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Author's Chapter Notes:

Is it weird of me to have just as much fun naming these chapters as actually writing them?

You awaken to the feeling of gravity giving out as you roll down the cushy slope of the inside of your sister’s sock, landing with a plop in her palm which quickly closes around you in a fist.  You groggily blink your eyes, getting your bearings, and look around.  Sunlight streams in through the window.  On Carly’s digital clock, you see that it’s 7 o’clock now, normally almost time for you to leave for school.

                “All right, little bro, wake up!” says Carly, slapping at your cheeks with a fingertip.  “We have work to do.”

                “I’m awake…” you say, tired and already getting nervous.

                “I want you wide awake for this.  This time, you’re going to pay attention, and the lesson is going to stick, because you really didn’t learn anything at all yesterday, and that bothers me a little.”

                “Sorry.”

                “Don’t try and lie to me, just do better today.  Are you ready?”

                “For what?”

                “For the day, silly.  You’re going to school with me today.”

                Your heart flutters a little.  While you certainly don’t want to hear what the actual lesson is yet, it occurs to you that a day at school might offer brief chances to alert someone to the madness going on in the relationship of you and your sister, and hopefully you’ll finally get some help.

                “Okay,” you answer simply.  Carly tilts her head, giving you a funny look.

                “That’s it?”

                “Umm, yeah, I think…”

                “Well, then… ready to go in?”

                “Go… in?”

                “Yes.  Go in.”

                “Go in where?”

                “Jack, will you stop trying to play this game with me.  You’re going in my shoe.  I’m going to wear you today under my foot,” she says cheerfully, as if discussing the weather.

                Your mind goes blank.  You don’t even have a response formulated several seconds afterward.  Carly sits there, drinking in your reaction to this new development.  Surely it’s not possible to survive something like this?  Is this her way of finally killing you?

                “Carly, I… I can’t go in there…”

                You watch as Carly reaches over the edge of her bed, and brings up a pair of black moccasins between two of her fingers, clearly ignoring your last comment.  She places one on the bed next to her, but props the other one up, holding it up to you so you can see the inside.

                “This is where you’re going, little bro.  Right inside here,” she says, tapping on the outer part with her thumb.  Inside, you can see the gray felt of the interior, flattened from so many uses.  You can actually see a greasy black imprint in the shoe from the number of times your sister has worn this particular shoe, especially on the heel and ball, absolutely soaking it with her perspiration.

You begin to shake your head wildly.

                “NO!  Carly, really, I mean… you can’t…”

                She laughs.  “I CAN’T, huh?  Didn’t we just have this conversation last night?”

                “Well, yes, but I mean… this, this… I can’t… I won’t…”

                She squeezes you harder in her fist, forcing you to gurgle a little to get your oxygen.  “What’s that you just said?  I’m pretty sure I just heard you say you WON’T.  Did I hear you right?”

                You’re despondent. 

                “Answer me.”

                Nothing.

                “ANSWER me, you stupid little boy.”

                “I-I… I…”

                “How about we back up.  I’m going to put you into my shoe, Jack.  And then I’m going to put my foot on top of you.  And I’m going to wear you to school.  How does that sound?  That sound good?”

                “But…”

                “Perfect…” says Carly, grinning.  “See how much easier this is when you agree with your big sister?”

                You nod, swallowing hard, your mind already getting that familiar feeling from just yesterday.  The abandonment of hope, steadily slipping away.

                “Won’t that… I mean, won’t that… k-kill me?” you squeak out hesitantly.

                She snorts.  “Don’t be ridiculous, Jack, of course it won’t kill you.  Unless I trip or something, or I forget that you’re in there, then you might die.  But that’s all!” she says, jokingly, enjoying your reaction of stupefied terror.  “So, now you have a couple of choices…”

                “I… do?”

                She shakes her head in condescension.  “Well, don’t get too excited, none of them involve you not going into my shoe.  But here’s your choice.  You can either go under my toes, or under my sole.  I’ll let you pick the one you like better.”

                Yeah, you think.  The one you like better.  Having Carly’s full body weight threatening to slam down on your, or being kicked repeatedly all day in the front of her shoe.  What a great selection.

                You think quickly, picking your poison.  Carly’s toes can’t apply as much pressure, but with each step, she would be grinding you into the front of the shoe.  That could easily knock you unconscious after a few times.  While Carly’s sole certainly is right below her leg and therefore prone to more pressure, you recall that your sister has particularly deep arches, and in the overly dignified way she walks everywhere, it occurs to you that you might survive for longer under there as she intentionally walks more on the balls of her feet anyway.  Plus, her sole is very soft, and you know that whatever surface you’re touching for six hours will beat you up a little.  You might as well have it be the softest part possible, as opposed to her probably once-again deathly dry toes.

                “Time’s up, little bro.  What do you want, my toes or my sole?”

                “Your… sole…”

                She looks a little surprised at you, clearly expecting toes.  “Okay, then, soles it is.  You’ll get to enjoy the hard work you did for them the other day, making them all soft again.  I like them when they’re soft.  I bet you do, too,” she adds playfully. You nod.  “I thought so.”

                Her hand moves toward her shoe, and holding you over the slightly tilted mouth of the moccasin, you are released from her finger cage.  You land with a flop on the matted felt insole.  Instantly, you can feel the slight dampness in it, soaked into the very fibers of the shoe, so many times has Carly worn these and sweated in them.  You push off of the smelly insole, climbing forward, using the smoky black marks in the shoe as a guide to know where to lay.  You discover the exact spot of the sole in the shoe as gravity shifts, the shoe lowering to the ground.

                “Good boy.  Now lay down, side to side,” instructs Carly.  You obey.  “There we go.  Now hold still…” she says, lowering her foot.  You watch as her toes pass over you, slamming into the far end of the shoe.  Then comes the rest, descending slowly over you.  As soon as you are sandwiched in between the two layers (one of damp, sweaty felt, the other of cool and all-encompassing foot flesh), you begin to shiver uncontrollably again, claustrophobia setting in.  Carly must feel you shaking this hard, because her foot slides out a second later so she can see you again.

                “Why are you shaking?”

                “I…”

                “Are you afraid?”

                “Well, I…”

                “Just answer the question.  Are you afraid?”

                “Yes…” you say sheepishly.

                “Well, you don’t have to be,” says Carly, trying to sound reasonable as if disciplining a troubled elementary school kid.  “I’ll be right up here.  I’ll walk really carefully, I promise.  Nothing will happen to you in there.  You’re my little brother, I won’t let you get killed.”

                “But… but why do we have to…”

                “Why do I have to wear you?  It’s pretty simple.  After you get through today and you see that I haven’t stomped you too hard, I think you’ll appreciate your big sissy a lot more like you should.  I’ll see you later, okay, little guy?” she says without another word, burying you alive in her foot flesh, blocking out the light.

 

                You remember back to your days as a young child going to the doctor’s office, when you had to get your shots.  You’d cry a lot, but when you had the actual shot, it only stung for a second, and the doctor would just tell you to squeeze your parent’s hand until it was over.  Just hang on, and it will be over in a second.

                Now, as you lay underneath the doughy sole of your little sister, mashed hopelessly into the sweaty felt shoe, you try to put this idea into practice.  As Carly walks around, your entire world consists of being dragged down against the damp insole of the shoe as her foot rises into the air, then being pressed upward into the oppressive mass of sole above you as her foot descends, sending a shockwave into your bones with each overly dramatic step she takes.  Just hang on, and it will be over in a second.

                “A second,” of course, in this instance meaning six hours.

                At first, it was just a constant barrage of steps, your body being continuously smashed down by Carly’s sole, stopping just short of actually violently crushing your body because of the large indent between the depth of her sole vs. the level of her heel and ball.  Your arms folded tight at your sides, your legs straight, your head tilted to the side, you just try and wait it out, feeling the pummeling getting worse as Carly stomps gleefully through the halls of her school.

                After what feels like an hour or so, the pounding stops.  You hear muffled voices outside the shoe, but it’s so thick you honestly can’t distinguish anything, but you figure Carly’s in a classroom.  The only way you’re actually able to breath is through the little trickle of space between the side of Carly’s massive ped and the interior felt of the damp moccasin, and this is quite a heavy filter on your air.  By the time it reaches your nose, it’s gone through the thick filter of light, sweaty haze surrounding the hot shoe.

                Later on, though, you hear a ringing sound, muted through the fabric of the shoe.  The bell.  You brace yourself as you are once again forced to go on a bounding trip across the halls of your sister’s middle school, jammed tightly under her warm and soft sole, your back taking an absolute beating with each rise into the air as your body pancakes against the ceiling of flesh, before receiving what is essentially a rug burn on the damp felt as you are ground downward on the down step.

                At long last, Carly reaches her next class and you get another reprieve.  Or so you think.  After a few minutes, you feel the shoe going on its side for a second; Carly must have crossed her leg.  It’s okay for a second, as you adjust to essentially standing in a wedged position on the deeper foot skin of Carly’s descending heel below you, but suddenly you feel it shaking as your little sister playfully tosses her ankle side to side, even going in twisting circular motions as if stretching her ankle out.  To you, this tosses you back and forth powerfully against the damp felt sides of the shoe, loosening some sweat spray onto you.  Then, as her ankle begins to spin, you feel momentary losses of gravitational pull as you are suspended in midair before smacking your head against the ball of Carly’s foot, which is pressed firmly into the felt above you at this moment.  You get dizzy very quickly and get bruised shoulders even quicker, all from the simple action of your sister spinning and flicking her crossed leg at the ankle.      

                Once this ceases, you suddenly feel the base of the shoe bending upward; Carly’s bending her toes back absent-mindedly by pressing on a desk leg, flexing her foot.  This allows her sole to flatten more heavily against you; the pressure doubles as her sole comes down, firmly holding you into the felt.  As soon as it does, your face unprepared, you take a mouthful of damp, sweaty shoe felt and feel it getting caught in your throat.  Soon, your sister begins establishing a pattern in this position, flexing her foot back and forth, sandwiching you every couple seconds or so back into the felt, forcing you to take another bite of the matted scruff on the bottom.

                As the day wears on, you eventually begin to notice the increasingly moistened sole of your sister, having worn the warm moccasins for multiple hours, beginning to sweat more and more as your back is thrown against it again and again as she takes long strides, your backside in turn absorbing the excess and becoming just as damp as her sole..

                You wonder if she even thinks about what she’s doing now.  She’s taking a massive risk, walking among normal people, speaking to them, going to class, with you along for the ride.  No one suspects cute and sociable Carly.  No one could ever want or think of a need to ask if she, by chance, has something inside of her moccasin.  No one suspects the incredible, science-smashing anomaly that has taken place without anyone’s knowledge but your own and the owner of the massive pad of flesh you are being ground into currently.  No one suspects for a moment that she, your younger sister, has enslaved a tiny, naked human being and is currently torturing him inside her shoe in a brutal attempt to gain his fearful respect and praise.

                You see it now.  You wonder why it’s taken you this long to figure it out.  Carly stopped wanting to get revenge on you a while ago.  She may say she is, but she’s no longer interested in “teaching” you lessons about how to act. Carly wants to be your goddess. She wants you to worship her with everything you have, perhaps even your life, just because she possesses the ability to off you so easily.  She’s degraded you so far that you can just feel in your bones that Carly doesn’t want to kill you.  She wants to make you her ridiculous, tiny slave to torture whenever she feels like it.  But she won’t do it, even if she uses your body like this, raping you physically and mentally in more ways than one, just to extract that little phrase of recognition that you are, indeed, her owned thing: her doll, her plaything, her little fairy, her sex ed dummy.  You won’t give in to her.  You can’t.  You just can’t.

                Having experienced so much walking, so much tedium of being slammed back and forth between soft flesh and damp fibers, your body having reached the battering point a while back where you’re so numb to it you don’t even care, you are greeted suddenly with the treat of fresh air as your sister’s foot lifts out, replacing the sweaty musk with a sterile, minty scent.  You look up out of the shoe to see Carly’s hand descending on it, picking it up off the ground and raising it up to eye level.  At this point, you realize she’s sitting in a bathroom stall.

                “You sure don’t look dead to me, little bro.”

                “Uh-huh…” you moan dizzily, trying to reorient yourself.  Finally having the pressure off of you, and having clear enough thoughts to notice, your back begins to complain, feeling almost as if you’ve put it out in soreness.

                “Well, I don’t think you are, anyway.  Maybe you’re just faking me out,” says Carly, pulling her middle finger back like a spring on her thumb and then suddenly releasing it, flicking you in the gut.  Unprepared, you actually fly back a few inches, into the deeper section of the moccasin, against the toe area.  Lowering the shoe, Carly holds it at a vertical angle between her knees, pinching the top slightly.  You are now trapped at the base, looking up at your sister’s gargantuan torso.

                “Carly… can I please… have some food?” you say, knocking at your head a few times to get your balance back.

                “Sure,” says Carly, smiling.  “I got you some lunch from the cafeteria.  Here…” she says, taking out a saltine cracker from her jean pocket.  It’s looking a little crumbly, but you’re in no position to complain.  Holding it over the mouth of the shoe, she crunches it in her powerful fingertips, sending a shower of cracker crumbs down to you, allowing them to get stuck in the felt walls and base. You hungrily snatch them out in handful, swallowing them up.  Occasionally, you get a felt hair or the distinct taste of dirt or sweat in the cracker piece, but you couldn’t care less at this point.  As you finish up the remaining bits, you feel a shadow over you and look up to see your sister’s foot descending into the shoe, which she had been lowering steadily to the ground.  You dive forward, away from the front of the shoe.  As Carly’s dry ball lowers in, she catches you underneath, rolling you around playfully for a minute before using it to sweep you back to the center of the shoe, following it up by recovering your body with her malleable sole.

                You’re not sure whether you were knocked unconscious by the incessant pounding of your body, or you just fell asleep from the exhaustion of trying to stay in a taut position to avoid getting crushed, but you have to open your eyes and blink a few times as another wave of cool rushes over your body, your sister’s now-sweaty foot having removed itself from you.  You push up against the damp felt, using your knees as leverage (finding them to be very slick from the swear residue left on them) and stand up, looking right over your head at Carly, who is sitting next to you on the bench.  However, after standing for a moment, your sore and cramped muscles react, forcing you back to a kneeling position as you rub at your back and shoulders.

                “Did you seriously fall asleep in there?” says Carly, giggling, tightening the laces on her tennis shoes.  She’s wearing her basketball uniform, and it’s at this moment you realize you’re in the girl’s locker room as your sister prepares for basketball practice.

                “No…”

                “Yeah, you did, I saw you.”

                “Um, okay, maybe…”

                “It must have been warm in there, huh?”

                “Yeah, kind of.”

                She grins at you.  “Don’t worry, you’ll be back in there soon.  I’ll be back after practice is over in a couple of hours.  I’m going to work EXTRA hard for you.”

                You gulp.

                “You know the yard work I did for you?  What THAT did to my feet?  Wait until I get you underneath them today.  Coach Griffith says we’re running a 5K today for training.  Know how long that is?”

                You nod.  “Yes.”

                “It’s three miles.”

                “Uh-huh…” you say, your voice cracking as the silent terror builds in you like never before.

She giggles softly, so no one else can hear her.

                “After I put you back in here…” she offers calmly and kindly.  “…you’re never going to get the smell off you.  It’s going to just stay on you forever,” she says, her nose wrinkling up cutely at her “joke.”

                You shudder as your sister picks up the moccasin, placing it calmly in her assigned locker and shutting the door, locking you in a cage of mostly darkness, save for the three little grate-like openings in the side.  She presses her face against it, shutting out most of the light, but you can see her eyes staring in at you like a kid in front of a pet store window.

                “You’re gonna feel so good once I get you back in there.  You don’t even want to know how many blisters I’m going to get…” she says, poking a finger playfully through the opening in the locker and wiggling it around, as if waving to you.  “Get your arms ready, because I’m going to need someone to help rub them out…”  Your blood runs cold inside you as Carly’s finger retracts and she stomps away out of the tiled locker room, leaving you to stew.

                You imagine that, at this moment, you aren’t too dissimilar to a death row inmate waiting for the priest to show up.

Chapter End Notes:
The next chapter will go up very soon, hit a little snag with the computer
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