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                You feel nothing but cold and lingering sliminess as you lay once again at the base of your titanic sister’s purse, engulfed in darkness, remnants of dried toe sweat slicked over your every inch, your genitals throbbing from the beating they took between Carly’s thick, juicy digits.  Alone with your thoughts at last.

                As usual, these aren’t the type of thoughts you’d prefer to be alone with.

                With each breath you take, your chest instinctively expects to have itself restrained muscularly by a ceiling of cushy, cold toe flesh resting on top of you like mini sumo wrestlers as you were balled helplessly into the base of your “Christmas present,” Carly’s hand-sewed holiday-themed socks.  As it so happened, of course, you weren’t the only occupant of those socks at the time, as your sister had so casually worn you for the entire Christmas day, never once removing the socks to give you a breath, to feed you, to give you a drink of water as you steadily became dehydrated from the effort to keep yourself from being smushed into a pulp under the firm grip of your little sister’s toes.  You literally just spent the entire “best day of the year” with your puny head jammed roughly between Carly’s big toe and second toe, the pair of them scrunching moistly against your head, threatening to pop it like a cherry if you didn’t send a continuous shower of passionate kisses onto the tender skin between them.

                You remember back on a Christmas in your childhood where the stores had run out of Christmas trees, and your family had had to make do without for that year.  You remember telling yourself at the time that this would be the worse Christmas ever.

                Almost laughing to yourself, you realize a new Christmas now holds that lowly title, and is likely never to be beaten.  Until next year, that is, you note with a pained grimace, rubbing at your lips, sore from laying endless kisses on your sister’s repulsive foot.  The lingering flavors of staleness, salt, and flesh seem glued eternally to your throat and tongue.  Each time you swallow and can taste the horrid, ghastly spices of your hellish little sister’s filthy foot skin, you can swear you hear her laughing wildly in your ear.

                You open your eyes, shaking this image from your mind.  At least you can sleep alone, free from the overpowering influence of Carly’s toes tonight.  Most of the day had been spent busily pushing up with all your strength against the constantly curling, smelly digits, so you weren’t totally cognizant of your surroundings (being so near to the ground, as well), but you were easily able to pick out the voices of your extended family: your cousins, your aunts, uncles, grandparents.  Your own parents.  It was painful just to hear their laughter, knowing you were so close but unable to save yourself.  Irrational anger had risen in you: anger that so many of the people out there could relatively easily overpower Carly, force her down, and pull her sock off, ending your unreal nightmare forever.  Of course, fate wasn’t having any of that, and the day went on without a single risk, suspicion, or event.  An entire day spent under your cruel sister’s writhing toes, feeling the muscles in her leg and warm, wrinkled appendage flexing playfully over your body, as if reminding you of how precarious your situation was.  How easily she could unflex her foot, allow you to slide down into the base of the sock under her pale sole before snapping the green thread fabric hard against her flesh, snapping your spine and splattering you violently against your feminine sibling’s long, athletic foot with a soft pop.

                True to her word, your sister allowed you out of her sock right before turning in for the night because of your good behavior.  Obviously, you weren’t let off the hook easily, as she made a passionate show of the whole thing, gripping you by the legs with her toes as she regally pulled the entire sock off her foot before depositing you into the waiting purse with a lithe, tanned leg carefully poised.  Still, once you were alone, you were grateful.  This period of solitude is your REAL Christmas present from your sister.

                Having adjusted your eyes to the darkness over time, you find that you can just barely make out the outlines of a few items resting as well at the base of Carly’s purse, such as her lipstick and coin purse.  Something else catches your eye, though; something much more drastic.

                Light.

                It’s not your imagination, there’s actual light streaming into the purse.  You peer upward quickly, toward the upper ceiling of the leathery interior.  It’s a simple, dim glow, barely noticeable to anyone who hasn’t just spent the last several hours sitting at the base of this dark, plastic cave.  Luckily, that is precisely the opposite of your current state, and a second later you’re pulling yourself to your feet, crawling closer for further investigation.  Sure enough, a few teeth of the purse zipper at the very edge remain unzipped, allowing in a steady trickle of low light from Carly’s bedroom outside.  Your heart skips a few beats.  Could this be it?

                It doesn’t take long in your state of heightened awareness and eagerness to get the hell out of this purse to drag enough stray items close enough to the edge of the purse for you to climb up and have a chance of reaching the zipper teeth.

                You can only get a single hand through the open teeth, and in your place of zero leverage, it takes some effort, but with a mighty heave you manage to push the dangling zipper far enough out so that you can grab onto the metallic buckle with both hands and yank.

                You can feel the blood being squeezed from your clammy hands as you squeeze around the zipper, sliding it along until the opening is wide enough for you to slip through.  Grappling at the teeth of the zipper, you drag yourself upward, silently thankful for all those pull-ups in the drawer you’ve made yourself do now finally paying off, and slip over the edge of the purse, rolling roughly down the grooved side.  You smack the hardwood table uncomfortably on your bruised sides and legs but safely, coming to a stop at the base of the purse.

                You swallow hard, your throat going dry, your hands shaking.  You feel like you’re about to play Russian roulette, using your sister’s punishing fingers rather than a pistol.  And in this context, the no-doubt swift and near-painless death of a shot to the head seems preferable to what you know unflinchingly that your giant sister will do to you upon finding you’ve escaped your makeshift cage and her domineering clutches.  Whatever it is, you have a hunch it would be far slower, more horrifying, and more humiliating than anything some stupid firearm could dream up for your existence.

                Don’t fuck this up, you breathe steadily to yourself, repeating it in your head solemnly, teeth gritted as you stand up on the table next to the purse.  Don’t fuck this up.

                Looking to your right, you find Carly’s bed stretching on for what seems like forever.  And mercifully, it’s empty.  Stepping to the edge of the table and raising an eyebrow, your chest heaving with nervousness that the bedroom door will come swinging open at any instant, leaving you instantly as a sitting duck, you do your best to judge the distance.  A matter of inches.  A moderate long jump for you, not terrible, but disastrous should you miss it.  Disastrous, of course, meaning mortal in this context.

                With time running out, you swallow your sensibilities and step back, bracing yourself before taking off running across the wood, taking a hard leap off as you plant your foot on the very edge.

                For a moment, as you go flying through the empty space, time seems to stop, along with all sound and your own heartbeat, before you roll several times along the moon-like surface of your sister’s bed comforter, landing face-first in the side of a propped up pink pillow.  As you pull yourself off of it, you can swear you smell that same sticky-sweet strawberry shampoo Carly uses in her hair.  Obviously, you’re quite familiar with this hazy stench, as you so often find yourself tied like a prisoner in a dungeon upside down in your bratty sister’s silky forest of sleek blond hair.

                Running along the bed to the opposite end is an exercise in of itself, as you find yourself in your haste clumsily tripping over wrinkles in the fabric, as well as having to deal with the bounciness of the surface, but at long last you reach the end.  Peering cautiously downward, you gulp, taking another look at the door.  You have a feeling in your gut that your seconds of freedom for this daring bid at liberty are beginning to run preciously short, so again, not allowing yourself to think, you grip onto the thick folds of the sheet and set your legs down the edge, shutting your eyes.  And then you loosen your grip ever so slightly, digging your feet into the folds, allowing yourself to slide downward.

                Your stomach flips over inside of your chest, your lungs nearly bursting as you gasp from the simultaneous shock of wind rushing past your cold back and the rug burns being rubbed raggedly into your skin as you come coasting down the leveling slope of the comforter, crashing over yourself and landing in a pained heap on the carpet of the floor.  Alive.

                You allow your chest to rise and fall regularly a few times, soaking in the glorious silence, as you look back upward at the bed.  It looks miles high, and you decide it’s in your best interest to not consider how foolhardy what you just did was.  Now isn’t the time to think.  Now is the time to move your ass.

                You hop to your feet, still feeling woozy and cringing as the still-developing carpet burns from the rapidly sliding comforter settle redly into your skin.  You begin to take steps, marveling at the cavern of the room, stretching upward so high you feel like you’re in a skyscraper without floors.  You dash forward, seeing Carly’s dresser within three hundred steps or so of you.  The space underneath is plenty large enough for you to duck under in the cover of darkness and get your thoughts together for your next move.

                As you begin sprinting, your heart pounding so loud inside your chest from anxiety you want to scream at it to shut up, the exterior silence is shattered by the creak of the door hinges and the hurricane-wind slap of the door swinging open, well within viewing distance of you.

                You feel your feet stop, your body freezing with paralysis.  You watch, your jaw dropping, aghast, as the sight before you unfolds.  A bare foot rises into the air from the hallway, displaying a pale, wrinkled sole to you for the briefest moment before crashing back into the carpet with a hard thud, the firm, pink heel twisting roughly in a circular motion, the long toes bouncing and scrunching at the fibers of the carpet, a second toned leg following quickly behind.  Your eyes trace up the leg, along a thin, athletically curvy upper body, and up to the face.

                It’s not Carly.

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