You feel your heartbeat syncing with Carly’s as you squeeze the doughy pad of her second toe down against your chest. Her pulse pounds vigorously through the muscle and flesh. Carefully directing its flow, you encircle the ball of her digit from one shoulder to the other, smearing the plush gridded skin against your own steaming body. Perfection. With your head tipped back, you lick idly at the sweet crevice poised just above, feeling her skin tingle at your delicate tongue. The nectar of her zesty sweat gloms down your gullet.

            In the dark, with only muffled sound from the outside world, these tactile responses are all you have to converse. Carly’s heels are especially pointy and tall today. More so than usual, you’re stacked at the bottom of a totem pole: slid into the tip at the end of a slope, with your giant sister’s sticky-summer foot crammed atop you.

            Your parents have been dragging her to church more Sundays now that she’s home for summer from college. She begrudgingly obliges, groaning as she rises from bed, often storing you somewhere convenient on her body while the sermon drones on for more than an hour. It gives her a way to pass the time, savoring the feeling of your tiny hidden body pleasing her somewhere on the landscape of her titanic person: she’s made no mistake of telling you this.

            And you’re only too happy to be along for the field trip; it wonderfully feeds into your newfound fetish for being silently present around other giants. Right now, you have a literal hall full of them, all praying and singing, blissfully unaware of the pocket of sin existing in the same space right now.

            So here you are, in the third pew at church, tucked gently into Carly’s left heel, jamming your head into the moist crevice of her toes, massaging them on your chest and lapping greedily for more like a kitten desperate for milk.

            Today she let you choose the heels you were “imprisoned” in. She you in the palm of her hand and grinned as your eyes scanned greedily over the various rows in her closet of shoes in all manner of colors, heights, and materials. Carly really is incredibly caring, more so than you ever would’ve believed even six months ago. You chose a three-inch pair, pointing modestly to them and scratching the back of your head.

            “The periwinkle ones?” Carly questioned kindly.

            “Uh, yeah.”

            “Why do you look weird about it? Too sexy for church?”

            “Not that. But… they’re kinda tall, compared to some of those others… I don’t know if that-”

            “Oh, come on, Jackie-poo, you know I like being tall,” your sister teases. Her thumb prods playfully at your bare rear end. “It’s no problem.”

            “You won’t get sore in them?” you ask. As much as Carly enjoys towering over everyone else at her basketball-stature, you also know for a fact she tends to avoid the taller variety of footwear when available. She’s certainly a function over fashion type of girl: another reason you love her so dearly.

            “I mean, maybe a little sore, but that’s why I’ll have you down there, isn’t it?” she coos. “Besides, it’s not like I’m the only one who might get sore.”

            And from there you were slid inside, patted a final time by your giant sister’s adoring fingers. Left with only a few more cracks of light from the open bedroom window, you were quickly thrust into familiar, warm darkness as her enormous bare foot barreled into the void. You were squished lovingly under her toes in your normal position, letting her digits get situated and comfortable on their makeshift miniature footrest, and off you both went.

            Today’s service seemed to drag on even longer than usual. For you, this isn’t really an issue, since you have five bouncing, sweaty toes that need attention and care. You could be down here for several sermons worth of time in your family’s church and still not pay them all the affection they deserve.

            When Carly finally pries her shoe away from her foot in the comfort and solitude of her locked bedroom, you can see the pure boredom in her eyes. Her jaw hangs open, cutely, but nonetheless with exasperation as she plucks you out of the damp insole of the sloped shoe and sets you in the sea of blankets.

            “Oh my Gooood… that went on foreeever,” she moans, rolling her head back. Your six-foot tall sister, in all her golden lanky glory, reclines back against the wall on the opposite side of her bed, the twin monuments of her newly freed peds digging at the bed sheets for massage relief. They bear telltale indents of dotted pink and raw red from where the shoe dug into her skin, in curved lines along the tops and insteps of each magnificent beast of a foot.

            You can’t help but feel a welt of guilt building in your throat like heartburn as you sit at the end of the bed. It was your choice to put her in those heels, after all. Sure, she could’ve denied you and put on something more comfortable, but she did it for you, so you’d have maximum fun while licking and worshiping her toes.

            What kind of brother are you, anyway?

             “I’m… sorry,” you mumble, clearing your throat. Your voice cracks as though you were twelve again and mustering through puberty. It makes you feel weak, but you suppose that’s a good thing in Carly’s presence. Feeling weak is correct.

            “For what?” she asks, perking up slightly at the sound of your distress. Your sister props herself up on her elbows, her boundless legs stretching out further until she has you poised between each of her arched feet, with a hill of silky fabric leading up toward her chest and curious face beyond. Of course, on the southern half of your line of sight is the deep and winding tunnel leading up her skirt, flanked on both sides by those muscular pillars of leg, and up to her dark panties at the end.

            You can’t quite answer immediately. You have to just admire the gift she’s giving you now.

            “What?” she repeats with a smirk and a rumbling giggle. “Cat got your tongue?”

            “No,” you insist. You lean over, planting a kiss on the smooth, ruddy curve of her instep as it stretches far above your nearly three-inch tall head. “My goddess got my tongue.”

            “Okay, you little flatterer,” Carly chuckles. Her feet sway from side to side, still rooted at her rounded heels to the bed on either side of you. Her toes dance and flex freely, drawing your eyes. “Speaking of which, you did a nice job down there today. It would’ve felt like it was even longer if I didn’t have you being you down there, doing what you do best in life.”

            “No problem,” you shrug.

            “So what is the problem, then?” she presses. There’s a glint in her eye, and she sits up higher, giver her greater leverage over the colossal mass that is her toned body. Her legs begin to curl, first upward at the knees, then inward as she folds them into a yoga-style pose. Those magnetizing naked pink soles curve toward one another, then draw near. As per usual, you hold still as you watch your sister enact her will, your heartbeat barely rising more than a few beats per minute, and only with anticipation.

            Her feet come together, clamping you together at the tender, deepest valley of her soles, leaving you plenty of room, even as you’re surrounded on all sides by soft, heavenly, wrinkled foot skin.

            “C’mon now,” Carly wheedles gently, in barely a murmur. She leans in nearer to you, her hot breath wafting around you in your broad vice of fleshy walls. “Tell big sissy what the problem is. Why so glum, little bro?”

            “I… um, well…” Your voice cracks again just thinking about all the discomfort you caused your sister this morning by selecting the three-inch periwinkles.

            “You wanna cry?” Carly asks. The phrase sounds a few decibels away from silly: it’s the kind of thing your sister might’ve taunted you with when the pair of you were children, making life hell for each other with the constant back-and-forth of minor skirmishes and repeated petty vengeances.

            Now, the question is genuine. Truly genuine. Caring.

            “I… don’t know.”

            “Go ahead. Cry, little bro. It’s okay,” Carly insists. “Cry for me.”

            You pause, only for a breath. It might be one of the stranger requests you’ve ever fielded from your sister, and that’s taking into account the literal years you’ve spent where she’s asked you, her older brother, to lick her sweaty toes while you jack off into the folds.

            “I want you to cry now, Jack.”

            That’s all you have to hear. As if your very bodily functions were awaiting the okay, your vision blurs and the tears cascade down your cheeks. It might be the first time you’ve really bawled in years, since the day Carly first vowed that she’d never reveal your shrunken stature as she lowered you into your new home in her shoe.

            “It’s all right. Let it out,” Carly calmly instructs like some kind of personal therapist. The illusion of therapy is somewhat warped, though, as her pinky finger massages the top of your head, while the rest of your tiny naked body is wrapped more snugly into the twin sides of her feet. Your tears seep into her skin like lotion. Your heartbeats sync again through the pulse of her flesh. Your dick slides into an especially deep sole wrinkle.

            Just about the best therapy available to you. And maybe, probably, something more. Something far more celestial.

            “I’m sorry I asked you to wear those shoes,” you sputter, your words choked back in your throat. You feel incredibly ridiculous right now, actually crying over something you both have experienced together countless times over the past several years. Maybe it’s all the time you spent down in the briny darkness nestled between her toes where your senses were altered. Maybe it’s the fact that you were in a place of worship before amongst all those people, and you were just trying to worship the only being there worthy of your worship.

            “Oh, is that all?” Carly says, stifling a giggle, for your sake. “You silly little boy. I showed you the choices, didn’t I? If I didn’t want to wear something, I wouldn’t have made it one of the choices.”

            It makes sense. Still, logic’s not quite getting through to you now, even if your sister is incredibly talented at it.

            Her fingers continue to stroke your shoulders and neck, successfully soothing you somewhat. Her soles close yet nearer around you, until she has you firmly in the grasp of each tremendous ped. It hardly makes sense, that a body as small and frail as yours is able to be gripped so dexterously just by the weathered bottoms of the feet of your nineteen-year-old savior. Yet you trust that a hurricane could blow through the room now and she wouldn’t release you from her warm grasp.

            You have absolute faith in her.

            “I know…” you sigh. With little option about where your body shifts now, given how tightly Carly’s soles are clamped around you, you take your limited recourse and lean your cheek down against her instep. By habit, your tongue flicks at the curved landscape of peachy skin walling you in. The reassuring flavor cocktail of sour salt and fruity bathwash, united by the singular, balmy taste of your sister’s skin, fresh from the steamy heels. A comfort to you in these trying times as any.

            “You always find ways to make me laugh, little bro,” Carly says brightly. She dabs at your wet cheeks with her giant fingertips, collecting your tears into the ovals of the pads. Her fingers rotate against one another, grinding, letting your tears sink into her pores. “Well, don’t let me stop you. You said your goddess has your tongue. Does she, or not?”

            “Of course,” you mutter awkwardly. With greater fervor now, you open your jaws as wide as possible and wrap them haphazardly over the textured ridge of her instep. Supple and forgiving as it is, in spite of the hard muscle beneath, her foot is simply too wide for you to really sink your teeth in. You resort to simply dragging your tongue on approximately an inch of differential, as that’s as far as your neck will crane, with the rest of your naked body gripped by her soles below.

            A few rotations and, like the connoisseur you are, you begin to collect the more nuanced flavors. The starchy memory of carpet and bed sheets, just a little downier and flowery in their persuasion. The spicy undertones of these complex tanned skin cells, marinating on a daily basis in bittersweet sweat and leaked toejam, aged like fine wine at the height of her talent and athleticism. Earthy, chocolatey. God, you’re so fucking lucky, it almost makes you nauseous.

            Carly watches from above, combing her slender fingers through her straightened dirty-blonde hair at shoulder length, her blue eyes glowing at the sight of you between her feet down in her lap. A square of late-morning sunlight from the window frames her golden countenance. She nibbles the corner of her mouth as a heavily drawn exhalation spills from the opening of her lips.

            “Maybe we haven’t done enough,” Carly utters at length, the words formed with less certainty than usual. She’s clearly been doing some intense thinking while she busily watched you hungrily sampling her giant feet.

            “What?” you gasp with some embarrassed horror. You speed up the lapping, pressing your tongue even harder into the bulwark of flesh. “I can… bite! Or, do it longer? Oh, God, I…”

            “Yeah, that’s the idea,” she interrupts happily.

            “What?”

            “That… “Oh, God” part. I mean, we’ve always talked about it, just a little bit. Almost like our cute little joke. That I’m your… you know.”

            “Yeah?” It’s funny, and a tad ironic, to hear that Carly’s always viewed this nomenclature as a partial jest. To you, nothing was ever more serious than calling your teenage sister your personal deity. Though it’s fitting, really, that the faith of the believer should be adhered more rigidly than the believed.

            “Well, all these boring mornings at church have me thinking… maybe it should be more. For us,” Carly continues, with your rapt attention drinking in every word. “Maybe, with the two of us working together, we can come up with something… beautiful.”

            “Like what?” You want to know the answer so badly, your skin feels like it’s being feasted on by thousands of unseen microbes, gnawing down to the base of your being. A reduction.

            “Religion,” Carly declares. “A new one. My religion. What do you think, little bro?”

            “Oh, God,” you moan. “Yes, please.”

            “Ask and you shall receive,” she says with a wink. Your sister grins, with the gorgeous glare of the sun still forming an abstract halo about her shining head. The wall of foot facing you curls, the wrinkles painting anew into her skin and embracing your chest, your legs, and your dick deeper into those magical folds.

            And hallowed be her name, ‘til kingdom come.