“Look at how they’re just running away. It’s pretty disrespectful, when you really think about it,” Carly comments with genuine disdain. She shakes her head, her brow furrowing slightly, her lips pouted in that irresistibly cute angle that also suggests she’s completely authentic in her feeling.

            You shrug, crossing your arms behind your head as you recline comfortably in the warm, expansive palm of your little sister’s giant hand. Your legs are crossed over her accommodating thumb, creating a makeshift chair out of her fingers. It’s not often you’re so free and casual in her hand; odds are, you’ll be shifted around soon to an equally comfortable if less liberal position, so you enjoy it while you can.

            After all, you have the house to yourselves, and Carly is splayed like a resting lioness across the couch: an oversized t-shirt just barely concealing the top half of her toned body, track shorts displaying most of her long, bare legs as they drape over the couch arms, her tender toes musically swaying and scrunching. There’s any number of places you could end up, to the amusement of you both.

            Beyond, the TV screen flashes with the cartoonish antics of Honey, We Shrunk Ourselves. Last week, your goddess-sibling insisted on the pair of you viewing the first film where the kids shrink instead. The resulting good-natured fun of your private movie night, followed by some fairly intense worship across most of the length of her body as soon as the credits rolled, confirmed it was a great idea. You’re guessing she’s after a similar result by having you watch the sequel now; not that you have a single damn problem with the prospect of such a thing.

            Like you even need an excuse to cover every square millimeter of the ecosystem that is Carly’s magnificent, Olympian form with kisses.

            But even you have to admit the movie is a nice appetizer. Your sister has always been spurred on by reminders of her size and power difference over you. Even a well-placed forced perspective photograph in one of her magazines, depicting giant lingerie models hovering over a tiny urban environment, and odds are, you’re going to be on service duty to the lush, tanned landscape of Carly’s body that night. What better way to activate those feelings, than by watching a fantasy comedy that replicates with corny special effects the bizarre but all-too-real reality the pair of you exist within?

            It’s easy to see how easily she’s going to let herself fade into the mood of the thing. It’s not so difficult for you, either.

            “Don’t you think that’s stupid of them to run away, Jackie-poo?” Carly repeats, extending a finger from her free hand toward the TV, wherein the newly shrunken dads are sprinting away in terror from their still-normal sized wives. She clearly wants to make sure you know exactly what she’s talking about that’s so stupid.

            “It is pretty stupid,” you agree happily and, you realize, truthfully. It reminds you an awful lot of how you first reacted, or at least tried, with your actual experience. And that certainly didn’t play out well for you at first. Escape was impossible. Utter genuflection toward the greater beings in one’s life is the best path, you’ve long ago discovered.

            “You wanna know a secret?” Carly whispers cheekily. She lifts her hand up from her lap containing you, bringing her cupped palm closer to her chin. The warmth of her whisper is hot on the back of your neck as she draws you near her lips.

            “Totally.”

            “When I first saw this movie when I was little, I, like, completely wanted it to be real.”

            “What, you mean-”

            “Well, not, like exactly what happened - I’m not some psychic or something. But, you know… to see what it might be like? Having a little one? Actually, I think just cuz it’s the mom and dad in the movie that get small, I was thinking of…”

            “…our mom and dad?”

            “Just a little bit,” Carly explains with, you realize with some surprise, bashfulness. Your sister isn’t the type of person to be embarrassed by much, as the years have clearly revealed. Her pink cheeks flush.

            It’s almost a little strange to be discussing “your” parents in such public terms with Carly. She infrequently generates discussion which puts you, at least ideologically, on the same level. Fortunately, you can bet you’re never far from being reminded of your place again.

            “Guess I gotta just settle for lil’ old you,” Carly giggles. Her middle finger curls into her palm where you’re still reclining comfortably in the nude. She nudges your limp dick with the broad, soft tip of her digit, chuckling at your semi-startled reaction. Before you can even think about getting circulation down to that area, though, you’re faced with a different dilemma.

            Carly’s palm tips, slowly at first, but her fingers offer no protection as you stumble over the hump of her thumb and down the short distance to her lap. It’s a fleeting, stomach-churning fall, but ends in less than a second. Her titanic thighs, firm and powerful from countless days spent running suicides up the basketball court, part only just enough to allow you entry. With a quick squeeze, your gigantic sister has you clamped between her warm quads.

            You’re almost entirely ensconced in the deeply trenched valley of Carly’s upper thighs. Without pause, the girl begins a comforting pattern of contracting and softening her impressive muscles. Simultaneously, she demonstrates her power anew for you, as well as confirming just how tightly she can squeeze you without inflicting pain before allowing you to float briefly in the narrow vice of leftover teenage cellulite.

            It’s a vivid mass of potent humanity on all sides of you, roiling with adductors and blood vessels beneath that golden flesh which you so highly covet on your owner. Carly’s thighs are practically a living contradiction of plush skin and rigid, nearly unyielding runner’s muscle beneath. It’s always a real treat when she puts you down here.

            “It’s not a bad trade-off, though, when you think about it,” Carly concludes with a nod. She cocks her head, observing you with quiet amusement entrapped between her legs. Her thighs tighten around you, partially numbing the lower half of your body from the pressure. “If Mom and Dad got small, they might not have been as sweet and fun as you are about it.”

            “True,” you grunt, not able to summon much else verbally. In other words, they’d probably be how you so foolishly were for the past five years. Thank Goddess you figured it out when you did.

            For a little while, at least, the movie proceeds with the pair of you relaxed in this particular position. Your sister’s legs draped lazily over the couch arm, and her most prized possession pinched cutely between her mighty quads. Carly’s eyes above return to the TV screen and, clearly, so does most of her attention. Occasionally she lowers a pinky finger down below her legs to stroke at your hair and chest, never failing to rustle up a fresh layer of goose bumps down your increasingly toasty body. Her thighs are still rigidly poised, keeping you securely above the couch cushions, but you detect some deliberate softening on her grip. Lowering you.

            With every passing minute, you sink just a little deeper into the luscious, bronzed abyss of your sister’s crossed legs. Partially by virtue of the tantalizingly subtle presence of perspiration formed between her thighs from being so hotly clamped together for consecutive minutes without air, you’re allowed to slide further in. The numbness spreads from your toes and knees up to your stomach. A complete enveloping by your sister’s legs, while she barely pays you mind.

            Her entire body rattles every few minutes with cheery, lilting laughter at the movie. Usually when the shrunken characters find themselves in a fresh predicament resulting from their earlier foolishness by running from their enormous betters. When Carly laughs, your body is shaken out of its loss of sensation only temporarily, buzzing you to the bones and forcing a smile on your lips by default. How can someone so titanic, so all-mighty, so uncaring of whether or not you have a decent view of the screen, be so relentlessly adorable?

            The next time Carly’s fingers fish down between her legs, after they’ve finished curling gentle circles on your face, she gives you a push. With a single, good jam from her thumb, you’re up to your neck in sweltering, strident leg landmass. A couple of easy shuffles later, you’re faced directly to your sister’s torso, or rather, the lower reaches of it, shrouded mostly in shadow, but unmistakably in a secret coven now amidst the tangle of thigh flesh and shorts with your sister’s crotch.

            You can’t see the screen, nor do you particularly care to when your current view is so much better, but by the sounds, you can make out what’s happening. You know this bit. A bubble pops, and the digitally miniaturized actors go tumbling down toward a lake of chip dip.

            “Oh, God…” Carly mumbles under her breath, the syllables ribbed. Her crystal blue eyes are engorged and glued to the screen, while her hand is wandering down her stomach and toward the elastic waistline of her track shorts. Her fingers sink below the line and out of direct sight, fumbling with her undergarments.

            Of course, you have a direct view of the bulging digits rifling with the fabric, a mere inch away from the end of your nose. Almost immediately, the air is altered. It’s her air.

            “Ugh. Why couldn’t she eat one of them? Why’d they have to get away? You know? Why couldn’t she swallow her dad on a chip?”

            Her fingers pick up their pace beneath the curtains of her shorts. Knuckles digging at her panties, thrusting and prodding with musical finesse. The sudden display is nothing short of startling. You’re perfectly aware of just how into this unique lifestyle your sister is, and she’s been personally responsible now for more of your orgasms per capita in your lifetime than most horny teenagers with a box of tissues and lube bottle, and yet, it occurs to you.

            You’ve never seen this. You’ve never watched your sister reach her own climax. It almost seems selfish in retrospect.

            “It’s so fucking stupid how they didn’t get eaten,” she moans. “There’s no way they should’ve gotten away. They were right there, on the end of her fingers, by her mouth… God, isn’t it awful?”

            “Y-Yeah…” you breathe, huffing the sticky air. A shudder ticks down your spine.

            “Gotcha, didn’t I?” Carly snorts.

            Her sultry, flowing movements instantly return to their less formal protocols as she reaches for you with the very hand she just used to fish down into her panties. Her slender digits close gently around you on all sides, plucking you from your deep seat between her thighs. It’s hard not to be disappointed, until you regain your bearings.

            Despite the fact that her supposedly instinctive masturbation prompt over giant teenage girls nearly eating their dads was a practical joke on you, the glistening on the tips of Carly’s index and middle fingers can’t lie. Not to mention the sharp, humidly oiled scent surrounding you as the girl lifts you up. Her wet fingertip slides on the small of your bare back.

            There was definitely penetration, joke or not.

            “Uhh… you sure did, big sissy,” you say. Stealthily, you lean in just a little nearer to her gleaming, peachy fingertips and inhale again. You can feel your nerve endings come alive.

            “Nah… I don’t really want them to eat the dads. What fun is that?” Carly explains, her voice dropping to a rhetorical octave. “Okay, so they get eaten and pooped out and whatever. And that’s all? No, no, it’s a lot better if they find them, and realize how much good their little boys can do if they keep them around, in a nice safe place.”

            You shake your head ‘yes’ with vigorous abandon. Your whole existence centers around this specific principle of Carly’s, really, so it wouldn’t make sense for you to do anything but bob your head in crazy succession.

            “I guess it must be hard for you to see way down there, huh?” Carly proffers with sudden aggressive sympathy. She puffs her lower lip out in a mock-whine, and bats her eyes. “Was I making you miss the movie cuz I was thinking about it too much, little bro?”

            “Uhhh… maybe a little,” you admit, nuzzling against her fingers, feeling your skin stick slightly to the gummy, air-dried residue of your sister’s essence still smeared across her flesh. “But I didn’t mind.”
            “You sure you didn’t? I’d hate for you to miss the show, since it’s kinda about you, really.”

            “It’s okay, Carly. Honestly.”

            “Pinky promise?” she wheedles cutely. Cupping you into the center of the same hand, she arches her own pinky, caressing it across the leftover opalescence of her other digits, until the tips each share a few dots of her fluids. She smirks.

            “Pinky promise,” you reassure.

            “Kiss it to make me believe you?” Her precious smile flashes to one of devious joy you’ve come to know and worship so well. The pinky arches down into the curved bowl of her palm containing your hapless body, strokes along your thigh, past your awakened erection, and up to your face.

            You comply, of course. A silent prayer of gratitude goes up that you didn’t even have to be the immodest one and ask. She just offered.

            Your lips meet the silken, ruddy tip of her pinky. It’s all you can do not to descend into an all-out make-out. She giggles warmly above.

            “Lick it to make me believe you,” she repeats with the incremental word change, but the note of a questioning request is gone. This is a loving command.

            And a command which you follow before the sound has finished exiting her lips. You lap the full length of the oval painted on her skin, feeling the gooey remains from her holy place resuming their gleaming liquid state on the back of your throat. She’s warm. So are you now.

            “Good boy,” she congratulates, resting her head back against the couch pillows as though nothing strange had happened, when, in the flash of her blues, you can see she knows, too, what just happened was new and different. And important.

            It’s hard to say what happened in the rest of the movie. The regularly scheduled proceedings of Honey, We Shrunk Ourselves could’ve been suddenly intercut with sixty minutes of detective noir followed by communist propaganda and hardcore amateur fisting and you would’ve been none the wiser. Right now, there is nothing around you but your sister’s all-encompassing, velvety palm. An island. A paradise.

            For the rest of the show, and the day, all you need to keep yourself occupied is run your tongue along the back of your throat, reminding yourself of the gift she gave you, still lingering with its harsh, pungent, sweet terms on your uvula.

            Things are changing. Good things.