Your eyes snap open to the awful ringing of your alarm clock.  You smack the snooze and try to settle back into the covers, but before you can even start you hear a hard rapping on your bedroom door.

                “Hey, Jack!  Mom says it’s time to get up now!” yells your younger sister Carly, slamming the door with her fist just to ensure you can’t fall back asleep.

                “Leave me alone!” you yell back, half asleep, covering your face with your pillow to try and drown out the noise as she continues to pound the door.  You hide your face under the pillow, leaving a small space for oxygen, and finally manage to drown out the sound until you here your bedroom door open a moment later.  A second later, you here a small thud followed by a massive blow to your back as your sister takes a seat on you through the sheets.  She’s not heavy but her butt hitting you from the air square on the spine still doesn’t feel good.  She shakes her butt around a few times, just to spite you.

                “I TOLD you it’s time to get up!  I don’t want to be late again because of you,” she says mockingly.

                “Carly, get off of me…” you groan, getting seriously annoyed.

                “Do you PROMISE to get out of bed if I do?” she says, bouncing herself up and down a little bit on your back, which definitely isn’t too comfortable.

                “Carly, I’m tired of having to put up with your crap.  Just get off me already,” you say, burying your face deeper in the pillow.

                “Not until you say you’re getting up!” she groans back at you.  You can hear her kicking her feet on the side of the bed absentmindedly as she waits.

                “I said, get off of me!” you say a little louder, arching your back up and sending her flopping off of you and to the floor.  Normally, this would have been a little more difficult to do from your position, seeing as, despite Carly’s thin frame, she’s around 5’ 9”, but having been lifting weights for some time now at the school gym, it’s not too difficult to toss her off you.

                “Oh, so NOW you’re awake!  You could have broken my neck or something,” she says, feigning complaint as she stands up.

                “Look, I’m too tired for this right now.  I’ll be down in a bit.”

                “You’re too tired, huh?  I think I know what will wake you up.”

                “You do?  Wha-” you start to say, opening your eyes and popping out of the pillow cover.  As you do, Carly leans her face over yours, mere inches from your nose, and exhales deeply, forcing a warm cloud of morning breath into your breathing space.  The rancid stench of bacteria growing in her throat and on her tongue all night attacks your nostrils, cutting off your fresh air supply.

                “Oh my God!  What the heck!” you say in disgust, coughing, trying in vain to rid the rotten smell now infecting your nose.  Carly laughs heartily at you, clutching her chest and pointing her finger at you.

                “Told you it would wake you up!  Do you want another one?” she says jokingly, leaning back over and breathing again.  You’re ready this time, and hold your breath as she unleashes another; as she finishes, you push her off of you to the ground and get out of bed.

                “You can’t push me!  I’m a girl,” says Carly in her voice of annoyance and feigned disgust, wrinkling her nose up.

                “Leave me alone or I’ll push you again, then,” you retort, now done with your sister’s antics.

                “I’ll tell mom!” she says accusingly, stepping out of the room.

                “Just like always,” you mutter. In a huff, she storms off and down the stairs to the kitchen.

                Ten minutes later, you’re showered and stepping groggily into the kitchen, where you mom is turning eggs in a pan and your sister is seated at the table, hungrily slurping up some Cheerios.

                “Well, look who’s finally up,” says your mom without turning around.

                “I TOLD him to get up, mom,” says Carly sweetly.  “But he just felt like being mean…”

                “Uh-huh.  Let’s just leave each other alone right now, it’s too early,” says your mom, again without turning around, hoping to stop the potential argument brewing between the two of you.  You take a seat at the table.

                “You going to eat breakfast?” asks your mom.

                “No, thanks,” you say, not hungry.

                “Why not, huh?” says your sister loudly.  You look over at her, irritated, but don’t even answer.

                “Mom, tell him to answer me!  He’s being a jerk,” says Carly, flopping backward in her chair and taking a loud gulp of cereal.  Your mom clears her throat, the common gesture used (usually without effect) to tell Carly to use her table manners.

                “Well, sometimes Jack’s not the only one being rude around the table,” says your mom, flipping the eggs.  Your sister grumbles, defeated for now.  Just as she does, her cell phone, sitting on the kitchen counter, begins buzzing as a text comes in.

                “Who could be texting you at this hour of the morning?” says your mom, reaching for the phone and snapping it open.

                “No!  Mom, stop!  It’s my phone, you can’t read it!” protests your sister loudly, leaping out of her seat in desperation to get the phone back.

                “I beg to differ…” says your mom, starting to.

                “Mom…” moans Carly in distress.

                “What?” says your mom, taken aback and looking over at Carly.  “It says “Hey hottie how r u this mornin?”  Carly, who is this “Blake” person?” says your mom, beginning to get angry and annoyed.

                “Cool it, mom,” says Carly, snapping the phone from your mom’s hand and sliding it quickly into her pocket.

                “Well?  Who have you been talking to?  Is he your…” says your mom, not quite willing to say “boyfriend.”

                “NO, Mom, he’s not my boyfriend.  He’s… just a guy.”

                “A “guy” is calling you hottie?”

                “Relax, mom.  A lot of people do that.”

                “A LOT of people?  Who?”

                “I’m not sure… just most of the guys I hang out with…” says Carly, giggling a little as she says it.

                “Well, I’ll tell you one thing… they’re NOT the guys you’re hanging out with anymore!” says your mom, leaning against the counter.

                “WHAT?  But they’re just my friends, mom.”

                “No buts.  I don’t want you hanging out with them anymore and that’s that,” says your mom, turning away from her to continue the eggs, her way of saying the conversation is over.

                Your sister releases a huff from puffed cheeks, having fought with your mom enough to know when to surrender and fight another day.  She mopes back over to the table and slumps down on a table.  You can’t help yourself after that scene and sit back up.

                “Who the heck would call you “hottie,” anyway?” you say with disdain.  Carly shoots you the evil eye.

                “EVERYONE.  You know, every other boy I know treats me really nice except for you…” she says, dipping the spoon back into the cereal again.  “They all say nice things to me, and what do you do?  You push me,” she finishes.

                You chuckle and shake your head in amusement.

                You’ve never really tried to think about it before.  You can tell that Carly might appear pretty good looking to members of the opposite sex.  You’re aware that she has several guys after her in her grade, and a couple of your friends have, in the past, tried to get her number from you, but you always refused because it’s such a ridiculous idea to want to text her.

                Carly is pretty tall for her age at 5 foot 9, being only 14 and in the 8th grade.  Because of her height, she quickly got recruited to her middle school’s basketball team and you’ve heard she’s pretty good at it, although you’ve never bothered to see a game.  With all the basketball she plays, she’s of pretty athletic build (which she often points out in annoying shows of pride), but she’s still very thin. 

You look over her in annoyance.  She has smooth, dirty blond hair that she tends to bounce around when she pouts at almost everyone she meets with her large lips.  She usually wears skinny jeans, silver flats, and some brand name shirt.  Today, it’s dark pink with hearts and some other indistinguishable symbols.

A few moments of silence pass and, with the eggs finished, your mom exits the kitchen and heads back upstairs.  You lay your arms on the table and rest your head on them, still not fully awake even after the cold shower and your sister’s poisonous breath getting in your eyes.

                “Are you still tired?  Need me to wake you up again?” she says, letting out a warning breath.

                “No thanks…” you mumble.

                “You should eat some breakfast.  It’s the healthy thing to do.  If you don’t eat your breakfast, you can’t grow up and get big muscles.  Isn’t that what you want to do?” she says mockingly again.

                “Shut up.”

                “Geez, Jack.  I’m just trying to help you here.  Why don’t you try being nicer to me, huh?” she says, shoveling a large spoonful of Cheerios into her mouth.

                “Leave me alone, please.”

                “Here, I’ll start us off.  Want some breakfast?” she says, her words muffled through the milk and soggy Cheerios.  Then, opening her lips dramatically, she tilts her head back and starts to gargle the Cheerios in the back of her throat.

“Stop it, that’s nasty,” you note, shaking your head in disapproval.

Without a word, then, she whips her chin back down to a position level with your face and spits a mouthful of mush right out at you.  A spray of milk hits you in the eyes.  Several Cheerios hit you in the face and stick, clogged fully with warmed milk and Carly’s phlegm-coated saliva, fresh from the bacteria-lined depths of her throat.

                “Carly!  What the hell!” you say, but not too loudly so your mom won’t hear as you begin wiping Cheerios and spit-laced milk off your face.

                “Jack, you said a bad word… I’m telling Mom!” says Carly devilishly, knowing how much your mom hates inappropriate language.  This thought only just occurs to you.  The last time you said “damn” to your sister, she told on you and got your computer privileges revoked for a month.  Your mom tends to overreact at these things, and your sister takes full advantage of it at all possible times.

                “Okay!  I’m sorry!  Just stop it,” you say, taking a napkin and toweling off the remaining spit-and-milk residue coating your face.

                “Are you really sorry?” she says in a voice of faked serenity.

                “Yeah…” you say, annoyed.

                “You don’t sound sorry.”

                “Well, I am, okay?  Just leave me alone now and let’s get ready for school.”

                “I think you should say it again.”

                “What?”

                “I think you should apologize to me again.”

                “Why?”

                “Because I didn’t like your first one!” she says, starting to get annoyed.  “MOM!” she yells upstairs after a moment, gauging your reaction with a huge grin.

                “Okay!  Okay!  Fine, I’m sorry,” you say, using your best “acting” voice.

                “That’s a little better…”

                “CARLY!”

                “MOM!”

                “Okay.  Fine.  Fine.  Look, Carly, I’m really… sorry…” you say, dragging out the words slowly and trying to make them sound meaningful.  It’s humiliating to have to do this, and it’s killing you a little to have to suck up to your three-years-younger sister like this just to retain your computer rights.

                “Thank you.  I accept your apology,” she says in the most sugary and haughty voice she can, smiling ear to ear and tossing her hair back in a show of victory.

                She has you and your mom wrapped firmly around her little finger.  Come to think of it, she has you wrapped around all of her fingers so tightly there’s seemingly no hope of escape.

“Wake UP, dude!” says your friend Mark, lightly slapping you on the cheek and waking you from your slumber on the chemistry table.  “We’re supposed to be doing… something with this burner, and I wasn’t paying attention.  C’mon, man, I need you!”

                You groggily lift your head up from the desk, still wanting sleep but grateful that it was your friend waking you up and not your teacher slapping her ruler across the back of your neck like she tends to do to sleeping students.  To be frank with yourself, you’re the smartest kid in the class, and even when you doze off, it’s never much of a problem to snap back to it and get the work done correctly.

                “Yeah, yeah, sure…” you say, blinking a few times as you start pouring together a couple of beakers into one vial, then grabbing up the tongs.

                “Hey… wait a second, dude.  I don’t think she wanted us to do that.  Remember?  She said keep these two separate, and you just…” he says, looking worried now.

                “Relax.  I know how to do this,” you say confidently, clicking the burner back on and allowing the little flame to leap out of the top.  Grabbing the bottle up in the tongs, you move it toward the flame.

                “Dude!  Really, stop!  I KNOW she said keep those two apart and don’t heat them!  What are you doing?” he says, and he takes a step back from the lab table.

                “What’s the matter with you?  I know what I’m doing,” you say brazenly, lifting the vial over the flame.  The contents begin to bubble wildly, then fizz up toward the top of it.

                “Get it off of there!” says your friend quickly.  By this time, your teacher is alerted, and is dashing over.  “JACK ARTON!” she yells.

                You try to snap your wrist back, but it’s too late.  The contents bubble up and over the edge of the vial, splashing outward when they hit the top.   You feel a little drizzle of it hit your cheeks.  A drop goes directly into your eye.

                “Wha- wait, what happened?” you say, a little dazed now, not sure whether or not to panic.

                “I TOLD you to keep the contents of beakers 2 and 4 apart, Jack.  And I even SPECIFICALLY said not to light them!  Were you listening at all?  People can get hurt in this room when they don’t pay attention!” she barks in a rage, grabbing you by the shoulder and leading you to the chemical emergency shower.

                Having fully doused you and (painfully), your eyes, your teacher rehooks the hose up to the wall.

                “All right, Jack.  You need to go get checked out by the nurse.  Just leave, now.  Take your books,” she says, still deeply annoyed with you and walking off to clean up the mess you made.  Mark shoots you a look of apology and helplessness as you move quickly to the door and head down the hall to the nurse.

                You’re feeling pretty embarrassed.  You’re known in the class as the one who doesn’t really make mistakes, tending to ace every test and perfectly perform every lab on the first try.  You almost forget to be mildly alarmed that you had a potentially dangerous chemical splashed on your face and eye.

                Four hours later, you’re stepping out of the emergency room with your disgruntled mom.  The nurse gave you a clean bill of health at school, seeing as the spilled chemical left no marks, but suggested you get yourself double-checked at the hospital.  The doctor confirmed the nurse’s suspicion, but quickly smacked a healthy sized bill onto your parents, who are none too pleased with your headstrong actions from earlier in the day.

                Your arrival home is just as annoying as you expected.  As soon as you enter the garage, Carly is waiting there at the top of the stairs.  As you come up the stairs to the enter the house, she leans over to get face level with you, sticks out her long pink tongue as far as she can, and blows a loud, wet raspberry that sends a disgusting spray of spittle into your face, followed by hysterical laughter.  You figure now isn’t the time to get anyone else agitated, though, and Carly knows it.  The rest of the evening will most assuredly be one of helpless irritation as Carly uses her liberty to annoy you for the rest of the day without consequence.

                “Just… go do your homework,” says your mom, waving you away, not wanting to argue further about your carelessness and lack of respect for the directions.  You grab your backpack and head upstairs, wanting to avoid more chastising for sleeping in class and missing important safety instructions.

                You take a seat on the floor of your room and spread out your books and papers around you to get to work.  It’s been a long day and you don’t feel like doing any of this crap, and you really just want to get some sleep.

                Inevitably, only a few minutes go by before you hear stomping coming in louder and louder before stopping behind you.  Carly tends to walk everywhere like this, hitting the ground hard with each footfall as if alerting people to her impending presence.  The sound and slight shake in the ground you feel has come to be a source of great annoyance.  You wish your parents would get locks put in on the doors, but they’ve always been cautious about safety.

                “Heyyyyy… how’s the homework going, bro?” says Carly, trying to sound friendly when in reality you can tell she’s ready to make fun of you to no end.  You don’t answer.

                “Hey… just trying to be nice here.  How’s your homework going?” she says again.  You don’t answer.

                “Hey!  Answer me!” she says a little more forcefully, lightly kicking you with her pointed big toe in the small of your back.  You don’t respond.  You hear her make a huffing noise, but keep your eyes trained on the paper you’re filling out with notes.

                In your field of vision, you make out her feet stamping into view and taking residence mere inches from your paper.  At her above average height for her age, her feet are pretty massive, easily coming in at a women’s size 10, making it annoying whenever she decides to kick you or stomp on your foot out of spite.  Her toes are very long, and the frequent physical activity she puts her feet through have caused the slightest trace of veins to pop up around her ankles and the top of her foot.  Personally to you, it’s pretty strange looking and the fact that she’s just sticking them in your field of vision is annoying.

                “Carly… I’m trying to work.  Get your fat feet out of my face,” you say begrudgingly, continuing to write.

                “Aw c’mon, Jack, I don’t think they’re fat.  They’re mostly just… big.  Yeah, big.  Are they bothering you or something?”

                “Yes…”

                “Well, I’m sorry.  Here, I’ll move them,” she says, taking a step to the side and placing her left foot squarely on top of the paper you’re writing on, brushing your hand intentionally with her toes as she does so.  You don’t even have to look at her face to know she’s smiling, trying not to laugh, as she wiggles her toes gleefully, scrunching the paper up under her sole.

                “Wow, you’re SO FUNNY,” you say sarcastically.  “Get your stupid foot off my homework.  I have to turn this in tomorrow.”

                “You do, huh?  Then you wouldn’t want me to do THIS, would you?” she says chuckling as she begins twisting her foot hard on the papers, causing it to wrinkle.

                “That’s it!” you say, grabbing ahold of your sister’s calf and lifting her foot off the paper with relative ease considering she has her body weight bearing down on it.  You shove it roughly to the side, nearly causing her to lose her balance.

                “Hey!  Don’t do that!” she says somewhat angrily, catching herself against the wall in the nick of time.  After catching herself, she pushes off the wall for support extends her leg back into the air and quickly plants the underside of her bare foot squarely on the side of your face.  Her soft sole flesh feels warm and moist with sweat residue on your cheek, and her toes curl slowly into your hair, kneading it.  It’s pretty nasty to you, considering the fact that she’s been walking around all day and still hasn’t showered off yet whatever gunk she has all over those things.

                “What the- get your FOOT off my FACE!” you yell out, grabbing her ankle and trying to force it off.  Unfortunately, you’re not in a place of leverage, being at an awkward angle on the ground, and Carly has a wall to push off of, in addition to the fact that her legs are extremely toned, even considering the fact that you have pretty good upper body strength.

                You struggle for a few seconds, but she only manages to smash her foot harder into your cheek, turning her ankle side to side, rubbing your cheek raw with the ball of her foot, wrinkling her foot by flexing in and out, smacking your chin with her heel.

                “What’s the matter?  Am I too strong for you, Mr. Muscles?” she pouts mockingly, giving one final hard shove with her foot against your face before removing it.  “Maybe you should be careful what you wish for.  You asked me to get it off your homework…” she says, smiling that evil little smile of hers.  You stare at her, standing above you, wondering how a girl so bubbly and in tune with the social scene could be so incredibly devious to just one person in particular.

                “Get out of my room!” you growl, grabbing her ankle and, now having leverage, yanking to the side.  She easily goes down to the floor.  Once there, she punches you in the side.  It doesn’t hurt but you can tell she’s getting pissed.

                Before she can say anything, though, your mom steps into the doorframe and raises an eyebrow at you.  “What’s going on, Jack?  Is there an even bigger problem going on?” she says, clearly not over your earlier transgressions.  You’re about to protest when Carly butts in.  Figures.

                “No, nothing’s wrong, Mom, I just tripped on accident.  Jack was showing me what he’s doing for homework,” she says, smiling sweetly as she returns to a standing position.

                “Well… okay.  Are you sure you two can be in the same room together?  Jack’s in enough hot water as it is…”

                “Yes, we’re okay,” says Carly kindly again, smiling that infallible smile of hers that tends to convince adults to believe whatever she’s saying.  You’re legitimately surprised.   This is the first time Carly has ever actually told a lie in favor of you after an argument.  Maybe she’s actually going to just leave you the hell alone for once.

                “Fine.  Dinner will be ready in twenty,” says your mom, nodding and walking away.  You look up at Carly, who begins smirking devilishly down at you.  Maybe you’re not getting off the hook after all…

                “Umm…” you say, still confused by what she just said.

                “She’s pretty mad at you, huh?” she says quietly, still waiting for your mom to be completely out of earshot.

                “Uh… yeah?” you answer uncertainly, trying to return to your homework.

                “WELL…” says Carly happily, taking a deep breath as if beginning a speech.  “…you’d be totally screwed if I went back and told her you tripped me just now after everything you’ve done today…” she continues.

                You can already see where this is headed; she probably wants another corny apology.  At this point, anything to get her out of your hair is okay.  You figure you might as well cut to the chase.

                “Okay, look.  I’m sorry I tripped you, okay?  Now can you please just leave me alone so I can work?” you say, looking back at your paper.  She kicks you in the knee, causing you to look back up at her.

                “I don’t think that was enough…” she says uncertainly, scratching at her chin as if in thought.

                “Okay, here.  I’m very sorry that I tripped you,” you say, dangerously close to sounding sarcastic, knowing anything other than a perfectly serious sounding apology could result in you being grounded for a few weeks after she reports you.

                “You know, that really hurt my foot.  I think I might have bent my toe backward,” she says, sounding pouty again.  Big whoop, you think.  She didn’t hurt a single thing and you know it.

                “…so if you want to really apologize to me, I want you to smell it.”

                “What?” you say, turning to look at her completely, not sure you heard right.  She giggles lightly.

                “I said you’re going to smell it.  My foot.  Right now,” she says authoritatively all of a sudden.  She lifts a leg up in the air and begins extending her left foot toward your face.  You don’t let it get more than a foot away, though, before you swat it out of the way with your hand.

                “No way, Carly!  Just get out of my room.  I apologized.”

                “Not yet, you didn’t.  If you want me to think you’re sorry, you’re going to smell my foot for me.  Do you want me to get Mom?”

                “No, but I’m not just going to...”

                “MOM!”

                “Fine,” you growl in a low voice, turning to face her.  You might as well do this as quickly as possible and move on.  Her smile returns and her foot raises back up in the air and moves toward your nose, slowly.  She’s clearly enjoying how humiliating this is for you.  Once again, you find yourself sickened with how much power your younger and much weaker sister has over you, but you figure it’s best to push this thought from your mind and just get it over with.

                Her toes curl a few times in anticipation as your nose nears, her sole wrinkling simultaneously, then finally stops about an inch away from your face.  You look up at her and she nods, so you take the quickest whiff possible.  Even in that tiny amount, you get a little hint of the pungent aroma of dirt and sweat clinging to her bare foot.  You begin to pull back.

                “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?  You didn’t even do it.  You have to take a BIG sniff.  Do it,” she says, wiggling her toes in indication and giggling a little.  You groan.  What a bitch.  You exhale all remaining air to be on empty, then begin to inhale, hard.  This time you feel it hit you immediately.  The bitter tinge of dirt and grass sift through the air from earlier when she was running around the back yard barefoot.  The old, sour scent of bath soap she used last night.  And the putrid stink of her sweat, sticking like glue to every inch of her foot.  It almost pains your nose to smell it, and you can’t help but cough.

                “Haha, wow, they must smell bad, huh?” she says, chuckling.  You nod and quickly pull away.

                “Okay, I did it.  Now leave me alone.”

                “Nuh-uh.  You’re not done yet.  That was nothing.”

                “Yes I am.  You’re going to…”

                “MOM!”

                “FINE!”

                “That’s better,” she says, recomposing herself.  “Get it in there this time.  Stick your nose all the way in.  Deeper.”

                You don’t even answer this time.  You move your nose closer and stop.  Before you can take a whiff, though, her toes move even closer.  Gently, she walks her toes up along your nose.  She latches onto your nose, using her long big and second toes as clips to easily hold your nostrils closed, forcing you to breathe through your mouth; her toes feel cold, but firm.  She arches her foot, getting it as close as she can to your face without touching it.  And then you go, inhaling hard through your open mouth, her large, disgusting, wrinkled sole sitting inches from your mouth.  The same effect takes place, except this time it gets tracked through your mouth; it’s the non-tangible equivalent of having her entire dirty, sweaty, grimy foot jammed right down your throat and into your esophagus.  After a moment of this, she releases her toes from your nose and places her foot back on the ground with a stomp.  You instinctively take a deep breath of clean air, trying to wash out the smell from your nostrils and throat.  It’s not working, and you feel as if her foot is still locked firmly onto your nose, infecting your face with the sheer smell of it.  You swat a damp clump of toejam off the bridge of your nose.

                “Good boy,” she says as if speaking to a dog.  It makes you want to punch her, but you don’t want to know what you’d have to do next as a consequence.  “Looks like you have some homework to do, bro,” she says playfully, sauntering out of the room.

                Mentally, you swear that you’re not going to let this continue on.  She can’t control you like this forever, and sooner or later it will catch up to her.  You know it.

You sit in your room, flipping between a few different channels on your small TV.  All is reasonably quiet, however, until you hear your mom shriek loudly from the other room.

                “CARLY!” yells your mom at the top of her lungs, clearly from your sister’s room.  You roll your eyes.  No doubt Carly’s done something else wrong and left the evidence laying around out of sheer laziness.

                “CARLY!” your mom shouts again, and this time you hear the pounding sound as your sister dashes up the stairs.

                “Stop yelling, mom!  What’s wrong?”

                “I’ll tell you what’s wrong!  You want to tell me what this is?” says your mom angrily.

                “Err…”

                You don’t know or care what the pair of them are talking about.

                “…they’re my friend’s cigarettes, mom.”

                “Oh, yes?”

                “Yeah.  They’re Elaine’s.  I didn’t… want to get her in trouble, and she was here, so I told her she could leave them here.  I’m sorry…” says Carly, her voice cracking as she starts to turn on the waterworks like she so often does when in trouble.

                “They’re Elaine’s, hmm?  Then I think we better pay Elaine’s mother a call…” says your mom, striding past your open bedroom door, still holding the pack of cigs.

                “No!  Mom, wait, just listen to me!” shouts Carly after her, dashing past your door.

                You think for a moment.  While it certainly is of no concern to you, it does occur to you that Carly did not, in fact, ever use a cigarette.  It was only a few days ago, exactly a week after your mom found the text message from Carly’s friend Blake that the guy showed up at your front door when your parents weren’t home.  Not really caring at all, you let them alone, and you’re reasonably certain the cigs belong to Blake, not Elaine.  Obviously, Carly’s not going to be tossing out the truth for the simple fact that she’d be in the doghouse like you were last week for the emergency room trip.  Maybe even worse, considering Carly is only 14 but invited in a smoking eighth grader into the house.  This gives you a brilliant idea.

                “Hey, mom?” you yell, getting up and walking to the door.  Your mom looks over at you and so does Carly, looking rather confused, similarly to the way you reacted a week ago when she saved your ass from more trouble.

                “They are Elaine’s.  She was here last week and I heard them talking.”

                “Really?” says your mom, tilting her head, still not completely sold.

                “Really,” you say.  She considers your face for a moment, then nods.

                “All right, then.  I think we should just stay away from that family altogether now.  Carly, I don’t want you hanging around with Elaine anymore now, either.  She’s a bad influence…” says your mom, shaking her head in disapproval and heading back downstairs.  After she’s out of view, Carly turns to you, her nose in the air.

                “What are YOU doing?”

                “What do you mean?  I’m just having your back,” you say calmly with a fake smile.

                “Uh-huh,” says Carly, clearly and correctly not well assured.  “Why’d you do that?”

                “Because the lawn is looking pretty cruddy today, and SOMEONE has to pick it up!” you say, grinning.

                “What?  That’s your job.  Mom SAID last week, Jack, you have to pick up the lawn…” says Carly.  “Do you actually think I’M doing it because you told mom that Elaine left her cigarettes here?”

                “Well, no…”

                Carly smiles smugly, looking triumphant.  “Yeah, didn’t think so, bro,” she says, turning to walk away.

                “Hold up,” you say after she takes a step.  She looks back over her shoulder.

                “What?”

                “You’re not doing it because I just saved you.  You’re doing it because I happen to be a pretty good photographer.”

                “WHAT are you talking about?” she says, turning back around to face you, squinting at you in annoyance.  You confidently reach into your jean pocket, whip out your phone, and with a few taps quickly produce a picture you took of Carly and Blake sitting next to each other on your back porch from last week.

                “Wha-wha-you took a PICTURE of us?” she hisses angrily, keeping her voice down to avoid detection by your mom.  Your smile widens.

                “Yep.  And unless you want this thing leaking to certain media outlets, I’d suggest you go grab a rake and a shovel and get to work out there.”

                “But…”

                “Sorry, but this offer expires in ten seconds.”

                “But…”

                “Ten, nine, eight…three, two, one…”

                “FINE.”

                You grin.  You can’t help but sympathize with your sister’s constant attempts to do this.  Holding this much leverage over her is actually pretty fun.

                “Cool.  Have fun out there,” you say cheekily, disappearing into your room.

                “Okay, kids, your dad and I are going now!” yells your mom from the bottom of the stairs at you and your sister in your separate rooms.  You each poke your heads out.  You look smugly over at your sister, looking pretty tired still from the yard work she did to answer your blackmail.  So far, it’s been a full week, and your sister still isn’t done with the yard, even though she goes out there everyday to work.  Your mom questioned what was up, but you insisted you were paying your sister to get it done, which your parents quickly left alone, seeing it as a sign of the two of you bonding or at least learning to cooperate.  As if…

Carly wipes a sweaty, matted bang off her forehead, still fresh from an hour of work in the muggy air, and gives you the evil eye but doesn’t say anything in front of your mom.

Your parents have been planning this weekend trip for a long time now, sort of as a second honeymoon.  Seeing as you’re seventeen years old, you were promised a good chunk of change to babysit for your sister until Sunday night when your parents return.  It’s not going to be a pleasant weekend, with your sister moaning at you the entire time for the job you’re forcing her to do, but the fact that you still are in control of the situation ensures it will at least be bearable.

“Okay…” you say, disappearing back into your room.

“Have fun!” yells your sister in her best fake happy voice, disappearing as well into her air conditioned room as she tries to return her body temperature to normal.

                An hour later, you peek absent-mindedly out the window.  You can see dark storm clouds twisting across the sky, nearing you.  It’s going to rain any minute now, maybe even thunder a little.  Your eyes fall down to the yard and see your shovel and rake that Carly left laying out in the grass.  You may be “paying” your sister to do the work, but you just know you’ll catch hell if your equipment is ruined by the rain.

                “Hey, Carly!  You left the stuff out in the yard!” you yell, not moving.  She doesn’t answer.

                “I’ll show mom the picture when she gets back!  Go pick up the shovel and rake!” you yell again, standing up and heading toward the door. 

Her bedroom door is closed and locked, and her fan is on full blast.  As is her small stereo, playing some random pop song you aren’t particularly familiar with.  Even if she can hear you right now, your tools are going to get soaked out there.  With a groan, you jog downstairs to do it yourself.

By the time you head outside, it’s already starting to rain, and it’s getting harder with each passing second.

“CARLY!” you yell out at no one in particular with great irritation, dashing across the wet grass to grab your shovel and rake.  Scooping up the damp handles of each, your eyes quickly dart around the yard, searching desperately for the shorter handled rake you use for behind the bushes.  Looking up into your backyard’s tall tree, you see it lodged snugly up on a branch eleven or twelve feet up.

The little bitch apparently felt brave enough to annoy you a little after a week of servitude in the yard.  Groaning and wiping rainwater out of your eyes, you grab the metallic rake and begin clawing up at the branch, just out of reach.  Carly must have used a ladder, but you don’t really feel like going to get the ladder right now, as it would just mean getting more soaked having to carry it out.

A bolt of lightning flashes in the distance.  Your heart skips a beat.  You don’t really want to be out here in the middle of a storm.  Your hair, now sopping wet, clings cold to the side of your face, but you brush it away, standing on your tiptoes and taking a long swing with the rake.  Almost…

What happens next is so quick you hardly notice it, but in the briefest of nanoseconds you see a flash of light before your eyes, a tingling sensation traveling down from your hand and into your torso.  Your eyes see black but open up again with you flat on your back in the muddy grass.  You blink the large raindrops out of your eyes, trying to deduce what just happened in your boggled mind.  It occurs to you that you must have been struck by lightning.  Strangely, you feel no pain.  You figure you must be in shock, which is probably physically preferable to actual pain.

You swing your arm over your chest, still in a daze, trying to right yourself.  However, as you do, your arm nearly slips as it hits a slab of slick mud, your hand having disappeared into your sweatshirt sleeve.  You blink again, staring at it.  You stretch your arm out as far as it will go, but you still can’t reach the cuff of your sweatshirt.  Looking down, you realize that the neck of your sweatshirt has been creeping up your face, soaked completely by the rain, climbing up to your nose and covering it up.  You gasp for air, your heart flutters.  “What the hell…” you mumble groggily, still in a little bit of a daze.  You punch your limbs around wildly, wondering what’s going on as you find a billowing tent of fabric sitting above you, your pants having long ago disappeared off your feet.

Not thinking at all about what’s going on, you instinctively run for it, pushing upward against the fabric to avoid being trapped inside.  You dash out into the mud and look up as the lightning cracks across the dark sky.  Then you look over at the tree.

Or rather, you look up at the tree, because from this point it looks like a mountainous skyscraper, stretching into the clouds themselves.  In shock, you fall backward, the sky lit up again by lightning, and you land in the mud.  It is also at this moment you realize you are completely naked.

Your mind begins to swirl with fear and paranoia, unable to decipher what’s going on.   You mumble a little, but no sound comes out.  You have to figure out what’s going on.  You have to.

The freezing cold of the rain suddenly wraps itself around you, soaking you anew in the dirt and filth covering the ground.  You stand up and reorient yourself and stare up at your house, which looks to be over a hundred meters away from this distance.  It also happens to resemble a castle from some fictional universe, because it too appears to be legions higher than just two stories.  Your eyes and mind swim in the sight.

You don’t know why.  You can’t explain how.  It scares the living shit out of you.  But you realize at this point that you have shrunk down to a matter of inches.  You can’t even fathom how small you’ve become.  2 inches?  3 inches?  You don’t really want to think about it.

                You don’t have long to contemplate this, though.  You feel your survival instinct kick in.  “I need to get inside.  I need to get help,” you say as calmly as possible to yourself in your mind.  Bravely, you begin dashing across the mud-ridden grassy forest, heading toward your backdoor.

                The screen door is closed, but you remember noting how the screen has a small tear in the bottom corner, which tends to be how ants and other bugs find their way into your house in the summertime.  It’s scary to imagine the fact that you’re about to use the same door that insects normally use, but there’s no time to think about.

                The chill worsens, and you feel your digits go numb in the freezing conditions.  Have to get inside.  Have to get warm.  Have to get help.  You’re getting tired already as you dash breathlessly with all you’ve got across the slick muddy ground.

                Eventually, you arrive at the screen, and thanks to your weightlifting you’re able to pull yourself up the small indent in the screen door frame and clamber through the torn fibers of the screen.  You plop down what feels like several feet onto the wooden floor of your kitchen, and collapse to catch your breath.

                Taking a breather, your eyes wander around.  The countertops stretch up into the air like buildings in New York City, the massive kitchen table legs going up seemingly forever like incredible spires of a palace.  The ceiling seems miles away.  Far across the floor, you can make out the stairs.  Not that you’d be able to climb them at this height.  You tremble, trying to slow your breathing, attempting to work it out in your mind.  You’re a self-dedicated man of science.  You can figure out what’s going on.  You can.  You know you can.

                What the HELL is going on, you think to yourself.

                No.  No.  No.  Just keep calm.  Slow your breathing.  Cool.  Cool.  You can work it out.  You have to.  You have to.  Or else.

                Or else what?

                You shake your head, trying to shake the fears from your mind.  You can’t think rationally when you let your mind wander like that.  You have to THINK.

                You take a seat, leaning your back against the frame of the screen door.  And then you let yourself think.

                You were struck by lightning.  That much is clear.  What isn’t clear, of course, is how you managed to shrink down to the size of a small action figure from an occurrence that happens to hundreds of people on a regular basis.  It’s weather.  It’s lightning.  It’s been around for centuries.  No, it had to be something else.

                Chemistry class.  The lab.  It hits you.  What you were mixing, the chemical changes you forced it through by heating it.  Being melded into you.  And the catalyst of the electricity.  It all adds up.  It’s the only explanation.  It makes sense.

                Of course, a moment later you shake your head again, realizing how ridiculous you just sounded to yourself by suggesting that any of this “makes sense.”

                Your time to think about this is up, as under your ass you feel a pounding.  Like an earthquake, getting more severe with each smash.  You try to stand up but instantly fall down again, as you don’t have your sea legs yet.  Then your eyes rise.  Carly.

                From the top of the stairs, you can see her massive form smashing down the stairs in her normal haughty fashion.  Her hair tossed over her shoulders, a white t-shirt barely covering her abdomen, tight jeans clinging to her toned legs.  A pair of pink flip-flops carrying her bare feet.

                You quickly calculate in your head.  Technically, Carly is about twenty feet away from you right now.  But from where she’s standing, with no depth perception, it seems as if she’s standing literally a foot away from you.  Perhaps less.  She continues her descent, growing larger and larger with each massive footfall, sending shockwaves through the ground into you, until she reaches the bottom of the stairs.

                A chill runs down your spine.  You know you need help.  You know that, in all honesty, Carly is your only chance.  And yet the sight of her, this girl that for the past week has hated your guts with a burning passion, standing so massive and powerful compared to you, like a hateful and vengeful goddess descending on a doomed village.  The cold hits your core, and you almost feel sick.

                “JACK!” comes the incredible boom of Carly’s voice, echoing through the high halls of the kitchen.  You almost want to cover your ears in defense.  “JACK!” she bellows again, stomping her foot as hard as she can in protest of you not showing up immediately at her call.  This actually does send you toppling to the floor again, even from this far off.  You take a deep breath, then let it rip.

                “CARLY!” you scream at the top of your lungs from the door.  But there’s no reaction.  She hasn’t heard you.  “CARLY!” you yell again, stepping forward a little.  You know it’s the best chance of her hearing you, but with each step forward, the reality of her size becomes more and more real, and your legs begin to turn to jelly as you inch forward.

                “CARLY!” you yell, your throat starting to protest.  You go for another step, and almost trip, your head getting fuzzy and light.  It occurs to you that you are abjectly terrified right now.

                No reaction.  Then, lifting her foot in the air, Carly starts walking toward the screen door.  You look way up at her face, trained on the screen door.  “JACK, you left the screen door open!  It’s going to rain inside!” she yells, rattling your eardrums.  She comes nearer and nearer.  You try to back up, but find your feet glued to the ground.  You’re frozen in fear.  Your throat goes dry.

                You stare ahead at Carly’s van-sized feet, barreling across the wood floor in huge bounds.  Suddenly, they stop right in front of you as Carly opens the screen door to close the wooden door.

                Her big toes, not much shorter than your whole body, wiggle in the faded pink rubber of her flip-flops.  Her other toes, long and pink, bend absentmindedly, turning her joints white in rhythm.

                The absolutely colossal forms of flesh stand before you.  From here, you can see almost every detail of those gigantic peds.  The veins, so small at regular size, seem like speed bumps running endlessly around her ankles and along the smooth, fleshy tops of her feet.  As she wiggles her toes, you can see the damp underside, wrinkled and pruned still with water from the mucky yard outside.  A few blades of grass remain trapped in the deep wrinkles of her sole, as well as between a couple of her toes, the tips of which are white and chalky with dried and peeling skin.

                You look down at your naked dick, and realize you are spurting piss all over the ground in front of you in terror.

                But you can’t think about that right now.  You look straight up at your goddess-sized sister, towering above you with such raw and gut-wrenching power you want to puke just having to tilt your head all the way back to see her face.

                “CARLY!” you scream with every last ounce of energy left in your vocal cords.

                Using her right hand to brush hairs out of her face, Carly tilts her head down to her feet.  Her eyes boggle, glistening with an indescribable shine, her mile-long lips curling into a massive smile.

Wind hits your face and knocks you down to the ground, flat on your back, as the upper torso of your gigantic sister rushes down from her perch high in the air.  You dry swallow a few times, trying to collect yourself before your mind collapses in terror.

                Carly crouches right over you, her size now plainer than ever before, her billboard-sized face bearing down on you, her ropes of dirty blond hair hanging down like a canopy over you.  Her smile quickly dissipates into a look of confusion and curiosity.  A hand reaches up toward her face and, using fingers each longer than your body, swoops her hair out of her face to get a better look at you.

                Your eyes follow along her neck and down to her absolutely tremendous torso and legs.  Even from here, through her tight jeans, you can see her rounded calves and quads flexing as she squats on the ground over you, massive forms of pure power and muscle under her skin.  She looks strong enough to lift a small building over her head.

                “Carly!” you yell out not quite as loud, now that you’ve got her attention.  You remain frozen in a laying down position.  You begin to pant loudly, scared and relieved at the same time.

                It occurs to you that in any other circumstance of life, being naked in front of your sister would result in humiliation and teasing for the rest of your natural life, but this happens to be the one possible instance where this thought is not first on the docket of your brain.

                Carly’s face remains unchanged, just staring at you.  Perhaps she’s in shock too.  You wouldn’t blame her.  It’s incredible what you can see from here.  Even though Carly’s very young, at this size you can make out thin ghosts of laugh wrinkles formed around her eyes, the greasy sheen of pink lip gloss coating her lips.  Through her partially opened mouth you can make out her ivory teeth, looking large and thick enough to chew apart a metal safe door.  Every fiber of her skin on her cheeks and everywhere on her face is visible, moving ever so slightly as she inhales slowly.

                “Carly?” you say uncertainly, still scared.  You blink a few times, then try to sit up, but realize you’re surrounded in a puddle of rain, so you slip back down into the flat position on the ground.  You gulp a few times.  “Carly?  It’s me.  It’s Jack,” you say, unsure of what else to say.

                Carly’s lips move, reflecting light off her lip gloss.  “Jack?” she says, and her mouth twists into a smile.  It’s not an evil smile of victory and malice like normal, so that’s something.  Somehow, you’re a little bit comforted.

                “Yeah…” you say, letting the word trail off.  You find yourself unable to move again.

                “What…” she starts to say, arching her eyebrows.  However, she doesn’t finish her sentence.  Out of the corner of your eyes, you see her massive left hand rushing toward you.  You flail your limbs for a moment, but it’s of no use.  An instant later a wall of flesh is bearing down on you, her muscular fingers, almost as thick as your body, curling downward like snakes.  Her palm, soft and cool, presses down onto your torso, burying your dick in the thickness of her hand flesh at your size.  Her fingers slide with surprising gentleness around your arms and legs, curling back around and tightening.  You feel a sense of security surrounding you as the wet, rainy ground underneath you is replaced with the cool, plush fingers of your massive sister, pressing into your back and legs with unexpected care.

                The ground falls away slowly as you are lifted into the air, the comforting, smooth feeling of hand flesh pressed firmly but gently onto every square inch of your naked form.  In spite of yourself, you almost want to fall asleep, so drastic was the change from freezing rain and mud to the comforting apparent safety of your sister’s hand.  Maybe there is a good person inside of Carly, after all…

                Your head swims as you rise higher and higher up into the stratosphere of the kitchen.  Your eyes water at the sudden change in altitude.  Clearing them, you find yourself at eye level with your sister, her hand still wrapped snugly around your body.  Your breathing begins to slow, and your heart rate drops as you are almost instantly calmed by the comforting and evidently capable grip of your little sister.

                The staring match continues a little longer, your body temperature already regulating again as her fist begins to warm up, like a circular sweat box of soft flesh providing your frozen little form with heat from the massive generator of her gargantuan, skyscraper-like body.

                “C-C-Carly…” you say out loud, unsure of where to start.  The explanation for what’s going on?  The plea for her to get you medical attention?  The suggestion that she ensure she hangs on to you tightly to avoid a death plunge?  Your mind almost goes blank.

                Carly’s eyes get wider, her pupils dilating ever so slightly.  Her nose wrinkles up by the bridge as her smile widens, the few freckles surrounding her eyes and nose bobbing up and down as she does so.  “Jack… you’re… you’re… like, three inches tall!”

                “I… I know…”

                “What HAPPENED to you?”

                “I don’t know!  Please, Carly… please.  I need you to do something, call mom and dad, call the hospital.  Something.  I… don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you say finally.

                “Yeah, yeah, okay…” she says, sounding serious.  Wind whips your face and you bob up and down a little in her hand as she takes a step, but then stops in her tracks.  She turns her hand around again to look at you.

                “Now, wait a minute, Jack…” she says, as if all of this was completely natural.

                “What, Carly?  C’mon!  You have to get me some medical attention, something is seriously WRONG with me!”

                “Jack, slow down…”

                “CARLY!  I need your help!  Just keep going!  I don’t know what’s going on right now, but we have to do something about it soon!”

                “Jack…”

                “CARLY!  C’MON!” you yell out in desperation, growing fearful again despite the fact that you have physical safety in Carly’s now warm fist.  There’s no telling what is really going on inside you, and the painful idea in the back of your mind that there’s no reversing what’s happened to you is starting to creep to the forefront.

                Carly tilts her head a little, pursing her lips in disdain, cocking her eyebrows as if shocked at you.

                “Jack… stop talking to me like that.”

                “Are you SERIOUS, Carly?  Look at me!  I’m TINY!  I don’t know what’s wrong and we have to find out, right NOW!”

                “You’re yelling at me, Jack…”

                “Wha-what are you talking about?  I need help!  C’mon!”

                “You’re still doing it.”

                “No I’m not!  Shut up and CALL THE GOD DAMNED HOSPITAL!”

                You can visibly see Carly taken aback, as if you had struck a physical blow to her face.

                “Jack… you cussed again…”

                “I WILL DO WHATEVER I DAMN WELL PLEASE UNTIL YOU HELP ME!  YOU’VE GOT TO HELP ME, CARLY!”

                “Not until you apologize…”

                Now it’s your turn to be taken aback.  You stare at her face, looking expectant at you for a moment.  You can’t believe what’s coming out of her mouth.

                “CARLY, ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” you scream at the top of your lungs.

                “Jack, stop yelling at me!”

                “HELP ME!”

                “Stop.”

                “HELP!”

                “STOP YELLING AT ME!” she finally screams, and you can literally feel your eardrums pop as the sound waves ripple through your head.  You feel yourself begin to shiver in her hand, and despite the heat her hand is providing, you feel cold again.

                “Okay…” you say sheepishly, regaining your composure.  As usual, you just have to bite the bullet and do it, now more than ever.  “Okay, okay.  Look, I’m sorry, Carly, that I yelled at you.  I’m just scared, okay?  You can understand that, right?” you say, trying to sound reassuring again.

                But she doesn’t smile at you.  Her eyes squint again.

                “I can’t believe you, Jack.”

                “What?”

                “Even when you’re in trouble like this, and you need me, you can’t be nice to me.”

                “Look, I’m TRYING, Carly, okay?  I’m trying!  Look, I’ll even just wait a minute for you.  Now, please.  Please.  Go call for help,” you say, releasing the words slowly and calmly.

                She says nothing.  Her face turns pensive, and she bites the corner of her lips, as if in thought.  With a start, you feel her powerful fingers shifting around your back, her plush flesh smushing ever so slightly as if brushes across your naked backside. 

This shift again reminds you of how vulnerable and embarrassing this has made you, being forced to be essentially felt up by your younger sister on every square inch of your entirely visible naked body just for the sake of having your life saved.  No matter how this ends up, it’s never quite going to be the same again when you’re in her presence…

“No,” comes Carly’s voice at last.

Something inside your mind snaps.  You want to lash out at her.  You want to beat on her smirking face and wipe the smile right off of it.  You’re in a potentially life threatening position and she’s being her normal bitchy self, in the one true moment where you need her to do something good for you.  The gall of your sister is almost beyond your comprehension, and you can’t even sum up the words.

“B-b…” you manage to squeak out, practically spitting the words out.

“Don’t talk ask me again, Jack, until you’ve said it to me.”

“WHAT?” you spit out.

“Until you apologize to me.”

Rage boils up inside of you, bursting from your head and every limb.  And this time, it’s perfectly clear to you how to say it.

“You BITCH!  YOU STUPID BITCH!  WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?  YOU GET OVER TO THAT DAMNED PHONE RIGHT NOW AND HELP ME, GOD DAMN IT!” you scream, your face turning red.  You look up at her massive face, fire in your eyes.

Her eyes narrow into slits, and her mouth furrows into a deep frown.

“That’s it.  You can’t talk to me like that, Jack…” she hisses loudly.  “Did you hear me?  You can’t TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!” she yells again, shredding your eardrums again.

Around your helpless form, you feel the warm, creamy walls of flesh shifting.  Inward.  You suck in your stomach and convulse your muscles instinctively as your sister’s fingers begin to compress in on you.  The pressure builds.  The cushy pad of flesh surrounding her palm and fingers press inward, giving way to the robust and pulsing muscles of Carly’s fingers.  You can feel your limbs threatening to go numb as your sister squeezes tighter and tighter on your helpless, lithe form, completely powerless to resist.  Your mind begins to race.  Your forehead begins to sweat as the wall of soft flesh and raw muscle cave in on you with such ease.  It occurs to you that an apology might be in order, but you can’t think as crushing pain fills your brain impulses.  Your eyes water and you look pleadingly up at your “little” sister’s glistening eyes and your mouth opens, in an attempt at protest, but no sound comes out.  Finally, when you feel that your entire body has been coated with bruises and your bones will begin to crack under the mammoth plowing strength being used on them, the pressure releases.

Your entire body screams out in pain all at once, and you moan audibly in soreness and pain, her fingers suddenly feeling soft again as your naked form leans into the pad of her palm.  Almost ready to pass out, you look up again at your sister’s face, completely serious.

“You’re NEVER going to talk like that to me again,” she says, and the hairs on your body stand on end as you watch a massive and menacing smile creep over her long lips.  “NEVER again, little boy,” she adds spritely, and releases a loud and terrifying giggle of power.

Your stomach lurches.  If there really is a God, you have a feeling he’s about to turn a blind eye to whatever is in store for you.

You stare ahead of you, your heart beating a mile minute, still perched in Carly’s hot fist, at her face, her own eyes staring like a statue at you from her seated position on the living room couch.  She hasn’t said anything in the last few minutes; she’s only been watching at you, tilting her head and biting her lip in thought.  You don’t even want to know what’s going on inside that brain of hers.

                You feel yourself begin to shiver again, although this time not from cold but from terror once again.  Her hand, only minutes ago a source of comfort, you realize is a prison of flesh she can use to so easily determine what happens to you.  This is perhaps the scariest realization of all.

                Swallowing hard in your dry throat, you manage to speak up and break the silence.

                “C-C-Carly?  Carly?” you say uncertainly, trying to sound optimistic.  She doesn’t answer.

                “S-Sis?  Sis?” you say, hoping to appeal to your familial connection.  Nothing.

                “L-L-Listen.  I-I’m sorry, okay?  I really am, okay?  For everything.  For yelling at you, for cussing, for the picture with your friend…” you say.  “B-But please… you, you… you don’t wanna hurt me, right?”

                Finally her lips part, slowly and purposefully.  “Jack, stop talking.  I know you don’t mean what you’re saying to me.  You were a big jerk and you still are.  You can’t trick me by trying to be nice now.”

                “B-But I am!  Honestly I am…” you say bashfully in protest.  Her grip tightens ever so slightly, and you feel yourself begin to break out in a clammy sweat as her supple finger flesh compresses against your dick, making it disappear into the crevice between her fingers again.

                “NO.  You’re not!” she says suddenly.  “Well…”

                “What?”

                “Not yet…”

                You feel your stomach flip over after those last two words.  What the hell does she mean?

                “I-I…” you say, too nervous now to come up with anything else.

                “Yeah, didn’t think so…” she answers curtly, frowning harder at you.  “I mean, who do you think you are, huh?  Do you know what you’ve put me through this week?  What I’ve had to put up with to make sure you don’t squeal on me like the snitch you are?”

“Uh…” you say, knowing there’s no good answer.

“I don’t think you know, Jack.  You don’t at all.  I have blisters all over my hands.  My back is sore.  And oh my God, my FEET are…” she says, and suddenly her frown changes into a sly little grin once again.  “Hey, Jack…”

                “Yes?” you answer quickly, not wanting to irritate her any further.

                “What did you think of my feet the other day?”

                “W-What?”

                “My feet.  Did they not smell very good?” she says, as if speaking to an elementary school kid.

                “Uh-I mean…”

                “Answer me.”

                “N-no, I guess, t-they didn’t smell very good…” you say quietly, wondering whether or not that’s the correct answer.  Her smile widens and opens, revealing her teeth fully.

                “That’s what I was thinking…”

                “L-Listen, Carly, I…”

                “Shut up, Jack.”

                “Okay…”

                “Don’t talk unless I ask you something.  You’ve said so many mean things to me, I’m going to make sure you can’t say ANY more bad things anymore.  Got it?” she says, raising an eyebrow.

                You nod, speechless.

                “Good, little bro.  I’m glad you’re paying attention,” she says.  “I think I’ve got the first way you’re going to apologize to me.  That is what you want to do, isn’t it?”

                “Y-yes…”

                “What’s that?”

                “Yes,” you answer a little more confidently.

                “Sorry, I can’t hear you too well.  Do you want to apologize to me?”

                “YES!”

                “Cool,” she says, chuckling a little and shifting her grip on you, making your heart flutter for a second as her fingers ripple in a pattern.  “Then let’s get started.  You’re going to smell them again.”

                You shiver at the thought.

                “Okay?” she follows up.

                “Y-Yea…”

                “I think I’m being pretty fair.  I’ll forgive everything you’ve ever done to me.  This entire week, everything, if you do this one little easy thing for me.  That’s not too much to ask, is it?” she says.

                “Err…”

                “Is it?”

                “No, it’s not.”

                She leans her head back and frowns a little again, tossing her hair off her shoulders.  “I don’t think I believe you.  If I was you, I think I’d be ASKING me to do it so I could get some help.  I thought that was what you wanted.  Don’t you want me to get you help, little bro?”

                “Y…”

                “I mean, you were almost crying like a stupid BABY back there,” she says mockingly.

                “Yes.”

                “Then why aren’t you?”

                “Why aren’t I what?”

                “Asking me,” she mutters happily, her smile widening to full length, taking full pleasure in each venomous word.

                “Uh…”

                “Go ahead, I’m not in a hurry,” she says.  You can’t believe this is happening.  Not only are you about to redo what you had to do last week at a hundredfold strength, but you’re being forced to plead for it to happen to you.  You’re literally about to ask your “little” sister for permission to be subjugated by her massive death peds.  The words pain your vocal cords as they come out.

                “Um, okay.  C-Could I… smell your feet?” you whisper.

                “Little louder, Jack, I can’t hear you very well when you’re like this.”

                “Carly, can I… please smell your feet?” you say loudly and without blemish in the sentence.  Carly gives you a look of extreme condescension, letting her grin curl upward.

                “Well, geez, little bro, all you have to do is ask!” she says, and she can’t help but laugh a little at you.  You feel the gravity almost shift as her arm extends, moving her hand away from her face, past her torso, along her legs and past her feet.

                You are plopped on the green fabric of the couch.  As her hand is pulled back in, you look up and see two massive walls of pink foam flip-flop material, browned in multiple areas by mud, the pattern on the bottom having long been rubbed raw by repeated wearing.  They move back and forth a little, swaying as she flexes her feet behind them.  Then, raising her legs high above your head, she flicks her ankles in quick kicks, sending each flip-flop flying across the living room to the far side.

                With a massive thud that sends you reeling onto the couch cushion, she brings her feet back to the couch, sitting straight up next to each other.

                From here, you really can see everything underneath those flesh machines of doom.  Each towers over you, stretching up higher than a story of an office building.  The ball of her foot, wrinkled in deep crevices containing trapped blades of grass and little flecks of mud.  Her soggy heels, despite their faded color due to peeling skin and dryness, appear in a yellowish hue as she puts all the pressure of each foot onto it, these as well furrowing into rough ridges.  The creamy white underside of the deepest slab of her sole wrinkles in little patches of peachy flesh, soaked thoroughly in a combo of old rainwater and dried sweat from her work earlier.  Each disgusting foot looks like it’s been sitting in bathwater for hours on end, each foot being completely pruned and saturated with sweat and dew.

                Your gut wrenches a little bit, but you manage to hold it back.  You can’t do that now.  You don’t allow yourself to take a new breath, too afraid of what will hit you.

                “Go on… do it.  Take a big breath.  A really big breath.  And if I don’t think you did it well enough, you’re going to do it again and again until I think you did a good job.  Now go ahead.  Walk closer,” coos Carly slyly, peeking over the tops of her toes, curling them in anticipation of what she’s about to put you through.  You take steps forward, your legs threatening to give out, the sheer mountain of flesh before you becoming larger and larger with each step until you stop in front of her heels, close enough that you could reach out and stick your hand into a deep heel wrinkle.

                And you inhale.  Hard.

                Within a nanosecond, the soul-crushing odor of Carly’s titanic peds hits you, like standing near a slaughterhouse for a little too long.  The rancid and deathly combination of acrid stenches all combine and fill your nostrils.  The smeared mud and fresh grass clippings come first in tart dashes to your nose, making it seem like Carly’s feet are wild animals themselves, having come right out of the earth itself.  The curdled fetor of old lotion and fruity body soap, long since applied and worn off, hang in the air heavily.

                But none of that is what catches your attention, not by a long shot.  Despite all this happening very quickly, what registers last in your brain is the freight train of putrid execration that threatens to knock you on your backside.  The pure, slimy, musty punch of rotting perspiration, trapped disgustingly under Carly’s unholy and unwashed foot in microscopic pulps of mineral and bodily fluid.  Like concentrated salt water mist, it stings your nostrils with such fervor you feel actual, physical pain from the inhalation, your eyes watering from the sheer pungent aroma surrounding you in a haze of reeking sudor.

                It happens so slowly to you, despite the fact that it’s a single, deep breath.  Your legs give out on you and you go to your knees, hacking hard, shredding your throat.  Finally, you give in to your body’s consequence for having done what you just did, and dryly upchuck onto the couch cushion.

                Carly’s feet pull back a little as she bends her mile long legs at the knees up to her chest, giving you some room to refill your lungs with fresh air.  Through your coughs, you hear her laughing so hard she can barely make a sound anymore.  Finally looking up from your cowering position, you see pure glee and joy in the face of your little sister, a massive smile plastered across her face.  She wipes a hair out of her face, then grins at you.

                “Oh my GOD, did you just throw UP on the COUCH?  Why are you so gross?” she says, struggling to speak through remnants of her laughter.  “You know why they smell like that, little bro?  You know why they smell that bad?  Because of what YOU made me do for this entire week, doing that job outside that YOU should have been doing.  None of this would be like this if you had just left me alone.  I’m FOURTEEN years old, and I’ll hang out with whoever I want, and my big…” she says, but catches herself, “…LITTLE brother isn’t ever going to do anything about it again!” she says triumphantly, her cheerful voice becoming a little frustrated and angry as she thinks of what you did.

                You wipe your eyes of the welled tears, rubbing at your still-stinging nose and burning throat, still in pain from that single gargantuan intake of breath you took and the vomit immediately following.

                “P-P-Please…” you manage to gasp out.  “C-Carly… I did what you a-asked.  I did it.  Now, p-please… help me…” you say, swaying side to side as another wave of vomit threatens to come up.

                Carly wrinkles her nose at you, takes a short breath, then throws her head back in laughter.  “Seriously?  Are you kidding me, little bro? Believe me.   You haven’t even STARTED to learn you lesson!”

“You think you’re some big macho man, huh?” says Carly childishly, clearly making fun of you.  “All you do is push me around or trip me or shove me, and you think you can do it because you’re so much bigger than me,” she says, the anger rising.  “Well… you WERE bigger than me, anyhow.”

                You, still crouching on the couch cushion after having your senses nearly broken by the mere smell of Carly’s sweaty, disgusting feet, try to sum up the strength to stand up, but you honestly feel too sickened and terrified to move.

                “But you’re not any more.  And you STILL don’t get it.  You’re not some big muscle man.  You can’t just go PUSHING people AROUND, Jack!” she hisses.

                “I… I know, I never meant to…”

                “SHUT UP.  You meant everything you did, because you thought you could get away with it.  But you can’t.  And you know what, little bro?  You’re going to KNOW what it feels like to have someone bigger, stronger, and meaner picking on you for no reason!”

                “I…”

                “So, you’re going to lay down.”

                “What?”

                “You heard me.  Sit down, then lay back.  All the way, on your back.  Flat.”

                “I... I…” you stammer.

                “Do it right now.”

                “Okay,” you say, quivering almost out of control as you roll back onto your ass and lay down.

                “Spread your arms and legs out, as far as you can,” she says next.

                “Uh-uh… okay, okay,” you say quickly, spreading yourself out.  Once again, you get the awful feeling of exposure, having yourself spread-eagled with your gift bag in plain sight of your little sister.  Prone and ready to take whatever she’s planning.

                “P-Please, Carly.  I apologized.  I smelled your foot for you.  I really AM sorry.”

                “Now hold still,” says your gargantuan sister, completely ignoring you.  Her right foot shifts as she begins stretching her leg back out, toward you.  Instead of going up straight, she gets her foot at a horizontal angle, wiggling her toes as they come lower and lower, moving mere inches above the couch, just enough space to fit you.  Underneath it.

                Instantly, you start to clamber away.  You try and pull yourself up, flailing your limbs around, but a second later it’s too late to do anything.  Carly’s big toe, juicy and pink, wrinkled and damp in all areas except the strip surrounding her nail beds, descends upon you and slams powerfully downward into your flattened abdomen.  She keeps consistent pressure trained down on you, holding you in place as she sets the rest of her foot down flat on the couch.  You can feel the slight bumpy ridges of her toe print, grinding across your chest and stomach.  She curls downward, pressing onto your entire lower torso, including your dick, sending a shock of pain to your brain.  Then, before it gets unbearable, she begins slowly flexing her toe over your midsection and legs, allowing your head and arms to move freely.  Every other part of your body is hopelessly pinned by the hulking, soggy mass of her big toe.

                Everything at your chest and below begins to go numb as your sister’s toe presses harder and harder into your naked body, not putting enough pressure on you to break bones or puncture your skin, but enough so that you have to take labored breaths through your sore lungs.  Ironically, this is a blessing, as it ensures that you don’t get massive inhalations of her foot stink anymore.  Still, even in your controlled breaths, the smell pervades the air so strongly it seems like it will stick to you forever.

                “Unnghh…” you groan, trying to shift your body into a position where your breaths are less sharp.  Beginning to panic, your breathing descends into quick little bursts of oxygen, stinging your nose with each one as a little bit of sweaty air sneaks back into your nostrils.  You stretch both arms upward and manage to wrap your hands up and around the top of your sister’s toe, latching your fingers together over the impenetrable, ivory shell of her toe nail.

                “This is it, little bro,” says Carly calmly, flexing her toe extra hard on these words.  “This is how you make me feel every time you push me or trip me.”  You feel your poor dick scrunched up into a massive fold of saturated toe flesh, and it feels like having your crotch get stuck in a trash compactor.  Your mind wallows in that special brand of pain that only comes when your crotch takes a severe blow, welling up from your abdomen and into your stomach.  To help curb the effects, you hug your arms hard around the dry tip of her toe to help distract yourself.  Naturally, it doesn’t really do anything.

                “GRAAUUUGHGHH!” you roar out of instinct as a particularly hard squeeze is performed on your lower body, your little sister’s damp big toe ridges again swallowing up your family jewels like a dust particle.  She giggles, and your mind is so locked on the absolute pain shooting up from your lower body, the sound is almost distant.

                “Does that hurt, little bro?  Does it hurt having someone a lot tougher than you beating you up just because she can?”

                “Y-Y…”

                “What’s that, Jack?”

                “YES!” you scream at the top of your lungs, in tandem with the pulsating rhythm of Carly’s toe, flexing out and in like a factory line machine.  Realizing that hugging yourself to her toe isn’t helping, you latch your fingers into the porous material of the side of Carly’s toe, so soft and plushy feeling with the water residue soaked into it so deeply.  You squeeze hard to help distract yourself, knowing that she must barely be feeling this pinching you’re doing.

                “Well, that’s GOOD then!” she barks out at you.  “So maybe in the future, you’ll remember this and remember what it FEELS like when someone is being a jerk to you just because they’re big enough.  Tell me, little bro.  Do you feel like a man right now?  Do you feel like a big macho muscle man right now?”

                “Nggghhh…” you moan again, clenching your fingers as hard as you can into the spongy flesh.

                “I can’t HEAR you!” she says.

                “N-N-N…”

                “Hmm… that’s funny, you’re not answering me.  You think you’re that tough, huh?  You think you’re just such a big man that you can sit there and tell me that you can take whatever happens to you?  Well, guess what, Mr. Muscles.  That’s NOT true!” she pouts, slamming a fist on the couch cushion.

                She points her toe, finally relieving the pressure on your crotch and legs, instead training all the weight of her toe right into your abs.  Your crotch, still burning from the pain, tries to recover as you feel the crushing strength bearing directly downward on you.  Carly lifts the rest of her foot into the air and shifts it directly above you, and begins to knead downward into you.  You look upward, watching her foot stretching upward for a ridiculous distance to her massive ankles, her veins crisscrossing thickly over the top of her foot, her other huge toes just out of reach wiggling and stretching to air out.

                You gasp for air, but find you can barely get any.  A thin whisper of oxygen trails into your lungs, and you gulp it down, more and more terrified with each passing second.  It occurs to you that if she presses much harder, your ribs are going to crack.  You’re certain there’s already strain on them.

                “Hulp…” you gasp desperately.  Then, more pressure comes.  Harder and harder, you are pressed down until the couch cushion begins to cave downward.  You grab for the sides and watch as they flow upward and past you.  It feels like you’re being buried alive in a couch cushion, courtesy of your little sister’s big toe.

                Finally, when your breathing gets so labored you know that in about thirty seconds you’re going to pass out, the pressure begins to back off slowly.  Air trickles into your lungs again as Carly’s toe rises upward, still holding you down against the cushion but allowing it to re-inflate.

                Then, finally, the cushion fully re-inflated, she releases her toe completely.  You take huge breaths now, your nose no longer even bothering to complain via pain about the fog of sweat and grime surrounding you.  At this point, breathing is the priority.

                “CARLY!” you scream at last, your throat having sufficient air to speak again.  “I’M SORRY!  PLEASE!  I KNOW I’M NOT A MACHO MAN!  I CAN’T DO ANYTHING TO STOP YOU!  I’LL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT, JUST STOP, PLEASE!” you yell out pleadingly, throwing out every phrase you think she wants to hear.

                There is no verbal response at first.  You look up at your sister’s face, still frozen in a deep frown.

                “No, you still don’t believe it.  You STILL don’t believe it,” she says finally.  You watch helplessly as her ankle turns at a slight angle, allowing her foot to turn at a 90 degree angle, putting it perpendicular to your body.  She raises it over you, her toes bending back and forth, her white soles flexing, and slowly begins lowering it towards you.

                You try to clamber to the side, rolling over several times, as it’s too difficult to stand on the bouncy floor of the couch, but once again it’s of no use.  Her foot quickly darts over, as she sees your escape attempt, and fully extends all the toes of her right foot.  Then, lowering them over you, she cages you between her outstretched toes and the top of the ball of her foot, scrunching your whole body up to fit.  Then, you feel her moist toes begin clenching, hard, against your arms, legs, and torso.  Your head is underneath the crevice of her big and second toes, allowing breathing space.  As all of her toes crush inward on you against the top of her foot, you begin to moan again, although more quietly this time.  You’re too spent to even put much effort into your responses to the soreness and pain.

                This goes on for a few minutes, her soggy toes clenching inward against your entire body.  You lay there, frozen, afraid that if you move an arm to try to block the hard blows of her flexing toes, one of your limbs will snap like a twig against the robust muscles of her long toes.  Finally, on an inward clench, they stop, just holding you.  Her toes begin to grow cold around you, but you still compress into them on the fleshy pads, although the bottoms of her feet are much rougher than her soft hands.  Thankfully, your dick is lodged safely between her pinky and fourth toe, saving it some of the pain the rest of your body is going through as your little sister methodically works your sore and aching form with her nauseating toes and foot.

                A moment of this continues, every square inch of the front of your body pressed hard into the casket Carly has formed for you out of her slimy foot flesh, until you feel movement.  Her toes clench harder than ever onto you, and you suck in your chest, pressing your arms in as far as they go to avoid further pain.  Then, you feel the fuzzy ground of the trampoline-like couch fall away, replaced with cool air on your aching back.  She’s raising her foot into the air, with you held firmly in her toes.

                You shut your eyes and clench your whole body, praying, for once, that her toes don’t let up the pressure on you, which would of course result in a painful plunge to the couch cushion now far too far away for a comfortable or safe landing.

                At long last, the intense soreness and seemingly endless line of tortuous activities begins to subside as you settle into the cracked groove of Carly’s toe crannies, and you finally have the chance to try and collect your thoughts.  Never, in your dizziest daydreams or even worst nightmares could you have fathomed what has happened to you in the past hour.  Your little sister, whom you’ve never been on good terms with but nonetheless is family, is doing nothing short of terrorizing your very life and causing physical harm to you using only her hands and feet, you utterly powerless to resist.  Not to mention the mind-blowingly humiliating methods she’s utilizing, attempting to destroy your spirit under her dehumanizing and filthy soles.

                You can face it: Carly’s not one particularly new to cruel and unusual punishment.  A week ago, you were forced to smell her filthy feet at normal size.  While it certainly didn’t involve harm or danger to you, the simple fact of the matter was that your sister, three years younger, had you so in her control she could compel you to jam your nose between her grody toes and inhale it hard, like you were her personal pet.

Sickeningly, it occurs to you that this event last week was not even the worst thing you've ever been forced to do.

                You try to think.  She’s done all of this to you; how is she going to get out of this when your parents come home?  You just know she hasn’t thought about it that far in advance, and Carly doesn’t do very well in decision-making under pressure.  If at all possible, more fear fills your mind.  What might she decide she has to do to ensure you don’t get her in trouble?

                Your mind snaps back to reality.  Carly’s foot stops at a vertical angle.  With a slight bump, you can feel her rest her ankle on the raised knee of her left leg, and tilt her ankle as far over as she can so that the top of her foot (and you) are able to see her face.  Through the crevice of her big and little toes, your chin resting on the smooth fleshy patch in between, you can see Carly’s upper torso and face looking at you, and for the first time in the last few minutes you see a smile cross your sister’s face.  Except it’s not the shockingly compassionate one you saw when she first picked you up from the ground, it’s that creeping grin of pure evil and self-indulgence.  The incredible delight she’s having in your total subjugation is frankly almost as scary as what she’s actually put you through.

                Your head jammed comfortably into the space, so completely at the mercy of her foot, you feel Carly’s big and second toes curl inward toward your head ever so slightly, the spongy sides of each toe caking your cheeks with the stagnant water.  You feel like you’re being placed in a guillotine.  You realize that, with just one quick muscle movement, Carly’s mammoth toes could pop your head like a grape.

                Carly calmly crosses her arms as if standing and talking to some friends at school.   Of course, the reality of the situation is that she has you, her older brother, wrapped precariously in a tube of soaked toe flesh, your face poking out from between the spaces of her thundering peds.

                “So, little bro…” says Carly finally.  “I think that, at this point, you should be able to understand that you aren’t so big and strong that you can just do whatever you want to people who are weaker than you.  Do you feel it, Jack?” she says.

                “W-What?” you ask.

                As if in answer, she flexes the two toes holding your head in place, wiping more water across your face from the groovy surface of her toe crevasse.  “I could snap your puny little neck if I wanted to, and do you know why?  Because I’m bigger than you, and stronger than you.  You’re not a macho man.  You’re little.  You’re so little you can’t even fight my toes off of you.  And you’re going to remember this,” she says.  “You are going to remember this, aren’t you?”

                “Yes!”

                “Do you still think you’re such a big man that you can beat people up for no reason?”

                “No!” you shriek.

                “That’s right, little bro.  You’re weak.  You’re just a tiny little weakling.  Isn’t that right?”

                “Yes!” you gasp hoarsely, feeling the shivering returning again.

                “What are you?” she says simply.

                “Weak.”

                “How weak are you?”

                “Really weak.”

                “GOOD,” she says with force.  With a jolt, she takes her crossed ankle off her knee and lowers it to the ground, slamming your back into the cushy couch.  Her toes release, and you are able to spread out, your body so tired, beat up, and melded with the whopping, stale smell of your sister’s awful and vengeful foot, you don’t even feel like you can move.  You open your weary eyes and look upward at Carly, who is now sitting Indian style and leaning far over to get a better look at you.  You almost have to remind yourself that sitting before you is your younger sister, not a terrible goddess of torture and pain.

                “That’s a good little boy,” she says sweetly, no differently than when she said it a week before.

Your body, quivering in pain and still red and raw at every point from the incredible beating you just took beneath the revoltingly soused feet of your psychotic sister, remains crumpled helplessly on the couch cushion, with Carly sitting cross-legged, leaning over you to get a better look.

                “Awww…” she coos, the fire in her voice disappearing all at once and reverting to her normal, condescending tone of false gentleness.  “Are you too tired, Jack?”

                You don’t even bother making a sound.  Your sister is so far gone on her insane tirade against you, you’re starting to question whether any word in the English language could actually increase your chances of getting out of this with your humanity intact.

                Carly chuckles softly at you, shaking her head.  “Can you… even move?”

                Nothing from you again.

                “Hey.  Talking to you here, little bro,” she says, authoritatively but still in the softer tone.  She slowly extends out her left foot from its crossed position, points her big toe, and just barely taps you with it, which jostles you even though she’s trying to be gentle.  Not that something like that would affect you at this point after what you’ve just been through.  It’s so odd to you, the range of contact she can have.  The lightest tap with her toe to get your attention, or a brutal half hour working over in an attempt to crush your spirit completely.

                You’re pretty sure she succeeded, too.

                “Awww… I guess I was kind of rough on you, huh, little bro?” she says, using a finger to smush the side of her mouth to one side, pensively.  “Well, look.  It’s really all your doing.  If you were just a better person to me, this wouldn’t have to be happening.  But you were a jerk.  You were mad at me before, and so you thought it was okay to try and blackmail me,” she says, and with a chuckle adds, “It even worked for a little while.  But you had your turn.  Now…” she says, her hand descending.  “It’s mine.”

                You don’t do a single thing to fight it.  Just like before, she begins by slowly laying her entire weighty palm down on you without pressing.  Honestly, it feels fantastic, because after the beating you took you yourself are pretty sweaty, and her hand flesh not only smells distinctly un-hellish, but it’s very cool and soft, opposed to the raw, dry toe tips and burning heat emanating out from them as they pumped you mercilessly.

                With relative ease, her fingers press down into the cushion, creating a small bubble underneath your body for her fingers to slip in gracefully.  Curling around your side, her fingers, just as cool as her palm, actually begin to soothe your aching, overheated form.  You hate to admit it, but your body is subconsciously starting to calm down a little by just from this touch.

                By this time, the feeling of helpless and exposed embarrassment is over, and the feeling of having your younger sister’s fleshy finger crevices essentially devour your dick into the folds of cool flesh is not only okay, but considering the insane pain she just put your lower body through, it’s actually kind of welcome.  It doesn’t help immediately, but just having your crotch resting comfortably and unpressurized in a pocket of chilled finger fat is really the closest thing you’re going to get to a desperately needed ice pack right now.  At least subconsciously, you seem to have given yourself over to Carly; despite the fact that you’re sitting limp and shamelessly naked in her hand, you don’t really care at all now.

                Her firm fingers tighten once again, easily supporting the weight of your whole body and curling around to meet her thumb, taking you in completely to her secure and soft socket of a fist.  More welcome cool air rises up and hits your face as she lifts you higher up and meet her face.  Tired as hell, you manage to lift your droopy eyelids a little more and stare ahead at this murderous, monstrous sister of yours.

                “You poor little thing…” she coos gently.  You know she doesn’t mean it, but at this point, hearing anything other than her angry shouts is just as welcome as her fake attempt to regain your trust of her capability of kindness.  “You look really tired, little bro.  Are you tired?”

                You say nothing.

                “Nod your head if you’re tired.”

                You do so, just a little, but she can see it.

                “All right, all right.  I’ll find somewhere for you to sleep.  It’s starting to get late, you know…” she says.  You do nothing else to react.  Right now, your job is to re-cool your burning body courtesy of your sister’s cool fingers and then try to survive whatever’s next. Whatever the hell is next, although you note to yourself that it probably can’t get much worse.

                Mentally, you scold yourself.  Of course it can get worse.  It always can.

                And you bet that it will.

                It also occurs to you that it would be pretty unhealthy for you to go through the night this dehydrated.  Opening your mouth, sucking in air slowly, you speak.

                “C-Carly…please…”

                “Hmmm?” she says slowly, sauntering into the kitchen.

                “W-W-Water… p-please… so thirsty…”

                Meanwhile, Carly has been opening a kitchen cupboard.  She stretches the hand not holding you up onto a shelf of the cupboard and snatches up a very tall drinking glass.  She lowers it to be level with you.  Then, tilting it horizontally, she moves it toward the soft fist gripping you.

                You feel her fingers release, her cool palm falling away and allowing your battered body to slide easily from her hand and into the tipped glass.  Laying on the side, you look right below you at the transparent ground.  You see your sister’s massive hand, her flesh smushed into an off-yellow color by pressing into the glass hard enough to hold it, right below you.  Then, with careful aiming and focus, Carly begins tilting the glass slowly to the side to be right side up again.  You roll painlessly down the glass side of the glass, landing at the bottom.

                “You said you wanted some water, huh?” she says.  “Well, here you go!”

                In shock (although not really, at this point in time), you watch as her other hand darts for the kitchen sink handle.  Twisting it ever so slightly, a slow trickle of water begins pouring from the faucet.  Moving your glass over near it, she slips the edge of the glass under the stream, allowing water to pour in.

                “Drink up, little bro!” she says happily, twirling her wrist holding the cup to swirl the water.  This causes you to lose your balance, and for a second your head goes under the water, but it’s far too shallow, only coming up to your ankles, to do any damage.  Hungrily, you drop to your knees and began to scoop it up, cupping your hands and bringing it to your dry mouth for sustenance.

                “Geez.  You’re a thirsty little guy, aren’t you?” she says, giggling.  While you continue this, she turns off all the lights downstairs and hops up the stairs, perhaps with a little more care than usual.  Reaching the top landing, she enters her bedroom, placing your cup on her bedside table.  She then takes a seat on the edge of the bed, crossing her arms and looking at you inside the glass, trying to scoop up the rest of the water.

                “Jack,” she says, and you raise your head to look at her but continue shoveling in the water.

                “Tonight, I want you to think about the lesson you learned.  Tomorrow, we’re going to be spending some more time together.  Now, rest up!” she says, laying flat on her bed and turning out the bedside lamp.

                Sleep is obviously impossible.  Not only have you got a puddle of water surrounding you, you’ve cooled down and now you’re starting to go to the opposite extreme, being pretty cold in this huge room.  It occurs to you to try to think up an escape route, but this idea is defeated quickly.  The glassy walls are much too high to try to jump onto, let alone climb over the slippery edge.  The cup is far too wide to try and stretch yourself across and climb up hand and foot, let alone how wet and curved the sides are.  You’re far too tired to try and push the glass off the table.  You’re pretty sure you couldn’t at full strength anyway, and even then you’d go careening off the side table, equal easily to a several stories high building.  Survival, or at least a lack of paralysis, would be unlikely.  Somehow, though, in your state of extreme drowsiness you manage to fall at least half asleep, slumped in the remaining puddle of now-room temperature water. 

When your eyes open again, sunlight is streaming in through the opened window of Carly’s bedroom.  Carly herself is not in the bed, but the door to the hallway is open.

You recollect yourself.  Whatever amount of half-sleep you got, coupled with the life-giving tap water you received in the glass, seems to have re-energized you a bit.  You’re still not feeling a whole lot better, and you’re still pretty weak feeling, but you are actually capable of standing up and moving around.

Now that you’re physically in a place where you can move and mentally in a place where you can complete a single thought without having a terrible flashback to the feeling of having your innards squeezed out by your sister’s totalitarian toes, it’s time to really think.

Clearly, begging for help simply isn’t cutting it.  It also appears that Carly has become so deeply entranced in her absolute, godlike power and control over you, even acting on her twisted whims and giving in to her ruthlessly humiliating beatings doesn’t appease her.  It doesn’t seem to you that she’s going to stop any of this as long as there’s no one at the house and you still happen to be three inches tall.

Logically, what seems to be going on is that your little sister has become so mind-bogglingly mad with power, she’s slipped into a mental place where, for lack of better terms, anything goes.  As you’ve learned in a couple of specialized classes at your high school (and a fair share of crime shows), this is how criminal captors operate.  They are able to do what they are doing, guilt-free, by creating a mental block between themselves and their kidnappee.  Essentially, they see their prisoner as less than human, and therefore it’s easier to do what they feel like doing.

You can see this pretty clearly in your treatment from Carly.  You’re obviously not person-sized anymore, so that may have contributed to the ease with which Carly was able to go berserk on you.  Not that she’s ever treated you with humanlike respect, but this quite plainly goes above, beyond, and back again on anything she’s ever forced you to do.  She certainly has been treating you like some lowly animal thus far, anyway.  It seems the best course of action is to try to reverse this effect.

Easier said than done.  All of this scares you anew.  You’ve just deduced, probably correctly, that Carly is so much enjoying what she is able to do with you with so little effort, she’s pretty much forgotten that you’re a person.

Just think it through.  It’s the only way.

Only way to what?

You hate thinking about things this hard, because you tend to second guess yourself like this, but with your punishment only getting worse with each successive act by your humongous evil sister, you know that a plan to end it prematurely is needed on your part.

And not through death, you sorrowfully have to remind yourself.

“Not through death.  I will make it out of this.  Somehow.”

Your mental soliloquy is broken up by ripples in the puddle of your glass, responding to the pounding coming across the floor from the hall and into the room.  It’s Carly, wearing a baggy white t-shirt, short shorts, and a pair of white socks.  Her hair is an absolute mess.  It’s not bed head, though.  It’s something else.  It’s plastered all over her forehead in an array.

She reaches you, and you watch as her hand descends into the glass, contorting into a point so she can fit her whole hand inside.  Her massive and expectant fingers fill the entire open mouth of th glass, and for a moment you feel a blip of claustrophobia.  Getting to you, she latches her fingers around your upper torso and armpits and lifts you slowly out of the cup, the larger part of her palm making a suction pop as it rises out.  Lifting you completely out, she lowers you into the cupped palm of her other hand and let’s you regain yourself.

She raises her hand to eye level, smiling a little.  From this close up, you can see her hair clearly.  It’s definitely not bedhead.  It’s sweat.  A lot of it.  You realize it now.  It’s still just a faint shadow of what you experienced when smelling her foot last night up close and personal last night, but you can sense it even this far away from the rest of Carly’s body.  Beads of it cling to her forehead, her upper lip glistens with a sweaty glaze.  On her wrist, which you can see just past the bulbous edge of her palm, you can see a thin ring of dirt.  What’s going on?

Despite everything, now that you’ve gotten ahold of yourself a little more, you are able to feel actual embarrassment again when you realize your sister is staring at you with your nakedness on full display.  Calmly, you take both hands and place them over your crotch.

Carly giggles audibly, covering her mouth with her other hand.  “Are you trying to cover yourself up, little bro?” she says jokingly, hardly able to finish the sentence for her girlish snickering.  “I don’t think you need to worry about that anymore.  I already know what you look like down there.”

You continue sitting there, with your hands cupped defensively over your cock.  You know she’s seen you naked for several hours already.  Hell, she’s pressed into your crotch with both her palm and her death-dealing big toe.  But now, with the fear brewing again coupled with the knowledge that you have GOT to try to do something drastic to ensure you survive the next day, you can’t help but want a little privacy, just for a moment.  Something you can cover up and keep hidden from your evil goddess of a sister.  It’s not a huge thing, but it feels comforting to you.

“C’mon, really.  Move your little hands, it’s okay,” she says reassuringly.

You still don’t budge.  “L-Look, Carly, it’s just that…” you start to say.

“Jack, take your hands off your privates.  Really.  Do it now.”

You do it, of course, slowly and painfully, but you do it.  There seem to be few things you wouldn’t do when she restates her desire in that specific way.  She really does seem to have broken you; you just willingly exposed yourself to your monster sister.

Carly’s face widens into a smile, her glowing eyes flickering down at your dick for the briefest second before locking back to your eyes.  “Good, little bro.  See, there’s nothing to worry about.  I’m your big sister now, you don’t have to be private from me.”

The words “big sister” strikes an uncomfortable cord with you.  She seems to have slipped fully into this role of being your leader.

“…and that reminds me.  I need to talk to you, my little bro,” she says, taking a seat on the bed, still having you on full display in her loosely cupped palm.  She curls the tips of her fingers in ever so slightly to ensure you can’t fall out the back.  You sit and listen, positive that whatever she’s about to say can’t be good for you.

“After we hung out last night and had that little, um…” she says, unsure of how to word it, “…lesson, I did some thinking, and I realized that since I’m your BIG sister now, there’s certain things I have to do for you now.  You’re my little brother, and I’m responsible for you.”

So far, you’re still in one piece.  A good sign.

“So, I decided that since you can’t actually, well…” she says, giving you a look of disdain, “…DO anything anymore, and that yard HAS to get done, I decided to get up this morning really early and work on it, because you’re my little brother, and when you can’t do something, I should help you,” she adds.

So that’s why she smells so bad.  It doesn’t sound horrible so far.  Maybe this won’t turn out unbearable after all?

“I was out there for THREE HOURS this morning, Jack.  Three hours.  That’s a lot of work.  That’s more work than I’ve done any other day this week.  You know?” she says, and clears her throat.  You get it.

“Um… thank you, Carly!” you say as brightly as possible, despite your tiredness.  She grins.

“You’re welcome.  Anything to help my little bro out.  But…” she says, shifting her weight up onto the bed fully.  From here, she leans against the frame of her bed and stretches her legs out, still palming you up in her hand.  What’s she doing?

“…I have certain responsibilities to take care of you, and so just as much, there are things YOU have to do, too.”

“Uh…”

“That’s right.  And one of those things is having some respect for your big sis.  Do you respect your big sister, little bro?”

“Yes!  Yes!” you say quickly and emphatically.  Her eyebrows furrow.

“Well, see, that’s where I’m not quite sure.  You have a potty mouth, little bro.  You have a really big potty mouth for such a little boy,” she says, smirking at her bad joke.  “And when you say bad words, and they hurt people, sometimes… you have to be punished, so you won’t do it anymore.  Doesn’t that sound fair, Jack?” she says sternly.

“But I…”

“That’s what I thought, too.  You’ve said a lot of mean things to me, and they hurt me.  So, we’re going to make sure that filthy mouth of yours doesn’t go shooting off words you don’t mean.  Okay?”

“Err…”

“I don’t hear you AGREEING with me, Jack,” she says, feigning surprise.

“Y-Yes?” you say, starting to wonder what your consent has caused.

She nods.  “GOOD.  Okay, then.  Here’s what we’re going to do with you…” she says, stretching her palm out onto the bedspread and pulling her legs in, cross-legged again.  She plops you near the end of the bed, then pulls back.

“When we were younger, I remember mom would wash your mouth with soap when you cussed.  But I don’t think that ever worked…” she says, biting her lip.  “And I thought, if you’re using dirty words, then maybe, if you feel just HOW dirty your words are, you’ll want to stop...”

“W-What…” you stammer.

She grins ear to ear, showing her teeth again.  “And that’s why we’re here.”  She unfolds her legs, one at a time, very slowly, and stretches them out, bringing her socked feet to rest, just in front of you.

“You’re going to kiss my foot, little bro.”

From your very core, you feel a great chill running through into your limbs.  Her words enter your eardrums and are sent rattling down into your feet and back to your dizzy head.  Your brain goes into overdrive, attempting to decipher what it was she just said.  And then it comes out translated, in your brain.  Except your mind rejects it immediately.  She didn’t say that.  She didn’t just say she’s about to make you kiss her foot.

                “W-What did you say?” you ask from behind her socked feet.  She chuckles.

                “I said you’re going to kiss my foot, little bro.  I think after you do, you’ll never want to say bad words again to me or anyone else.”

                “B-But I, I mean, last night… I… I apologized to you!”

                She tilts her head disapprovingly at you and wags her pointer finger at you as if you just broke a rule.  “Now, WAIT a second there, Jack.  That wasn’t for your potty mouth.  That was for all the work you made me do.  And now that we’re here, I did a job for you.  I did a lot of work for you, actually.  And all I want you to do is respect me.”

                “RESPECT you?  But I do!  I do respect you!  A lot!  You’re… you’re… (the next words are painful but necessary) you’re my big sister, and I’m your little brother, but I mean… I made a mistake!  I made a really big mistake.  I promise I won’t ever talk like that again, Carly, I PROMISE,” you say, going for your best performance yet.  You feel the shivering returning stronger than ever.  Your body is aware of what you’re being asked to do, but you just can’t quite picture it in your mind.  You literally can’t formulate the necessary brain functions to carry it out.

                “Do you REALLY respect me, little bro?” says Carly sarcastically.

                “YES!”

                “If you want me to believe that, you’re going to march up to my foot, stick your little lips onto it, and give it a kiss.  And then, just maybe, I’ll start believing you respect me.”

                You’re speechless.  You still can’t fathom what you’re being asked to do.  Your eyes fall from Carly’s face at the head of her bed down to the humanity-destroying challenge before you.

                Carly’s feet sit about as far away from you as when she first flopped them down in front of you yesterday.  The difference, of course, aside from the fact that she’s still wearing her work socks, being that yesterday, there was about a five hour period that passed between when she did the work and when you were subjugated underneath her feet.  And even then, they were unimaginably abusive and painful, cutting to your very psych with a single big whiff.

                But now, they’re fresh.  Very fresh.  Fresh as in Carly stepped in from her outdoor work not ten minutes ago.  Your mind wanders, picturing the (relative) gallons of sweat and grime coating her feet now.

                Your bladder threatens to let loose again.

                Carly might be wearing socks at the moment, but with how positively ground up and saturated with her sweat and old rainwater they are, they might as well be part of her skin.  On the areas where the pads of her gargantuan toes, ball of her foot, and heel are, you see thick, blackened smudges on the sock, the fuzz completely flattened from grinding her foot so heavily into the sock that she actually managed to create dirty marks in the sock itself.  Every now and then, a grain of sand or dry dirt appears flecked across the fibrous wall of white cotton.

                At the top, the sock clings skin-tight around her toes, allowing you to see the form of each one.  She bends her toes absentmindedly backward and forward, and the sock is so tight around her toes you can actually make out the indentation where her toenail appears.  Come to think of it, the graying sock clings tightly to the evil hunk of absolute muscle and meat contained within from every angle.  It’s so tight, along her heel you can see the tight sock folding inward, caught in a deep foot wrinkle.  The deadly force of nature that is your little sister’s foot is practically threatening to break free from the thin coat of the beat-up sock, like a body builder ripping through a shirt.  You’ve seen those things in action, and you can’t help but feel in the back of your mind that a simple thin sock cannot hold on to those two enormous, beefy tanks of flesh for long.

                Even from here, the noxious stink packs a skin-rending punch, the fetid odor hanging thick and clouded in the air all the way out to you like gas clouds from a nuclear waste dump.  It’s all over the place, perhaps even stronger than it was last night.  However, you’re far too focused to even acknowledge your nose’s painful insistence that you get as far away as possible from the source.

                Your brain is still rejecting what’s happening.  This is not happening.  It can’t be.  It can’t.

                “Hey, what’s the hold-up?” says Carly finally, bouncing each foot up in the air once, then smacking it back to the bed spread.  “I think I asked you to do something, Jack.  Your big sissy asked you to do something, and as my little brother, you have to listen to what I say.  Got it?”

                “Y-Yeah…” you choke out.

                “Good, I’m glad we both agree on that,” she says smartly, running her fingers through her soiled and matted hair. 

But you don’t budge.  You can’t.  Not anymore.  It’s not possible. 

Carly’s eyes widen a little, along with a raised eyebrow, and she nods forward, the wordless way of telling you to get your ass in gear.  It’s now or never.  You choose now.  You fall to your knees.

“Carly, LISTEN to me!” you shout, essentially going into a position of prayer, clasping your hands as tightly as you can to keep your arms from quivering in fear at your attempt at an ultimatum here.  Although you can’t see her face over her toes now, she parts her feet ever so slightly so you can see her face, completely stoic and unchanged, save for a slight look of anticipation and expectancy.  “Just… let me talk for a minute.  You… you have to REALIZE what you’re doing.  You… don’t realize what’s been happening here.  I don’t know what’s going on, really, and neither do you, but can’t you see I need your HELP!” you say, catching your breath, your heart rate rising fast.  “This isn’t real.  None of what’s happened since last night is real.  I’m your big brother; I’m a junior in high school!  You’re my little sister; you’re just fourteen years old, for Christ’s sake.”  (saying this fact out loud reminds you powerfully of just how young your twisted captor is)

You try to slow your breathing.  Carly’s face is still unchanged, but she’s listening, and she hasn’t interrupted you yet.  Could she be listening?  With all your might, you pray that she’s actually hearing what you’re trying to say.  This might be your last chance.

“You’ve got to hear me now, Carly.  You’ve got to.  I’m your brother.  You’re my sister.  We argue a lot, and we might hurt each other, but deep down, I KNOW you don’t want to do this!  You don’t want to hurt me, I know it.  I just know it.  And you know it too, you must.  Please, this is INSANE, you have to STOP what you’re doing right NOW!” you say powerfully, ending your attempt.  You remain quiet for a moment.  Silence hangs in the air for a moment.  All you can hear is your own heavy breathing and the occasional soft scratching sound of Carly’s toe nails getting stuck in the fibers of her insufficient white socks.  Finally, the silence is broken.

“Okay, Jack.  Okay.  Listen.  I’m not going to make you kiss my foot.”

You almost collapse in relief.  You’ve done it.  You’ve really done it.  You’ve actually managed to break through to your sister in the moment when it counts most.  Now, finally, FINALLY, you think you feel that familiar feeling of hope creeping back inside you.  It sure would be a welcome change to have something other than the rank stench of Carly’s peds creeping into you, anyway.

“Oh, my God, Carly… Carly…” you mutter loudly, still thanking your lucky stars that it worked.  “Listen, please, listen.  Thank you.  Thank you.  But please, please, we have to get me some help, we have to-”

“I’m not going to make you kiss my foot.  You’re going to ask me.”

The silence returns.  You feel your throat become detached from the back of your jaw and plunge down into your feet.  A strange cold fills you again.  What did she just say?

“C-Car…” you start.

“You heard me.  You obviously haven’t been listening to a single thing your big sissy has said to you, little bro.  I’m here, trying to make sure you learn a good life lesson about manners, and you’re just bubbling there like a weird little preschooler.  So now, you’re going to show me a little more respect than you were before.”

“You want me to… to…”

“Ask me.  I want you to ask me if you can kiss my foot for me.”

“Ask you to… to… k…”

“Jack, stop blubbering like that.  You’re starting to get on my nerves.  Get those little feet of yours going, and march up here to my feet.”

“I…”

“NOW,” she commands just short of a full-on yell.

You stare down at your feet.  They don’t seem to be moving.  But they have to.  You’ve run out of options.  There can’t be thinking anymore.  No more thinking, not right now.  Maybe later.  Right now, your job is to move your foot.  Left in front of right.  Right in front of left.  You’re getting it now.

GOD DAMN IT, WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO ME?!

Your subconscious begins screaming bloody murder at you as you start taking slow but purposeful strides across Carly’s hot pink bedspread.  Another ten steps and you should be… right in front of those two titans of flesh, muscle, and earthy dreck.

Sweet Jesus, you think.  They’re right there.  They’re really right there.  Her feet are right there.

Those gargantuan, evil things are sitting right in front of you.  And you’re about to have to essentially give your heart and soul to them in an act of absolute base worship.

You’re about to worship your little sister’s vomit-inducing foot.  And there’s not a thing you can do about it.

You stop in front of her right foot, but far enough to the side so that you can still see Carly through the space between her two feet.  You’re in the same range you were yesterday, and for a moment your mind flits back to the fact that the raw sewage-like haze is covering you from head to foot, forcing you to practically adopt the olidous mire hanging in the air from Carly’s sweat into your own body.

But this thought, the nose-killing rank, is pushed from your mind at this point.  Completely.  You are focused on what lies in front of you.  Somehow, you manage to keep from collapsing in utter, degraded shame.

This is not happening.  Not now.  It’s not.  It’s not.

Dear God, human BEINGS don’t do this.

They don’t.  They just don’t.

“AHEM,” coughs Carly loudly, covering her mouth with her fist.  She looks at you carefully, tilting her head.  Your turn.  Your throat dries up instantly.  You swallow hard, but you have nothing left to counter the effect.  You have to speak.  Now.  Carly’s eyes narrow at you, her eyebrows curving downward into a frown, her lips pursing.  Now.  Now.  Now.

“C-Carly…” you begin.  “C-Can I… kiss… your… foot…” you say.  With each word, it feels as if a knife is being jammed into your abdomen, drawing and quartering you.  Shredding you of your humanity.

Carly’s frown disappears.  Instantly, a smile spreads across her face.  “Of COURSE you can, little boy.  Go ahead.  Kiss your big sister’s foot for her and show her how much you respect her.”

You take a step to the side, out of the range of sight of Carly.  At least she won’t be able to see you when you have to do it.  Before you lies the patchwork quilt of darkened white fabric and microscopic sock hairs covering every inch.  Right in front of your face happens to be a brown blotch, probably a little mud spot.

You step forward, tilting your neck forward.  To you, your face.  Your mouth.  Your mouth is just a couple inches away from the massive, muscular wall of graying fiber, inflated by the unknowable hulk of immovable human tissue covered in a thick layer of soft, soggy human flesh and a myriad of filthy natural ingredients.  It’s right there.  Just do it, you say to yourself.  Just do it.

You move your head forward two inches, and your lips tap the graying sock.  You put just the slightest amount of pressure into it.  A kiss.  You can taste the pure slime, the starchy tinge of freshly cut grass, the faint taste of salt from your sister’s sweat filling every last atom of this useless and thin sock, the wetness easily attaching to your lips.  A simple touch causes a full (to you) drop to come loose.  It  creeps inside your mouth and cascades down your throat, a tiny, liquid terrorist infecting you now.

You now have a droplet of your younger sister’s foot sweat inside you.

That you asked to put inside of you.

God.  Are you still human?

The mental pain of the kiss wearing on you, you step out into view of Carly.  At least it’s over now.  It’s over, you tell yourself.  Done.  We’re done.

“I RESPECT YOU!” you shout loudly as you can, quickly wiping a hand across your lips to try to wipe away the distinct feeling that your mouth just got molested.  And it honestly did.

Carly’s smile disappears just as quickly as it appeared, her nose wrinkling.  “THAT was a kiss, huh?  ‘Cuz I didn’t feel a single thing on my foot.  I have to feel it for it to count, Jack.”

Another one.  You have to do it again.

“I…I… but I KISSED it!” you proclaim, in a last ditch effort.  “I did what you asked me to!  You can’t feel a kiss through a sock!” you yell, and suddenly, a little voice inside you says plainly “What the HELL did you just say?!”

“You know…” says Carly, leaning forward to her feet and you.  “You’re absolutely right.  Here, I’ll help you out, little bro.  This might make it easier for you.”  Her massive hand creeps over the front of her foot, snaking along down the ball of her foot, past her sole, down to her heel, and back to her ankles, where the sock ends.  Hooking two fingers in, she begins to pull back.

In amazement, you watch and listen as the sock, stuck so strongly to her foot, peels off in skin-tight shape, still retaining some of its form, with a little crackling peeling sound as the sock comes disconnected from the human glue keeping it held in place.

Her foot looks the same as yesterday, perhaps even worse.  There’s noticeably more dirt covering it.  And this time, not even the tips of her toes are dry.  Every single square inch of Carly’s foot is filled to the complete brim, absolutely sopping with gunk and sweat.  You stare at it half-awake for a moment, taking in how precariously it all is held in by the porous fibers of her foot.  It occurs to you that practically any contact with them would cause a release of the fluids being held in.

“Go ahead, little bro.  Do it right this time.  Kiss big sissy’s foot nice and hard for me.  Like you mean it.”

You don’t allow yourself to think this time, you just go.  You press your face against your sister’s bare, filthy, salty, disgusting, mud-ridden, creamy ped.  Your face is practically swallowed by the slight give of the flesh covering Carly’s thick heel.  Every inch of your face instantly becomes densely lubricated in the very essence of your sister’s spiteful hard work outside, three hours of time doing work just so she could be here, with you, at this moment, to make you do what you’re doing now.  To force you to pay homage to her feet as a final show of your surrender to her will.  The putrid, viscuous mineral liquid from hell, running over your shoulders and onto every part of your body, soaking directly into your face, your hair, your nose, your eyes.

Your little sister’s foot sweat is in your eyes.

And then you purse your lips, curling them into a pucker, and you kiss.  You kiss hard, smushing your partially open lips into the behemoth wall of secretion-soaked, dew-soiled skin, hot and pulsing, as if Carly’s foot had become some separate, gigantic organ of its own.  You smush inward until you’re running out of oxygen, until your lips can no longer press into the moist, clay-like material any further.  With a loud smack of near suction, you pull back and break free from your sister’s heel. 

You got a full mouthful of liquid this time, a combination of heavy sweat, mud, and stuck sock fiber residue.  Flowing through your throat, down to your stomach.  Becoming part of you.  This inhuman filth generated by Carly’s overheated and overworked soles has just been integrated into your very being.

No, you decide.  Human beings don’t do this.  They can’t.  They just can’t.

You begin to sympathize with Carly.  Are you human any longer?  Are you really?

You have to be.  You’re wondering whether you are or not.  You have to be.  As long as your mind is still intact, you have to be.

I’m a human being, you think.  I’m a human being.

You collapse into a sitting position, still in front of Carly’s foot.  The foot of monstrous, terrifying power that beat the living shit out of you the previous night.  The foot of your little sister.  The foot that you that you just submitted to and worshipped with the most passionate kiss you’ve ever given in your life.  The foot that you just ASKED for PERMISSION to press your face and lips into in a show of respect, a full recognition of the fact that you are worth less than your sister’s leviathan peds of revolting transudation.

                In that simple lip pucker, you submitted to the will of two technically inanimate objects, the lowliest parts of a person younger and less worldly than yourself.

You told your little sister that your life is not as important as her feet.

                Half-consciously, it occurs to you how little you would mind if an atom bomb struck the countryside at this very moment and ended all of your lives.

                No.  NO.  NO.  This is NOT happening now.  You are NOT giving up, your subconscious screams.  You’re a HUMAN BEING, damn it!  A human being and you know it!  You know it!

                Yes, you think.  I’m a human being.  I’m a human being and nobody can take that away.

                You look up to see Carly’s face peering over you as she leans forward.  The familiar smile of malice and foreboding plastered squarely across her face, her nostrils flared, her eyes almost twinkling with sheer joy at what she had just forced you to do.  The dehumanization she caused on you with barely a touch.

                “Oh… my… GOD…” she mumbles, and for the first time in a very, very long time, she seems at a legitimate loss for words when speaking to you.  “That… that… I mean, I didn’t think you would actually…” she says, her sentence fading into a sigh of utter happiness and hope.  “I mean, well… I KNEW you would do it, but I didn’t think that…” she says.  Evidently she’s surprised.  Very surprised.  Not with the fact that you did it.  But with the incredible intensity you put into it, pressing your face into her heel so hard you could barely breath, submitting your body to those soggy peds with such feeling that you might as well have been making out with a lover.  Or giving praise to a religious figure.  That’s what it was.

                You don’t speak at first.  “Yeah…” you say, about nothing in particular.  Then you stand up, your epiphany having awakened a new sense of confidence inside of you.  It’s over now.  It has to be.  “All right, Carly.  Listen to me.  I did it.  I respect you.  I kissed your foot just like you said to.  I did it.  But now I need help, and you know it.  Please help me now,” you say, straddling the line between suggestion and demand.  You stand confident, knowing that it has to be over.

                “No, little bro,” the answer comes.

                You knew it.  You knew it all along.  She can’t be satisfied.  She’s going to keep going until there’s nothing left of you.

                But that’s not what’s going to happen.  You know it.  You can feel it in your bones.  Your survival instinct kicking in again.  You will live.  You will live through whatever she has in store for you.  This whole time has been Carly trying to break you, trying to strip you of your humanity when you have literally nothing else to be stripped of.  You know that now very well.  But she won’t have a reason to continue this if you don’t give in.  If your spirit is alive, and your body is alive, you’re alive.  And she is powerless.  For once.

                “Okay,” you state plainly and satisfied sounding.  You clench your fists.  Take it.

                Carly looks taken aback, as you expected.  Then she quickly rights herself.  “Good.  That’s what I want to hear from my little brother.  Now, that was…” she says, and her face quivers for a moment, still in shock from your display of passion.  “…pretty good.  That was what I wanted.  But…”

                Of course there’s a but.  What is it, bitch, you think.  Give it to me.

                “I see that you respect me a lot.  That kiss showed me that.  But if I can see that much passion in one kiss… I want to see more.  I want to see how MUCH you respect me.  How MUCH you mean it when you say you’ll never use your potty mouth again.”

                “Okay.”

                “Good.  Then I want you back on there.  Press your puny little self back against my foot, and show me.  Well.”

                “Show you what?” you ask matter-of-factly.

                “How much you respect me.  How much you respect my foot.  Does that make sense to you, little bro?” she says, leaning back against the bed frame again.

                “How?” you ask.

                She smiles.  “Well, it’s pretty simple really.  I want you to lick it.  I want you to lick my foot and give me that last bit of respect I know you’ve been holding back inside you.  I know it’s there after that kiss…” she mutters, still not over the shock of the kiss.  “…and I want that respect.  I want you to give it to me freely by sticking out your teeny little tongue, pressing it onto my foot, and cleaning the bottom of my heel for me.”

                Now it’s your turn to be taken aback.  You have a plan.  You have your idea of how to get out of this.  And yet this last idea sticks on you hard.  The final show you could really give in this way of your devotion to your gigantic sister and her feet.  The last step is all you have to take.

                You snap out of it.  You just made a promise to yourself.  You’re not going to falter now.

                You nod vigorously.  “Okay!” you yell up at her at the front of her bed.  She nods, but you detect the slightest glint of surprise in her eyes.

                “Very good, little bro.  Okay, go ahead.”

                You take a confident step toward the foot you just kissed.

                “AHEM.”

                “Right.  Carly.  Big Sissy.  May I please lick and clean your beautiful foot for you?” you say with perfect clearness, not tripping over a single word.

                “Yes, you may, little boy.  Show me now how much respect you have.  Show me how much love you have for my foot.”

                Without another hesitation, you take the last step forward, and plunge yourself back into the sponge of Carly’s sopping, wrinkled heel.  It’s just as terrible smelling as last time, the cool exudation again falling down in waterfalls at the microscopic openings in her foot you just smacked and allowed to flow, the sticky residue mixed with fresh sweat rolling down your back in an acrid glissade of sweat.

                Then your mouth opens, and you stick out your tongue.  You place it squarely onto your sister’s heel.  And you swipe.  You swipe quickly and hard, sliding your tongue across the bumpy, silky ridges of your sister’s wrinkle-lined ped.  This time, mouthful after mouthful of sweat pours down and into your throat.  You cough for a second but quickly clear your throat, making way for more to fill it in, your digestive tract becoming a pipeline to rid Carly’s feet of filth.  You feel like you’re pouring an entire salt shaker down your throat with a gallon of corn syrup mixed in, as well as the powerful, bitter musk of dirt and grass residue melted into the all-powerful foot of Carly.  It’s all there, and it hits all at once.

                Having long ago abandoned any thought that this final act for Carly’s feet might leave some of your so-called humanity intact, you begin to get into it.  Knowing it can’t actually hurt Carly, you begin biting hard into the flesh, thick and fibrous like damp rubber but with small, distinguishable grooves running along it where the sweat releases.  Then you combine it, biting uselessly into the impenetrable shield of repugnant flesh and licking up every still-soaked spot on her heel you can reach.  You throw yourself into the heel in a body slam, allowing the sweat to run over you again, letting your dick get swallowed up into the rancid layers and layers of dripping, loathsome foot skin.

                With a final slam into the heel, you are thrown backward as if you had jumped into a vertical trampoline.  An instant later, Carly’s hand is descending on you from behind her foot.  It’s quick, but she gets you into her fist, covering your front in her palm and sliding her fingers behind but retracting a few fingers in disgust as she realizes how thoroughly coated you are in her foot sweat.  It feels as if you’ve become so saturated in it it’s going to soak right into your inner organs and provide water for you like a camel.  That’s how wet you are at this moment.

                “Jack… I…” she says, her eyes bugged out in utter shock at how strongly I’ve gone along with this whole thing.  You feel triumphant, as if you just dashed across the front lines in a war, took out an entire enemy company, and made it back home again for apple pie.

                “Jack… that was…” she says, her eyes glowing, her smile wider than ever.  “You’re… you’re… God, you’re a mess.  Let’s clean you up, little bro,” she says, sitting up and walking toward the hallway, your sticky form wrapped snugly in her fist.

                You sit in Carly’s twin cupped hands, creating a fleshy bowled bathtub for you under the bathroom sink.  Glorious cold water rushes over your body, washing away most of the dirt and grass stains dotting your body, ridding you of the dried sweat caking you on every inch, including your crotch.  It’s literally everywhere, stacked at various levels.  Chipping at your shoulders, you send gummy flakes of drying sweat tumbling off. 

After scrubbing at yourself for a few minutes, you watch as Carly’s fingers from both hands curl inward simultaneously.  Perching you in a slanted cupped right hand, her left hand latches on at your sides with her thumb and forefinger.  Her firm but soft digits knead your sore obliques, stroking your sides, trying to rid you of any lasting filth.  From there, her fingers gently glide up to your shoulders, then begin running along your arms, stroking gently but with enough strength to rub off any remaining dirt.  Touching her fingertips to your hands with surprising gentleness, her fingers move to your neck.  With the tiniest of taps, she rubs at your neck , the back of your head, and finally your hair with her pointer finger, her smushy but muscular flesh comforting you as it bends in careful arcs, sliding down your back with two fingers.

Still cupped in her right hand, you roll forward onto your stomach and, using her soft pointer and middle fingers, your little sister strokes your back from your neck, down to your feet, rolling down your spine, over your ass cheeks, and along your toned calves.  It’s feels so good and so relaxing just having her caring, colossal fingers running down your backside with the perfect amount of firmness, the plush give of each segment of her digits pressing in and tickling you with the tiny ridges of her fingerprints, you almost forget the fact that most likely, after this little interlude of peace is over, Carly is going to turn into your goddess warlord again, most likely wanting to top what happened in her room just now.  You’d like to see her try, though.  It wouldn’t be easy to put much more passion into something than you did on her sweaty heel in that room.

This goes on for several minutes, and finally Carly’s pointer finger snakes under your flattened abs and lifts, turning you over onto your other side, facing upward.  Now once again laying flat and exposed in your sister’s hand, she stares at you for a moment, and you can almost sense the part of her that might want to help you.  But she’s too deep inside there to do anything now.

After studying your front side for a moment, Carly’s pointer finger returns to your body, running back and forth along your chest and abdomen, tickling you and rubbing your red skin rawer at the same time.  You don’t care though; it feels good just to be comforted like this, even for so little time.

With your abs done, then, you watch as Carly’s finger traces downward along your stomach, past your belly button, and to the spot right above your crotch.  It remains her for a moment, her creamy and soft fingertip brushing lightly through the hair creeping up onto your stomach, originating mostly from your crotch below.  Then, slowly, her finger descends lower on your bruised and battle-scarred body.  Before she can make contact, though, you squeeze your legs together, pulling them in to your stomach.  Somehow, your mind still won’t allow this.

“What are you doing, little bro?” she asks, pulling back, surprised at first.

“I just don’t… I mean, there’s no need…”

“You’re a mess.  Let me clean you.”

“I can clean down there.  Really, I can just…”

“Little bro, uncurl your legs for me right now.”

“Really, it’s…”

“Jack… you… you cleaned ME…” she says, clearly in a daze.  “So let me clean you back.  Open your legs up for me.  What’s the matter?”

“I guess it’s just, I mean… those are my…”

“They’re your private parts, I know what they are.  I’m in the 8th grade,” she says, smirking childishly at you.  In spite of yourself, in the depths of your soul, you actually feel like chuckling at this remark.  But you don’t.  Not quite.

“Yes, I know what they are too.  I just… I mean, that’s normally something that a person does by themselves, you know?”

She looks at you thoughtfully.  “But I’m your big sissy.  You don’t have to hide anything from me, little bro.  Not anything.  Not even your…” she says, looking down at my legs covering up that spot.  “… your little BITS…”

You feel your mind start to weaken.  You’re this far.  Why not?  You’re hurting on most of your body and you made a dedicated show of love-ridden passion onto one of her feet.  Mentally, you shrug.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

She nods slowly.  “Yes.  Open your legs for me, little bro…”

You nod again, and lower your legs, revealing your dick again.  “There we go…” whispers your little sister in such a low voice it actually gives you goose bumps of comfort.  Somehow, you feel like you’re going to be okay.

Her pointer finger descends, back to the top of your aching crotch.  Slowly, it caresses the area on the side of your sack, leading down underneath, wiping grime off of you down there.  Then, it slides underneath your sack, lifting it up and down, tickling it almost.

Next it slides up with incredible smoothness, right onto your dick.  Your dick is easily pressed into the give of her finger flesh, and she pushes down enough to move your dick downward, but not enough to cause pain.  Then she kneads at it, and you can actually feel the crusted sweat coming loose from it.  Rhythmically, her finger glides back and forth across your dick, the rest of her hand unmoving.

Instinctively, your dick reacts ever so slightly to the fact that something so smooth and soft is being brushed over it.  Mentally, you reinforce to yourself that this isn’t sexual.  It’s just your thank you for what you were willing to do to show your respect.  Your cock continues growing under the continuous, gentle, soothing pattern of your sister’s supple fingertip flesh, but your real reaction reflects as goosebumps running out over your body and into your head.  You feel like you’re on a cloud, floating over the sea, painless.

With a final, slow stroke over your dick, your sister’s finger lifts back into the air.  She smirks at you.  “Feel better now?” she asks, curling the fingers of her right hand protectively around you.

“Y-Yeah…” you say, quivering a little as your dick rises to full length despite your true feelings.

“See?  I told you not to be embarrassed by me down there,” says Carly, raising her hand up higher.  Now, with your cold and slippery form cradled in her plush and warm palm, your sister closes her hand around you, curling her fingers around your entire body in a firm embrace.

You don’t really want to, but at the same time you have no choice.  Your now fully erect dick, brushed by the palm of your sister as it closes around you, can’t help but react and you climax into the damp and watery hand of Carly.  It feels absolutely amazing to you, despite the fact that you have zero actual feeling or intent toward your sister.  To hear your subconscious tell it, it’s your reward for what you did earlier and nothing more, a sign of passionate respect more than love.

Your body convulses a little as you unload into a fleshy fold of Carly’s palm.  She feels you shaking, and opens her hand, looking down suspiciously at you.  “What are you doing, little bro?” she asks, moving her face in closer.  You quickly use a wrist to brush to brush the droplet results of your experience away and smile.

“I’m just cold and wet.  Can I have a towel?”

“Sure,” she says, smiling.  She hands you a tissue and you wipe off quickly, concealing the evidence.  Maybe it will be okay, after all.

“Let’s get some breakfast, little bro,” she says finally.

And suddenly your hope that you're out of the woods already fades as you look at her face, and for the briefest flash see the familiar evil grin, but when her eyes meet yours it disappears.

Your heart begins to quicken as you find yourself in the cool fist of Carly once again as she hops down the stairs and back to the kitchen.  At this point, your hunger pangs have been gnawing at your insides for a while, but as your survival instinct kicked in a while ago, you’ve been trying to ignore it.  Now, however, you know you really ought to eat something if you’re going to be able to think straight or handle whatever else might come at you at this size.

                Something about Carly’s smile upstairs worries you.  For a few minutes, as your sister tenderly washed off her human execretion and grime you collected after you essentially worshipped one of her feet, she actually seemed legitimately… well, not murderous.  She actually took a few minutes to cool you off and clean every inch of you.  And (somewhat embarrassingly to you) caused you to have an accidental boner and subsequent climax right inside her cool, firm palm, although she thankfully didn’t notice that.

                Now, however, that feeling is gone, or at least partially.  Her look of concern disappeared and was replaced with that face of pure evil glee for a flash.  What the hell was she thinking, you wonder.  Clearly, some manageable part of her psych came to the forefront, at least for a few minutes there.

                Didn’t it?  Wasn’t she just being nice, for once in her life?   Doing something to actually help you when you needed it most (not THE thing you needed most, maybe, but something)?

                And yet you cannot convince yourself of this fact, not matter how kindly you were, for once, treated by your “little” sister, because of that look on her face.  Despite yourself and the relative safety you feel being once again in the secure and cushy fist of Carly, you feel the chill running up through you again persistently, reminding yourself mentally what these soft, malleable fingers are so easily capable of with just the right amount of pressure.

                Stopping at the island counter in the middle of the kitchen, your little sister extends her arm out, lowering you to a few inches over the counter, and releases her fingers, letting you slip easily to the granite top.  Again, you are reminded of your nakedness by the draft running through and sweeping you up, but at this far point, all idea of being embarrassed at being exposed to your little sister is completely out of mind in favor of just being cold.  You know that after you pretty just inadvertently jacked off to the pulsing rhythm of your sister’s doughy fingertip, you can’t possibly be embarrassed again by your indecent exposure.  It also occurs to you the fact that you jacked right into your sister’s hand is a secret you’ll need to take to the grave with you.  While it technically wasn’t your fault since you weren’t given a technical choice about having your jewels washed so thoroughly with such a creepily suggestive style of rubbing back and forth, it seems to you that under any other circumstances known to man, such an occurrence would be mildly socially unacceptable, to put it lightly.

                Retracting her hand back to her side, Carly looks down at you on the counter.  She no longer has the look of serious concern from upstairs.  She’s not grinning devilishly yet, but more just giving you a playful and self-indulgent smirk.  “I’m pretty hungry after all that work outside, little bro.  I’ll bet you…” she says, clearing her throat, “… are pretty hungry after the work YOU did this morning, so… what’ll it be?”

                You scan this quickly through your brain for the best response.  She doesn’t appear to be setting up some other cruel and unusual punishment for you, just to amuse her and attempt to curb one of your “faults” in her eyes.  Alarmingly, you realize, each unique punishment had had actual application to your ultimate sibling-led education.

To make you feel bad for how much work you put her through outside, Carly forced you to inhale deeply her intense, burning foot stench. 

To curb you of your supposed macho man status, she defied you to fight back as she used her toes to subjugate you, nearly knocking you unconscious and leaving you in a bruised and battered state. 

To rid you of your habit of bad words, she forced you to kiss, lick, and taste her feet to get an equivalent feel for how dirty your words are, totally dominating whatever helpless part of you hadn’t already been tyrannized by your sister and her cruel feet. 

To display the fact that you have absolutely nothing you are able or allowed to keep yourself for your little sis, your genitals included, she essentially raped your naked form with one of her cool fingers. 

The girl clearly has a very developed sense of spirit-crushing logic, using every avenue possible to terrorize you in general by pinning you down, physically or metaphorically, with her evil toes.

                Having reviewed this with yourself over a couple seconds, you think hard.  What could this be leading toward?  What have you still got to learn from your big… err, little sister, you correct yourself.  Her constant talking down to you and incessant reminders of her drastic height and strength advantage is even starting to affect your own thinking; a little alarming, but you can live with it for now.

                Your eyes snap back to reality and see your sister staring at you oddly.

                “Are you deaf, little bro?  What do we want for breakfast?” she says sweetly with the slightest trace of annoyance at your delayed response.

                “Err…” you start to say, not wanting to answer for fear of there being a wrong answer.

                “I think I want some Cheerios.  Do you want to share my Cheerios with me?” says Carly, power walking toward the pantry.

                “Uh…” you start again.

                She laughs.  “Not that I’m actually offering you a choice.  Well, sort of.  It’s Cheerios or you don’t get anything.  Sound good?” she replies swiftly, cutting you off.

                “Yeah,” you answer straightly.

                “Cool,” she says, nodding, retrieving the half-empty cardboard box of Cheerios and grabbing the jug of milk from the pantry.  She then reaches up into the cupboard and using two fingers plucks out the largest single serving bowl in the house, normally used for heavy stew.  You watch then as she slides a drawer open and plucks out a large serving spoon used for serving casseroles.

                This puzzles you for a moment, but you shake it from your mind quickly.

                She dumps most of the remaining contents of the box into the bowl, then adds a white waterfall of milk into it.  Picking up the bowl and the spoon, she marches it to the kitchen table and sets it down with a loud clang, then returns for you.

                “Breakfast time!” she says, her palm pressing into your front side like normally, her cool fingers curling back around your back and legs.  Your raise your shoulders, allowing yourself to rest your arms on the top of Carly’s curled horizontal pointer finger as her fist rises up into the air to chest level and she takes her slow saunter to the kitchen table.  Taking a seat, she rests the elbow of the arm holding you on the table, propping her hand upright at face level with you.  Her eyes become serious.

                “Before we eat, little bro…” she says.  “I think we need to talk about what I think, if you pass, will be the last lesson I have to teach you.”

                A weight falls off your shoulders, but at the same time you can’t help but feel cold inside again.

                “Um… okay…” you answer slowly.

                “It’s about you and me.  And what we are to each other now.”

                “Okay…”

                “See, it used to be that you were my big brother.  And I was your little sister.  And we’d do stuff to each other just to make each other mad.  And you were… kind of a jerk to me,” she says.

                “And I think you’ve learned your lesson about that.  About how bad that was.  I mean, I THINK you’ve learned your lesson…” she says, shifting her grip on you slightly and making one eye larger than the other, squinting suspiciously at you in a joking way.

                “YES!  Yes, I have.  I really have,” you are quick to answer.   She nods.

                “That’s what I think, too.  You’re a good little boy now.  But see…” she says, whipping her hair off her shoulders and taking a deep breath, “…that’s not good enough anymore.  Because whether you like it or not, you’re not my big brother anymore.  I’m not your little sister anymore.  I’m your BIG sister, and you have to do what I say.  Whatever I say,” she says pensively, biting her lip.  “You’ve apologized a lot, and you’ve done it well.  But if you really,  I mean REALLY, want me to believe that you are sorry for everything you’ve ever done for me, you have to show me that you don’t care about that part of your life anymore, and that you accept me as your big sis.”

                This puzzles you.  It seems to you you’ve made it pretty clear, however much you were perjuring yourself for the sake of survival, that you acknowledge her as your… big sister.

                “I thought I… did that already…” you mumble uncertainly.

                “No, you didn’t, little bro,” she says.  “You apologized for just SOME of the stuff you’ve done wrong to me before.  But there’s SO many things you’ve done to me because you’re so mean, there are so many… lessons you should have to learn…” she says, and your stomach folds in on itself in pain.

                “…but I’m willing to look past that.  Completely, 100%, forget ALL of it, if you just do this last thing for me.”

                “What?” you ask, the pit of your stomach on fire.

                “It’s pretty easy, little bro.  One sentence.  One sentence, that’s all, and I’ll call mom and dad and the hospital and whoever you want.  Okay?” she says, twisting her fingers around in a sliding motion along your ass and hamstrings.

                You don’t do anything.  What is going on?  What is this?

                “How about it?”

                “I…”

                “It’s easy, little bro.  I promise.  It won’t hurt at all if you just say it to me, loud and clear, so I can hear you.  And you have to mean it.  I mean you have to MEAN it when you say it.”

                “I know…” you say, trying to avoid whatever it is.

                “Well, then are you ready?”

                “Yeah…”

                “Good.  Okay,” she says, clearing her throat and blinking.  Then, she leans her face forward, getting it very close to you.  You can feel the warm exhalations from her nose, you’re so close.  “Little bro.  You’re going to look me in the eye, and say, “I belong to you.”

                Instantly, your mind collapses into itself.  You almost feel like you’ve passed out.  The thought registers inside you.  You’ve done everything.  Everything.  That your little sister has asked you to do, some of it forced, some of it above and beyond what was necessary just to win brownie points.

                Even at normal height, you’ve allowed her to spew morning breath at you, stamp your homework, spit food into your face.  You’ve smelled her putrid bare feet for her.  Hell, you've had to put up with worse than that, incredibly.

                 But in the past twelve hours, it’s reached new heights of horrible, worse than anything you’ve ever imagined.  The things you’ve gone through, so dehumanizing and humiliating, practically proclaiming yourself equal to a clump of dirt in the eyes of your sister through the physically and mentally abusive torture you’ve gone through.

                But this.  This last statement, this outright statement just summing up everything you’ve been forced to do since last night by your psychotic and powerful colossus of a little sister.  It’s the final blow to your humanity.

                And suddenly it occurs to you.  You had made a choice to take whatever she dealt out just to survive.  But then you think about people of history.  Bomb makers.  Assassins.  Refugees who have lost family in war.  Waterboarded soldiers.  All of them alive, often times, at the end of their career.  But at what cost?

                Humanity.  Humanity itself.

                Then you think about what you’re being asked to do.  Your sister wants you to tell her that you accept the fact that she owns you.  That you are a piece of property.  Not alive.  An object.  An object your sister owns and can do with as she pleases.

                You are your little sister’s personal toy to tease, humiliate, and torture for the rest of your life, however long or short it might be.  She can kill you, if it happens to be her whim at a moment.

                And it all snaps at once in your head.  You’re a human being.  And whatever happens, you’re going to be a man by the end.

                “NO,” you cry out at Carly as loud as you can, almost hurting your vocal cords.  Her neck snaps back in shock, but quickly zeroes in again, her eyes narrowing.

                “What did you just say?”

                “I said I’m not going to tell you that.”

                “Are you SURE you’re not?” hisses Carly, her voice changing tones frightfully quickly.  Already, you feel the tangible response for your insubordination.  Her hand starts to clench around you again, the cool plushy flesh giving in to the warm, raw finger muscle beneath as she grinds the grooves of her finger prints and joints into your already tender naked body, smushing you into a pulp.  You didn’t think it possible, but you feel new bruises forming on top of the bruises already covering every inch of yourself, the pain becoming so deep inside it starts to numb in certain spots.

                You hear your little sister’s knuckle crack as she continues the compression.  But you refuse to act.  You make no sound.  No word.  No movement (not that you have a wide range to make).  You’re going to be a man when it’s over.  A man.  A human being.

                “Last chance, little bro,” she says angrily, gritting her teeth as she slowly lets the pressure up on your body to let you speak.  You clear your throat.

                “Carly?  Sis?  You can go to HELL!” you roar with a triumphant gait, and then you throw your head back and start laughing, tears welling in your eyes.  Those may be the most satisfying words you’ve ever uttered in your whole life.

                Carly nods her head slowly.  Her eyes narrowed as far as possible without closing them, her lips pursed, her nostrils flared almost shut like a snake.

                “Fine, little bro.  Fine.  I see you haven’t learned anything.  Nothing we’ve done when we’ve been hanging out yesterday and today has taught you anything.  Anything.  You’re worse now than you were yesterday!” she says in shock.  “ALL of this, and you’re STILL a gigantic jerk! You are and always will be.  Well, guess what, little bro?”

                “WHAT?” you yell with feigned interest and happiness.

                “It’s BREAKFAST time!” she says, and suddenly you feel her warm fingers and palm fall away, and you are plummeting downward.  After falling for no more than a half second, you cannonball directly into the lake of milk sitting below you, as well as the rubble of Cheerios swimming in it.  By this time, since you’ve been talking, the milk has become warmer, the Cheerios less well-formed as they disintegrate into the milk, becoming a tannish mush of grainy, soggy bread and souring milk.

                You go undermilk (as it is) for a moment, the room temperature, creamy liquid washing over your every inch, but your feet find the porcelain bottom, your body smashing through a few tearing remnants of Cheerio mush as you fall.  Planting your feet, you push off the bottom of the milk and resurface, pushing aside some pebbles of Cheerio floating like seaweed on the surface of the milk, wiping Cheerio dust from your face that happens to be coating the edges of the bowl in swirling patterns.

                You look up and see your little sister’s face, in a state of focused rage, staring down disdainfully at you.  You watch the hand that was holding you reach down to the side of the bowl, and scoop up the serving spoon, bringing it into full view of you.  Her eyes, trying to gauge your reaction.

                “Eat up, little boy.  Eat up so you’ll grow big and strong, just like you THINK you are…” she says, her smile widening and showing her teeth.  “Maybe if you eat enough and work hard, you’ll be strong enough someday to lift my stinky toes off your FACE!” she practically spits, twirling the spoon between her thumb and forefinger.  So this is why she picked that spoon.  Just in case this happened.

                Somehow, you’re ready.  You feel ready.  Come on again, bitch, you think.  Give me your best god damned shot.

                Carly’s wrist slowly descends toward the bowl with the spoon.  The metallic arc swoops down across the milk, creating large white ripples, splashing some into your face, disappearing below the surface of mushy cereal remains.  The milk stings your eyes, but you quickly open them again, treading milk to stay afloat.

                Carly’s massive fingers slide down the handle of the spoon, gripping it tighter and turning her joints yellow with the pressure.  You look up at her as her smiles curls upward.  Maximum sadism at last.  The metal handle of the spoon, now the only part visible, stirs through the milk slowly as Carly flicks it around with simple finger motions.  Then, you watch as the parabolic scoop rises up from the surface, spraying a fountain of soggy Cheerio paste into you as it rises up into the air, full of milk and nasty cereal pulp.  Her wrist rises to her mouth, and her eyes glow a little as she parts those ginormous lips, allowing the spoon to pass over her lower lip.  She tightens her plush lips around it, and yanks the spoon out slowly and dramatically, spinning it around to display its emptiness.  She looks up at the ceiling and smiles.

                “GOD, that’s good, I just LOVE Cheerios.  They’re really good, little bro…” she says, tapping the side of the bowl with the spoon in a succession of loud, metallic dings.  “…try some!”

                You continue staring up at her, your face unchanged.  She shrugs.

                “Just your old usual self.  I offered you some Cheerios last week, and you didn’t want ‘em.  So I tried again.  And you’re STILL being rude.  I just don’t get it, Jack.  I don’t get it.”

                You don’t answer as her spoon descends back toward the milk, faster this time, scooping up a large pile of stacked Cheerio pulps collected on one side of the bowl in a squishy island of grain.  This time, as it rises, she extends her tongue, long, pink, and glistening with gallons of saliva, and plops the clump of Cheerio paste onto it.  She lowers her face and curls her tongue, cupping the ball of cereal into her tongue and allowing you to see it.

                “Oo you ‘ee?” she says, unable to use her tongue to speak.  “I’ tates ‘eel GOOD!”

                Nothing from you still.  You watch as she slowly slides her tongue back in, curling upward.  You can see the light blue veins on the underside of her tongue, the little flaps of thin tissue hanging off the bottom.  The shining, glossy muscle of it rippling in sheer destructive power as her mouth envelopes the little clump of Cheerios.  With a loud, dramatic gulp, she swallows it down.  She puts a flattened hand to her throat, and swallows a couple more times, pretending to be distressed.

                “Geez.  I think that bite was a little too big for me…” she says, “…well, ALMOST…”

                She can tell her methods aren’t working.  Right now, you can tell she’s just trying to scare the living shit out of you.  It’s her last card to play in her attempt to break your will and get you to admit total defeat in that little sentence.

                She won’t get it.

                The spoon returns, this time right over you.  You don’t budge, though.  You continue treading milk as the spoon slides across the top of the murky mush like a boat and then dips ever so slightly, going underneath.  You watch as the motion attracts a little wave of milk and Cheerio dust toward the spoon.  It clings to your slippery form as you feel the cold metal under your ass, rising up.

                The serving spoon, filled with Cheerio mash, a low puddle of milk, and you.

                You don’t let your mind break.  It’s still in one piece.

                Your little sister is about to eat her powerless brother for breakfast.

                But your mind is in one piece.  One piece.  Human being.

                The spoon arrives at mouth level.  You stare forward.  Carly’s lips look a little chapped, with slight little discolored tears lining them and thin pink lines glued into the crevices of her lip where she didn’t quite wash off all the lip gloss from yesterday.  The corner of her lips are parted ever so slightly, and as you’re watching, a single dribble of white milk rolls over the edge of her cracking lips, doused with liquid, and cascades down her chin, leaving a thin, barely distinguishable trail of milk on her face.  Her lips reclose briefly, then re-open.

                “Enjoying your breakfast, little bro?” says Carly gently, the warm air of her breath hitting you hard and almost cutting off your air supply.  “Because I sure am.  And I think…” she says, tapping her damp lips with a finger from her other hand, “… I’m thinking that THIS bite is going to taste the best.  What do you think, little bro?”

                Nothing still.

                “You think you’re being smart right there.  Not talking to me, not answering.  But you’re only doing this to yourself.  You’ve forced me to do this because you just can’t learn anything.”

                Nothing.

                “Aren’t you going to answer me, little bro?  Can’t you see where you are?” she says, giggling a forlorn, disbelieving laugh, completely condescending to you.

                “Youre… you’re… on my SPOON.  And you’re about to go in.  To my mouth.  I’m about to EAT you, little bro.  Do you not see that?”

                And finally you speak, beginning with a hearty chuckle.  “Are you kidding me?  I know you’re not going to.  You wouldn’t eat me.  You don’t have the GUTS!” you yell back.  Pure, unadulterated glee in your heart.  You figure you might as well pack in as much as you can at this point.

                “I’m NOT, huh?  Well, we’ll see…” she says, and you watch her as her other hand, two fingers in clipper shaped position, comes toward you.  “…we’ll see if I like your sweet little TASTE.”

                In a flash, she has you around the waist.  Her lips part all the way, and slowly, creepily, like a wild animal, her tongue, soaked in the river of spit in her mouth, slides over her chapped lips, remoistening them and curling around in flexing motions.

                Her fingers go careening toward it, and suddenly your body is on it, pressing into it.  Hard.

The first thing you feel is the heat.  The sheer amount of warmth generating from it, transferring over to your relatively cold form.  It’s a little shocking, like hugging a cushioned radiator.  The next thing is the saliva.  The stickiness, coating your face, shoulders, and chest; it’s like the feeling of getting tree sap on you, the feeling that it’s never going to come off.  And it’s all over.  You try to struggle, although she’s holding you pretty solidly against her tongue, but as you flail your arms, you can feel the strands of saliva staying connected to your hands and elbows, reconnecting to your torso.  It’s so thick, like syrup, on the surface but once broken through its soupy at the same time.  Like muddy swamp water.  And it all smells so tart and minty, from when she brushed her teeth this morning before the yard work.  It’s an overwhelming wintergreen scent slamming your nose and senses, giving you a headache from the sheer volume of it.  And, of course, the tongue itself.  You can feel the incredible muscular power of the organ, the slimy, slippery flesh folding around your face as she tubes her tongue up around you.  You try to push your face off, which of course results in the tongue just flexing roughly, almost as if inflating like a balloon.  The flesh of the tongue is bulbous, with the slightest bit of give on top like a layer of fat, but after pushing inward for a moment you can feel rock solid muscle, and you can feel it twisting around, working its way around my body.  Doing work.  Trying to taste and digest you.  The taste buds, like rubbery mole hills, hitting your face as the tongue slides around into different positions, bumping your chin roughly.  You try to grab onto several of them using your hands, but it’s so slick and slippery your hands quickly slides away.   

You move you hands up to near your face and push as hard as you can to create an air bubble around your mouth, managing a large enough push to make room in the plush outer layer of your sister’s tongue.  You inhale deeply, and of course receive a billowing wave of minty saliva pouring in.  It’s a massive amount, more saliva than you even have naturally in your mouth, and it’s sickening to you.  The taste is even worse, having the thick minty haze hitting your nerve sensors like lightning but of course you can taste other things.  The breakfast.  The wheaty, creamy combination of ground up Cheerio and milk pulp, swimming in a solvent of pure saliva.  This makes you cough, and you try to spit it out but of course this just has your resisting lips meeting the endless wall of bumpy, slimy tongue flesh and coats it further in the goop.  You shut your eyes, push some more against the outer flesh layer so you can breathe, and try to wait it out.  You tell yourself over and over: if you can breathe, you’re alive.  Just stay alive.  Saliva leaks into your mouth again, your clothes, your ears, your nose.  Hell, the stuff is multiplying so fast it’s getting in your eyes.  You can tell.  As you’ve been pressed against her tongue for a full minute at least, her tongue is actually getting wetter and wetter as her mouth produces more saliva, like she’s getting hungry just having you this close to her mouth.  This close to being taken in fully, digested by your little sis.  The rippling of the muscles.  The river flow of goopy saliva.  The rubbery taste buds, swaying on the waves.  It’s an inescapable nightmare, curling around you, trying to liquefy your body.  You’re so wet and so slippery, you get the feeling it’s never going to wear off; your body is practically trying to become one with the tongue, so powerful are the senses hitting you.  As another minute passes, you can feel her fingers moving closer to her mouth, pulling you closer, dragging you violently across her tongue. She then begins to swing, letting you slide around all over her outstretched tongue to taste you.  Your forearms are getting tired from pressing in on the tongue.  Finally, they give out.  Unable to create an air bubble anymore.  You realize it at last.  You’re about to be suffocated by Carly’s tongue and gallons of saliva.  You say a little prayer for yourself.  You actually catch yourself half-wishing she would have eaten you and chewed you up, breaking you in half quickly and nearly painlessly so you could have avoided this humiliation and lung-crushing pain.

You never thought you’d be able to say something like this.  But you’re about to be killed by a tongue.  You’re literally about to receive euthanasia from the tongue of your younger sister.  But you’re human.  You’re a human being.

When you feel that you’re about to die, you feel yourself swung back from your sister’s death muscle.  Despite the fact that you’re no longer physically connected, so thick is her saliva from the mushy meal she’s been eating, that several strands stay connected to your body like a spider web as you are yanked back, only breaking after you are (to you) several feet away.

“Do you believe it NOW, little bro?” she says, grinning and licking her lips very slowly and methodically as a visual for you, looking over your glistening form, completely caked from heat to foot in her gooey saliva, a couple of strands still dangling from your arms.  “You’re so stupid.  Look at you.  You think you’re so tough, telling me no, thinking I won’t do what I say I will.  But you’re not tough.  You’re just a sad, sad little boy who doesn’t know his new place in the world.  I gave you a choice, and you threw it back at me.  So you know what?  I’ll give you one… last… chance…” she says, in a low, determined whisper.  “Tell me that you belong to me.  Tell me that you are mine. My tiny… little… doll boy.  And maybe, just maybe…” she says, swiping her lips one final time.  “…I won’t swallow your stupid little body alive.”

You stare up at her one last time, into her eyes.  It occurs to you how far you’ve come.  Your little sister, whom in your toddler years you would play together, the girl that you have antagonized so much in your teen years because of her sadistic nature.  She’s threatening to kill you right now.

And you feel just fine.

“Screw you,” you say with a sly grin, simply, without yelling.  It’s not necessary.  The explosion that happens next is historic.

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” she yells, breaking her own rule.  “YOU STUPID LITTLE FREAK!” she screams at the top of her lungs.  She releases her fingers with a quick and brutal snap, sending you falling back toward the wooden table from your perched position.

You land with an uncomfortable and sickly wet flop, stewing in a macabre puddle of grainy cereal mush, warm milk, and your little sister’s putrid, syrupy saliva.

Human being.