You dangle upside down, your ankles both tied tightly into a hair band which happens to be currently wrapped around Carly’s long ponytail. As she occasionally turns her head, you are whipped side to side through the forest of smooth, silky wires of hair. Occasionally, a hair will get stuck in your mouth as you try to breathe, the blood all rushing to your head, but all you have to do is spit to get it to come out. This is probably the most painless thing you’ll be forced to do all this week, but even so, it’s unpleasant, as you’re getting seriously dizzy now and almost feel like throwing up, being rocked around for what feels like the past two hours. Carly’s been working on homework, and when she gets down to business, especially if she has a huge test the next day, this can go on for an unreasonably long amount of time.
“Feeling comfy back there, little bro?”
You groan. “Umm… I’m okay…”
“You sure?” she asks, purposefully shaking her head around a little, whipping her darker blonde hair. You gasp for breath, getting another few hairs attached to your tongue, but these are quickly spat out. She giggles. “Are you trying to eat my hair or something?”
“N-No, it’s just… all over the place…”
She sighs, bringing her massive left hand back behind her head. She taps at your face with her pointer finger for a few seconds, before gently squeezing you around the stomach with her thumb and pointer finger. She then begins kneading at you, rubbing along your abs up to your chest. Admittedly, it feels pretty good. If anything, Carly has learned how to push your involuntary buttons in these past five years. Most of the time, she uses those button to degrade you or just plain push you into the mud and kick you while you’re down, but on rare occasions she’ll just randomly feel like not being a psycho bitch and actually try to make you feel a little better.
Her soft fingertips continue massaging your midsection, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure for you to effectively feel the powerful muscle in her finger without forgoing the calming cool of her flesh. Your body begins to hang a little less stiffly as you allow yourself to be engulfed in the good feeling of having your muscles rubbed all over, the tactile sensation of having massive, ridged pads sliding over your naked body without resorting to rape. After a few minutes of simply playing with you between her fingertips, Carly finally releases the soft pressure on you. You sigh deeply, hanging a little more casually and comfortably from her hair.
“That make it any better?”
“Yes.”
“You’re just so easy to please, aren’t you, little dude?”
“I… I guess…”
“Oh, give me a BREAK,” she almost scoffs at you. “You are TOO easy.”
“R-Really?” you say, using your forearms to push some hair out of your way.
“Well, no duh!” she says, making you sound ridiculous.
“I… I’m sorry, then, I think…” you stammer, your head getting light again.
Her fingers come sliding slowly back around her head, and this time she uses her thumb, pointer, and middle fingers to latch onto you. “Don’t be sorry. It’s not all bad for you now, is it?” she suggests playfully, beginning again to squeeze you in gentle intervals, moving her fingers up and down along your stomach as lightly as possible. You go limp again almost immediately as the massage continues. She laughs. “See what I mean now?” she asks matter-of-factly.
“Y-Yes…” you stutter, caught up in the feeling of her soft fingers on your chest and stomach. Somehow, the combined effect of her smooth, creamy digits and your extreme lightheadedness are improving the situation greatly.
“It’s like I lay a single finger on you, and you just curl up for me like a puppy dog,” she says, letting go with two of her fingers, leaving only her thumb on her stomach. Rather than the gentle squeezes, then, she begins gently stroking from the top of your chest to your stomach, swiping side to side, the feeling of her doughy fingertip flesh giving you almost continuous goose bumps. You continue hanging limply, letting her do her work and giggle childishly at you as you act like a total heel for the sake of a few minutes of near bliss. “Actually, not a puppy dog…” she says thoughtfully, continuing working you over. “A pill bug. Yeah, that’s about right,” she finishes confidently. Embarrassed at your reaction, you try to straighten yourself a little despite the continuation of her soft, practiced strokes.
“Umm… I don’t know, I think…”
“Oh, shut UP already!” she says mockingly. “I can feel you just hanging there like you’re high or something, and I don’t even have to touch your little pea-sized dick, do I?” she asks. You pray that that’s not an indication she’s going to start now. You decide you’d rather just give it up rather than end this conversation by getting ruthlessly raped while hanging upside down from your sister’s ponytail.
“I… guess not, no…”
“See, you know it, don’t you? So go ahead. Enjoy it, I know you want to.”
And she’s totally right about that. No matter how embarrassingly quickly your sister can make you clam up like her pet, you could never resist some form of pleasure that didn’t involve molestation, no matter where it came from or the circumstances. You un-tense yourself and allow yourself to enjoy the massage along your stomach. After a few minutes, Carly slips her thumb onto your back, pressing in at rather precise angles and helping your somewhat sore back immensely with her cushiony pad of flesh.
“Little bro?” she asks cheerfully, still rubbing you around with one hand and still writing notes down on her paper on the desk with the other. You groan, opening your eyes back up and shivering a little from the goose bumps rushing along you.
“Yeah?”
“You know I love my tiny brother, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. So, you know how siblings should act together, right? They should be sharing. You know, like friends or something.”
“Sure.”
“Cool. Well, I think we ought to act like that a little more often.”
“How?”
“Well, I was just thinking… since I’m doing something nice for YOU to make YOU feel good…” she coos slowly. “…I think it’s only fair you do me a favor, too.” At these last words, she latches all available fingers onto your upper torso, encasing you in cushy, warm finger flesh, and begins to knead at you. It feels incredible, and you can tell she’s just buttering you up to do whatever the hell it is she wants without complaint.
To her credit (if she deserves any), Carly seems to have at least discovered within the last few years that she gets a lot further trying to ground you into the dirt through pleasure rather than intense torture. Obviously, the torture can come later very easily; her trick has become getting you all set up for something you feel like you can handle, only to have your soul practically crushed by the task. You know pretty well how it works. You’ve had your soul killed and reborn, only to have it destroyed again, more times than any human being ever to live.
“Okay,” you answer in response to the request. Not that saying “no” was going to be an acceptable answer.
“That’s nice of you bro. Okay, I’ll get outta your hair about that… actually, I’ll get YOU outta my hair now…” she says, chuckling at her painful pun as her massive fingers slowly release your warmed body, instead beginning to work at the hair band around your ankles. A few tugs, and your ankles come loose, allowing you to tumble directly into Carly’s waiting palm below you. She clutches you, flipping her hand over as she brings you back in front of her face. Her plush lips spread out into a smile as the hand not holding you places the pencil onto the desk and begins rummaging through a small box she keeps on the desk. A second later, she brings forth a tiny square of sandpaper, comprising no more than a square inch. She brings it forward and offers it to you as you recline in her open palm, using the bulbous heel of her hand as an armrest. You quickly grab it, looking at it blankly.
“Tell me what you think, little bro…” poses Carly, curling the fingers of her other hand like a claw and bringing it nearer to your relaxed, naked form in her other palm. Reaching forth two bent fingers, she presses down into your stomach with her fingernails. It’s pretty uncomfortable, but not enough to be painful… that is, until she scrapes them off to the side, leaving two distinct red marks on your stomach. You grunt in pain, looking up at the calm face of your humongous sibling. “Do you think my nails are getting a little too long?”
“Yes…”
“I thought so, too. So how about you do a little something about that, hmm?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. She lowers her palm to the table, dumping you gently onto the desk. Then, you watch as she raises her hand into the air, shadowing you with her massive palm before slapping her hand down hard on the desk, knocking you over from the concussive smash of her leviathan fingers just in front of you. As you pull yourself to your feet, she begins to drum her fingertips loudly against the table. “Take your little file there and make sure I can’t hurt you anymore with these nails, or else I’ll just file them myself and use you instead…” she suggests in a nearly kindly voice. She’s clearly bluffing about that last part, but it’s quite clear you’ve got a job to do now. “Sound okay, little bro?”
“Okay.”
“Cool. Now get to work,” she says, picking her pencil up with her other hand and continuing writing. Shrugging, you step to her meaty thumb. Her nail is very wide, just about as wide as your torso, and her nail is like a large, circular plate of thick ivory, having a similar texture to an elephant tusk. You touch your fingers along the porcelain edge, feeling the slight overgrowth, and decide where you’ll need to work at. You start at one side, then scrape the sandpaper along the nail several times until you notice a fine powder of nail dust only visible to someone of your size collecting in the air and on the table. You start to move to the next finger, but suddenly feel warm breath washing over you, meaning there’s probably a gigantic, feminine, disdainful face right behind you at the moment. Carly’s pencil tip bats at you, forcing you to fall back over, causing you to trip over the thumb and land on your back.
“If I wanted you just practicing for a dance routine or something, I’d have you do that. Feel that nail. Does that feel smooth to you, bro? Really?” she demands softly. You run your hand along the ridge, realizing it still feels a little rough.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Didn’t think so. Maybe you should spend a little more time there then, hmm?” she asks condescendingly, as if waiting for you to figure out this conundrum on your own.
“Y-yes, okay…” you answer obediently, crawling into a kneeling position over the nail to get at it better. You line the sandpaper up with the rougher spots you just ran your fingers along, the nail feeling so thick and unmovable it feels like you’re cutting against soft quarrie stone. As you begin scraping along your little sister’s thumb nail again, smoothing out the edge, you get a weird mental image of giving the Statue of Liberty a manicure.
“That’s good. Keep going; I don’t want you taking all night to do this,” says Carly. Her thumb suddenly bounces up from the ground, and she taps you with the grooved pad of her fingertip enough to knock you flat on your back again. You nod, shifting over to her pointer finger and getting to work.
It takes you over half an hour to finish grinding along the surface of your sister’s fingernails on both hands. When you finish, she lifts both hands into the air and splays her fingers. Pursing her lips, she blows across them to make sure you got every angle correctly before nodding, satisfied. “Looks okay, I guess. Ready for the next part?”
“Next part?”
“Of course,” she grins. “You wouldn’t want me looking like I only do things halfway, would you, Jack? So you’re going to… one of your favorite places…” she winks, and you mentally groan as her soft fingers close back around you, lifting you off the table as she scoots out from the desk to get some more space. You already know perfectly well what you’re about to do. Pressing you harder into her spacious, squishy palm flesh, your sister lowers you to the ground below the desk, plopping you on the carpet.
You look ahead, seeing her feet, in a pair of white flip-flops, crossed over one another at the ankles. One foot, tucked behind her ankle, dangles the flip-flop uncaringly near to the ground. Her toes grip the strap tightly, bending slightly, as they squirm the strap around in their grip. You cringe, and can’t help but imagine yourself jammed between those gigantic, smooth digits, as you so often are for no reason in particular other than Carly wanting you to be there. Finally, as you come to a standing position, she curls her toes all the way back in, slapping the foam shoe back against her fleshy, wrinkled sole before slamming her entire foot flat onto the ground, one next to the other, her toes doing the wave as they wait for you, her heels shifting a little against the grooved foam design to get into a more comfortable position. You look between her smooth, muscular legs, all the way up at her face, above the desk, where she’s looking down at you kindly but condescendingly at the same time. “You know what to do. Put just as much work into them as my fingers. And if I don’t think you did a good job…” she mumbles, poking a fingertip into the corner of her mouth before shaking her head. “…actually, I’ll just assume you don’t want to know what happens if you don’t do a good job. Just work hard, and I won’t have to push you around, okay?” she says sweetly and calmly, perfect clarity in every word. Her gaze shifts back to the table top and you hear the scribble of her pencil seconds later. She’s apparently not even giving you the time of day while you do this, just so long as you aren’t slacking off.
You gulp, approaching her toes, which are still wiggling energetically in the white flip-flops. As you stand within touching distance of them, you inhale. Thankfully, Carly apparently hasn’t been sweating profusely, or she at least took a shower back at the locker room after basketball practice. You can smell the faintest hint of fleshy perspiration, but it’s nothing new and certainly very manageable; it’s the average amount one might find on a person at this time of day in a slightly muggier room, it’s just extremely apparent to your nose because of your size. You can also detect a whiff of a watermelon-scented body wash, particularly at this close proximity. It’s strong, but it’s also very sweet smelling, so you decide it should at least make this a little more enjoyable. You place the sandpaper chunk along Carly’s big toe on her right foot, having trouble lining it up as her toes are still dancing, bouncing up and down with soft taps against the foam. You try to work like this, but her toes are just wiggling far too fast and strong for you to get a good aim. She’s not doing this on purpose just to make your job harder, it’s simply something she tends to do while concentrating on something like homework. You’ve hung around her feet often enough to notice the sort of behaviors they take on in certain circumstances. You’d even bet you know Carly’s feet better than she does.
Placing your sandpaper file onto the carpet, you shrug and go for the toe. You squeeze around each side, trying to hold the toe in place, but it continues rocking, vibrating your arms. Putting all your strength in, you come in nearer to the toe, sliding your arms up around, tucking your fingers into the slight indent between the nail and the dry skin. Still nothing; her toe continues bopping against the shoe sole. As you get too close, her nail actually slams your chin, and it hurts for just a moment, but you rear back, looking for a better angle. Digging each entire arm against the pliable, pale toe flesh, feeling particularly soft in the crevice between her big and second toes amidst your clenched fingers, you squeeze, essentially hugging her big toe against yourself, the barely noticeable dampness feeling cool against your skin. After a few seconds of this, you hear her chuckling up above, and her toes stop wiggling; flop against the front of her toe, nearly ramming your dick painfully against the dry grooves of her toe print. Finally.
“Sorry about that bro, I didn’t even notice I was doing that. Guess I wasn’t making your job very easy, was I?”
“Um… not really, I guess.”
“My bad. Here, I’ll even make it easier for you to get to them…” she offers. You step back quickly as her toes begin sliding back along the surface of the shoe, squeezing lightly at the flip-flop strap as she pulls both feet from the shoes. Curling her massive toes backward, she pushes the flip-flops out of the way, then brings both of them forward. Her toes splay out, as if reaching for you, her feet coming forward at about face level with you. You back up, surprised, and find yourself unable to move back as your sister calmly slides your head in between her big and second toes like a vice of soft flesh. Despite often finding yourself in positions such as this, your heart can’t help but flutter; with one swift motion, perhaps not even on purpose, Carly could squish your puny head like a rotten grape. You slide one arm around her big toe, and the other up into the adjacent toe crevice, and try to pull out, but it’s useless. Carly giggles, and slowly begins compressing her toes together. Your head is forced forward, and you find your face pressed deeply against the deepest part of Carly’s toe crevice, right against the foot where her toes become connected. Her toes begin to pulse ever so lightly, caving your face against the cushy crevice. Admittedly, there are much worse places to find yourself, as the slight dampness of foot sweat has made this particular spot one of the softest on her enormous peds.
The trace saltiness combined with the watermelon soap invades your nose, and you cough; it’s very strong, but at least it’s not the most pungent thing you’ve ever been forced to take into your poor lungs. She continues grinding on your face for a few minutes more, your breaths coming in labored intakes of sudor and artificial fruit, between each pulse, when your face isn’t pushed helplessly against the soft valley of your sister’s toe cleavage. You keep your lips tightly shut, but regardless of what you do, with each pulse, your sister forces you to press your taut lips against the doughy patch of flesh, as if each time she clenched her toes, you were kissing them obediently against your will. You have a feeling that this is precisely the desired effect. Finally, her toes lift into the air, parting and releasing your head, which now smells pretty strongly of body wash. You rub at your raw neck and cheeks, which had the rippleless skin folded pretty hard around them for several minutes, and then stagger to your feet. Just as you do, Carly’s foot taps forward, her big toe pointed, and she flicks it against your stomach. The unexpected battering ram of muscle and dry grooves sends you reeling onto your butt again. You splay your legs out, looking at her foot, so soft and cared for looking (mostly by you), yet massive enough to utterly destroy you in just about any way possible. Despite the dark shadows, you can make out Carly’s deep heel wrinkles, reflecting light in certain places, curling in and out of view as she flexes her youthful soles. You shake your head and return your view to your sister’s hulking pink digit, which gently taps each of your legs, pressing down on your knees terrifyingly for a moment before releasing them.
“Hmm… that’s kinda weird, I don’t really remember telling you to take a break yet…” she muses, setting her foot back on the ground. As you sit up, you watch as she flexes both of them hard against the ground, bending her flexible toes and arching her heel as far as she can, high above your head, resting it calmly against the leg of her chair. She taps a single big toe against the carpet silently. “C’mon, little bro… they’re waiting for you,” she teases, and a second later the pencil scribbling continues. Rubbing at your somewhat aching cheek still and ruffling your messed up hair, you grasp up the sandpaper and approach her feet, which are now both arched against the chair as high as possible, resting on her curled toes and the dry balls of her feet.
You kneel obediently before her towering peds, her toes now perfectly still and waiting for you, and slide the sandpaper tab along the thick plate of nail. It’s much thicker than her fingers, and a single scrape from you hardly does anything at all. You run your fingers along the uneven edge, feeling the collection of dirt and dust directly underneath her toenail. Tightening your biceps for the harder work, you begin grinding the file along her toe in a smooth pattern, side to side, as hard as you can. After a grueling five minutes, your arms already feeling pretty spent, you lay down the sandpaper on the carpet. You grip the edge of her nail with your sore fingers, your arms slightly shaking still from the strain, and run your palm along it. Perfectly smooth, end to end.
“Keep it up, bro. Next one. If you don’t hurry, the sun will be up before you’re done, and then I’ll have no choice but to wear you to class so you can finish up,” she chuckles at you. Groaning softly enough so that your titanic sibling can’t hear your auditory protest, for fear of the obvious retaliation, you pick the file back up, shifting on your knees, and begin grinding it calmly along her peach-flushed second toenail, your fingers already beginning to quiver from tiredness.