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.