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!”