“Well, look who it is. My number one fan.”

            A flirty chuckle and a broad grin spreads from Carly’s luscious mouth, earning a shiver in your loins almost immediately as she crouches over the rumpled sheets of her bed and gazes at you below.

            The silky strands of her golden hair are still matted in a sticky webbing over her forehead. Her skin remains flushed a deep rose from the aerobic pounding she consistently puts herself through in order to maintain that amazonian physique, an effort you’re endlessly proud of in your titanic caregiver. You often can scarcely believe you’re allowed to experience the majesty of those muscles and limbs so close, painted as they are in her pheromones.

            It’s an eternal reminder that there’s no physical duress you could be under that’s demonstrative of anywhere near a fraction of the power Carly daily displays in her acts of sporting prowess.

            Her hand opens, reaching for you, the creased roadmap of her palm unfolding. Your heart almost sprouts wings.

            You experience the fresh calluses lining the bridges of her fingers as she collects you back into her creamy palm, puffy and delicate peelings, and instinctively you feel a sense of anger at the spotted hide of the basketball that’s blemished her perfect flesh. It’s hard not to chuckle at this fact as you’re lifted out of the pile of pink blankets and brandished in your giant sister’s palm.

            Like an angry chihuahua puppy that thinks it’s a pitbull, you imagine you’d be unable to avoid getting fired up at the notion of anything from a mosquito to a nuclear missile damaging Carly’s infrastructure in any way, shape, or form. You may be tiny, pathetic, and utterly at your sister’s mercy for everything from food and sleep to oxygen and orgasms, but that doesn’t mean you can’t feel fiercely protective of her still.

            “Did you have a nice nap, little bro?” Carly smarms, the syllables hastened ever so slightly as she continues to catch her breath. She coils her fingers firmly around you into a loving embrace of her fist, clenching you just below the level of her lower lip, so that the only thing you can do is crane your neck in effort to drink in the full sight of her face.

            The unmistakable, briny effluvium of her sweat nearly bowls you over in her fist, surrounding you in a fog of feminine odors tainted by the artificial sweetness of a cantaloupe-scented deodorant. The fruity musk is no match for Carly’s muscles on the night of a big game, like this one, but she lays it on thick enough that it creates a bizarre harmony of aromas: the brackish vinegar of her pores coalesced with the flower-printed beauty products she plasters on with such abandon.

            “Y-Yes,” you mumble blearily, nearly overtaken by the odor, dizzied by it, but at last getting a handle on yourself. You lay a cheek down against Carly’s curled finger. “T-Thank you.”

            It goes without saying, but the years you underwent of spending all day in a darkened, musty sock drawer seem to be behind you. Where once your sister had to take precautions against your escape, now, as long as she leaves the door double-locked and shades drawn to prevent surprise visitors, she’s free to leave you on the bed in broad daylight, with an assortment of food crumbs, water ladled into a bottle cap, and her wrinkled used clothing for comfort. Once or twice, she’s even taken the courtesy to leave the TV on for you: usually tuned to a marathon of romantic comedies or chick flicks, but still.

            “Of course, cutie,” she breathes, another smirk playing over her lips. A victorious hum rolls up from her throat. “We did good tonight.”

            “What was the score?”

            “52-41. We wrecked ‘em, considering how they’ve been doing other places.”

            “Good,” you regard, bobbing your head and laying a soft peck on the skin of Carly’s knuckle. “On to the championship?”

            “On to the championship,” she huffs happily, shaking her head and letting a few stray tufts bat away from the sweat-darkened patches at her roots. Carly’s tongue parts the barrier of her lips and slakes down her parched skin as she continues to eyeball you with increasingly broadened pupils. “Only…”

            “What?”

            “Well, you know… tonight really… took a lot out of me,” she explains casually, crossing her feet one over the other far below. She casts her baby blues to the ceiling, puffing her cheeks for comic effect. “And, you know, I could just really use a way to relax… take a load off…”

            “Uh-huh,” you reply numbly, hoping this is going where you think it is.

            “Know anybody who could handle something like that?” she queries cutely, flashing you the biggest kitten eyes you think you’ve ever seen. You just might turn to liquid and seep right through her fingers, plopping down to her feet far below. Which, all things being equal, isn’t that bad a fate either.

            “I bet I do…” you mumble, playing along.

            “I’m thinking maybe… just maybe… a tough, strong, naked little boy who’s feeling super-thirsty for his big sissy’s body… since she’s been working oh-so-hard to be the best owner ever…” Cary simpers dreamily.

            Down low, you hear the telltale music of her basketball shoes being pried away from her ankles and thumping to the floor. Fabric stretching and rubber thumping. Leaning into the mattress for support and reaching below, she quickly tugs the soggy knee-highs away from her golden, gleaming calves, leaving the enormous might of her twin bare feet to wriggle in moist liberty against the carpet. Her lubricated toes squeeze together, popping at the joints, just for your ears.

            You’re just about on the verge of drooling now.

            “I… I h-have a c-couple ideas,” you mumble, practically overtaken with animal lust now, inhaling as deeply as possible to fill your body with the harmoniously briny air of Carly’s newly freed feet far below.

            “Oh?” she coos. Her haunches lower back over the bed, her basketball shorts hugging tighter around the perfect moon-globes of her toned ass as she sinks into the ruffled throne of her bed sheets. “Maybe you can give me an example, then.”

            Your skin practically aches with necessity of increased contact as you feel yourself willfully sliding through the clammy tube of flesh constituting your giant sister’s fist, which swiftly lowers down to her thighs, rushing along the slender length of her shins and ankles.

            As Carly arcs her legs out onto the bed in full, stretching and arching her powerful limbs a final time before settling her triumphant, sweat-riddled body into the bedspread, you can’t help but reflect with greedy glee at the thought of her moisture soaking into the roiling fabric sea of linens. Already you can see the shadowy stains of her salty excretions dabbing and dripping from her back and hair into the bed. Even if she wipes it down with a towel in a few minutes, you’re going to have the run of the mattress tomorrow to absorb it all again. Beloved leftovers.

            Your feet touch down into the toned curve of her right ankle ankle. Her fingers give you a last loving squeeze before they part away from you, though her thumb lingers for just a second longer on your junk, the grooves of her digit grinding delicately on you.

            Catching your balance, you turn to the left just in time to see your titanic sister’s left foot curving in across the sheets, ruffling them anew as her instep comes to rest against her opposite calf, propped up right in your reach.

            The robust fragrance multiplies again as you sink your hands into the wrinkled skin. New flavors are released with each square micrometer you squeeze. Grappling with every rubbery rivet in Carly’s peachy sole, you set to work in a job you could never get tire of doing. Conscious of your uneven stance on the round of Carly’s ankle, you can feel her muscles flexing beneath the tanned skin, keeping as steady as possible to give you ample work space and comfort. The sweat sweeps from her pores the harder you knead the wall of her foot, pruning your own digits with the salt, which you happily accept, even licking your fingers a few times for good measure.

            From far beyond at the head of the bed, you can make out your adoring giant sibling’s head relaxing into her pillow, her hair a tangled, sweaty mess as it cascades with surprising elegance over her angelic features.

            When you feel you’ve rubbed out as many of the kinks as possible for now, you regretfully release your grip on the loamy mass of Carly’s lower extremity. With a final kiss you lay on her skin, you plop to your hands and knees and commence crawling up the opposite way.

            “Gonna come back and get the other one later?” Carly whispers from beyond.

            “Of course,” you announce.

            “Good,” she chuckles. “Not like you had a choice, but…”

            “I didn’t want one.”

            The route gets easier the higher you descend up your enormous sister’s shin, especially as her calf muscle seems to inflate the further you progress. You dig your knees into the meaty terrain, punching the girl’s limb and willing the weariness out, of course only contributing such little force with your pathetic fists, that it can’t feel like much more than the gentle caressing of chiropractor fingers.

            Indeed, you can tell Carly is of this opinion, as she releases a satisfied huff, letting the stress and congealed exertion of her evening melt into the covers, and into your miniscule body, more importantly. Her arms reach out at her sides, fingers fully extended and pawing at the covers. It seems to be working.

            “Let me take it,” you find yourself whispering as you lay your lips down against the mighty altar of Carly’s knee, far too quietly to be heard by her actual ears. The words surprise even you. You’ve never exactly been one for superstitious or otherwise spiritually minded acts when it comes to these soothing exercises of yours upon Carly’s often battle-worn body. Somehow, though, you find yourself deciding a little variety once in a while isn’t bad. “Relax. Give it all to me.”

            Passing next onto her thigh, still puffed and tensed from running up and down the court all night, the muscular latticework that makes up Carly’s sculpted quadriceps becomes apparent beneath your hands and knees. Soft and sheek though her skin may be at normal size, to one such as you, making your way along the inlet of her limb and not even able to reach the width of her leg end-to-end with your entire body, the earth is of something else now.

            Another pause is warranted now. Unable to help yourself, you taste the gleaming surface of her quad, get your bearings, and get going. The salt is sharper here, only making your mouth water more. Assured that your gestures are felt and appreciated, Carly’s skin twitches, another throaty giggle emanating from above.

            “Stay there a minute,” she requests with a coo. “Please, little bro?”

            She doesn’t need to tell you twice. You recommence the massage, knowing how little it’s doing as you pound your fists and feet into the slight hill of Carly’s toned thigh. Again you drag your tongue down a taut length of the curvature molded into Carly’s quad, not closing your lips until your cheeks are filled with warm sweat leeched from her skin. She fidgets and at last lets her muscles unclench under your aggressive effort to calm her body down.

            You clamber past her basketball shorts, casting only a glance toward the valley in the fabric where her thighs meet. The valley. The smell of it is insistent, as you crawl only a few inches away from it, separated by sweat-logged fabric.

            Sometime. Not yet. You know Carly will let you know when the time is right.

            You still haven’t swallowed the sweat you lapped up from the terrain of your gigantic sister’s leg. Instead you swish it back and forth, letting it grow warmer, tingling your cheeks and stinging only on occasion like acidic fruit.

            This, of course, is better than fruit, not to mention more useful for your survival.

            Hand over hand, you pass the checkpoint of Carly’s waistband, next reaching the sweetest and most fertile of ground on your trek. Deciding you’ve earned the right to see it all at once now, Carly’s thumb pries up the soggy length of her shirt to her chest. You sibling isn’t exactly sporting the barrel of an eight-pack across her stomach, but just by nature of all the crunches she’s done in the gym, it makes an impression. The muscle isn’t immediately obvious until your limbs sink a few millimeters into the give of her golden flesh, and then you feel it, the riveted stretch of her powerful abdominals.

            Carly lets out another sigh, slower this time, letting the air fully inflate her lungs, and you rise ever so slightly higher, ascended by the easy pressure of her stomach. You can’t help but leave another trail of kisses as you make your way toward her navel, dragging your knuckles into the flesh every pace. Your lips have chapped a little from the volume of her sweat you’ve taken in during this game, but it’s a small price to pay.

            You cross your sister’s sizable belly button, only realizing as your manhood dips into the miniature crater in her abdomen just how hard you’ve become. Assuredly, Carly felt it too, but she doesn’t react with anything more than a tingle and a light shudder that quakes her stomach. As you press your face back into the floor of immaculate flesh, kissing and groping the firm earth in your fists, your ear presses to the ground just in time to experience the rumbling tail end of a gurgle deep within.

            She’s hungry.

            The trip up Carly’s torso is accelerated as you glance back in the direction of her face beyond, catching sight of her tongue lashing softly at the corners of her mouth, re-wetting her lips. An invitation for you.

            Opting for the more circuitous route, agonizing as it is to have to wait longer to claim your reward, you burrow under Carly’s shirt folds as you reach her chest. You can feel her fingers helping you from outside as you wrestle through the sour fabric, her pinky even stroking your back as she guides you into the arena of muggy space occupied by her sports bra and, of course, its twin passengers.

            Nimbly passing over the center strap, you wedge yourself into the low valley of Carly’s cleavage. They don’t exactly dwarf you in height like some girls might wish, but your goddess is not other girls, and you know she couldn’t perform as well as she does on the court with larger than she has anyway.

            Plus, your sister seems intent on helping. Shadows flicker outside her shirt, and suddenly the squishy mounds of flesh are ascending and compressing as the enormous athlete presses her breasts together, sandwiching you in between. You stumble only for a moment, turned head over feet. Right where she wants you. With a battered shrug, you kiss all the skin you can reach as Carly has some snickering enjoyment at your minimal expense, juggling her shallow cans back and forth, bouncing you between them. In the valley of her breasts, the lingering aroma of her deodorant, long-ago melted as a white paste into her skin by sheer searing heat, tickles your nostrils and at last coaxes you out of the fleshy fray.

            The crook of Carly’s finger tugs the neck of her shirt up just high enough for you to clamber out. The dim lighting of the bedroom pulls you back into the cooler environment of your sister’s dorm room, accompanied by the all-encompassing visage of your sister’s face, sweet and grinning with all her cheeky brilliance at you on your exit.

            “Welcome back,” she drawls with quiet delight, flashing you a wink sultry enough to make your dick flinch. In the span of a blink, her pupils dart to the activity between your legs. The smile curls wider on her gorgeous, plush lips.

            “Feel better?” you offer with tired jaws.

            “Much,” she vows, shutting her eyes and nibbling her lip. “Guess what your new job is every time after a game from now on?”

            “Uh… how many guesses do I get?” You creep further up toward the nape of Carly’s warm neck.

            “I’ve got a better idea. Everything you guess wrong, you’ll also have to do.”

            “I can live with that.”

            “I bet you can,” Carly proclaims. She tips her chin down against her chest as you approach. Her dirty blonde tresses are twisted in and out of her shirt, plastered to her cheeks and forehead, in wild cataracts on her bronzed flesh. Perfect without trying. It’s like watching a living painted mural surge out of the frame.

            “I’ll… scrub out the bottoms of your basketball shoes?”

            “Wrong,” Carly slurs. “But we’ll make sure you’re right next time.”

            “F-Feed you water?” You press your hands into your sister’s chin and begin your gentle ascent onto her face.

            “Wrong again,” she whispers, her lips barely moving as you press your chest into her mouth. Her thumb appears at your back, fastening you into the pink flesh. “But we’ll add that on.”

            “Um, maybe… snacks? Or… squeeze out your... s-socks? Or…”

            “Shut up already, you sexy little toy,” Carly demands, earning immediate silence from you as her lips part, splaying against your torso.

            Her kisses start out small on your stomach, alternating with degrees of suction that threatens to buckle your back, then gives up just enough to peck and moisten your abs. Like a ripple in water, though, her smooching increases in diameter almost immediately, suddenly engulfing your chest and your hapless cock in one slurp. Her tongue scoops at your lower body, inviting more of you into the sticky depth. All you can do is bite into her upper lip, a moan ricocheting inside her cheeks as you give into the happy dance of this evening ritual.

            You think you could get used to this.