“Jack? Jack! JACK!”

            The imperious bellow, belonging so clearly to your sister, is familiar and yet foreign in your ears. It takes a moment to register where you even are, let alone where the voice is coming from other than somewhere above, as it always does.

            Prone and peaceful, your body lies still along the length of a padded cushion. To your side is an unknown shape, rising maybe just up to the height of your waist, like a bed, and suddenly the rest of the geometry around you snaps into place as you realize you’re not in the usual infinite cavern which any given space represents at less than three inches in height, but a strangely claustrophobic box. A regular room. And it is a bed beside you.

            You’re normal sized again. Laying at a height of six-foot-two.

            “Jack?” Carly calls again, still from somewhere above and unseen.

            You’ve fallen into yet another one of your strange dreams. But can you really blame yourself, for all the rich material your real life gives you to work with? Just as quickly as it occurs to you, you forget the unreality of this moment. Right now, Carly is calling for you, and that’s all that matters, whether it’s physically happening or not.

            “Oh!” Suddenly a face appears above, uncharacteristically similar in size to your own, but still as triumphant and sunny as you know it to be. “There you are!” Your sister’s face as she gazes down at you on the floor of her bedroom, smug and endearing in that way only she can manage.

            It takes another moment still to drink in her visage and correct for your expectations. It’s almost as if she’s regressed just a few revolutions of the sun, the structure of her face not yet matured to the full worldly confidence it’ll bear at age nineteen. Both of you are younger, you realize, looking down at the length of your body, inexplicably garbed in actual articles of human clothing. Somewhere deep in your gut, you understand that you and your teenaged sister are not more than a day beyond that fateful hour when you reduced down into your rightful stature.

            It feels like a universe away, to imagine that initial week of relearning your relationship as mistress and slave. The pair of you were more like children then, for as much as you knew. Now, you’re something far beyond those oh-so-human measures of time. And this “normal” size thing doesn’t feel quite right. Already you wish you were back down at the height of your sister’s thumb. Still, if you have to be this disgustingly tall, looking up at her from the floor feels like the most appropriate concession.

            “Good mooooorning!” Carly sings. She sits up in her bed, yawning and stretching out in her pajamas as she turns to face you, cocking her head to the side as she gazes lovingly at you. “I thought you would’ve gotten up already. That was nice of you to wait for me.”

            “Oh, you know,” you answer earnestly, slipping so easily into whatever strange new existence you find yourself in. “I just wanted to say good morning to you, too.”

            “Aww. That’s cute. You’re cute,” Carly coos. She slides both bare legs over the side of her bed, her naked toes wriggling and dancing above your head. “Well, whatcha waiting for?”

            Obediently, you open your mouth, and Carly crams it with her toes. For a couple minutes she alternates washing each toe along your inner cheek, thoroughly rinsing each against your lips. Your jaw begins to get a little tired after a while, but you remain calmly prone while your sister cleanses her foot in your mouth. She hums a soft tune under her breath while she does so, a cheeky grin on her lips as she slides her toes away from your teeth and instead plants her entire heel into the opening of your mouth. It rocks from side to side, the rubbery mound of her muscular appendage keeping your aching lips pried open for her use.

            A few choice slides of her instep along your tongue, and she seems finally satisfied. Carly steps off the bed with a hard slam of her heels mere inches from where you lie on the floor. She peers down at you with piteous affection.

            “That was a nice good morning,” she compliments you, playfully slapping her sole against your cheek. “You can do the other one at breakfast. C’mon. We’re gonna be late.”

            You rise up, more surprised than ever to find yourself actually standing taller than your sibling for the first time in longer than you can remember or even conceive. It feels wrong, to be standing up behind her, and looking down at the top of her head a solid five inches lower. However, from the look she gives you as she turns to leave, followed by the confident strut and the twiddling of her fingers to beckon you, it’s quickly forgotten.

            Your size difference is only physical, which to Carly, is among the least important factors of her control over you.

            Hardly bothering to think more than a few seconds ahead of your actions, you allow yourself to accept the oddity of this unreality you’re in now. Whatever’s happening, you know the best thing is to follow Carly. That always leads you down the right path. And so you do, trundling loyally after your younger sister down the steps of your parents’ house and into the hallway, finally ending up in the kitchen.

            You almost double-take at the sight of your parents, both reading the paper at the kitchen table with mugs of coffee in their hands. Your mother Leah looks up at the pair of you, smiling.

            “You’ll have to book it, hun. The bus will be here soon,” Leah says, her eyes locked to Carly’s. She doesn’t even cast a glance in your direction. Can she see you? Are you even real in this place?

            “I know, I know. But it’s the most important meal of the day!” Carly sings as the two of you arrive at the table. She turns to face you, half-smirking and raising an eyebrow at you. “Well?” she giggles.

            “Um,” you mumble, scratching your chin.

            Your sister shakes her head. “Silly boy. Get down.” She reaches up, placing her broad palm atop your head. After giving your hair a good, hard ruffle, she applies pressure, encouraging you to lower yourself. At your normal size, even arms as toned and lean as hers aren’t technically strong enough to physically force you to bow, but they don’t need to be. Automatically your muscles respond, causing you to kneel down at your sister’s feet.

            “Oh,” you say with realization. You watch her lovely toes thumping happily against the carpet fibers.

            “It’s not like you were gonna sit at the table,” she snickers, clearly amused at the very notion of such a thing. She stifles her mirth with one hand, while playing with your hair between her fingers, petting you like a beloved dog. Her hand, nearly wide enough to palm a basketball, even in her youth, seems to cover much of the top of your head, while her fingers knead your scalp. It’s certainly convincing.

            “That would’ve been weird,” you agree with her.

            “Of course it would,” she says. Carly slides into her chair, guiding you by the top of the head to sit below the tabletop, your eyes level with her stomach. Both of her bare feet are plopped heavily into your lap as soon as you’re in position.

            Above, there’s a clatter of metal utensils and glass tumblers as Carly snatches herself some breakfast, only semi-consciously acknowledging your presence now. Shrugging, you set to work, cradling the previously unattended foot from before and massaging it. You even lift it to your lips and begin to suckle. After all, it wouldn’t do to only have one of them done this morning.

            Your passion is spurred on as Carly’s other heel remains prominently planted in your lap, the ball of her foot resting conspicuously down on your crotch, pinning your member comfortably down against your thigh through your pants. Occasionally those toes wriggle against your bulge, sending an electric tingle through your nerves. A thank-you gesture.

            After a few minutes of this pleasantry, you feel a tapping on the top of your head. Regretfully, you let Carly’s big toe slurp out of your mouth.

            “I know you like doing that, little bro, but eating my toes isn’t gonna keep you going all day, and I like you awake. So eat some breakfast.”

            “Okay,” you shrug, shifting your legs in preparation to crawl out from under the table and join her at the table, but her middle finger flicks at your forehead. She giggles.

            “I didn’t say come up, did I?”

            “I don’t think you did, no.”

            “You’re funny,” she comments. Her foot prods back against your chest, the ball of it kicking insistently at your rib cage. “Go ahead and keep rubbing. Both hands. I’ll take care of you.”

            “All right,” you say again, not particularly prone to arguing with Carly’s will. You’re content enough with all these settings now, bizarre as they are, that they’re prepared to go with just about anything. You wrap both palms, as promised, back around her foot, kneading her soles and looping your fingers between her slender toes.

            When Carly leans back down below the level of the table surface again, her cheeks are puffed with food as she chews with her mouth open. After a few moments of this, she cups her palm below her chin and hocks the bite of mulched food into her hand. Then she extends her hand towards you, the ball of mushy, saliva-drenched breakfast. It smells sickly sugary of syrup and Carly’s bittersweet morning breath. Probably a bite of waffle, or whatever remains of it after your sister’s chewed it so thoroughly. It’s hard to say.

            “Go ahead,” she encourages, returning her attention back to the tabletop, though her hand continues to hover in front of your eyes, offering the gooey mass of food. “Eat up, little bro.”

            Nodding, you lean forward, as your hands still busily attend to both her bare feet, and eat out of Carly’s hand. She makes it easy, flattening her palm so your lips can wrap around the entire bite of chewed waffle. As you accept it into your mouth, she pats the top of your head again, ruffling your hair, and returns to her meal.

            It doesn’t take much more chewing on your part, obviously, since it’s already been chomped and partially dissolved by Carly’s spit. Like a baby bird waiting for snacks from its returning mother, you basically just have to swallow the humble offering. It feels good in your throat: warm, soggy and of home. Your thumbs make circles against your sister’s instep as both of her heels edge teasingly around the tent in your pants. Coaxing you higher.

            After another minute, Carly’s hand appears again from above with a fresh bite of newly chewed and swished waffle. She doesn’t duck down to look at you this time or explain; it’s pretty clear now. You don’t require any prompting to lean forward and suck the smelly chunk of buttery bread from your sister’s palm.

            This pattern proceeds for another two dozen or so bites. Occasionally after you’ve accepted your revolting treat, Carly’s fingers will toy with your hair, or cup your chin in her palm and wrap her fingers as far as they’ll reach around your neck without squeezing, presumably so she can feel the lump of food sliding down your throat. Sometimes she chuckles at the exact instant your neck bulges slightly with the soupy bite of breakfast waffle, pressing against her curious fingertips.

            At last, when no new bites are forthcoming, you lick your lips of residual syrup and Carly’s saliva, peacefully caressing your sister’s generous feet. You hear your father clear his throat from above, followed by your mother sighing.

            “Carly, honey, you two really need to get a move on. The bus will be here any minute.”

            “Okaaaay, Mom. We’re going.”

            All right, so you’re not invisible, you’re just irrelevant to your parents here; it’s comforting to have that cleared up. You look up at the sound of jangling. Thin metal on thin metal. Your sister’s naked feet remain weighed down in your lap, ensuring you stay put. Her hands come below the table again, clutching a bright red dog collar printed with cartoon bones, attached to a retractable leash in a handle.

            Wordlessly, you watch as Carly’s thumbs fumble with the snap opening of the collar. Once stretched wide, she brings it forward, curling it like a crown around your neck, then prying her finger against the slider until the thing is suitably cinched around your neck. Not so tight that it’s painful, but also enough that it’s not going to slip anywhere. Last comes the leash, clipped onto the jangling tag of the leash. By craning your neck downward, you can just make out your name and address printed on the little dog tag.

            Of course. That makes sense, really. Why would Carly want to risk losing her belongings?

            Carly’s index and middle fingers wedge themselves around the thin line of the leash, guiding down toward your neck. She hooks her thumb into your collar and gives it a little tug, again not so much that it hurts, but strong enough that you feel it squeeze your Adam’s apple. Strong enough that you know she could give you a much harder tug if she desired.

            “C’mon out of there now,” Carly instructs musically. Her sole compresses down against your crotch, gently squashing your member through the fabric. “We’re gonna be late for my school!”

            You don’t need her to tell you twice.