“Carly!” you hear your mother bellowing from somewhere behind your currently limited field of perception. “Honey, can you come in here?”

            The world around you vibrates with increasing velocity. Cotton scrubbing on warm flesh fills your ear drums. Your skin prickles with goose bumps.

            “What’s up?” your sister booms perkily from above.

            “Carly, you know I hate to have to be the middle school mom again, but you’ve been home on break for a week and a half now, and I haven’t seen you use the laundry machine once,” Leah Arton says. You can almost see her planting her hands on her hips that way she always did when she wasn’t trying to sound too right, though of course you can’t actually see from here.

            “I’ve got a lot of clothes, Mom.”

            “Don’t I know it,” your mother groans, though you can hear the smile in the corner of her lips. The ground shudders gently as your parent pads across your younger sister’s hot-pink bedroom. The closet door creaks open.

            “What?” Carly chuckles. Standing idly, she shifts her weight from one socked heel to the other. Fabric stretches again and again over bare skin, tightening pleasurably and then loosening to allow flesh to smooth out.

            “Oh, don’t “what” me,” your mom scolds playfully. “C’mon, you have all these clothes, so many more back on campus, and I know for a fact you don’t wear half of the things on this rack.” You hear the clack of plastic hangers sliding into one another somewhere off the invisible void.

            “You’ve started keeping data of what I wear?” Carly smarms sweetly.

            “No, but I just might if I think you’re not washing your clothes,” Leah says.

            “Moooom, don’t be ridic. Do I smell bad or something? Just tell me!”

            The thumping of feet again, bearing just a bit more weight than the pair you know so much better. Your mother is near now, as your whole body rattles on her approach. Through the cracks of light you’re afforded, you can just make out the shape of her shadow blotting out the space above. The sheer scope of her is untold, even as she’s shorter than Carly.

            Though your sister is and always will be your goddess, it’s difficult not to ascribe some of the same status to the giant woman who once called you her son. After all, she’s responsible for creating the pair of you, and allowing the universe to blend you into this symbiosis of self. Impossible as it is to imagine, given how it would shatter her reality to discover you now, part of you longs to express to her what a deity your mother is now to you.

            Leah sniffs the air surrounding your sister, then snickers.

            “I guess you smell fine,” your mother sighs. “Mostly. Where are all your clothes going, then?”

            “I don’t know, around? I’ll get to washing them, Mom. Honest. I’ve just been busy.”

            “Mhm, busy sleeping in until noon.”

            “Mom! College is tiring. I’m super-worn out. Can’t you tell?”

            “Actually, no,” Leah says. “You seem happy. Happier even than you were before the holidays, before all that… confusion with Sophie.”

            A cheerful pause passes.

            “Yeah, I guess maybe I am happier since then,” Carly informs your parent.

            “Any particular reason?” your mother presses.

            “Um… I don’t know… the season’s been going well with the team… classes are good…”

            “…boys catching your eye…” Leah offers casually.

            “Mom!” Carly scoffs. A seismic shift suggests she just lightly shoved your mother in the shoulder.

            “I’m just speculating, honey…”

            “Wow. Okay, well, keep on speculating, cuz the boys I’ve met so far on campus are sooooo not even in my league…” Carly drawls. Gravity is budged again. The environment of cotton sponges up around you. You can guess she’s taken a seat on the edge of her bed.

            “All right, all right. I guess that’s good to hear. Your father will appreciate knowing that too, I’m sure,” Leah says. Padding of feet rumble again but gradually grow fainter, as does your mother’s already somewhat distant voice, as though it’s coming from down a tunnel. “So what about any boys you knew before campus? Is it one of them?”

            “Mom!” Carly groans, and the 360-degree eye-roll on your sister’s part is felt on a visceral level.

            Though your mother’s certainly not wrong, at least.

            “Kidding! Just kidding,” Leah reassures. Her voice echoes off the hallway, suggesting she’s on her way out of the room. “Just saying, though. I know for sure I saw you wearing those same socks yesterday, and the day before, and maybe even the day before. Socks are clothes too, you know. They can start to smell!”

            “Fine, fine,” Carly grumbles until she’s left alone at last, the clasp of the door sealing her sanctuary up again. Though you can’t see it, you feel her gaze shift to you, as well as her luscious voice: “Ready for a break?”

            “I guess,” you sigh from inside her sock, over-emphasizing.

            That infectious giggle of hers floods your space. Slumping all the way onto her bed, at last Carly crosses her leg, propping her right foot up against her thigh, and proceeds to free you from the footwear, where you’ve been camping for the past two hours.

            The world of the knee sock peels away, leaving you glued by soft springtime sweat to your little sister’s enormous instep. Her heartbeat thumps proudly against your chest through the wall of tanned flesh.

            “Can you believe all that?” Carly questions to you with a gleeful smirk and a glint in her eye.

            “Nope!” you declare.

            “Do you have a problem with me not washing all my clothes as often?”

            “Nuh-uh.”

            “What about not washing the socks that you’ve been riding around in?”

            “Not in the least.”

            “You sure?” she whispers cheekily, leaning in closer to you. Her nose wrinkles at the proximity to her musky peds. “I guess some of the stuff I’ve been wearing… and that you’ve been worn in… is maybe starting to get just a tiny bit rank…”

            “…and I love it,” you declare emphatically. Finally, you slide yourself away from the warmth and comfort of Carly’s meaty instep. You roll onto her mostly exposed thigh, letting your arms and legs splay out to your sides, savoring the cool air on your skin.

            “So do I,” your sister confirms. Her lips curl into a devious grin again. “Especially when, um… you know…”

            “You mean when…”

            “…she’s here…”

            “…and I’m in…”

            “Uh-huh,” Carly says, bobbing her head. In that instant, you realize it wasn’t just you that got a certain thrill from hiding in such dangerous nearness to your mother, completely oblivious to your life, size, and presence. “Maybe we should… try that again sometime.”

            “Please?” you say.

            Carly shakes her head, fighting back a laugh as she observes your nearly three-inch naked body plastered on her bronzed leg.

            “You look too adorable right there, little bro,” she coos. Her index finger finds its way to your stomach, twirling at your abdomen and prodding with just enough firmness to test your core strength: something she seems to enjoy doing increasingly more in the recent months, as if rediscovering your entire body, not just the parts that react to her. You can’t say you’re not appreciated.

            “I do?”

            “Uh-huh,” she says. Her tongue laps at the corner of her lips, eyes hungry. “Like the itty bitty little peasant, coming to beg his queen for a new house in the scary cold winter.”

            “I’m okay with that,” you say.

            “I am too, but you gotta do it first,” Carly says. The pad of her finger traces up your chest and crooks just under your neck, so gentle, despite the fact that a single flick could crack your skull at the base. Her voice lowers a honey-soaked octave. “Go on. Beg your big sissy-queen for whatever your heart desires.”

            “I… beg you C- my queen…” you begin. Your sister’s gorgeous oceanic blue eyes widen, drinking in your words. “I beg for the right… to exist at your right hand…”

            “And where else?”

            “And your right foot…”

            “You’d probably like that better, anyway,” she adds as a sultry aside. “To do what?”

            “…to wear me while other people are around,” you finish. “Please.”

            “I suppose I can consider it,” Carly says with a wink. Her finger slides to your stomach again, spreading the length of her massive digit from your chest to your legs and begins to gently compress you into the firm flesh of her thigh.

            You melt almost instantly against her skin. It’s like a full-body massage, feeling the taut muscle beneath Carly’s slender limb pulsing with energy under your back as her fingers continue to stroke across your weary but nevertheless inspired front.

            As you flush the oxygen from your lungs under another press from Carly’s finger, letting her control your air, you close your eyes. In the repeated darkness, your skin tingles as your gigantic sister’s pinky finger nudges your dick. You don’t object, of course. Not that she needed to do it to get the process started; you were already halfway to full mast.

            “You wanna be near Mom, hmm?” Carly whispers. Her pinky curls slightly around your pathetically-smaller-by-comparison rod, though with such focus and practice, when you have your eyes closed, you would never have imagined it was just the girl’s smallest finger.

            “Uh-huh,” you puff. At last your sister is relenting the pressure on your stomach, instead pinning you to the landscape of her thigh with the increasing weight of her finger onto your crotch.

            “Why’s that, do you think?” Carly continues. With the most infinitesimal of movements, learned over the five years she’s owned your puny body, your sister begins to fondle you. Up and down, the plush grooves of her pinky finger smush into your rapidly lengthening member. Even by width, her finger swallows it up.

            “B-Because…” you breathe, trying to adjust to carrying on conversation while she masturbates you. “Because she doesn’t know… doesn’t know about me, or that I’m… down there… or anything.”

            “Mhmm…” Carly sighs. Her finger has wedged your miniscule dick into the pad of skin just above her palm, at the base of her digit, and is steadily sandwiching it in: something she’s never tried before. “What do you think she’d do if she did find out?”

            “I d-don’t know,” you admit honestly. Tingles are firing up your spine and into your brain, and quickly turning to shoots of euphoria. “I don’t think she c-could handle it.”

            “I don’t either,” Carly says. By now, she’s leaned in so close to where you’re splayed helplessly on her thigh that her warm breath is fogging your skin. “But it would break her. Totally.”

            “I know it would,” you say, and though you can’t help but feel a hollow sense of regret at that thought in the back of your mind, right now, you have a six-foot-tall blonde goddess tending to your every need, breathing her minty breath into your nostrils and drowning your entranced dick into the skin of her hand. How could you not agree?

            “And there you’d be,” Carly says. “In big sissy’s sock, your precious little face between my toes, listening to her… so close… arm’s reach… and never having to let her know.”

            By now, the girl has your dick firmly planted against her palm, so pathetically dwarfed as it is, pinched under her pinky. For all intents and purposes, she’s giving you the closest thing to a handjob she can, given that your entire body also fits snugly into that same hand. It’s mind-boggling to watch her hand stretch above your body, your junk squeezed into a crease of flesh, expertly handled by a mere pinky finger.

            “Nobody ever has to know,” she chants. “And nobody… ever… will…”

            Your body is warm. Her skin is soft. And everything in the world is liquid.

            Orgasm racks your body, as it so often does under the expert fingerwork of your titanic sibling, from your hair to the tips of your toes. Just to ensure every drop of it is out of you, Carly’s finger continues to grind your dick against the pad of her palm for a few more seconds.

            When satisfied with your performance, Carly’s fingers drag one exhaustive time back up your body, stroking your cheek with her thumb, and leaves you to pant on her thigh.

            You peep up at her face above as it draws back again. Her finger, dampened by your seed, is pressed up against her pink lips, the barely noticeable trace of it sucked into her mouth and gulped down.

            “I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Carly says, raising her eyebrows. She always loves observing your recovery after a particularly effect cum.

            “Me too.”

            “Tell you what,” your sister croons, casting you another sly glance. “Mom says next weekend some of the family wants to do a trip to the mall. Grandma, Aunt Selena, Chloe, Sophie…”

            You can’t help but crack a smile.

            “…want to test this out again then?”

            “Yes,” you utter before she can finish the last syllable.

            “I hoped you’d say that,” she giggles. “It won’t be quite as good as just having you in a sock, but we’ll poke a little hole in the side, so you can hear what’s happening. I don’t want to leave you out, after all.”

            “Thank you.”

            “Of course, little bro.” Reaching over the edge of the bed and underneath, Carly briskly drags out a slung sack stuffed to the brim with dirty laundry. With her opposite hand, she plucks you at long last from her thigh. You hang limply, still a little tuckered after your games on her leg.

            “I’m gonna get us some food from the kitchen, and then I’ll be back in a little bit,” Carly explains as you dangle helplessly from her massive fingers. She plants a kiss on your chest before lowering you toward the opening in the fabric. “But I’ll give you some more time in the funhouse until I do.”

            Your mouth can’t help but water as Carly lowers you into the stuffed bag of crumpled shorts, yoga pants, tops, panties, bras, and socks, all twisted in a mélange of unwashed grit, sweat, and feminine BO, crystallized within the bag for your enjoyment and pleasure. The wall of pungent air acting as a historical record of Carly’s body wallops your senses before she even places you inside.

            Funhouse, indeed.