her hand as if it were a crib for you.

                “Very,” you answer.  “Thank you.”

                “Of course.  Anytime,” she responds simply, continuing the gentle rocking motion as your eyelids begin to get droopy.

                “No, really.  I mean… thank you,” you repeat.

                “For what?”

                “For… everything.  For saving me.  For… for being my… friend,” you finish sincerely.

                Sophie smiles warmly.  “I’m glad you’re my friend too, Jack.  Now, don’t worry about a thing.  Just rest your eyes.  I’ll take care of you.  I’ll never let anything happen to you again.”

                “Promise?” you ask softly, yawning again.

                “Promise.  Cross my heart and hope to die.  Sweet dreams, little guy,” your beautiful cousin croons, almost as a lullaby.

                You finally close your eyes, a smile on your face, not a care or a worry in your heart, as you snuggle warmly into the soothing, cushiony pad of Sophie’s palm, her firm fingers gently caressing you as you drift off into a peaceful sleep.

End Notes:

Well, there is it.  Hope you liked it, thanks for reading, especially if you’re one of those crazy people who actually read through each and every word of all three of these suckers. 

I will eventually be writing a 5th story in this series detailing Jack’s new life of supposed freedom; we would also take a look at what became of Carly after her undoing by Sophie.  I got a huge amount of reviews for this story, which was fantastic, and a great motivator to keep on writing, so thanks for that.

Peace out, kiddies.

This story archived at http://www.giantessworld.net/viewstory.php?sid=2395