Walking into your apartment after a long day's work, irritation floods you as you see Mackey, your dumbass roommate, lounging and smoking a blunt in the living room. You and he hadn’t seen eye to eye in a good long while, since he had been eating your food, bringing back random people from his bar escapades, even using your damn toothbrush! Suffice to say, he wasn’t the ideal roommate, but he paid the rent on time. Even dumb skater boys need places to live. It didn’t alleviate your frustration, however, as he sat there with that dumb look on his face. You had been clear with him: no smoking in the house.
“Mackey, are you kidding me?” You were fuming, smoke was practically seeping from your ears. “You can’t even smoke that shit outside? Are you serious?”
“Hey, chill out man. It’s just one blunt, I’m not even using the bong this time.” Your pent up wrath was beginning to boil over- since when did he have a bong in the house? “Anyway dude, last night I came back from Tipitina’s and I guess I used your shoes or whatever. I stepped in some wet cement on the sidewalk and fucked ‘em up. I’m sorry bruh.” He took a deep puff of his blunt, unfazed by his lacklustre apology. Letting it go, he could finally see the red rage that was plastered on your face. “Don’t get all worked up man. Til I can buy you some new ones I put a pair of my old ones in your room. You can even keep ‘em.”
You decided to bite your tongue, as you always had, and slink back into your room. Slamming the door and throwing your things onto the bed, you exhaled a deep calming breath. Noticing it made no difference whatsoever, you pulled out the bottle of your favourite booze to take a guilty shot. However, before you had the chance to even pour the liquid relaxation the familiar, pungent smell of Mackey’s notoriously rank feet assaulted your nose. With a big sigh of exacerbation, you reluctantly turned to see the source of the scent.
There on your pillow sat Mackey’s favourite old beat up Vans. Now Mackey, being a budding professional skateboarder, had been approached by a local skate shop as a teenager. They offered to sponsor him with a small but adequate stipend if he’d utilize their wares at competitions. The first thing he bought were these ratty old Vans. The way he explained it, even back then they were well worn and a bit trashed, but for some reason they “called out to him.” Ever since, he’d had immense success with his career, even making the short list for the X Games every year. He always claimed his lucky kicks made him the man he was, so you were relatively surprised to see that he’d part with them so passively.
Seven years of daily wear and tear had taken quite a toll on the already thrashed high tops. Their black color had faded, the rubber soles had been shredded, and there were permanent black impressions on the insoles from Mackey’s sweaty feet constantly putting them through serious trials. As repugnant as you found these, the smell which emanated from these shoes was indescribably abhorrent. As best you could process it, they reeked of old sweat, cheesy funk, and side-by-sideeven some nondescript booze. They repulsed you. However, you couldn’t wear your dressy work shoes out on the street. There was little choice until Mackey got around to purchasing you some nice expensive replacements.
Mackey wore a size 12 shoe, which swamped your considerably smaller feet. To even use them you’d have to lace them up like a straight jacket. So as you swiped them from your pillow onto the ground, the side by side comparison of sneaker to foot was comedic at best. Deciding you had to suck it up, you placed your socked foot into the gaping hole of the shoe. As it slid down and met the cushy, slightly sticky insole, goosebumps rippled across your body. Just as you thought. Your toes didn’t even come close to the tip of the shoe. Slipping your left foot into the other shoe, you felt the inexplicable dampness seep into your socks. You stood up and trudged to your mirror.
You looked like you were wearing massive black clown shoes. There was no way in hell that you’d be going out while wearing them. Yet, as you were bending over to rip them from your feet, a strange sensation fluttered within them. Pins and needles tickled the soles of your feet, almost as if they had fallen asleep. You raised your leg, rolling your ankle to restore the blood flow and received an unwanted bombardment of stink.
Suddenly, independent of your will, your foot slammed back onto the ground. Spasms stiffened your toes, and you felt them slide slowly toward the tips of the shoes. Your feet were growing and at an exponential rate. Panicking, you tried to bend over to tear them from you. Alas, you watched in unadulterated horror as you watched the laces impossibly tighten and tie themselves. You felt your toes wriggle, now liberated from your own wishes. The shoes began to pulsate and undulate, pumping wafts of the musk toward your face. With each wave of odor, you felt your field of vision cloud. Little stars began to appear in your periphery, causing you to fall backward and land onto an overturned bucket.
The haze of foot stink singed your mind. You began to lose the feeling of repugnance toward the shoes as the aroma seeped into your brain, invading it with foreign thoughts and desires. You looked down at your pulsating shoes, no longer revolted by their ratty exterior. Rather, you saw the scuffs, holes, discoloration, and drifting smell as signs of passion… dedication… vibrancy… You had put all your love and work into these shoes. Or, Mackey had… All the devotion that he had marinated these sick kicks in was being passed to you. Just as it had been to Mackey all those years ago. Looking down at your lean, muscled body, it seemed that they had already rapidly begun your induction into your new life. The musk had clouded your perceptions, and you hadn’t even noticed your fat melt away, your muscles pump, your body becomes hairier and sweatier.
You intrinsically felt the shoes allow you to untie one, feeling the old laces slowly loosen as the shoe effortlessly slid from your dank, reeking foot. You held it, admiring it. Every crevice and stitch owned you, and you loved it. You loved the way it was helping you, the way it was molding you into something so much better than you ever were before. You eagerly brought it to your face, burying it in the wide opening, and deeply inhaled. The warm, dank scent penetrated your welcoming psyche. Using your newfound strong muscles, you pressed the shoe harder onto your face, feeling the sticky, sweaty insole grace the tip of your nose and lips. A quick lap of your tongue to taste the salty, noxious foot impression gave you shivers of glee. After what seemed like ages, you pried the shoe from your now youthful, handsome yet grungy face. A cocky grin slithered onto your plump, sweatkissed lips as you moved to fulfill your penultimate desire.
You unbuttoned your khaki shorts, and pulled down your musty boxers. A girthy, massive cock flopped out, standing at full mast. After a few pumps with your rough, calloused hands, you brought the shoe to your pulsating cock. With an enthusiastic thrust, your cock slid against the grimy texture of the insole, coating it layer by layer in a coat of sticky foot gunk. You had never been so horny in your life. You had never felt anything so amazing. You had never smelled anything so addictive. Your senses overloaded, you shot your massive load into the shoe, rendering your changes all permanent.
You slipped the cumsoaked shoe back onto it’s rightful place on your foot, and stood up a different man than you began as. Exiting your room, you saw Mackey finishing a very similar act of filth as you had done in his brown Vans. As he blew his load, you came over to high-five him and take a puff of the blunt hanging from his lips.
“Hah, looks like you enjoyed your new shoes. Maybe we can save some money and share ours.” Mackey’s suggestion sounded great to you, as the shoes allowed you share their vigor with their original owner. As the days passed, you quit your soul-draining job and got sponsored by a local skate shop. You and Mackey practice every day now, swapping the shoes between you two at the slightest whim. You land a kickflip and coast across the parking lot, constantly looking at the next person to bestow a certain gift upon. After enjoying them a bit yourself, of course.
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