Sisters Revenge

I was nineteen, short, and soft in all the ways my brother was hard. Five-foot-three on a good day, with the kind of average Punjabi Indian body that never turned heads the way his did—round face, warm brown skin a shade deeper than his, thick black hair that always frizzed in the humidity, full breasts that strained every top I owned, a soft belly that spilled over the waistband of my jeans, wide hips and thick thighs that rubbed together when I walked. Chubby. Ordinary. Invisible next to him.

Vicky was the golden child. Six-foot-one, two hundred sixty-five pounds of dense, steroid-carved powerlifter muscle. The football team treated him like a god. Our parents treated him like a god. Every girl on campus treated him like a god. He could do no wrong. I had spent years watching the attention pour over him while I sat on the sidelines, jealous and small and secretly, shamefully lusting after that massive body. The boulder shoulders, the thick arms, the heavy powerlifter gut, the tree-trunk thighs, the full rounded ass. I knew it was wrong. He was my brother. But the crush had been rotting in me for years anyway.

Then the girls in my dorm started talking one night. Steroids. How the guys who ran the heavy cycles always ended up with tiny penises and tiny balls. How all that muscle was just overcompensation. How you could spot them a mile away once the clothes came off. I already knew Vicky was on them—nobody got that big, that dense, that veiny and hairless without help. The rumor sat in my chest like a stone. I had to know if it was true.

That night I waited until the house was silent. I slipped out of my room in just a long t-shirt and padded down the hall. His door was unlocked. I eased it open.

He was sprawled on his back in the middle of the big bed, one thick arm thrown over his head, the other resting on that solid gut. The only thing he wore was a pair of dark boxers, the waistband riding low on his hips. The rest of him was bare—smooth light-brown skin stretched over all that heavy muscle, the dense bulk of him making the mattress dip. His breathing was deep and even. Asleep.

I stood there for a long minute just looking, heart hammering, the old forbidden heat coiling low in my belly. Then I moved closer. Closer. Until I was right at the edge of the bed. I watched his face for any sign he might wake. Nothing. I reached out with both hands, hooked my fingers under the waistband of the boxers, and slowly—carefully—peeled them down.

The fabric slid over his hips, down the massive thighs, and I kept going until the whole thing was bunched around his knees.

And there it was.

I actually stopped breathing.

Completely hairless and sitting there in the middle of all that smooth light-brown skin was the smallest, most underdeveloped set of genitals I had ever seen on anything that wasn’t a baby.

His penis was soft. There was almost nothing to it—just a tiny, glossy pink circumcised head, maybe three-quarters of an inch long, sitting flush against his body like a little button. No shaft. None. The rest of it simply didn’t exist. Below it, two small, tight balls the size of large marbles, drawn up close and looking almost delicate against the heavy muscle of his thighs. That was it. The entire package. On a man who took up half the bed with pure dense powerlifter bulk.

I had babysat infants whose soft little penises were three times bigger than this. My own clit was bigger than this. The thought hit me so hard I almost laughed out loud. My chubby little body, the ordinary sister nobody looked at twice, had a bigger clit than the entire soft cock on the golden child of the family. The babies I babysat were more of a man than Vicky. I was more of a man than Vicky. All that steroid muscle, all the swagger, all the girls and the parents and the team treating him like a god, and between his legs he had less than me. The humiliation of it for him was almost perfect. He had built himself into this massive, intimidating beast and the price was a micro penis so underdeveloped that his own younger sister’s clit outsized it.

I stared, frozen, the humiliation of it crashing over me in waves even though he was the one exposed. This was the body every girl on campus wanted. The body our parents bragged about. The body the football team protected like it was sacred. And between those enormous, heavily muscled legs was a micro penis smaller than a toddler’s, soft and incomplete and completely hairless under the low light from the hallway. The same steroids that had built the mountain of muscle had clearly starved everything else. He had traded his cock and balls for the rest of that physique, and the result was almost cruel to look at.

I leaned closer, unable to stop myself. From this angle the contrast was obscene. The thick powerlifter gut rising and falling with his breathing. The massive thighs spread slightly open. The full, rounded muscle of his ass pressed into the sheets. And right in the center, that ridiculous little pink tip and the two marble-sized testicles looking like they had been stuck on as an afterthought. I could have covered the entire thing with the tip of my thumb. My little finger was thicker than the whole soft length of him.

Every time he breathed in, that enormous gut rose and his pelvis shifted backwards just slightly, pulling the tiny little penis completely inside his body. All that was left was a little bump smaller than a pimple—just the tip of the glossy pink head poking out of the smooth skin. When he exhaled, the tiny head slid back out again, soft and helpless. In and out. In and out. With every breath the underdeveloped little thing disappeared and reappeared like it wasn’t even strong enough to stay outside his body on its own. It was the most humiliating, pathetic, utterly degrading sight I had ever seen. The biggest, strongest man in the house, the one everyone treated like a god, and his micro penis kept getting sucked back inside him just from the simple act of breathing, reduced to a pimple-sized bump before it weakly poked out again.

A soft, disbelieving sound escaped my throat before I could stop it. He didn’t stir. I kept staring, the forbidden heat twisting tighter even as the shock and the mean little thrill of the humiliation mixed together. All those years of jealousy, all those years of watching him get everything while I got nothing, and this was the secret he had been carrying around under the tight clothes and the swagger. The biggest, strongest, most intimidating man in the house—and his penis was much smaller than the babies I babysat.

I stayed there longer than I should have, just looking, committing every humiliating detail to memory. The way the tiny head sat so flush and helpless against the smooth skin. The way the small balls looked almost lost between those tree-trunk thighs. The sheer wrongness of it on a body that size. Then, carefully, I eased the boxers back up, smoothed the waistband into place, and slipped out of the room as quietly as I had come in.

I didn’t sleep for a long time after that. Every time I closed my eyes I saw it again—my brother’s massive, steroid-built body, and the tiny, underdeveloped, hairless little cock and balls that didn’t even belong on a child, let alone on him.