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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.

Chapter End Notes:

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