Carly flosses your tongue between each of her strong toes. She’s actually doing most of the work, despite your newfound capacity to do so at your “normal” sized body in this strange dreamland. Your sister begins a cycle by sliding your muscle between her big and second toes, the side of your lip clamped in the adjoining toe crevice, to ensure you keep your jaw wide for her.
Not that she needs to do this, of course; you’d keep your mouth open twenty-four hours in spite of the pain if she requested it.
Once set, she washes her skin against your tongue, working the curved grooves and bell-end tips of her digits around each sly side of your wet extremity. Flavors of long-dormant grit and sleep-sweat flow happily down your throat. On every chance she gets, she massages her toes against the insides of your gums, pressing hard enough that your cheeks bulge as though full of food.
Though this is far better than anything she might feed you for actual sustenance.
Satisfied with the cleanliness of that toe crevice, Carly shifts herself again. Her big and second toes shift to grasping the opposite side of your lip, while her next pair of toes become the object of your affections. It’s tougher to get your tongue quite so deep into this little fleshy canyon of your sister’s skin, now that you’re physically larger than she is, but you make it work. You always make it work. She still expects the same attention be paid, rolling the bead of her toe against the back of your tongue, almost daring you to gag, but you never do. You’re rewarded with a scrunch of her digits that releases tastes of feminine grime anew. Then comes the next toe crevice, and the next. Once you’ve completed that foot, it swaps positions with the other, and you give the next one the same service.
Then it all starts again in a happy cycle.
Your little sister keeps her leg crossed over her knee, so it will comfortably reach your jaw. The foot not being serviced resides in your lap, coyly rubbing her heel down at your member through your pants, never letting it get too excited, as you have to keep this up all day.
However, she also seems intent on keeping you in a constant state of barely-awoken arousal, as once she feels your pants tent beginning to wilt, her toes grasp at the crotch again, searching and caressing the tip until you rise up to half-mast again, whereupon she rests her heel comfortably and heavily down against your rod. This system of expert give-and-take spurs you to continue your work with increasing zeal.
All of this takes place, of course, while you sit below her desk in a full classroom in the very front row, where absolutely everyone can see you.
Her teacher droning on and lecturing from the blackboard, scribbling out pre-algebra equations. A brightly lit space full of younger onlookers, in full view of you and your unique tasks for their popular peer. A perfectly ordinary room. Except for you, the nearly-adult age boy sprawled at the feet of his younger sister, sucking lovingly on her toes while her opposite foot publicly and obviously teases your crotch.
You have to admit to yourself, in this bizarre new state of being, separate from your comfortable reality of residing at almost three inches in height, you were skeptical. It was hard to step into this classroom this morning. It wasn’t skepticism of your need to service Carly, of course; you understand that need better than you understand your own existence.
No, the real question was whether this act would be accepted in her classroom. For years, you and your domineering sister have carried on your secret games, cloaked from the rest of a justifiably judgmental world who have no reason or context to accept your goddess-ant partnership.
But no one has said a single thing to you. Not a word of rebellion. Sure, you’ve got plenty of eyes on you. Many of the girls smile sunbeams in your direction any chance they get, their eyes glowing green with envy for what Carly is receiving now. They duck down slightly to get a good look at you down under the desk, some of them even waving a few fingers as a silent hello. The boys, meanwhile, stare at you with raised eyebrows and stiff lips, a look of stoicism you can read right through: they’re envious too, of course, but of you. Granted, amidst the looks of yearning in the faces of the onlookers, there could very well be girls who wish they were in your place and boys who wish they were in Carly’s; your sister just has that effect on people, creating sources of desire from almost nothing.
“And that about wraps up the lesson for today. And look, with five whole minutes to spare! What a nice, cool teacher I am,” the woman at the front of the room announces with a sarcastic lilt and a chuckle. You hear her shoes thumping softly on the carpet just a few feet away from you as she wanders the front of the room. “I can’t let you wander the hallways before the bell, but you can feel free to socialize amongst yourselves.”
A rumble of chitchat quickly spreads across the room in the intervening seconds. Backpacks are zipped and feet shuffle as students rise up from their chairs. At long last, though you weren’t necessarily waiting for it with much pleasure, Carly swipes her big toe one final time along each of your inner cheeks, then pries it from your suckling lips.
Before you can wonder if she wants you to arise just yet, Carly takes hold of the loose red dog leash in her hand, wrapping it back around her wrist several times to shorten it. Then she simply takes to petting the top of your head, running her smooth fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp under her broad palm. That’s good enough incentive for you to stay put.
“Well, Carly, I have to say. I’m quite impressed.” The voice of the teacher sounds out from somewhere behind and above you, as you remain seated with your back to the front of the room, Carly’s legs your only real concern, as you’ve taken to caressing your younger sister’s firm calves while she strokes your hair.
“Thanks, Mrs. Wittelman,” your sister says cheerily, clearly not at all questioning what she’s impressed over. Carly’s hand travels from the top of your head down to your chin, which she props gently higher.
“I really do mean it. I’ve seen service dogs less well-trained than this young man down here.” You feel a foreign set of fingers on the back of your head as the teacher bends down, giving you a friendly pat.
“That means a lot,” Carly insists genuinely. Your sister lifts her bare foot, pressing it into your chest, and gives you a good enough heave that you instantly flop in reverse onto your back. Her heel comes to rest against your inner thigh, her toes curled over the crest of your pants tent, while you stare up blinkingly from the carpet at the average-sized but comparatively towering form of your sister’s math teacher. You’re completely still.
“Well, hi there, fella,” the woman says, addressing you directly, and surprising you slightly, given how she began this conversation by speaking to Carly on your behalf. She waves from above, a motherly smile crossing her lips. The glow of the ceiling lights frame her face.
“H-Hello,” you peep awkwardly, flicking your fingers at her. It occurs to you that she’s the first person besides your wonderful sister whom you’ve interacted with in this bizarre amendment to your normally shrunken reality. Really, when you think about it, aside from Sophie, Chloe, Jenny, and one other drunken incident from your teen years, this is the first adult to have acknowledged your existence in five years. It’s a little jarring.
“A little shy with strangers, is he?” Mrs. Wittelman asks, diverting her gaze away from you just as quickly as she granted it.
“Sometimes. We’re working on that,” your sister says apologetically. She applies pressure into the foot poised over your thigh, squeezing the arch of her foot down against your balls through the pants. You puff softly, readjusting yourself, and stay still. “He has his own way of saying hello, though, that he’s a lot better at than talking, if you ask me.”
“Oh? And what way might that be?” Mrs. Wittelman laughs.
“Why don’t you give him a try?” Carly offers softly. Her leg arcs forward, her perfect peachy toes splayed and parted as they lower toward your face. With expert precision, she encourages your lip open with a flick of her digits.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Mrs. Wittelman responds, sliding her left foot out of her sandal. “I hope I’m doing this right.”
“There isn’t a wrong way,” Carly promises.
By this point, more than a few of the other students have gathered around to watch, encircling your prone form as the teacher stands above your head on one leg, her bare, mature foot hovering above your face. Her skin is decidedly prunier than you’re used to, given her approach toward middle age, but at the same time, the look of those deep, plush wrinkles traversing her sole like a road map, coupled with the gloss of sandal sweat, is more than enough to get your mouth watering. She plasters her arch snugly over your mouth, and you’re all too willing to begin lapping and nibbling at will.
“Oooh!” the woman murmurs. She rocks her foot from side to side, giving you ample opportunity to taste both sides of its firm shape. “I suppose you’re right, Carly. There isn’t a wrong way to do it. Hello to you too… Jack, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Carly responds proudly, her toes bouncing above your nethers.
“Wow,” a voice from the cluster of crowding students standing above you says.
“Looks… kinda fun,” another voice comments from the opposite side, though you can’t see the owner of either statement.
“Can I try, Carly?” a third voice requests. “Please?”
“There’s still like three minutes before the bell,” another teen helpfully notes. By now, it seems the entire class is pushing and shoving one another to get a look at you lying on the floor, your sister’s feet resting on your thighs and obvious erection, while the math teacher gets a tongue bath on her tired peds.
“All right, but just this one time,” your sister warns sternly. You can tell she means it, even as her tone is cracked by a smile at all the attention her well-trained pet is receiving on her account. She’s soaking up the attention right now, as is only right. With some palpable regret as she drags her toes back over your teeth a final time, Mrs. Wittelman pulls her now-wet foot away from your hungry lips.
And so it begins, with more than half the students of your little sister’s pre-algebra class lining up patiently for their turn. You take a deep breath, swallow, and smack your lips a few times in preparation for the mini marathon.
You’re faced with an almost overwhelming smorgasbord of eager feet. Some of the initial takers seem to have an affinity for pedicures: you’re treated to a delicious set of toes, flavored with some sort of apricot lotion, tanned to golden perfection and painted a pretty hot-pink. Another bears baby-blue-spotted nails, with a more tropical flowery flavor, mixed with the rubber of her sandals.
Then come the feet bearing flavors you’re a little more used to. Stained with muck from the straps of sandals and flip-flop thongs, these peds also tend to come with more aggressive owners. Even in partial shadow, you can see the dusty imprints caked along soles and insteps, clearly unbothered about all the mess that’s about to be put in your mouth. More than once, you’re almost gagged as a big toe attempts to deep-throat you. Along the way, a veritable cesspool of fleshy spices wash down your throat and almost choke you in the way the squirming digits can’t quite reach.
Still, some of the samplers are wearing tennis shoes, and don’t bother to remove their socks before testing you. Not that you necessarily have a problem with that, it’s just not what you’re used to. You receive several mouthfuls of cotton, some of it white and fluffy indicating new footwear, but just as many socked feet coated with grit and grime on the bottom, thinned over so many usages you can taste the grease-soaked geometry of the hard foot beneath.
Through it all, perhaps to keep you happy and calm, and maybe more importantly, to remind you of where your truest loyalties lie, Carly keeps both of her feet crossed squarely across your crotch like a coffee table. With your member bent awkwardly to the side of your thigh in your pants under her heels, Carly’s spongy toes occasionally give your dick’s head a taunting squeeze through the layers of fabric. A show of gratitude for your cooperation.
The bell rings. Though there are still takers in line waiting for a turn to be washed by you, none of them leave their place, even as the seconds begin ticking by for them to reach the next class. Mrs. Wittelman seems not to mind, either.
When the last student has had a chance by effectively standing on your head and stopping off your airways with her pudgy heel, you’re left slightly worse for wear: your throat dry, a cough forming in your windpipes, and your pink-swollen face speckled with grit, dust, and flaked sweat from half a room full of Carly’s peers. Still, you can’t help but smile. Not because you necessarily enjoyed what just happened, but because of the grin your sister grants you as she rises from her desk and comes around to get a better look at you, her head cocked and her hands on her hips.
You must have done well. You hope you did.
“Come up, little bro,” Carly instructs, giving your leash a friendly tug. “Don’t worry, it’ll just be the two of us playing for the rest of the day. But we’ve got a big day ahead of us, don’t we?”