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.