You glide your way to the door, feeling super-sensitive against the floor. Your entire body felt more than when you were a human. The friction between you and the floor, combined with your excitement, made for a fulfilling erotic experience in itself, as if rubbing your penis or tongue on the floor as you went. You had a strange sense of warmth, yet coolness as you went, like the water in a beach on a perfect day. Movement was easier like this, freer, more pleasurable. In no real hurry, you take your time, enjoying the feeling of this form.
Suddenly, Linda, from behind you, throws the basket at you, crushing you. The basket, half-full of clothes, weighs down on you, suffocating you with claustrophobia. You flatten like a pancake, expanding horizontally, stretching to the shape of the basket. Suddenly, the agony is over, and the basket topples to the side.
Much better. That basket was extremely uncomfortable and heavy. You were not sore, but the memory of that pain was still fresh in your mind.
Unfortunately, by toppling the basket, you drew Linda's complete attention to you and your strange appearance. Paralysed with shock and a strange feeling of embarrassment, you stay still as she kneels over you, leaning her face closer, blinking in confusion.
She throws down the palm of her hand. You move to dodge it, but, overcome with surprise, you latch onto her hand. Frustrated, she tries to yank her hand away, but screams. You were binding her hand to the floor. She pulls harder, and you can sense her flesh straining to escape. Dealing payback for the basket, the vengeful older brother that you were, you keep her hand where it is. Regardless, her terror was cute and totally erotic.
She pulls hard, with both legs, squatting like a frog, immodestly revealing her tight, white underwear with the cute little ribbon on the top. They were still a little plain. She tried to throw her body backwards and separate herself from the sticky goo. She fails and slips onto her bum, her chest jiggling and her hair flying over her face. You stretch upwards, slowly covering her fingers and palm like a glove. You mould tightly, constricting her hand. In this hypersensitive state, you realise how little appreciation you had for her hands. They had hit you and punched you many times. Still, the fingers were soft and the skin smooth and healthy. Your hands were rough and hairy. Her hands were so gentle and soothing to touch. You couldn't help but imagine how much more pleasurable it would be to have that hand rubbing your penis when it was hard. In this form, that wasn't far off. You tighten around her hand, enjoying every new secret to her hand. There were the long, cool nails, with skin all around it that hadn't been pulled or torn. There was the tight space under her nails. There were the joints in her hand that tensed and relaxed with you around, random and unpredictable. Her small knuckles that had punched you many times before. The curvy dents between each finger that you oozed down like trickling semen, only runnier and faster. You could feel the lines on her palm and the fat below her palms. Your hands were muscular and calloused. Hers were fatty and malleable. You had a rush like that from sticking a hand out of the car window, playing with each part of her palm, poking it and prodding it, guiding its shape, massaging it as it gradually struggled less and less. How recently had that hand been used to masturbate? How recently had those fingers ventured up Linda's soaking-wet... How recently had those hands been coated in her body fluids, only to now be coated in yours. They smelt fragrant. You never truly got round to appreciating the hand gel you both used as soap. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon was soaked up deep within you, perhaps on a spiritual level. There was also a hint of something else. Chocolate? Had Linda been eating the chocolate cookies mum had made? She had made a big fuss about her diet, yet she indulged like that behind everyone's back. You squeezed her hand in disappointment. Had those fingers been in her mouth when she was licking them clean from melted chocolate? Had they still remnants of her silky saliva? Had she sucked on them to dissolve the last of the chocolate? Was that chocolate taste still in her mouth? How funny: you had one sister who secretly sucked chocolate and another who secretly sucked penis.
She was staring at you, now. Her face close to you. She looked both terrified and pissed off, like she was about to scream and tell someone off, except there was nobody to do that to. You sucked on her fingers and palm, all at once, feeling the whole hand relax and flop with the surrounding glob that was you. Then teasing her, you let her slowly, against your playful resistance, curl up into a tiny fist, like a baby, with you still covering it. You stop her just short of a fist. Then, completely in control, you crept down her wrist, tickling her nerves through her skin. She had toned those wrists playing tennis. How quick could she shake them? Why not find out? How quick could you beat up and down with her hand and wrist? Would she enjoy it, secretly, like the chocolate? How come she could eat like that without putting on weight? Maybe she did, but it all went to her backside and chest to be stored. Her pulse beat against you, giving away her fear. She was putting on all that anger. She was probably terrified how much she enjoyed it. Even if she didn't, what did it matter to you.
You fit her smooth hand like a glove. You want more. You imagine moulding yourself around more parts of her body. It would just be an experiment, to understand her better. There would be nothing wrong with that. Would there? Even if it was, did it really matter in this form? After all, you wouldn't be a human, touching her with a tongue, a hand or a cock, but a beast, experiencing her as though with all at once.
Since you had already lifted her tiny fingers from the floor to curl them up, you lift her hand from the ground more. It was an exhilarating sensation, to put in so little force and suddenly lift up her hand. Perhaps she too was lifting her hand and you were moving with it.
Suddenly, you're riding her hand through the air, feeling the rush of movement across your entire form, like a rollercoaster, or an airplane taking off. She waves you from side to side, trying to shake you off. She's crying now, any more and she could take you straight to mom.
Well, before she can do that, it's your turn.
You thrust in one direction, throwing her hand harder, now in the other direction. You had already curled up her hand, now you were testing each individual finger, bending it, straightening it, until moving those fingers was natural to you. You then threw yourself, with incredible force, against the resistance of your sister's arm, onto her left breast. You feel through the tight fabric of her camisole and the soft cushioning padding of her bra, you feel her nipple, erect and pushing outwards to get to your hand. With her own hand, you squeeze with her fingers, digging nails into her clothes and groping her delectable boob.
She gasps in shock and tries to pry you with the other hand, yanking at her wrist with her other hand, not wanting to touch you, but you stick to her top, seeping through ever so gently to her bra. You squeeze harder, clamping around her soft flesh and clothes, both solid and liquid now, wiggling, wriggling, writhing, bouncing, groping, feeling, curving, massaging, clutching, grasping, holding, tighter, tighter, tighter. She wasn't going to tell mom. She wasn't that type of person. She would try and understand you, try to fix you, before complaining about it. As much as she was annoying, you admired her patience. Still, she was freaking out now, this was invasive, uncomfortable, wrong. The immorality detested you, but yet turned you on all the same.
Her thumb, under your control, stumbles upon the collar of her top. Figuring you might as well, you apply force downwards, sliding down her breast with her hand and peeling her top, stretching it down to her stomach, exposing her great, jiggling bra and mound of flesh. You can hardly wait to have her hand dive in underneath, to pinch her sensitive nipple, to feel the warmth of her chest, the beating of her heart, all with her own hand. You could do more. You could strip her until she was too embarrassed to tell her mother. You could put that hand up her backside, around her pussy. You could do anything. Maybe by writing messages with that hand, you could threaten her, bully her into doing what you want, going where you want. Other girls, masturbation, lesbian, there was so much that you could do with Linda's little hand that she could never dream of.
She slams her body forward, onto the floor. Dazed and in intense pain, you can't react before she bites you hard, trying to tear you away from her hand. You were having so much fun. You seize up in pain, clinging to her teeth, trying to stop them from biting down.
Finally, the terrible pain overwhelms you and you lose consciousness...
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