You collapse into a sitting position, still in front of Carly’s foot.  The foot of monstrous, terrifying power that beat the living shit out of you the previous night.  The foot of your little sister.  The foot that you that you just submitted to and worshipped with the most passionate kiss you’ve ever given in your life.  The foot that you just ASKED for PERMISSION to press your face and lips into in a show of respect, a full recognition of the fact that you are worth less than your sister’s leviathan peds of revolting transudation.

                In that simple lip pucker, you submitted to the will of two technically inanimate objects, the lowliest parts of a person younger and less worldly than yourself.

You told your little sister that your life is not as important as her feet.

                Half-consciously, it occurs to you how little you would mind if an atom bomb struck the countryside at this very moment and ended all of your lives.

                No.  NO.  NO.  This is NOT happening now.  You are NOT giving up, your subconscious screams.  You’re a HUMAN BEING, damn it!  A human being and you know it!  You know it!

                Yes, you think.  I’m a human being.  I’m a human being and nobody can take that away.

                You look up to see Carly’s face peering over you as she leans forward.  The familiar smile of malice and foreboding plastered squarely across her face, her nostrils flared, her eyes almost twinkling with sheer joy at what she had just forced you to do.  The dehumanization she caused on you with barely a touch.

                “Oh… my… GOD…” she mumbles, and for the first time in a very, very long time, she seems at a legitimate loss for words when speaking to you.  “That… that… I mean, I didn’t think you would actually…” she says, her sentence fading into a sigh of utter happiness and hope.  “I mean, well… I KNEW you would do it, but I didn’t think that…” she says.  Evidently she’s surprised.  Very surprised.  Not with the fact that you did it.  But with the incredible intensity you put into it, pressing your face into her heel so hard you could barely breath, submitting your body to those soggy peds with such feeling that you might as well have been making out with a lover.  Or giving praise to a religious figure.  That’s what it was.

                You don’t speak at first.  “Yeah…” you say, about nothing in particular.  Then you stand up, your epiphany having awakened a new sense of confidence inside of you.  It’s over now.  It has to be.  “All right, Carly.  Listen to me.  I did it.  I respect you.  I kissed your foot just like you said to.  I did it.  But now I need help, and you know it.  Please help me now,” you say, straddling the line between suggestion and demand.  You stand confident, knowing that it has to be over.

                “No, little bro,” the answer comes.

                You knew it.  You knew it all along.  She can’t be satisfied.  She’s going to keep going until there’s nothing left of you.

                But that’s not what’s going to happen.  You know it.  You can feel it in your bones.  Your survival instinct kicking in again.  You will live.  You will live through whatever she has in store for you.  This whole time has been Carly trying to break you, trying to strip you of your humanity when you have literally nothing else to be stripped of.  You know that now very well.  But she won’t have a reason to continue this if you don’t give in.  If your spirit is alive, and your body is alive, you’re alive.  And she is powerless.  For once.

                “Okay,” you state plainly and satisfied sounding.  You clench your fists.  Take it.

                Carly looks taken aback, as you expected.  Then she quickly rights herself.  “Good.  That’s what I want to hear from my little brother.  Now, that was…” she says, and her face quivers for a moment, still in shock from your display of passion.  “…pretty good.  That was what I wanted.  But…”

                Of course there’s a but.  What is it, bitch, you think.  Give it to me.

                “I see that you respect me a lot.  That kiss showed me that.  But if I can see that much passion in one kiss… I want to see more.  I want to see how MUCH you respect me.  How MUCH you mean it when you say you’ll never use your potty mouth again.”

                “Okay.”

                “Good.  Then I want you back on there.  Press your puny little self back against my foot, and show me.  Well.”

                “Show you what?” you ask matter-of-factly.

                “How much you respect me.  How much you respect my foot.  Does that make sense to you, little bro?” she says, leaning back against the bed frame again.

                “How?” you ask.

                She smiles.  “Well, it’s pretty simple really.  I want you to lick it.  I want you to lick my foot and give me that last bit of respect I know you’ve been holding back inside you.  I know it’s there after that kiss…” she mutters, still not over the shock of the kiss.  “…and I want that respect.  I want you to give it to me freely by sticking out your teeny little tongue, pressing it onto my foot, and cleaning the bottom of my heel for me.”

                Now it’s your turn to be taken aback.  You have a plan.  You have your idea of how to get out of this.  And yet this last idea sticks on you hard.  The final show you could really give in this way of your devotion to your gigantic sister and her feet.  The last step is all you have to take.

                You snap out of it.  You just made a promise to yourself.  You’re not going to falter now.

                You nod vigorously.  “Okay!” you yell up at her at the front of her bed.  She nods, but you detect the slightest glint of surprise in her eyes.

                “Very good, little bro.  Okay, go ahead.”

                You take a confident step toward the foot you just kissed.

                “AHEM.”

                “Right.  Carly.  Big Sissy.  May I please lick and clean your beautiful foot for you?” you say with perfect clearness, not tripping over a single word.

                “Yes, you may, little boy.  Show me now how much respect you have.  Show me how much love you have for my foot.”

                Without another hesitation, you take the last step forward, and plunge yourself back into the sponge of Carly’s sopping, wrinkled heel.  It’s just as terrible smelling as last time, the cool exudation again falling down in waterfalls at the microscopic openings in her foot you just smacked and allowed to flow, the sticky residue mixed with fresh sweat rolling down your back in an acrid glissade of sweat.

                Then your mouth opens, and you stick out your tongue.  You place it squarely onto your sister’s heel.  And you swipe.  You swipe quickly and hard, sliding your tongue across the bumpy, silky ridges of your sister’s wrinkle-lined ped.  This time, mouthful after mouthful of sweat pours down and into your throat.  You cough for a second but quickly clear your throat, making way for more to fill it in, your digestive tract becoming a pipeline to rid Carly’s feet of filth.  You feel like you’re pouring an entire salt shaker down your throat with a gallon of corn syrup mixed in, as well as the powerful, bitter musk of dirt and grass residue melted into the all-powerful foot of Carly.  It’s all there, and it hits all at once.

                Having long ago abandoned any thought that this final act for Carly’s feet might leave some of your so-called humanity intact, you begin to get into it.  Knowing it can’t actually hurt Carly, you begin biting hard into the flesh, thick and fibrous like damp rubber but with small, distinguishable grooves running along it where the sweat releases.  Then you combine it, biting uselessly into the impenetrable shield of repugnant flesh and licking up every still-soaked spot on her heel you can reach.  You throw yourself into the heel in a body slam, allowing the sweat to run over you again, letting your dick get swallowed up into the rancid layers and layers of dripping, loathsome foot skin.

                With a final slam into the heel, you are thrown backward as if you had jumped into a vertical trampoline.  An instant later, Carly’s hand is descending on you from behind her foot.  It’s quick, but she gets you into her fist, covering your front in her palm and sliding her fingers behind but retracting a few fingers in disgust as she realizes how thoroughly coated you are in her foot sweat.  It feels as if you’ve become so saturated in it it’s going to soak right into your inner organs and provide water for you like a camel.  That’s how wet you are at this moment.

                “Jack… I…” she says, her eyes bugged out in utter shock at how strongly I’ve gone along with this whole thing.  You feel triumphant, as if you just dashed across the front lines in a war, took out an entire enemy company, and made it back home again for apple pie.

                “Jack… that was…” she says, her eyes glowing, her smile wider than ever.  “You’re… you’re… God, you’re a mess.  Let’s clean you up, little bro,” she says, sitting up and walking toward the hallway, your sticky form wrapped snugly in her fist.

                You sit in Carly’s twin cupped hands, creating a fleshy bowled bathtub for you under the bathroom sink.  Glorious cold water rushes over your body, washing away most of the dirt and grass stains dotting your body, ridding you of the dried sweat caking you on every inch, including your crotch.  It’s literally everywhere, stacked at various levels.  Chipping at your shoulders, you send gummy flakes of drying sweat tumbling off. 

After scrubbing at yourself for a few minutes, you watch as Carly’s fingers from both hands curl inward simultaneously.  Perching you in a slanted cupped right hand, her left hand latches on at your sides with her thumb and forefinger.  Her firm but soft digits knead your sore obliques, stroking your sides, trying to rid you of any lasting filth.  From there, her fingers gently glide up to your shoulders, then begin running along your arms, stroking gently but with enough strength to rub off any remaining dirt.  Touching her fingertips to your hands with surprising gentleness, her fingers move to your neck.  With the tiniest of taps, she rubs at your neck , the back of your head, and finally your hair with her pointer finger, her smushy but muscular flesh comforting you as it bends in careful arcs, sliding down your back with two fingers.

Still cupped in her right hand, you roll forward onto your stomach and, using her soft pointer and middle fingers, your little sister strokes your back from your neck, down to your feet, rolling down your spine, over your ass cheeks, and along your toned calves.  It’s feels so good and so relaxing just having her caring, colossal fingers running down your backside with the perfect amount of firmness, the plush give of each segment of her digits pressing in and tickling you with the tiny ridges of her fingerprints, you almost forget the fact that most likely, after this little interlude of peace is over, Carly is going to turn into your goddess warlord again, most likely wanting to top what happened in her room just now.  You’d like to see her try, though.  It wouldn’t be easy to put much more passion into something than you did on her sweaty heel in that room.

This goes on for several minutes, and finally Carly’s pointer finger snakes under your flattened abs and lifts, turning you over onto your other side, facing upward.  Now once again laying flat and exposed in your sister’s hand, she stares at you for a moment, and you can almost sense the part of her that might want to help you.  But she’s too deep inside there to do anything now.

After studying your front side for a moment, Carly’s pointer finger returns to your body, running back and forth along your chest and abdomen, tickling you and rubbing your red skin rawer at the same time.  You don’t care though; it feels good just to be comforted like this, even for so little time.

With your abs done, then, you watch as Carly’s finger traces downward along your stomach, past your belly button, and to the spot right above your crotch.  It remains her for a moment, her creamy and soft fingertip brushing lightly through the hair creeping up onto your stomach, originating mostly from your crotch below.  Then, slowly, her finger descends lower on your bruised and battle-scarred body.  Before she can make contact, though, you squeeze your legs together, pulling them in to your stomach.  Somehow, your mind still won’t allow this.

“What are you doing, little bro?” she asks, pulling back, surprised at first.

“I just don’t… I mean, there’s no need…”

“You’re a mess.  Let me clean you.”

“I can clean down there.  Really, I can just…”

“Little bro, uncurl your legs for me right now.”

“Really, it’s…”

“Jack… you… you cleaned ME…” she says, clearly in a daze.  “So let me clean you back.  Open your legs up for me.  What’s the matter?”

“I guess it’s just, I mean… those are my…”

“They’re your private parts, I know what they are.  I’m in the 8th grade,” she says, smirking childishly at you.  In spite of yourself, in the depths of your soul, you actually feel like chuckling at this remark.  But you don’t.  Not quite.

“Yes, I know what they are too.  I just… I mean, that’s normally something that a person does by themselves, you know?”

She looks at you thoughtfully.  “But I’m your big sissy.  You don’t have to hide anything from me, little bro.  Not anything.  Not even your…” she says, looking down at my legs covering up that spot.  “… your little BITS…”

You feel your mind start to weaken.  You’re this far.  Why not?  You’re hurting on most of your body and you made a dedicated show of love-ridden passion onto one of her feet.  Mentally, you shrug.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

She nods slowly.  “Yes.  Open your legs for me, little bro…”

You nod again, and lower your legs, revealing your dick again.  “There we go…” whispers your little sister in such a low voice it actually gives you goose bumps of comfort.  Somehow, you feel like you’re going to be okay.

Her pointer finger descends, back to the top of your aching crotch.  Slowly, it caresses the area on the side of your sack, leading down underneath, wiping grime off of you down there.  Then, it slides underneath your sack, lifting it up and down, tickling it almost.

Next it slides up with incredible smoothness, right onto your dick.  Your dick is easily pressed into the give of her finger flesh, and she pushes down enough to move your dick downward, but not enough to cause pain.  Then she kneads at it, and you can actually feel the crusted sweat coming loose from it.  Rhythmically, her finger glides back and forth across your dick, the rest of her hand unmoving.

Instinctively, your dick reacts ever so slightly to the fact that something so smooth and soft is being brushed over it.  Mentally, you reinforce to yourself that this isn’t sexual.  It’s just your thank you for what you were willing to do to show your respect.  Your cock continues growing under the continuous, gentle, soothing pattern of your sister’s supple fingertip flesh, but your real reaction reflects as goosebumps running out over your body and into your head.  You feel like you’re on a cloud, floating over the sea, painless.

With a final, slow stroke over your dick, your sister’s finger lifts back into the air.  She smirks at you.  “Feel better now?” she asks, curling the fingers of her right hand protectively around you.

“Y-Yeah…” you say, quivering a little as your dick rises to full length despite your true feelings.

“See?  I told you not to be embarrassed by me down there,” says Carly, raising her hand up higher.  Now, with your cold and slippery form cradled in her plush and warm palm, your sister closes her hand around you, curling her fingers around your entire body in a firm embrace.

You don’t really want to, but at the same time you have no choice.  Your now fully erect dick, brushed by the palm of your sister as it closes around you, can’t help but react and you climax into the damp and watery hand of Carly.  It feels absolutely amazing to you, despite the fact that you have zero actual feeling or intent toward your sister.  To hear your subconscious tell it, it’s your reward for what you did earlier and nothing more, a sign of passionate respect more than love.

Your body convulses a little as you unload into a fleshy fold of Carly’s palm.  She feels you shaking, and opens her hand, looking down suspiciously at you.  “What are you doing, little bro?” she asks, moving her face in closer.  You quickly use a wrist to brush to brush the droplet results of your experience away and smile.

“I’m just cold and wet.  Can I have a towel?”

“Sure,” she says, smiling.  She hands you a tissue and you wipe off quickly, concealing the evidence.  Maybe it will be okay, after all.

“Let’s get some breakfast, little bro,” she says finally.

And suddenly your hope that you're out of the woods already fades as you look at her face, and for the briefest flash see the familiar evil grin, but when her eyes meet yours it disappears.