“Well?” your gigantic sister asks as you are fully snapped out of the memory.  “You DO remember that, don’t you?”

                “Umm… yeah, I think so…”

                “Do you remember what we did?”

                “Yeah.”

                “What?”

                “I got you a juice, then I rubbed your feet for you,” you answer.  The words are cold and unfamiliar feeling in your throat, and suddenly you realize it’s not because of the fact that you’re detailing your pathetic servitude, it’s that your tone doesn’t shift in the slightest in reference to it.

                Has this truly become so old hat to you that you can’t even react in your voice?

                No.  It can’t be.  It’s not.

                Why, then?

                “Uh-huh…” says Carly, as if trying to recall it herself, pulling you from your random contemplative moment.  She twiddles her long fingers together as they dangle in the air above you.  “And… what was it that I asked you to do at the very end?”

                “The end?”

                “Yeah… there was something, but I just can’t say what…” she drawls with a sugar-sweet voice.

                You gulp.  Somehow, you’ve been wondering when this event would come up.   Over the past five years, as you’ve had a lot of time to think over your experiences with Carly, you’ve often been able to pinpoint the locations of Carly’s growing dislike toward you.  This happens to be one of those moments.

One of Carly’s favorite ways to humiliate you is to remind you of some past event between you that irritated you greatly, before forcing you to pay for it somehow; generally, “paying for it” entails you engaging in something not only very similar to the original event, but exponentially more mind-shatteringly horrible for you. 

“P-Paint your nails,” you stutter.

                “Yeah.  That’s right,” she answers calmly.  “I wanted you to paint my pretty toe nails like a good brother should for his sister after she gets hurt, but what did you do?”

                “I…”

                “You walked away from me.  Just walked away, because you were so rude.  Well, guess what?” she says, her arm stretching onto the desktop.  You hear the sound of glass clacking and being picked up from the surface, and a second later, Carly is brandishing a huge blue glass bottle of nail polish in the air.  Her hand shakes it side to side gleefully to loosen the syrupy liquid content, her tongue poking out from between her lips in teasing.  “You’re about to do some arts and crafts, little bro.  Painting,” she grins, leaning over and setting the bottle on the ground.  “Do you like arts and crafts?”

                “Umm… yeah.”

                “Good,” she says, clasping her hands tightly around her knees and rising up from her kneeling position, her face looking down at you between her knees.  “Now go ahead, it’s starting to get late and I’m almost done with my notes.  I’ve been waiting a long time to see if you’re any good at this,” she winks, leaning forward and continuing with her homework.  Your eyes shift from the gigantic glass bottle, roughly the same height as yourself, and then back at the two massive podiums of muscle, flesh, and form before you, her body-sized toes scrunching against the carpet before splaying outward, waiting for you.  Your eyes go back to the bottle, and finally back to the side of Carly’s foot, where the slightest bit of excess foot flab hangs on the sides of her athletic peds, tiny wrinkles appearing that run underneath her foot and along the plain of her soft sole.  You blink, then decide to waste no more time, moving forward and grasping at the bottle cap.

                It’s wound pretty tightly around the rippled glass lips, but with all your effort, you manage to twist it off.  Of course, as soon as you do, you’re pretty sure you shouldn’t have; the smell is so painfully strong and oily, it instantly fills the air around you.  You fall backward in shock, your head swimming as you instantly get high just from the simple act of standing so near to the bottle.  Coughing heavily in the mastic air, you pinch your fingers around your nose and approach the cap, the usable brush attached at the bottom.  It’s a little heavy, making it a bit hard to maneuver effectively with the thing, but you can pick it up at least.  A clump of gleaming dark blue liquid clings to the black bristles of the brush as you walk toward Carly’s feet.  Her toes stop wiggling for a moment, and shrugging, you allow the brush to slide down and splay the bristles onto her big toenail. 

                You never really pictured the title “artist” entering into an apt description of you, but it has now.

You begin to work, swabbing the brush all over her thick ivory nail, rolling the plastic cap over your shoulder as if aiming a bazooka, rubbing every inch of her previously clean nail with the gooey material.  The longer you swab, the thicker layers of the liquid getting stuck in little plops, you can’t help but feel dizzy from the intense smell, easily beating out any faint hint of watermelon body wash or stale sweat you could find near Carly’s foot.  The smell of the paint is just downright oppressive, and as you finish up Carly’s big toe, looking it over to ensure you’ve covered every last spot in the shining dark blue, you wonder if you’ll be able to make it through this whole thing without passing out on a trip.

                The rest of the job is an odd experience for you as you continue painting your little sister’s nails like a tiny, freakish pedicurist with the smell growing more and more prominent in your nostrils.  Between each toe, you return to the bottle, reaching as high as you can, and dab the bristles back inside before returning to her foot with a fresh batch. 

By the tenth toe, you’re higher than a kite, your eyelids drooping lazily as you struggle to stay standing up straight.  Scrubbing hard into every corner of her light pink plate covering each toe and turning it into the vibrant blue, you feel like you hear music from somewhere far off, although you’re not sure where.  You’re not even sure you’re hearing it.  For all you know, it might be right in front of you, and you’re supposed to be seeing it instead of hearing it.  Who knows, anyway?  Who the hell is going to tell you differently if you saw it, anyway?  For a moment, you think you can smell something that smells distinctly like the number eight, but after a second you realize it’s just the wafting polish in the air. 

Oh well; those two things are pretty much the same thing, anyway.

                “Almost done down there?” comes your sister’s voice.  “If I’d had Nikki do this instead of you, she’d have been done like ten minutes ago.”  Calmly, your sister arches up her big toe on her other foot, which you just finished painting, and lifts it up off the ground.  You stare at it, the peachy flesh’s hypnotic toe print rings beginning to spin the longer you stare at them.  Eventually, you think you see eyes, a nose, and a mouth.  You squint in your drug-induced stupor and see the pretty illusion of Laura’s face printed on the bottom of your sister’s cruel toe.  Gasping happily, you rush forward, dropping to your knees so you can reach it better, and grasp your arms around your sister’s soft toe, pressing your lips against the dry base, where you think you see Laura’s lips.

                You continue to kiss at Carly’s big toe, holding the sides tightly in your fingers.  Eventually, your sister feels what you’re doing and looks down, a bit weirded out for a moment, but she doesn’t seem to feel this way for long. 

“Hey… aren’t you such a sweet little guy?” she coos, twitching her toe in response to your passionate kiss.  “Keep it up.  You’re doing great.”  As you continue desperately kissing all over the toe, Carly calmly rolls her foot forward on her ball.  Her toe clenches onto your body, pushing you gently to the ground as her big toe presses down on you, pinning you so forcefully you’re rendered nearly immobile.  You spread your legs out, allowing her to lay most of her big toe along your body.  You’re now so deep in the hallucination, still seeing Laura’s smiling face and thinking she’s kissing you back, you begin to lap lightly with the tip of your tongue against Carly’s flavorful, thick toe pad, feeling the grinding levels of her toe print stamped along your lips and tongue by traces of dirt.  Responding to your submissive embrace, your sister’s big toe begins clenching onto your body, burying your dick in her dry joint crevice.  It hurts, but you don’t even notice it, as you begin licking hungrily at the toe prints, digging in as hard as you can to the bulbous toe flesh with your fingers.  You’re so high at this point, the somewhat musty and even sweaty taste of Carly’s foot doesn’t register in your head, instead making you think you’re tasting cherries, or some flowery mix of scents from Laura’s lips.

                “Good boy… good boy… good boy…” whispers Carly slowly, clearly entranced by your show of perceived submission as she continues lovingly clenching you hard into her toe flesh, encouraging you to keep hugging your helpless, naked form against her foot and laying your wet kisses upon it.  “You’re making me a happy girl, little bro.  You know that?”

                You don’t even answer as you close your eyes, imagining Laura’s tongue swiping around inside your own in a wonderful, carnal manner, her lips pressed damply against your own, her hands snaking down to your crotch and cradling your junk through your pants.  In reality, you’re just spreading your tongue and kisses all over some very thick, dry toe flesh belonging to your sister, and the feeling of having your dick touched is the sensation of it being folded up helplessly inside the deep wrinkles of Carly’s toe, but it’s nicer that you don’t have to realize this directly. 

You feel fantastic. 

Finally, as the vision begins to fade, you release your grip on Carly’s toe, laying down, while she continues working your body with her heavy flesh, wiggling her others toes around you.

                “One more, for good luck?” requests Carly slyly.  “Just for me?”  You nod, obliging her more easily than normal in your ridiculously stoned state, and press your lips back against her toe.  You actually begin sucking against the flesh, tightening your grip around the edge of her newly painted nail.  She giggles, culminating with the softest moan she could probably make, clearly enjoying your impromptu devotional display.  As you release your lips with a soft pop, Carly’s foot slides off of you.  An instant later, her fingers are curling around you, whipping you upward.  Although your head is still swimming in the crazy visions slightly, the sudden lack of stinging paint stench, which has suddenly been replaced by the much more mild scent of vanilla hand lotion on the cushy layers of puffy flesh surrounding your body from every angle and feeling you over.

                Carly lifts you up towards her face, yawning loudly and blowing out a combination of hot air and what smells like pizza over you, before smiling.  “You know what?  I think I like you, Jack.  You can be a real cutie when you feel like it; I just don’t know what I’d do without you around here.”

                “Mmhmm…” you moan, groggily regaining your normal consciousness as the effects begin to wear off.  She props her feet up onto the chair, wiggling her feet and examining your handiwork.

                “Not bad, bro, not bad.  You did get a little thick in a few spots, but mostly, I guess I won’t be embarrassed the next time I wear something open-toed outside,” she grins.  “Guess I’ve found my new pedicurist, huh?”  You nod diagonally, wondering contemplatively what music would taste like if you were given the opportunity to ingest some.  You figure that if you moved fast enough, you could catch some.  It seems like it would be easiest to catch some that someone else made while speaking to you, as it would already be coming for you.  It would be a simple matter of snatching it. 

Right? 

You don’t really care about that idea anymore; you’re already wondering about your next important matter of discussion: elephants.  Big, green elephants.  Discussion?  Are there others here? 

No, it’s just you. 

And your sister’s hand, but you’re not including that thing in the conversation.  Hands can’t talk anyway.  Can they?  You look closely at your sister’s soft fingers, which are wrapped tightly around you, studying the barely noticeable indents representing the fingerprints along the inside of her hand.  You press your face against the flesh of her finger, trying to get a closer look, but mostly all you get is a noseful of her vanilla lotion scent.  Instantly, your brain begins snapping back more fully into reality, and you shake your head around wildly, wondering what’s going on, before settling down, a few microscopic beads of cold sweat rolling down your neck.

                “Are you… okay?  You look a little sick,” says Carly uneasily.  “If you’re gonna puke, you better tell me, because I’m definitely dropping you if you gag up all over my hand.”

                “I’m… I’m good, I’m good…” you mutter dizzily.

                “Uh-huh… yeah… okay, let’s just wrap this up for the night, huh?”

                “Cool.”

                “You gonna get sick?”

                “Nope.”

                “Really?”

                “No…” you mumble, puking heavily onto your sister’s fingers.  She shivers in disgust, but doesn’t let go of you, and instead stands up, heading for the bathroom.

                “Great…” she mutters, annoyed.  “You should be glad I’m in such a good mood tonight, you little sicko.”

                “Sorry…” you sputter, coughing to get the nasty taste out of your throat.

                “Whatever.  Okay, head’s up, pukehead,” she says simply, flipping the light switch on and lowering you toward the sink bowl, where she releases you.  You roll toward the center, bonking your head against the metal drain. 

This doesn’t make much difference though, as your head was already flipping its shit very thoroughly from the intoxicating, solitary rave you just had next to your sister’s mammoth toes.  Grimacing as you spit out the remains of the vomit into the drain, you admit to yourself that you at least got to experience the closest thing you’ll most likely ever see to a party scene.  And from the experience you’re having right now, you doubt it’s something you’d want to experience again.  At the very least, though, you seem to be immune to physical pain while under the influence, so that’s a plus considering Carly just dumped you uncaringly against the metal drain.

                As you struggle to your feet, you suddenly are slammed back against the sink bottom, stained with white, foamy splotches of dried tooth paste spit from Carly, as an icy stream of water comes careening out of the faucet onto you.  You drag your soaked self out of the immediate stream, pulling yourself onto your knees, and scooping up the heavy stream onto your face to wash away the filth.  The perfect pillar of opaque liquid is suddenly broken, though, as Carly sticks her hands into it, rubbing her fingers together to rid them of the tiny globule of vomit she got on them.  This allows the water to cascade off of her hands like a fountain, spraying you hard once again from an angle and allowing you to flop back into a particularly thick clump of dried tooth paste.  Your fall actually breaks past the cracked outer shell, and your back is suddenly soaked in liquid tooth paste, which had only begun to solidify inside into a whipped, paste-like material.  You gag, pushing off but instantly slipping along the slick, sloped ground, ending up back against the drain as more water rushes down over you.  Suds then begin splashing down as Carly rubs her hands almost raw with some flowery hand soap, the bubbles forming around your limbs and shifting as you try to get up again.

                After thoroughly rinsing her hands off, Carly’s ice cold fingers grip you again.  You shiver as she carries you back into the dorm, stooping quickly as she snatches the nail polish bottle from the ground.  She stops by your drawer, creaking it open just enough to slip you inside.  She brings you close to her face, her nose sending warm air down onto you.  “Better sleep well, Jack.  We’re getting up early tomorrow.”

                “We?”

                “Yep.  You’re gonna be hanging out with your big sissy tomorrow morning.  Won’t that be fun?”

                “What… are… we doing?” you ask hesitantly, pretty positive you don’t want to know the answer.  She grins smugly at you.

                “We’re going to get in… a little exercise, bro,” she answers, winking.  With her other hand, she dips the polish brush into the bottle and brings it up to your body, splaying the bristles against your stomach.  It tickles, but the smell also immediately fills your nostrils, sending your pleasure centers into overdrive as you descend once again into your happy mode.  Carly giggles at the effect, coating most of you except your face in the stuff, before blowing you off to dry and laying your newly painted body inside the cracked drawer.

                “Get some sleep.  You’re gonna be leaving this room tomorrow morning, little boy blue,” she snickers, pushing the drawer almost closed.  You stare into the darkness, smiling oddly as your brain is flooded with another blue nail polish-induced hallucination from a simple article of your sister’s cosmetics.