Pulling out his telephone, George sighed in fond disappointment at his harebrained little brother’s sketchy grasp of adult responsibility. Only five years separated the two but it often felt like a generation. Henry displayed the potential to one day make a brilliant scientist but, from an early age, had shown an impetuous streak which, if reined in, brought out a secretive and obstinate disposition, hiding his intent if he sensed others’ curtailment and occasionally going so far as to actually hide if he thought opposition might develop into prevention of a poorly planned escapade. ‘Where are you, you little shit?’ muttered the perspiring sports coach, holding his phone to his ear, the other hand flapping his T-shirt to ventilate his stomach and chest, whilst stretching his legs by standing on toes he wiggled soggily in his worn out trainers, unaware of the drama unfolding below his radar.
Clutching his head, Henry gathered his wits, staggering to his feet. Immediately awed at the sight of his brother’s gigantic footwear, creaking as George balanced for several seconds on his toes, heels raised, it became clear Henry had fallen beyond the worktop, to the floor.
The immensity of the otherwise completely familiar figure simultaneously terrified and fascinated the younger, slighter sibling who had always admired his big brother to the point of hero worship. With his heart in his mouth, Henry surmised the shrinking ray had reduced him by a factor of about three hundred. Gasping in shock, he calculated a single inch to his big-in-every-respect-brother, measured twenty-five feet in his circumscribed world, a notion which brought a queasy sensation to his stomach and reduced his legs to jelly.
Stranded on the floor, he’d thankfully blown just beneath the desk beside which his brother towered. Blown underfoot he’d have perished in seconds, as his enormous sibling shifted with restless energy from one foot to the other, pacing on the spot, turning on his heel, performing little leaps and generally moving without a passing thought for the world he’d casually crush in boredom, beneath his feet.
As random chance can seemingly resemble predestined order, so the laws of physics can readily ape fate, magic and fiction. Had Henry not found himself so derailed by the fleshy gargantua of his kin, he might have reasoned that the fall from the desk was neither going to seriously harm his ultra-low mass body nor was it going to deliver him to the floor immediately beneath the edge of a fraternal tread. Had he wondered at the profusion of gravel, he’d have guessed, like the rock-impersonating dust, he’d ridden a draught and been deposited only once the current could no longer carry him. Along the same drift, his miniaturised telephone had also fallen to earth and lay a scant ten ‘feet’ or, less than half a real inch, to his back. More remarkably, it still functioned, propped on a ‘rock’ of dust, as balanced as it might in a shopwindow display.
‘Henry?’ George answered, as the call connected. ‘Are you there?’ Shaking his head at the absence of a reply, he hung up and, calling again, was connected upon the third tone.
Unable to control waves of ecstatic panic overpowering any sense of self-preservation, Henry gazed in shaky euphoria at his brother’s trailing shoelace, imagining scaling it to the edge of the grey, cotton sports sock he could smell even at a comparatively safe distance. ‘Oh George,’ he gasped, succumbing to a buried fantasy of this older male, brother and role model, now insurmountably superior, a skyscraper of masculinity unaware of the inconsequential life a single wrong footing would snuff from existence. Appalled at the abject lust gripping him but so convinced of his infinitesimal unimportance, Henry sunk a glistening palm into a gripping climax, like absolution before a rum fellow’s Tyburn jig.
Stifling a slightly aroused laugh, George strained to hear the distantly recognisable voice on the line. ‘I’m begging,’ groaned the little brother, ‘but you can’t hear me. You’re too big and I - I’m less than an insect. I’m at your mercy, Big Brother.’ Quickly hanging up, George again tried to overcome the desire to pleasure himself in his bro’s place of work where anybody might enter, without warning. Only then did George realise his crotch was jammed hard against the bench, having taken half a step without knowing.
Panting great sobs of air, barely able to even sustain a kneel, Henry felt a flood of hormones tingle in every part of his body. The sight and smell of his godlike brother’s stinking trainers caused palpitations from his chest to his stomach and the ends his fingers. ‘Even my fucking hair,’ he gaped, ‘is throbbing like it’s gonna shoot.’ His whole body, a chaos of dizziness succumbed to a crisis of whimpers, a joyous despair of blissful humiliation, a despairing ejaculation of throbbing dread.
Pushing back from the desk, George sat heavily on a lab stool as his ankle jostled the bar of the footrest, wedging its cold metal between his sock and the untied training shoe which, dislodged, thudded to the floor.
Half asphyxiated with the release of untamed sweat from his brother’s pungent foot, Henry squirmed on his back, looking up at the sweat darkened, grey indentations of under-toes and the circular rubbing around the ball of George’s heel. Gulping down the indescribable reek, Henry lay vulnerable, his eyes wide and streaming painfully in the acidic rank of his brother’s sock.
Fingers trembling in violent excitement, George quit the call twice before instead hitting the FaceTime icon. ‘You dirty little worm,’ he hissed in a thick growl of desire as the screen opened, instantly connecting to a blur of scaffold and grey. ‘Where are you, my insect brother?’ he chuckled to himself at the tiny but laborious breathing hissing from the telephone speaker. ‘For the love of Big Brother, come to George you ill bred little pest. Stand me up? There’s a punishment awaiting tiny Henry!’ Turned on at the idea, George wiggled the toes on his socked foot as the background on the screen shifted. ‘Hang on a minute,’ George muttered to himself with a mischievous grin. Leaning back a little he watched the grey background again shift. ‘You mucky pup!’ he laughed quietly under his breath, peeping under the desk.
On his back, his hand already plastered to his groin, Henry shot again at the unreality of the new reality where he grovelled in the shadow of his brother’s foot, the underside of George’s damp sock casting a sports field sized shadow, grey and fœtid, over his helplessness.
Jamming his hand down his shorts, George felt electricity surge through his magnificent body. Drunk on a notion of his little brother quaking with arousal, watching his muscular legs via a spy camera hidden under the desk, both men felt consumed by matching fantasies of George the giant. ‘If you were here,’ gasped George, his column rigid within the power-hungry grip of a vice-like fist imagining crushing a naughty bro. ‘If you were here,’ he repeated, head awash with cruel rushes of a hormone cocktail, ‘what I wouldn’t do to you, you impudent speck.’ With a gasp of animal ardour, he looked at the telephone screen and, raising his foot, imagined his brother somewhere, watching the same sock, knowing his jilted big bro yet was one heck of a pissed off colossus. ‘Worthless bug,’ George let himself to snarl, ‘trying to play God with big George. I’ll teach you.’ A malicious grin spread across uncharacteristically mean features, as a sadistic pulse consumed his humanity and chugged it out in a spurt of gratification. ‘Where are you?’ he hissed, wishing his negligent sibling at his mercy. Leaning back to facilitate a triumphal grip, his eyes descended on a pitifully small, convenient proxy.
Indulging in a half-truth memory of unfair preference, George imagined a past where his sporting prowess played second fiddle to a pip-squeak of a brain-box. ‘You’ve been warned,’ George fabricated, ‘time and time again, to not play so rough with the little fellow!’ A jerking grip made his eyes water with the twisted fantasy. In truth, he loved the little swat to bits, never suffering bullies their way, lest beefcake brother find out and swat wannabes, like fat dragonflies.
Yet George heard, recognising the muffled grunt of his flesh and blood in remote adoration of his great, rank feet and it felt so right that a wrong, but shared buzz should stem from each getting off on all the things which set them apart. ‘Get under,’ he grimaced, his toes flexing in a stink of dire cruelty. ‘Doubleplusungood, little man,’ he chuckled. ‘Big, big Brother is watching.’
Gasping, Henry was so high on the sight and smell of the underbelly of his brother’s fearsome sock, he felt he could physically hear the mighty voice of a giant, controlling past, future and present. ‘Freedom, little worm,’ shuddered the booming voice in Henry’s head, ‘is slavery.’ Casting its grey shadow, a great, socked foot shifted.
‘I don’t want comfort,’ trembled Henry, the stench of masculinity gorged so full that his stomach quivered like water. ‘I want God.’
‘Freedom,’ groaned George, looking down at the bug he fantasised was Henry, ‘is two plus making five.’ His teeth bared in vicious joy as his sweaty foot blotted out the bug.
‘Do it to Julia!’ howled the phone, in fear and then agony.
‘You are the dead,’ ground George, to the gratifying howl from a cotton muffled, grey screen, of one brother begging madly that things had gone too far whilst the other, too excited by a gratifying fantasy of his baby brother begging underfoot, didn’t guess he wasn’t crushing a satisfyingly worthless bug to slow death but his actual, beloved and already horribly injured bro, for real.
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