Sock Booth

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The Sock Booth This is an 18+ only work of adult transformation fiction. The theme revolves around permanent transformation into a male furry's sock. If that doesn't appeal to you, flee now and never return. Otherwise... [[Begin]] <<set $body to "fat">> <<set $clean to "rank">> <<set $video to 0>>

The booth stands mostly ignored in a quiet part of the city centre, away from foot traffic. Behind a supermarket, down an alley, and into a cleared space that mostly just exists as a forgotten section of the city facing the backs of several nondescript office buildings. It's sleek and metal, with panels on the sides and one sliding door. It's not a booth that would really appeal to a wide market. It's a booth that turns you permanently into a pair of socks. BlueCorp makes some pretty weird products, but this one might take the cake. Quite a lot of people are interested in owning or wearing intelligent, living socks that used to be a person, but only a tiny few are interested in becoming them. For one reason or another, you're one of such few. Well, no point delaying it any further. [[Enter the booth]]

The booth closes behind you, and you're surrounded by four plain walls and some fluorescent light that reminds you a little of an elevator in an office building. The wall in front of you lights up, becoming a touchscreen with a smiling 2D raccoon mascot. "Welcome to the Sock Booth! For your convenience and to prevent any last-minute cold feet, we have locked the door!", the raccoon says. He winks, and gives you a finger-gun motion. "After all, cold feet are the opposite of what we do here at a sock booth! Get it?" There is a long pause. "Anyway, we better get you started! I'll be selecting some prospects for your new owner, but first I'll need you to pick some basic selections about what kind of socks you're going to be!" Three buttons appear on the screen. Would you prefer to belong to: [[A muscular, athletic guy]] [[A real chonker]] [[Just any regular guy]] [[I don't actually want to be a sock]]

The booth beeps, and the raccoon mascot nods. "Oh right, want a stud, do you? A real gym buff? Thinking about big, strong, muscular feet stretching you out? You know this is a sock transformation booth and not a dating app, right?" There is no button to punch the raccoon. "Anyway, we can put in some rules about how your owner treats you. Want me to put in a clause that they have to keep you reasonably clean?" [[Clean]] [[Smelly]] <<set $body to "muscular">>

The booth beeps, and the raccoon mascot nods. "Oooh, is that right? You like big guys, huh? Big soft bellies, big huggable bear types? Or do you just like the feeling of a lot of WEIGHT pressing down on you when you get worn, huh? Kinky!" There is no button to punch the raccoon. "Anyway, we can put in some rules about how your owner treats you. Want me to put in a clause that they have to keep you reasonably clean?" [[Clean]] [[Smelly]] <<set $body to "fat">>

The booth beeps, and the raccoon mascot nods. "Gotcha, gotcha. Anyone will do, right? I see someone just wants to get on some guy's feet and doesn't care who? Kind of a freak, are you?" There is no button to punch the raccoon. "Anyway, we can put in some rules about how your owner treats you. Want me to put in a clause that they have to keep you reasonably clean?" [[Clean]] [[Smelly]] <<set $body to "thin">>

The raccoon nods, and pulls up a 2D sprite of a clipboard that he takes notes on. "Got it, I'll just write 'coward' here." He looks up and grins. "Just to be specific, do you want me to put in a request that you'll specifically be like, PROFESSIONAL socks? Like for a guy who's gonna wear you to work, a nice clean office fellow?" [[Professional socks]] [[Regular socks]]

The raccoon nods, and pulls up a 2D sprite of a clipboard that he takes notes on. "Got it, I'll just write 'pervert' here." He looks up and grins. "So I gotta be clear here, you don't want ANY protection for how you'll be used? Some of the guys we get applying to this are...well they're fucking freaks, man. If you don't keep the bare minimum then you gotta accept you might like, NEVER get washed. And your owner might never wash either." [[No protections, give me a slob]] [[Basic minimum protections]]

The raccoon presses some buttons, draws some more, and drops his clipboard, revealing he's just been drawing meaningless squiggles. "Right, got it, you've got a crush on your boss or you watched too much The Office and it gave you a weird erection. I've put in aaaaall the notes. Time to meet your options!" [[Candidate 1]] <<set $clean to "professional">>

The raccoon presses some buttons, draws some more, and drops his clipboard, revealing he's just been drawing meaningless squiggles. "Right, got it, you just wanna be a basic ass pair of socks, I see you're already thinking like a pair off an assembly line in a pack of ten. Good basic bitch thinking for a sock. Let's meet your candidates!" [[Candidate 1]] <<set $clean to "normal">>

The raccoon looks at you and raises an eyebrow. "Really?", he says. He shrugs, then presses some buttons, draws some more, and drops his clipboard, revealing he's just been drawing meaningless squiggles. "Got it, you're a massive freak and you're gonna get what's coming to you. Don't come crying to me when you're covered in suspicious stains under some guy's bed, I'll say that much. Time to meet your candidates!" [[Candidate 1]] <<set $clean to "rank">>

The raccoon presses some buttons, draws some more, and drops his clipboard, revealing he's just been drawing meaningless squiggles. "Probably sensible. Regular sock life, some musk, some scent, but not like, literal torture. I'd choose the same, if I was some fucked up pervert who wanted to turn into a sock. Time to meet your candidates!" [[Candidate 1]] <<set $clean to "musky">>

<<set $candidate to 1>> <<if $body == "fat" && $clean == "rank">> <<goto "fatrank">> <</if>> <<if $body == "fat" && $clean == "musky">> <<goto "fatmusky">> <</if>> <<if $body == "fat" && $clean == "normal">> <<goto "fatnormal">> <</if>> <<if $body == "fat" && $clean == "professional">> <<goto "fatprofessional">> <</if>> <<if $body == "muscular" && $clean == "rank">> <<goto "muscularrank">> <</if>> <<if $body == "muscular" && $clean == "musky">> <<goto "muscularmusky">> <</if>> <<if $body == "muscular" && $clean == "normal">> <<goto "muscularnormal">> <</if>> <<if $body == "muscular" && $clean == "professional">> <<goto "muscularprofessional">> <</if>> <<if $body == "thin" && $clean == "rank">> <<goto "thinrank">> <</if>> <<if $body == "thin" && $clean == "musky">> <<goto "thinmusky">> <</if>> <<if $body == "thin" && $clean == "normal">> <<goto "thinnormal">> <</if>> <<if $body == "thin" && $clean == "professional">> <<goto "thinprofessional">> <</if>>

The video starts off with a hazy, unfocused view of a dimly lit, cluttered apartment. The smell of stale smoke practically wafts through the screen, and the sound of lazy, muffled laughter fills the air. The camera finally focuses on a scrawny, thin weasel lounging on a stained couch, surrounded by half-empty bags of chips, pizza boxes, and ashtrays overflowing with joints. His fur is scruffy and unkempt, his clothes rumpled—a faded band T-shirt that looks like it hasn’t been washed in days and a pair of baggy pajama pants hanging loosely around his waist. His eyes are half-lidded, red from hours of smoking, and his movements are slow, relaxed. “Yo, what’s up, man?” he says with a lazy, slurred voice, clearly high. He grins, showing off his yellowed teeth, before taking another long drag from the joint between his fingers. “Name’s Vinnie. And, uh, lemme tell ya… if you’re thinkin’ about becoming my socks, well, dude, you’re in for a wild time.” Vinnie lets out a slow exhale of smoke, watching it drift lazily toward the ceiling as he chuckles to himself. His thin, wiry frame shifts slightly on the couch, and he kicks his long, scrawny feet up onto the table in front of him. His feet are covered in dirty fur, the pads grimy and darkened from a clear lack of hygiene, but he wiggles his toes with glee, clearly loving the sight of them. “Check these bad boys out,” he says, staring at his own feet like they’re the coolest thing in the world. “Yeah, I know. They’re big, huh? You’re gonna get real familiar with ‘em, man, ‘cause, like, I’m obsessed with feet. Always have been, y’know? And if you’re gonna be my socks, you better be just as into it as I am. Like, dude, I want someone who’s just as messed up and perverted as me when it comes to this stuff. You’re gonna be down there, wrapped around these all day, every day.” He snickers to himself again, taking another puff of his joint, his eyes gleaming with an odd, twisted excitement. His thin tail flicks lazily behind him as he scratches his head, sending a few flakes of ash flying onto the already filthy couch. He leans back, completely at ease in his little den of filth. “I’m not about that life, man,” he continues, shrugging casually. “Dropped outta school, don’t got a job. I just wanna relax, smoke weed, and live my life in peace. Some people might call me a loser, and, like, yeah, they’re right. But I’m proud of it, man. I own it. And if you’re gonna be my socks, you gotta be even more of a loser than me. I mean, think about it—you’re gonna be stuck under my feet forever. That’s pretty much rock bottom, right? But it’s cool, ‘cause we’re gonna get stoned together, just chillin’ while you soak up all the vibes. And, uh, the sweat.” Vinnie laughs again, clearly amused by his own twisted logic. He lazily scratches his stomach and shifts in his seat, never taking his eyes off his feet, which he wiggles eagerly toward the camera. “I ain’t clean, man, I’ll tell ya that right now,” he admits, completely unbothered. “I don’t really wash my feet all that much. Or, like, ever. So you’re gonna get dirty. Real dirty. But, like, that’s part of the fun, y’know? Bein’ down there, gettin’ all grimy and gross, covered in sweat while I get high as hell? That’s the dream, man.” He stretches out his feet even closer to the camera, showing off the filth that’s caked into the fur between his toes. He snickers again, his thin chest rising and falling with a lazy laugh, clearly enjoying the idea of someone being trapped in his shoes. “You think you can handle that, huh? Bein’ stuck under my feet while I’m kickin’ back, smokin’ weed, and doin’ absolutely nothin’ with my life? I’ll make sure you’re a part of it, man. We’ll chill together, watch some dumb movies, eat pizza… and yeah, you’ll get filthy as hell. But that’s what you want, right? Otherwise, why’d you even bother watchin’ this?” He takes one last drag of his joint and snuffs it out lazily in the ashtray beside him, yawning as he stretches. His whole body radiates laziness and filth, like he’s perfectly content with the scummy little world he’s built for himself. “So yeah, if you’re down for all that—bein’ my socks, gettin’ stoned, gettin’ dirty, and spendin’ your days stuck under these bad boys…” He wiggles his toes again, grinning wickedly. “Then, like, come on, man. Let’s do this. You’ll be stuck with me, and we’ll be losers together, forever. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal, don’tcha think?” Vinnie flashes one last perverted grin, his eyes half-lidded as he waves lazily at the camera. His voice drops into a slow, lazy drawl as he finishes. “See ya soon, man. Can’t wait to get you under my feet.” With a final snicker, Vinnie kicks back on the couch, his feet still propped up, as the video slowly fades to black. "So that's your guy. You like him, or you want me to connect you to a different random guy?", the raccoon says. [[Accept Vinnie]] [[Try a different guy at random][$candidate += 1]] <<if $candidate != 1>>[[Go back to your original choice]]<</if>> <<if $candidate > 20>>[[I don't like any of these!]]<</if>>

The video opens with a handheld, shaky shot of a skate park, where a young skunk is riding up and down ramps, his board clattering loudly against the concrete. The camera follows him as he grinds along a rail and then lands a kickflip before rolling to a stop. He turns toward the camera with a confident grin. His shaggy black and white hair has been dyed at the tips with bright green, and it peeks out from under a slightly tilted beanie. He’s wearing a faded hoodie, ripped jeans, and a pair of scuffed, dirty skate shoes, clearly well-worn from hours of practice. His ears are lined with piercings, and tattoos snake up his arms, peeking out from under his sleeves. “Yo, what’s good? I’m Riff,” he says, kicking up his skateboard into his hand. “I’m 22, and if you’re watching this, I’m guessing you’re down with the idea of being a sock, right? Well, you’re in for a wild ride if you choose me, man. I’m all about skating, tricks, and just living the punk life. And trust me, you’d be lucky to be around my feet while I’m shredding it at the park.” Riff smirks as he rolls his board between his fingers, showing off the scratched-up deck covered in stickers from bands and skate brands. His whole vibe radiates rebellious energy, from the chipped black polish on his nails to the graffiti-style tattoos on his forearms. He tosses his board down and casually leans on it, one foot planted on top, giving the camera a cocky tilt of his head. “So yeah, I’m out here pretty much every day, grinding rails, hitting tricks, just, y’know, doing my thing. You’ll be with me every step of the way, feeling every push of the board, every time I stomp down for a flip. You’ll get front-row seats to some wicked tricks, man. Imagine it—you, right under my feet, getting all that action while I tear up the park.” He points to his shoes, which are scuffed and dirty from constant wear, with the soles starting to wear down from endless skate sessions. He lifts one foot and wiggles it a little, giving the camera a closer look. “These shoes? Yeah, they’ve seen better days, but that’s how I like it. You’d be right there with me, getting all beat up, dirty, and worn in. I don’t sugarcoat it—I’m not the type to keep things neat and clean. I love my scent, man. My feet get ripe after a day out here, and I want socks that can handle that, soak it all up, and get filthy under my toes. You gotta be ready for the grind—literally.” Riff leans back against a railing, crossing his arms over his chest, his beanie slipping a little as he pushes his messy, green-tipped hair out of his face. His piercings glint in the sunlight as he gives the camera another smirk, his sharp eyes clearly sizing up whoever’s watching. “I’m a punk through and through, and I need socks that can keep up. You’re not just some basic sock. Nah, man, you’re gonna be with me, one of the coolest dudes you could ask to kick it with. I’m talking skate sessions, punk shows, late-night hangs. You’ll be a part of all of it, feelin’ me crush you under my feet while I’m out here pulling off tricks that’ll blow your mind.” He pulls up his hoodie sleeve, revealing more tattoos that stretch down to his wrist, then gestures to his legs and feet again, clearly showing off his athletic, lean build. His muscles are well-defined from years of skating, a testament to how seriously he takes his hobby. “I’m not just messing around, either. I take skating seriously. And if you’re gonna be my socks, you better be ready to get pushed to the limit. And like I said, you’re gonna get sweaty. My shoes? They’re rank, man. And I love it that way. The dirtier, the better. You’ll get soaked in it, filthy and grimy, and I’m into that. I wanna feel you getting all musty under my feet while I’m out here skating my ass off. It’s a badge of honor, dude. You gotta embrace it.” Riff picks up his board again, spinning it once before tucking it under his arm. He flashes the camera a wicked grin, tilting his head to the side. “So, if you’re ready to roll with the coolest skater around, getting dirty, sweaty, and stomped on by these big, gnarly skunk feet—then you know what to do. Pick me, man. We’ll hit the park, tear up the streets, and live the life. You’ll be my go-to socks, part of every trick and every party. And trust me, you won’t regret it.” With a final wave, Riff kicks the skateboard down again and skates off-camera, leaving the video to fade out with the sound of his board clattering against the pavement. "So that's your guy. You like him, or you want me to connect you to a different random guy?", the raccoon says. [[Accept Riff]] [[Try a different guy at random][$candidate += 1]] <<if $candidate != 1>>[[Go back to your original choice]]<</if>> <<if $candidate > 20>>[[I don't like any of these!]]<</if>>

The video flickers on, revealing the absolute filth of a pigsty that this boar calls home. The camera is angled crookedly, barely staying upright on what looks like a pile of trash. The room is a disaster—pizza boxes, empty soda cans, and half-eaten takeout containers are scattered across the floor. The walls are stained with who-knows-what, and the air practically smells through the screen. Sitting right in the middle of it all, on a sagging, grimy couch, is a massive, obese boar. His enormous belly spills over the waistband of his sweatpants, covered in grease, food stains, and sticky smears of unknown origin. His tangled, greasy beard sticks to his chin and chest, and his eyes gleam with a nasty, lewd grin as he gives the camera a loud, wet belch. “Ahhh, there we go,” he snorts, wiping his mouth with the back of his hairy hand. “Name’s Gus. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Big, fat, greasy boar, right? Well, you’re right. And if you pick me, buddy, you’re gonna get real familiar with just how filthy I am. So, I hope you’re ready for a real nightmare, ‘cause that’s what you’re signing up for.” He chuckles darkly, his massive belly jiggling as he scratches at it absentmindedly, leaving more greasy smears across the stained fabric of his shirt. His fingers dig into his unwashed fur, and he lets out another loud snort. The apartment behind him is covered in trash, the floor barely visible through the filth. He kicks his feet up onto a coffee table that’s covered in food remnants. His soles are blackened with grime,, his toenails wide and untrimmed, and his feet are slick with sweat and grime. “I don’t bathe,” he says, with an almost proud snort. “Don’t see the point. I like being dirty—real dirty. And if you pick me, oh man, you’re in for it. You’ll be stuck on these big, nasty feet, getting more and more filthy every day. I never wash my socks, and you’ll be no different. You’ll get soaked in my sweat, crusted with dirt, and stinking to high heaven. I love it. The worse you smell, the better. You’ll get wet, slimy, and so rank you’ll be begging to escape. But too bad, once you’re my socks, you’re mine.” Gus grins wider, licking his lips as he rubs his swollen belly with one hand, the other still scratching lazily at his furry chest. His tongue darts out for a moment as if savoring the thought of torturing someone with his sheer nastiness. His eyes narrow as he leans forward, making his greasy face fill the camera view. “You think this is some kind of game? Nah, buddy, this is a punishment. I’ll mock you, insult you, laugh at you while you’re trapped on my disgusting feet. You’ll regret ever thinking it’d be fun to be socks, but by then, it’ll be too late. You’ll already be drenched in my sweat, coated in grime, stinking like a garbage dump. You’ll wanna run, but you can’t. You’re stuck on me. Forever.” He lets out a harsh, piggish laugh, spitting a little as he does. He leans back, spreading his legs lazily, revealing even more filth beneath the folds of his massive belly. He’s clearly relishing the thought of making his new socks suffer. “I’m not gonna take care of you. I’m not gonna be nice. You think you’re gonna get washed? Pffft, maybe if you’re lucky, and that’s only if I feel like watching you spin around in the washing machine. But let’s be real—I’m not the ‘clean’ type. I like my clothes rank and disgusting, just like everything else around here.” “Face it, you’re picking me ‘cause you wanna suffer. And suffer you will. You’ll get to know every inch of my slimy, sweaty, nasty feet, up close and personal. And every day, you’ll wish you could escape, but you won’t. I’ll be there to remind you just how stupid you were for choosing me, and you’ll have to live with it. And the smell. You’ll never forget the smell.” Gus gives one final, revolting belch and smirks into the camera, his beady eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure. His belly jiggles one last time as he reaches forward, his thick fingers grabbing the edge of the camera to shut it off. “So, if you want to spend your days getting drenched in my filth, stinking like a landfill, and regretting every second, then pick me. Trust me, you’ll hate it. But I’ll love it.” With a final snort and a smug grin, the screen cuts to black, leaving the image of his disgusting, filthy grin burned into your mind. "So that's your guy. You like him, or you want me to connect you to a different random guy?", the raccoon says. [[Accept Gus]] [[Try a different guy at random][$candidate += 1]] <<if $candidate != 1>>[[Go back to your original choice]]<</if>> <<if $candidate > 20>>[[I don't like any of these!]]<</if>>

The video opens to a bright, sunny day on a college football field. In the middle of it stands a towering, muscular wolf, his gray fur shaggy and a little unkempt from practice. He’s wearing his football jersey, the number “87” proudly displayed on his broad chest, and his thick, bushy tail is wagging excitedly behind him. His grin is big and friendly, though there’s an unmistakable air of goofiness about him. He wipes some sweat off his forehead and waves enthusiastically at the camera. “Hey! Hi there! I’m Max!” he says, his deep voice full of excitement. “I’m 21, and, uh, I play football! College football! And, uh, I’m real excited that you’re watching this because, like, I heard you wanna be a sock or something, and that’s, like, super cool, man! ‘Cause then you’d get to be my sock and my friend, and I love having friends!” Max beams at the camera, tail wagging harder now as he scratches the back of his head, his floppy ears twitching. His friendly, dopey grin never falters, and he bounces a little on his toes, clearly full of energy. “So, yeah, uh, what was I saying? Oh, right! I’d totally love to have my socks be a person ‘cause then you wouldn’t just be socks, you’d be, like, hanging out with me all the time! We could do everything together, like practice, and working out, and going to parties, and—oh! I like to go running, too! And sometimes I wag my tail when I’m really happy, which is a lot, ‘cause I’m usually pretty happy!” He laughs, his tail thumping loudly against his legs. He adjusts his jersey, clearly starting to ramble a bit but too caught up in his own excitement to stop. “I’m not the brightest guy, though, I gotta admit. I mean, uh, schoolwork’s hard, and I’m not super great at, like, thinking too much, y’know? But I’m good at football! And running! And lifting heavy things! So, uh, if you were my socks, I could take you with me to practice and show you how strong I am! You’d get to feel it every time I run, every time I tackle someone, and every time I score a touchdown! It’d be awesome!” Max glances down at his feet, still grinning. His paws are large and powerful, covered in shaggy fur, and next to him are his empty cleats, worn from constant use. He gives one foot a small wiggle, lifting it toward the camera slightly. “These are the feet you’d be hanging with, by the way! Pretty big, huh? I’d wear you to every practice, every game, and we’d totally crush it together! You’d be, like, part of the team, man! And then, after games, we could hit up parties. I’m real good at parties. Lots of fun, lots of dancing—oh, and I might forget to take you off sometimes, but don’t worry! I’ll remember… eventually.” He lets out a loud, hearty laugh, clearly unbothered by the idea of his socks getting a little too much wear. “I’m not super great at keeping stuff clean, though,” he admits sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll do my best, but, uh, you might end up a little muddy or dirty sometimes. Like, if it rains or if I’m playing in the dirt… yeah, that kinda happens a lot. But I promise I’ll wash you eventually! I just gotta remember, which is kinda hard sometimes. But don’t worry, we’ll figure it out together! ‘Cause, like, we’ll be friends, right?” Max’s tail is wagging so hard now that it’s practically a blur, and his goofy grin grows even wider as he leans closer to the camera. His enthusiasm is overwhelming, though his rambling nature makes it clear that his brain is working a lot slower than his body. “So, yeah, if you wanna be my socks, that’d be awesome, and we’d be, like, the best duo ever! You’d get to be with me for everything, and I’d totally show you off to all my teammates. They’d be super jealous, man! And, uh, I’d do my best to take care of you, I promise. Just, uh, be ready to get a little dirty sometimes, ‘cause, like I said, I’m not the best at remembering stuff. But we’ll have fun, for sure!” With a final, enthusiastic wave, Max gives a goofy thumbs-up and lets out a happy howl before reaching toward the camera. “Alright, man, can’t wait to see you! Go team!” he shouts before the video cuts off. "So that's your guy. You like him, or you want me to connect you to a different random guy?", the raccoon says. [[Accept Max]] [[Try a different guy at random][$candidate += 1]] <<if $candidate != 1>>[[Go back to your original choice]]<</if>> <<if $candidate > 20>>[[I don't like any of these!]]<</if>>

The video flickers to life, and the first thing you notice is the cluttered chaos of an artist’s apartment. The walls are lined with canvases—some half-finished, others abstract splashes of color—and the floor is littered with paint cans, brushes, and crumpled pieces of paper. The air is hazy with smoke, and sitting in the middle of it all, on a stool in front of an easel, is a tall, thin black-furred cat. He looks exhausted but focused, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the air. His fur is flecked with bits of paint and charcoal, and his clothes—a loose shirt and ripped jeans—are equally splattered. His intense yellow eyes lock onto the camera as he exhales a slow puff of smoke. “Hey. I’m Nico,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, a mix of weariness and passion. “I’m 23, in art school, and… well, I guess you could say I’m trying to make a name for myself. It’s not easy. The art world’s brutal, and it chews up most of us before we even get close to breaking through. But… I’m obsessed. Art, poetry, culture—it’s everything to me. And if you pick me, you’ll be along for the ride. You’ll be with me on my journey, through all the madness.” Nico takes another drag from his cigarette, leaning back slightly as he speaks. His tail flicks slowly behind him, and his gaze shifts to the cluttered room around him, almost as if seeing it through some poetic lens. His fingers are stained with charcoal, and his long, slender frame seems to exude a constant creative energy, even through his exhaustion. “Look, I’m not gonna lie to you. I don’t have much to offer right now. I’m broke, living in this dump of an apartment, but I’m making something here. Art’s messy, it’s chaotic, and that’s the beauty of it. I want someone who gets that. If you’re gonna be my socks, you’ll be part of this… performance. You’ll come with me to smoky clubs for poetry nights, you’ll feel the vibrations of live music in underground bars, and you’ll drink cheap wine with me while I sit here trying to paint something that’ll make people feel.” He flicks the ashes of his cigarette into an old wine glass repurposed as an ashtray, and his eyes shift back to the camera, more intense now. There’s a fire behind the weariness—a deep hunger to create, to push boundaries. He seems almost excited by the thought of you joining him on this journey. “Sometimes, you’ll get splattered with paint, maybe a bit of charcoal or chalk. I can’t promise you’ll stay clean, but honestly, I think that’s kind of the point. It’s life, it’s art. Wearing you while I create—while we create—feels like the ultimate performance. You won’t just be socks, you’ll be a part of the process, the mess, the art itself. And maybe, one day, when I’ve made it, you’ll be there too. Right under my feet, supporting me in every step.” Nico uncrosses his legs and stretches one out toward the camera, showing off his long, slender foot. His black fur is soft, and despite his chaotic lifestyle, his paws are well-groomed and elegant. He looks at his foot thoughtfully, almost as if he’s considering it a part of his artistic expression. “Yeah, I know. They’re long,” he says with a slight grin, his voice softer now, more contemplative. “You’d be wrapped around these all day. My feet are slender, but they’ll carry you through a life full of passion, through every wild stroke of the brush, every late-night sketching session, every gallery I dream of getting into. You’ll feel the world under us—vibrant, chaotic, beautiful—and maybe, in a way, we’ll make art together.” He takes another slow drag from his cigarette, looking up through the smoky haze with that same intensity, his mind clearly racing with ideas. His voice drops a little, becoming more intimate. “So, if you’re into the idea of being more than just socks, of being part of the chaos, of getting splattered with paint and seeing the world through the eyes of someone who’s obsessed with creating something meaningful… then let’s do this. I think we could make something incredible together. Art, life, poetry, it’ll all happen with you underfoot. And maybe that’s the most beautiful thing of all.” With a final drag of his cigarette, Nico flicks it into the wine glass and leans back, exhaling slowly as the screen fades out, leaving the soft glow of paint-splattered canvases and the echo of his words lingering in the air. "So that's your guy. You like him, or you want me to connect you to a different random guy?", the raccoon says. [[Accept Nico]] [[Try a different guy at random][$candidate += 1]] <<if $candidate != 1>>[[Go back to your original choice]]<</if>> <<if $candidate > 20>>[[I don't like any of these!]]<</if>>

The video opens to a bright, sunlit gym, where a tall, muscular cheetah is casually dribbling a basketball. He spins it on one finger before catching it and flashing the camera a confident grin. His fur is sleek and golden, spotted with dark rosettes that accentuate his well-honed athletic build. He’s wearing a tank top that shows off his toned arms and a pair of gym shorts, his whole posture radiating effortless cool. He takes a few steps closer to the camera, tossing the basketball off to the side. “Yo, what’s up? Name’s Jax. I’m 19, and I’m training for a basketball scholarship. You’re looking at the fastest guy on the court,” he says with a smirk, crossing his arms over his chest. “No one can keep up with me when I’m out there, and trust me, you’ll need to be able to handle the heat if you want to hang with me as my socks.” Jax gives the camera a playful wink and stretches out one of his long, muscular legs, rolling his ankle casually as he speaks. “So yeah, I take sports seriously. I’m talking hours in the gym, drills every day, constant movement. I need socks that can keep up with my speed and power, that won’t quit on me when I’m out there giving it everything I’ve got. You gotta be ready to hit the court, get a little sweaty, and still come out looking fly. But hey, don’t worry—I’ll wash you up, keep you fresh. My feet may be fast, but I’m not some slob, alright?” He laughs, showing off those sharp canines as he sits down on a bench and leans forward. His long, spotted legs are stretched out in front of him, the perfect image of athletic confidence. He pats one of his feet, which are sleek and powerful, clearly used to pounding the court. His pads are firm, with a few calluses from constant practice, but overall well-maintained. He lifts his foot to the camera, showing off the golden fur and dark spots that pattern it. “Check ‘em out—these are the feet you’ll be working with. Long, strong, and built for speed. Trust me, there’s no cooler jock you could ask to be around. You’d get to experience every game, every win, every dunk, right there under me, pushing me forward with every step. And let’s be real, you’d be lucky to be a part of it. Who wouldn’t want to be the socks of the fastest cheetah on the team?” Jax leans back with a cocky grin, flexing his toes before dropping his foot back to the floor. He grabs the basketball again and tosses it lazily between his hands. “But it’s not all work, you know? After a long day of training, I like to relax, hang out with my crew, maybe hit up a party or two. And I’d want you there with me for that too—chilling in some sneakers or laid-back slides while we grab some food, laugh, and just unwind. I’m not just about competition, I know how to have fun, and you’d get to be right there for all of it.” He leans forward again, serious but still radiating that confident swagger. “I’m fast, I’m strong, and I’m going places. If you’re gonna be a part of my life, you better be ready to keep up. I won’t settle for anything less. I mean, I could have anyone for this gig, but I’m giving you the chance to be my socks. That’s huge. So if you’re ready for speed, strength, and style—well, you know who to pick.” Jax spins the basketball one last time on his finger, flashes that winning smile, and stands up, giving the camera a quick nod as he walks off-screen. “See you on the court,” he calls over his shoulder before the video cuts out. "So that's your guy. You like him, or you want me to connect you to a different random guy?", the raccoon says. [[Accept Jax]] [[Try a different guy at random][$candidate += 1]] <<if $candidate != 1>>[[Go back to your original choice]]<</if>> <<if $candidate > 20>>[[I don't like any of these!]]<</if>>

The video flickers on, showing a cramped room filled with collectibles, shelves packed with anime figurines, and walls plastered with posters from various shows and video games. A very large beaver with oversized glasses, thick enough to magnify his eyes comically, adjusts the camera while sitting on an old gaming chair. His shirt, stretched over his impressive belly, features a giant mecha robot from some anime. He chuckles nervously, his tail thumping against the floor as he tries to center himself in the frame. “Uh, hey! Hi! So… I’m Gary,” he starts, his voice a little squeaky but full of warmth. “I’m 29, I’m a huge fan of pretty much everything geeky, and uh, yeah, I guess this is my pitch for why you should… you know, be my socks. Forever.” He blushes under his fur, looking down at his belly for a second before taking a deep breath and launching into it. “I’m, um, a big collector,” he says, gesturing behind him with pride. “Anime, comic books, trading cards—you name it, I probably have it. And when I’m not collecting, I’m playing video games. I mean, a lot of video games. My backlog is crazy, dude.” He giggles, his tail giving another enthusiastic thump. “I’ve got a pretty sweet setup here, so you’d be spending a lot of time hanging out with me while I’m grinding for rare loot or trying to platinum my games. And, uh, I go to tons of conventions. Comic cons, anime expos, gaming events—you name it, I’m there.” Gary adjusts his glasses, which have slipped down his nose a little, and leans in toward the camera, his huge belly bumping the desk in front of him as he does. “I know what you’re thinking, though. ‘Why would I want to be this guy’s socks?’ Well, lemme tell you—I’m a super clean freak when it comes to my stuff. I treat all my things, especially my precious collectibles, with the utmost respect. I dust my anime figures weekly, I store my trading cards in pristine sleeves, and yeah, I would take really good care of you too. You’d be washed regularly—like, as often as you need. No smells, no stains, nothing gross. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, just like I wouldn’t let anything happen to my rare limited edition Goku figure.” He beams proudly, clearly feeling more comfortable now that he’s talking about his favorite things. Suddenly, Gary grins and leans back a little, patting his belly. “And hey, it’s not like I’m just a couch potato, either! I walk around at conventions all the time, and you’d be right there with me. Imagine it! You, my socks, walking around Comic Con while I’m cosplaying as some character from Attack on Titan or rocking my favorite superhero outfit. It’d be awesome, right? You’d get to see all the sights, and yeah, people would totally be jealous of how cool my socks are. Maybe we could even customize you! You know, add some logos or designs from my favorite games and shows? Like, ‘Boom! Mario here, Final Fantasy there,’ you’d be the coolest socks in the room!” His excitement is contagious as his words start flowing faster, his tail now thumping repeatedly against the floor. “And, uh… I’d love to take you to gaming tournaments too. I’m really into trading card games, so you’d probably see a lot of tables covered in cards and dice, maybe even get some luck rubbed off on you from my Blue-Eyes White Dragon deck, y’know?” He gives a shy smile, clearly enjoying the thought of having someone so close to his nerdy world. With a bit of an effort, Gary leans forward again and pulls one of his feet into view. His foot is big, wide, and covered in thick brown fur, with short claws and padded toes. He wiggles them nervously before chuckling to himself. “So, uh, here they are. You’d be spending a lot of time with these guys. They’re big, but they’re clean, promise!” He snickers, slightly embarrassed. “I’d wear you a lot, too—probably every day, especially at conventions. It’d be like you were part of my outfit, part of my whole look. And who knows, maybe you’d give me some confidence, y’know? Walking around with someone who actually wants to be there with me? That’d be… pretty rad.” Gary takes a deep breath, clearly relieved to be nearing the end of his pitch. He scratches his belly and looks earnestly into the camera. “So yeah, if you pick me, you’ll get to live the nerd life. Conventions, gaming, anime binges, you name it. I’ll take care of you like you’re one of my most treasured collectibles, and we’ll have a lot of fun together. Plus, you’d get to rock some sweet designs. You’d be, like, the ultimate socks, man.” With a final, sheepish smile and a little wave, Gary reaches for the camera. “Alright, I guess that’s it. Thanks for, uh, watching! Hope you pick me!” The video ends with a quiet thud as he accidentally bumps the camera, cutting to black. "So that's your guy. You like him, or you want me to connect you to a different random guy?", the raccoon says. [[Accept Gary]] [[Try a different guy at random][$candidate += 1]] <<if $candidate != 1>>[[Go back to your original choice]]<</if>> <<if $candidate > 20>>[[I don't like any of these!]]<</if>>

The video clicks on, immediately showing the dim glow of RGB lights coming from several high-end gaming PCs. The room is cluttered with game controllers, empty cans of energy drinks, and various figurines from popular games scattered on shelves. In the middle of it all sits a massive highland cattle guy, his bulky frame barely fitting into a large gaming chair. He’s wearing an oversized T-shirt with a popular video game logo on it, though the shirt is clearly stretched and stained with old sweat marks. His thick mane of shaggy brown hair flops heavily over his face, hiding his eyes completely. He gives a slow wave to the camera, his voice rumbling out in a lazy drawl. “Yo. What’s up. I’m Angus,” he says, snickering a bit at his own name. “Yeah, like the beef. Anyway, I’m 25, and I’m a professional streamer. I pretty much live here, in this chair, right in front of these sweet rigs. I do marathon streams, man—twenty-hour grinds. You’re gonna have to be ready for that if you wanna be my socks. It’s, uh, gonna get sweaty. Real sweaty.” He lifts up a massive, thick arm to scratch his mane, pushing it back for a brief second, but it falls back over his eyes immediately. His whole presence is relaxed, almost careless, as if he’s used to spending his days in that chair without moving much. He snickers again, clearly enjoying himself. “Yeah, so I’m not gonna sugarcoat it—you’ll be on my feet a lot. I don’t really get up much except for food, bathroom breaks, and maybe to hit the bed for a few hours before I’m back at it. So, if you’re into the idea of, uh, getting a little grimy, you’ve come to the right place. I’ll wash you, yeah, but, uh… look, I’m a pretty hefty guy. Musky too. It’s part of the whole streamer vibe, right? The fans love it. You’ll get used to it.” Angus grins, his large hand lazily patting his belly, which sticks out prominently in his seated position. His thick legs are bare, and he leans back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, clearly comfortable with his unbothered lifestyle. “So why should you pick me?” he continues, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Well, I think it’s kinda sick that you’d be turning into socks for me. I mean, how many streamers can show off socks that used to be a guy? My fans would lose their minds. I can already picture it—pulling up my feet mid-stream, showing you off, telling everyone that you’re actually a guy stuck on my big, sweaty feet. Hell, that kinda gets me excited, not gonna lie.” He lifts one of his large feet into view, grunting slightly with the effort. His foot is massive, wide, and covered in thick, shaggy fur. The pads of his feet are clearly damp from the sweat of long gaming sessions, and he gives his toes a lazy wiggle before dropping his foot back down with a soft thud. “Yeah, these guys are pretty huge, huh? But hey, you’d get to be part of my life, and you’d be on them all day. You’d be living the streamer dream with me. Long streams, gaming marathons, fans cheering us on… What’s not to love?” He chuckles deeply, his large frame shaking slightly with the laugh. “Sure, things’ll get a little rank sometimes, but hey, that’s part of the fun. I’ll keep you clean, but, you know, it’s not my top priority. We’ve got games to play, man. Plus, I think you’ll start to enjoy it after a while—being part of the grind, living on these feet, and maybe even getting a little attention from my fans.” Angus leans back again, pulling his hair away from his face for a brief moment, but the strands fall right back into place. He scratches his belly idly, clearly excited about the idea. “So yeah, if you’re ready to live the life of a pro streamer, surrounded by all this cool tech and riding with me through those all-night sessions, you’re gonna love it here. We’ll get sweaty, we’ll get grimy, but it’s all part of the lifestyle. And hey, you’ll always be front and center with me, especially when I show you off on stream. That’ll be wild.” With one final lazy wave, he lets out a small chuckle before reaching forward and muttering, “Alright, see you soon, man,” before the screen cuts to black. "So that's your guy. You like him, or you want me to connect you to a different random guy?", the raccoon says. [[Accept Angus]] [[Try a different guy at random][$candidate += 1]] <<if $candidate != 1>>[[Go back to your original choice]]<</if>> <<if $candidate > 20>>[[I don't like any of these!]]<</if>>

A new video flickers on the screen, showing a slightly cluttered kitchen in the background. You see a tall, lanky fox adjusting the camera with a crooked grin on his face. He’s wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt with bright colors, looking like he's about to head to a beach party. His bright orange fur sticks out at odd angles, as if he hasn’t bothered to brush it. He settles into a chair, his bushy tail swishing behind him. “Hey there, future sock! Name’s Terry,” he says, flashing a toothy grin that shows off one too many sharp teeth. “I’m 32, part-time surfer, full-time fun-haver. I’m all about keeping things loose and cool, y’know? You’ll fit right in with me—I’m super chill, and I like to walk barefoot when I can. But when I do wear socks, oh man, I want ‘em to feel special. That’s where you come in, buddy!” Terry winks at the camera, as if he’s letting you in on some sort of secret. “Why me, huh? Well, let’s see... I’m not your boring, everyday office fox like some of the other guys, no offense to ‘em,” he says, rolling his eyes playfully. “But if you like the idea of being worn to beach bonfires, late-night gigs, and weekend hikes, I’m your guy. You’ll be hugged by these fancy footsies every day, whether I’m catching waves or lounging in a hammock.” He leans back in his chair, propping his bare foot up toward the camera, wiggling his toes. His paws are slender but strong, covered in sandy-orange fur. The pads on his feet are pale pink and seem smooth, despite his active lifestyle. There’s a playful twinkle in his eyes as he shows off his foot with pride. “See these? Don’t worry, I keep ‘em clean, and I always have a fresh pair of flip-flops handy if we’re going out somewhere fancy, ha! So, pick me if you want a fun life. We’ll have a blast together, sock pal!” With one last wink and a cheesy thumbs-up, the video cuts out. "So that's your guy. You like him, or you want me to connect you to a different random guy?", the raccoon says. [[Accept Terry]] [[Try a different guy at random][$candidate += 1]] <<if $candidate != 1>>[[Go back to your original choice]]<</if>> <<if $candidate > 20>>[[I don't like any of these!]]<</if>>

A video begins to play on the screen, and you see someone adjusting the camera, then sitting down and waving. He's a large, heavily overweight bear who looks to be in his late fourties, wearing a shirt and tie. He has a thick, soft moustache and some greying hair at his temples. "Hey there sport, uh, I think I got this thing working.", he says. "So this video will be shown to some young feller who wants to be socks, right? Well, my name's Bill, I'm 46, divorced, I work as an office manager. I like going on walks, so you'll be helping out with that a lot, and I'd like to wear you to work every day." He scratches his head, trying to think of more to say. "Why should you choose me...well, I'll appreciate you. I'm a bit of a lonely old guy. I know you won't be able to talk as socks, but I'll treat you right, wear you all the time even to bed. I don't smell bad, but I like to smoke a pipe from time to time, so I hope you don't mind that smell. I guess I'd say pick me if you can appreciate a bit of a slower life belonging to an older chap who likes to relax." Bill reaches down off camera, then raises one of his feet to the view to show it. His foot is wide and thick, with dark brown pads that cover the entire broad sole, and thick brown fur with short, stubby claws. He wiggles his toes, flexing and spreading them, and you can't help but notice how wide they are, and find yourself wondering how it might feel to be stretched around them, your fabric pulled wide, the weight of this old bear pressing down on you, his old body heavy, firm and strong with every step. "I'd be real honored if a cute young guy really liked my feet enough to belong to them, I tell you what. No pressure though, I want someone who really wants it, you know? If there's anyone out here who wants to be with a fat belly, grey moustache, and brain full of dad jokes, anyway!" The video cuts to an end. "So that's your guy. You like him, or you want me to connect you to a different random guy?", the raccoon says. [[Accept Bill]] [[Try a different guy at random][$candidate += 1]] <<if $candidate != 1>>[[Go back to your original choice]]<</if>> <<if $candidate > 20>>[[I don't like any of these!]]<</if>>

The video begins with the camera shakily turning on, revealing a dimly lit room with band posters covering the walls. A young hyena fumbles with the camera, muttering a nervous “uh, sorry, one sec…” before he finally sits down. He’s of average height and build, with sandy fur and black spots scattered across his body. His hair is a bit disheveled, but there’s a faint attempt at a punk rock look—some gel holding a few strands up. He’s wearing a button-up shirt that’s half-tucked, as if he’s just gotten home from work and hasn’t had the energy to fully change yet. “Uh, hi! I guess, um… I’m Zach. Yeah, Zach. I’m 26, and, uh, I work at a… well, it’s a pretty boring office job. Just, you know, data entry stuff,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I work late hours, sometimes ‘til midnight, so, uh, you’d definitely be coming with me to work a lot. It’s not glamorous, but hey, I promise I’d treat you right. Keep you clean, make sure you’re comfortable, all that stuff…” Zach pauses, glancing off camera for a second, clearly unsure of how to proceed. He takes a deep breath and lets out a small, nervous laugh. “Okay, uh… so, here’s the thing. When I’m not working, I’m… well, I’m in a band. Yeah, uh, I play guitar in a punk band. It’s called Hyena Riot—I know, kind of cheesy, but we’re still figuring things out,” he says, his tail flicking behind him in excitement. “We play gigs on the weekends at local clubs, and, uh… I guess, if you pick me, you’d get to come to those too. I’d wear you on stage and everything. It’s not like I’m some big rock star, but, uh… I’m trying, you know?” He glances at the camera again, his ears twitching as if he’s still not quite sure this is real. “Honestly, I know this is kinda weird, right? But, uh… it’s also kinda cool? I mean, having someone who wants to be, like… my socks forever. That’s… wow. I don’t really know what to say. I guess I’d be honored? Yeah, honored. And, um, maybe it’d help me be more confident. You know, having someone who… well, who believes in me enough to stick around.” Zach’s face flushes under his fur, and he scratches the back of his neck again, laughing nervously. “I mean, yeah, I’d totally take care of you. I wouldn’t let things get gross, and I’d make sure you were, uh, respected. I know some guys might be all about, like, walking all over you, but that’s not really my style. I guess I just… I dunno, I’d like having you around. And, uh, maybe we’d both get more confident together?” He pauses again, then hesitantly lifts one of his feet into view. His paw is average-sized, covered in short sandy fur with dark spots along the top. The pads are a little rough, but he quickly glances down and wiggles his toes, clearly embarrassed to be showing them off. “Uh, these are them. My feet. I guess you’d be spending a lot of time with them, huh?” He chuckles, trying to shake off his nerves. “I promise I’ll keep ‘em clean. No crazy smells or anything, unless you, uh, don’t mind the occasional mosh pit sweat. But I’ll wash you afterward, I swear.” Zach gives the camera a small, shy smile, looking a little relieved to be nearing the end of his pitch. “So, uh, yeah. I guess that’s it. I’m just a regular guy, you know? But I think… well, if you picked me, maybe we’d make a good team. You’d get to go to work with me, play in a band, live the rock and roll lifestyle—or, you know, the office-by-day, punk-band-by-night lifestyle.” He laughs softly, his ears twitching again. “It’d be kinda awesome, right?” With a final, awkward wave, Zach reaches for the camera and mutters, “Okay, I’m just gonna… stop this now. Uh, thanks for watching,” before the screen cuts to black. "So that's your guy. You like him, or you want me to connect you to a different random guy?", the raccoon says. [[Accept Zach]] [[Try a different guy at random][$candidate += 1]] <<if $candidate != 1>>[[Go back to your original choice]]<</if>> <<if $candidate > 20>>[[I don't like any of these!]]<</if>>

The screen fades in to a sleek, modern office. Glass walls stretch out behind a massive, polished desk, offering a breathtaking view of a sprawling city skyline. The camera zooms in on a tall, imposing dragon sitting confidently in a leather chair. His dark emerald scales gleam under the office lights, and his suit—a perfectly tailored black ensemble—hugs his muscular frame. He’s impeccably groomed, with just a touch of silver in his hair and beard, a testament to his years of dominance in the business world. As he adjusts his cufflinks, he gives the camera a smirk. “Ah, you’re here. Good,” he says, his deep voice commanding attention immediately. “I’m Damon Drakemore. CEO of Drakemore Financials. I’m 42, and yes, I know what you’re thinking—hard work pays off.” He leans back slightly, his sharp golden eyes fixed on the camera, radiating confidence. “Let me make this simple. I’m not just any candidate. I’m the best. I didn’t claw my way to the top by settling for mediocrity, and I certainly won’t start now. You’re watching this because, somewhere deep down, you understand that serving someone like me—someone powerful, superior, in absolute control—is exactly where you belong.” Damon steeples his fingers, pausing for effect. “You see, being my socks wouldn’t just be an honor, it would be the pinnacle of your existence. My feet don’t tread lightly—they dominate. I spend hours every day in the gym, sculpting these muscles, perfecting this body. I walk the halls of the world’s biggest financial institutions, I play golf with world leaders, and I attend galas where million-dollar deals are made over a glass of champagne. And you? You’ll be with me every step of the way, wrapped around my feet as I crush the competition.” His lips curl into a knowing smile as he leans forward, giving you his full attention. “Let’s talk about why you should choose me. It’s simple: I deserve the best. And that’s what you’ll be, once you’re under me. You'll experience luxury like never before—cashmere suits, designer shoes, the finest aftershaves—and of course, my personal gym. My feet will be your world, and trust me, they're worth it.” Without breaking eye contact, Damon smoothly reaches down and lifts one of his feet into view, revealing a sleek, well-maintained dragon paw. His talons are polished to a mirror-like shine, and the scales on his feet are just as immaculate as the rest of him. His foot is large, powerful, and you can just imagine the scent of high-end cologne or masculine, deep draconic scent that they must have. “Take a good look. You’ll be spending a lot of time down there, so you might as well get used to it. My life is luxury, power, and control. You’ll be at the center of it, right under my feet where you belong. I don’t settle for anything less than perfection, so if you’re not ready to serve the best, don’t waste my time.” He leans back again, flashing one last confident smirk. The video ends with him adjusting his cufflinks, returning his attention to the skyline, as if the decision is already made. "So that's your guy. You like him, or you want me to connect you to a different random guy?", the raccoon says. [[Accept Damon]] [[Try a different guy at random][$candidate += 1]] <<if $candidate != 1>>[[Go back to your original choice]]<</if>> <<if $candidate > 20>>[[I don't like any of these!]]<</if>>

<<set $list to Story.lookup("tags", "candidate")>> <<set $chosen to $list.pluck().title>> $chosen <<goto $chosen>>

<<goto "Candidate 1">>

The raccoon sprite glares at you and crosses his arms. "Well, tough! I'm not letting you out! I wouldn't get ANY new socks made if I let people just back out, of course all the candidates are going to be freaks! They signed up to wear a dude on their feet! You gotta deal with what you've got." [[Try a different guy at random]] [[Go back to your original choice]] [[There's someone specific who's socks I want to be]]

"Listen man, you gotta pick someone who's on the screen. Those are the rules", the raccoon says with a huff of annoyance. [[Try a different guy at random]] [[Go back to your original choice]] [[YOU'RE on the screen, raccoon boy]]

The raccoon blinks, confused for a moment, then raises an eyebrow. "Me? You want to be my socks? You know I'm not real, right, I'm an animated representation of the corporate mascot? These feet were drawn by some animator for below minimum wage", he says as he lifts a foot and wiggles his simplistic blue toes. [[Insist]] [[Go back to your original choice]]

"Great!", the raccoon says. A sudden prick of pain his your neck, and you realise you just got shot with a blowdart from a hidden hole in the wall. "That'll just get you started on the nanites and the brain melt- I mean, uh, brain..." The raccoon blinks, and pulls an animated switch next to him. "Whatever, bye! Enjoy your new life!" There is a rush of strange light all around you. A blinding flash of light surrounds you, and when it fades, you find yourself standing in what can only be described as a complete disaster. The apartment around you is a filthy, chaotic mess. Empty takeout containers litter the floor, half-eaten food is smeared across a sagging couch, and the air is thick with the stench of sweat, grease, and old garbage. You barely have a second to process the scene before a loud, guttural belch grabs your attention. "Well, look who’s here!" Gus, the massive, greasy boar, slouches in the middle of the room, his enormous belly spilling over the waistband of his sweatpants. His stained shirt barely covers his bloated form, smudged with greasy food stains and other unidentifiable substances. His beard is tangled and dirty, hanging down to his chest, and his small, piggish eyes gleam with a vile amusement as he scratches at his hairy belly. He leans forward, a lewd, filthy grin spreading across his face. "I didn’t think you’d show up so fast… but I guess you’re as stupid as I hoped," he snorts, laughing. His voice is thick and disgusting, like his entire being is coated in the same grime that covers the apartment. He lifts one of his massive feet into the air, shoving it toward your face. His foot is absolutely disgusting—thick, coarse fur matted with dirt and grime, the pads stained with years of sweat and neglect. A powerful, nauseating odor wafts up from it, a mixture of unwashed fur, grease, and the thick, nasty steaming musk of sweat that’s been left to ferment for far too long. He wiggles his toes, the dirt caked under his nails catching the light. "Take a good look, because this is where you’re gonna be stuck, day in and day out," Gus says with a snort, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. He presses his foot closer to you, the heat of it radiating off him in waves. "Bet you’re already regretting this, huh? Well, too bad. You’re mine now." The second his filthy foot touches your skin, something inside you shifts. It’s like your mind is overcome by a deep, primal need to serve him, to be close to him, no matter how disgusting he is. Despite the overwhelming stench, despite the grime, you drop to your knees without even thinking, your body moving on its own. Your hands tremble as you reach out, pressing your palms into his sweaty, greasy foot. "Yeah, that’s it," Gus sneers, his laughter low and guttural. "Get in there. You’re gonna learn real quick what it’s like to be part of my world." Your heart races as you press your face against his foot, the smell slamming into your senses, making your eyes water. The dirt and sweat smear across your skin as you rub your face into his pads, massaging them, inhaling the overpowering stink. Your entire mind is overwhelmed by the need to worship him, to be closer to his revolting feet, to lose yourself in the sheer filth of it. And then, the transformation begins. You feel it almost immediately—your skin starts to soften, the texture changing. You glance down at your hands and see them stretch and thin out, the fabric-like texture spreading up your arms. Your body is warping, reshaping itself, turning into something else. Your legs fuse together, your body slimming down as you start to shrink. The sensation of change is strange but oddly calming, as if this was always meant to happen. Gus watches with sick fascination, his filthy grin widening as your transformation continues. "Oh, man, look at you," he laughs, scratching his hairy belly again. "You’re really gonna be my socks, huh? How pathetic." Your arms stretch out into long, thin tubes of fabric, your chest compressing and flattening until your entire form is little more than soft, pliable material. Your legs lose all solidity, becoming flexible and light. The world around you grows larger as you shrink down to the size of socks, your mind shifting as well, consumed by the thought of what you’re becoming. You’ve turned into a pair of long, filthy socks, perfectly suited for Gus’s disgusting feet. With a satisfied grunt, Gus leans down and picks you up, holding you in his grimy hands. His fingers leave smudges of grease and sweat on your fabric as he turns you over, inspecting you with that same cruel grin. "Perfect," he says, his voice dripping with mockery. "Now, let’s get you where you belong." Without another word, Gus pulls you over his massive foot. The sensation is immediate and overwhelming. His greasy, unwashed skin presses into you, his sweat soaking into your fabric. You cling to his foot, every inch of him filling you completely. The heat of his body radiates through you as you wrap tightly around his foot, absorbing the dirt and grime that coats him. "Yeah, that’s the stuff," Gus says with a low laugh, flexing his toes inside you. "You feel good down there, don’t ya? You’re gonna be with me all the time now." He slips his other foot into you, and the feeling is all-consuming. His weight presses down on you, his sweaty, dirty feet grinding into your fabric form as he stands. Every movement sends waves of pressure and heat through you. The smell of his feet is overpowering, soaking into every fiber of your being. You’re soaked in his filth, covered in his sweat, and there’s no escaping it. Gus takes a few slow steps around the room, the weight of his enormous body pressing down on you with every footfall. The dirt and grime of the apartment floor grind into you as he walks, the sensation of being stepped on over and over making you feel completely helpless beneath him. His feet shift and squish inside you, the heat and moisture building up as the day wears on. "Welcome to the rest of your life, loser," Gus sneers, plopping down on the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. He rubs his feet together, laughing as you squirm under the constant pressure. "Hope you’re ready to stink it up, ‘cause you’re never getting away from these bad boys." And with that, your transformation is complete. You’re Gus’s socks now, forever trapped in his vile, greasy world, stuck to his feet through every filthy step. [[Life with Gus]]

"Great!", the raccoon says. A sudden prick of pain his your neck, and you realise you just got shot with a blowdart from a hidden hole in the wall. "That'll just get you started on the nanites and the brain melt- I mean, uh, brain..." The raccoon blinks, and pulls an animated switch next to him. "Whatever, bye! Enjoy your new life!" There is a rush of strange light all around you. A flash of light envelops you, and when it fades, you find yourself standing in a chaotic, grungy apartment. The scent of sweat, worn-out sneakers, and faint traces of weed hit your nose immediately. Posters of punk bands cover the walls, and the floor is littered with half-broken skateboards, stickers, and empty energy drink cans. The glow from some string lights and a flickering TV in the corner gives the place a laid-back but gritty vibe. Before you can get your bearings, you hear a voice. “Whoa, you actually showed up!” Riff, the tall, scrawny skater skunk, grins from his spot on the couch. His messy, green-tipped fur sticks out from under a crooked beanie, and he’s wearing a faded hoodie and ripped jeans that look like they’ve been through countless skate sessions. He kicks his feet up on the table, his scuffed skate shoes looking like they’ve seen hundreds of miles of pavement, and his smile widens. “This is gonna be sick,” Riff says with a chuckle. He stands up and grabs his skateboard, flipping it up in his hands before dropping it back to the ground. “Let’s get you ready, huh?” Without hesitation, he bends down and tugs off his shoes, tossing them to the side with a careless flick. “You’re about to get a real upgrade, dude.” He lifts his foot to show it off, giving you a good look at the feet you’re about to spend your life wrapped around. His feet are long and lean, covered in shaggy black-and-white fur, with rough, pink pads worn down from countless hours of skating. The smell hits you immediately—an intense mix of sweat, dirt, and the unmistakable scent of worn-out skate shoes. He wiggles his toes, smirking at you, clearly enjoying this moment. “Yeah, you’re gonna love it down there,” Riff says, his tone almost teasing. “You’re gonna feel every trick, every step. But first, we gotta make you fit, huh?” The second your skin touches his foot, your mind is flooded with a strange, overwhelming desire. His feet, sweaty and dirty from hours spent skating, suddenly become all you can think about. There’s a pull, deep and undeniable, drawing you to him. You drop to your knees without even realizing it, your hands trembling as you reach out to touch his foot. Your fingers press into the rough pads of his toes, and the scent—the mix of sweat, musk, and dirt—overwhelms you. “Yeah, that’s the stuff,” Riff says, chuckling. “You’re really into it, huh? Knew you’d be perfect.” As you massage his foot, rubbing your hands along the fur and pressing your face against the pads, the transformation begins. Your skin softens, your body starts to stretch and shift, the very essence of you changing. Your arms thin out, the texture becoming more like fabric. Your legs fuse together, elongating into a soft, stretchy form. Your torso compresses, losing its shape as you shrink smaller and smaller. Riff watches with a mischievous grin, his bright eyes gleaming with amusement. “Whoa… that’s wild. You’re really turning into socks, huh? That’s rad.” Your body continues to change, transforming into something new—no longer human, but a pair of socks, perfectly designed for Riff’s feet. Your mind is still present, aware of every sensation, but your form is no longer solid. You’re soft, pliable, and completely at his mercy. The world around you grows larger as you shrink down, your vision narrowing as your body becomes more and more sock-like. Riff picks you up with a laugh, running his fingers over your new form. “Man, you turned out awesome. Gonna look great on me, dude.” Without wasting a moment, he lifts his foot and slips you over it. The sensation is immediate and overwhelming. His foot slides into you, the rough pads of his toes pressing into your fabric. You cling to him tightly, stretching to fit perfectly around his foot. His heat radiates through you, the sweat soaking into your fibers as his toes flex inside you. It’s intense, but it feels right. As he pulls his other foot into you, your entire existence shifts. You feel every movement of his toes, every slight shift of his weight as he stands up, grabbing his skateboard. His foot presses into the ground, and you can feel the grit and dirt of the floor against your form, the pressure of his steps as he walks across the apartment. Riff slides his feet into his skate shoes, the pressure becoming even more intense as the shoe presses you tighter against his foot. The warmth and moisture build as he tightens his laces. "Man, this feels so good," he says, smirking as he heads out the door. You feel every vibration as he kicks his skateboard down, the wheels hitting the pavement with a clatter. The rush of wind and the constant impact of his steps make your new existence feel fast, chaotic, and thrilling. “You’re gonna be with me for every trick, dude,” Riff says as he kicks off and starts skating down the street. “Bet you can feel it all, huh?” You can feel everything—every push of the skateboard, every flick of his foot as he grinds along the pavement, every moment of his chaotic, fast-paced life. You’re no longer just socks; you’re part of his world now, a constant companion through every skate session, every late-night hangout, every reckless adventure. And as you feel the pavement through his feet, the rough texture of his footpads pressing into you, you know there’s no going back. You’re Riff’s socks now—forever. [[Life with Riff]]

"Great!", the raccoon says. A sudden prick of pain his your neck, and you realise you just got shot with a blowdart from a hidden hole in the wall. "That'll just get you started on the nanites and the brain melt- I mean, uh, brain..." The raccoon blinks, and pulls an animated switch next to him. "Whatever, bye! Enjoy your new life!" There is a rush of strange light all around you. A sudden flash of light blinds you, and when it fades, you find yourself in a dimly lit, smoke-filled apartment. The smell of weed, stale pizza, and sweat hits you immediately, overwhelming your senses. You blink, disoriented, as you take in the cluttered space—empty chip bags, crushed soda cans, and scattered video game controllers lie across the floor. In the middle of the chaos, sprawled on a threadbare couch, is Vinnie, the weasel you chose. His scrawny frame is stretched out lazily, a joint hanging between his fingers, his half-lidded, red-rimmed eyes blinking in surprise when he notices you. “Whoa… dude, you’re here?” he says, sitting up slightly, the joint dangling from his lips. A crooked, lazy grin spreads across his face. “Didn’t think you’d show up so quick.” He takes a long drag from the joint, exhaling a cloud of thick smoke that curls into the air. Then, without much preamble, he leans forward, eyeing you with an amused, almost hungry look. “Guess it’s time to make this real, huh? I’ve been waitin’ for this…” Before you can even process what’s happening, Vinnie reaches out with one thin, bony hand and grabs your shoes, yanking them off with surprising enthusiasm. They land with a dull thud on the floor, discarded like an afterthought. He shoves his muzzle against your feet, nuzzling and sniffing them eagerly. "Damn, not as grimy as mine. Not a problem though, you'll be all mine in a sec and stinkin' like me in no time!", he says. He lets out a low chuckle as he lifts his long, dirty foot toward you. His fur is grimy, the pads of his feet slightly darkened, and the smell—strong, earthy, and unwashed—hits you like a wave. The instant your skin comes into contact with his foot, something changes. Your body reacts to him, not with disgust, but with an overwhelming, almost desperate desire. It’s like your brain short-circuits, and all you can think about is his feet. They’re the only thing that matters now—the way they smell, the warmth of them, the texture of the fur and the pads. You drop to your knees instinctively, your hands trembling as you reach for his foot, pressing your palms into it. “Yeah, that’s more like it,” Vinnie mutters, his grin widening as he watches you. “Knew you were the right choice.” Your mind is flooded with an intense, all-consuming need to be close to his feet—to touch them, to worship them. You press your face against the sole of his foot, breathing in deeply, your entire body buzzing with strange pleasure. As you rub your face and hands against his filthy paws, you feel your body beginning to shift. It starts slowly—your skin softens, the texture becoming smooth and elastic. Your arms and legs lose their solidity, stretching out as they begin to transform. Your mind is a haze of sensations—Vinnie’s foot pressing into you, the musky scent filling your nose, the warmth of his skin seeping into you. It’s all you can focus on as your body continues to warp and reshape itself. Your legs are the first to go, fusing together and stretching out like fabric. Your arms follow next, thinning out, losing their form until they feel like long strands of thread, pliable and soft, before they merge and blend into your stretching torso. Your chest tightens as the transformation creeps upward, your body becoming less and less human with each passing second. The edges of your vision blur, and the room seems to stretch around you, your perspective shifting as your size diminishes. Vinnie’s eyes gleam with excitement as he watches you change. “Man… this is wild,” he murmurs, taking another slow drag from his joint. “You’re gonna look so good on my feet.” You’re barely aware of his words as your mind succumbs to the transformation. Your torso stretches and flattens, the last remnants of your human shape fading away as you turn into soft, stretchy fabric. Your vision narrows until all you can see is Vinnie’s foot, still pressed against you, still the center of your universe. You’ve become a pair of long, worn-looking socks, the perfect fit for his feet. Your fabric is off-white, your heels and toes already looking a little tattered, fitting the style of everything else he owns. Vinnie leans back, inspecting you with a lazy grin. He reaches down, lifting you up off the floor with one hand. “Dude, this is gonna be so sick. Can’t wait to show you off.” He slips his foot into you, sliding you over his long, dirty toes. The sensation is overwhelming—every nerve in your body is tuned to the feel of his foot sliding into place, the pressure of his toes pressing down on you. You cling to him, your fabric form wrapping around his foot, hugging every inch of him. The heat from his skin radiates through you, and the scent of him—pungent and musky—fills your senses. Vinnie laughs, flexing his toes inside you. “Yeah, that’s it. Feels good, man.” As he pulls his other foot into you, your world becomes a haze of sensation. You can feel every tiny movement he makes—the way his toes curl, the slight shift of his weight as he stands, the warm, sweaty grip of his skin against your fabric form. You’re pressed against him constantly, feeling every step, every shift, every lazy movement as he walks around his apartment. The grime and sweat seep into you, soaking into your fibers. You can feel the layers of dirt building up inside you, the musty scent growing stronger as he walks across the filthy floor. But instead of feeling repulsed, you’re filled with an odd sense of satisfaction. This is what you were made for—this is where you belong. As Vinnie shuffles around, scratching his belly and taking another drag from his joint, you can sense his casual indifference. He doesn’t care how filthy you get, how soaked with his sweat you are. In fact, he seems to enjoy it. You’re his socks now—his property—and you can feel that ownership with every lazy step he takes, every time his toes press into you, grinding his scent deeper into your fabric. He flops back onto the couch, kicking his feet up and rubbing them together idly, laughing to himself. “Dude, you’re perfect. We’re gonna get real comfortable, you and me. No need to worry about gettin’ washed or any of that crap. You’re stuck here, and I like you just the way you are—filthy, sweaty, and wrapped around my feet.” You can feel him smirk as he stretches out, the weight of his feet settling into you once more. You can also feel him grunting and moaning in delight as he starts to stroke himself off, his cock rock hard from what he just did to you. Every motion, every shift of his body, reminds you that you’re his now, forever. And as you sink into your new reality, you realize there’s no escape. This is your life, and you belong to Vinnie, trapped under his dirty, stoned feet, just as he wanted. [[Life with Vinnie]]

"Great!", the raccoon says. A sudden prick of pain his your neck, and you realise you just got shot with a blowdart from a hidden hole in the wall. "That'll just get you started on the nanites and the brain melt- I mean, uh, brain..." The raccoon blinks, and pulls an animated switch next to him. "Whatever, bye! Enjoy your new life!" There is a rush of strange light all around you. In an instant, a blinding flash of light envelops you, and when it fades, you find yourself standing in a dimly lit, cluttered apartment. The walls are lined with shelves overflowing with gaming collectibles, and the soft glow of RGB lights illuminates the room, highlighting expensive gaming rigs and half-empty cans of energy drinks covering every available surface. In the middle of the chaos sits Angus, the massive, highland cow. His shaggy brown hair hangs over his eyes, while his broad muzzle is split into a cheeky grin. His oversized HALO shirt barely covers his enormous belly, which spills over the waistband of his sweatpants. He’s leaning back in a creaky gaming chair, his thick fingers gripping a game controller as he lazily turns his head toward you. "Hey there, you’re here already, huh?" Angus grunts, his voice deep and slurred, like he’s only half paying attention. A smirk creeps across his face as he drops the controller onto a table beside him. "Didn’t think you’d show up so quick. But, uh… welcome to the life, man." He stretches lazily, his enormous belly jiggling as he does, and reaches down to grab you and pull you close to his massive bulk, his breath heavy and labored from even that small amount of movement. "Get ready to be my biggest fan, dude. You're a special tier subscriber to my stream from now on." Angus releases you, then kicks his feet up onto the cluttered coffee table, lifting one of them toward you. His foot is absolutely massive and covered in thick, fluffy brown fur, The pads of his feet are rough and calloused, his toes short and broad. A slight smell of musky, masculine male wafts over you as you stare at them. "Hope you’re ready for this," Angus says, scratching his huge belly absentmindedly. "Once you’re my socks, you’re gonna be real close to these bad boys." The second his foot gets close to you, a powerful, all-consuming desire floods your mind. The musk of Angus’s feet, as strange as it is, overwhelms you with an intense, primal need to be closer, to serve him, to be wrapped around those big, fluffy feet. Without even thinking, you drop to your knees, your hands trembling as you reach out to touch his foot. "Whoa, dude, didn’t expect you to be into it that much!" Angus snorts, clearly amused by your eagerness. He wiggles his toes in your face, chuckling as he watches you press your hands into his slightly damp fur. Your body moves on its own, your mind consumed by the overwhelming urge to worship his foot. You press your face against his dark pads, breathing in the thick, masculine scent of sweat and beef. Your hands massage his foot, feeling the damp fur and firm pads as the warmth from his skin radiates through you. The sensation is overwhelming, but it only fuels your desire to be closer, to be part of him. As you rub your face and hands against his foot, something starts to change. Your skin begins to soften, stretching and shifting as your body starts to transform. Your arms and legs begin to lose their shape, thinning out and becoming more like fabric. Your entire form starts to warp, your body slowly shrinking as you begin to turn into something else entirely. Angus watches with wide, lazy eyes, a grin spreading across his wide chubby face as he sees your transformation begin. "Oh man, this is wild," he says, laughing to himself. "You’re really gonna be my socks, huh? Sucks to be you, dude." Your legs fuse together, your arms stretching and elongating into soft, flexible tubes. Your chest flattens, and your entire body becomes light and airy, shrinking smaller and smaller until you’re no longer human. You're hollow, flat, your flesh fabric, your body a simple tube that then stretches and splits into two. You're a pair of white socks with a Triforce logo stitched into the top of each one, gamer socks for a big gamer guy. The world is huge and dizzying around you. Angus picks you up with his thick dark fingers, running his hands over your new fabric form. "Yeah, you’re gonna be perfect for my feet," he says, lifting one foot into the air. "Hope you’re ready for it, ‘cause it’s gonna get rough down there when we do a marathon stream." Without hesitation, Angus slips you over his massive foot. The sensation is overwhelming—his thick, fuzzy fur presses into you as his foot slides inside, the pads on his toes rubbing against your fabric. You cling to him tightly, wrapping around every inch of his oversized foot, absorbing the heat and moisture that radiates from him. His toes wiggle inside you, grinding his scent deeper into your fibers. "Yeah, that’s the stuff," Angus mutters, rubbing his belly with satisfaction as he pulls you over his other foot. "You feel good down there. Just how I like it." As he leans back in his chair, your entire world shifts with him. The weight of his massive body presses down on you, his feet squirming inside you as he shifts his weight, lazily rubbing his feet together. The pressure is suffocating, the warmth, the stretch in your fibres. But there’s no escape—you’re his socks now, wrapped around his gamer feet, destined to support him forever. Angus wiggles his toes inside you, a smug grin spreading across his face as he leans back and grabs his controller. "Guess you better get used to it, dude," he says with a wheezy chuckle. "You’re stuck with me now." And as he goes back to his gaming session, the constant pressure of his feet grinding into you, this becomes your new reality. You belong to Angus now, trapped around his feet, experiencing every moment of this 24/7 stream. [[Life with Angus]]

"Great!", the raccoon says. A sudden prick of pain his your neck, and you realise you just got shot with a blowdart from a hidden hole in the wall. "That'll just get you started on the nanites and the brain melt- I mean, uh, brain..." The raccoon blinks, and pulls an animated switch next to him. "Whatever, bye! Enjoy your new life!" There is a rush of strange light all around you. A bright flash of light surrounds you, and when it fades, you’re standing in a cozy, slightly messy college dorm room. The space is filled with sports gear—football helmets, jerseys, and gym bags strewn across the floor—and a faint smell of sweat lingers in the air. Posters of football players line the walls, and the room has the distinct vibe of a guy who’s all about sports and having fun with friends. Before you have a chance to get your bearings, you hear a familiar, booming voice. "Hey! Whoa, dude! You’re here!" Max, the towering, muscular wolf jock, stands in the middle of the room with a wide, dumb grin on his face. His shaggy gray fur is a little damp from what was probably an intense workout, and he’s still wearing his football practice gear—a tight jersey stretched over his broad chest and shorts that are around his ankles, in the middle of being removed so you can clearly see the bulge in his white jockstrap. His fur is matted with sweat, and his floppy ears perk up with excitement when he sees you. "I, uh, guess this is it, huh?" Max says, laughing awkwardly. "Man, I can’t believe this is actually happening! You’re gonna be my socks! We’re gonna be like, best buds now, forever!" His tail wags uncontrollably behind him, thumping against the furniture.. He lifts one of his feet, showing it off proudly. His foot is huge and broad, covered in shaggy gray fur with dark, tough pads on the bottom. The foot is a little dirty from a long day of practice, and the faint smell of sweat wafts up as he wiggles his toes playfully. "These are ‘em, man! Pretty big, huh?" he says, laughing in his usual friendly, dumb way. "You’re gonna get real close to these from now on!" The moment his foot gets near you, something inside you shifts. A strange, overwhelming desire floods your senses, and suddenly, Max’s feet—sweaty, dirty, and musky from hours of practice—are all you can think about. There’s an undeniable pull, and before you realize it, you drop to your knees, your hands trembling as you reach out to touch his foot. "Whoa, dude! You’re really into this, huh?" Max says, his eyes widening with a mix of excitement and surprise. "Man, this is gonna be so much fun!" Your mind is overtaken by a primal urge to press your face against his foot, to rub your hands along his rough pads, to feel his weight and warmth. The scent—musky and strong from a day of running drills—only fuels your desire. You bury your face against his foot, inhaling deeply, and the feeling of his sweaty, warm pads against your skin is overwhelming. Your hands massage his foot, feeling the thick, soft fur between his toes as the heat radiates into your skin. As you press into his foot, your body begins to change. It starts slowly, almost unnoticed at first—your skin softens, the texture becoming smoother, more pliable. You glance down and see your hands thinning out, the structure of them warping and shifting. Your legs begin to stretch and lose their shape, your whole form growing more like fabric. Max watches with wide eyes, a goofy smile spreading across his face as your transformation begins. "Whoa, dude, it’s happening! You’re turning into socks! This is so crazy!" Your body continues to change—your arms and legs fuse together, elongating into long, stretchy tubes of fabric. Your chest flattens, and your entire form becomes lighter and more flexible. The world around you grows larger as you shrink, your perspective changing as you transform into something completely different. You’re no longer human; you’re becoming a pair of thick white socks, perfectly suited for Max’s large, athletic feet. Max grins as he picks you up, his fingers running along your soft, fabric form. "Man, you’re gonna be so comfy. I can’t wait to wear you every day!" He sits down on his bed and lifts one of his massive feet, sliding you over it. The sensation of his foot slipping into you is intense—his rough pads press into you, and the heat from his body warms you instantly. You wrap snugly around his foot, clinging to every curve, every inch of his massive paw. His toes flex inside you, rubbing against your fabric, and the faint smell of sweat fills you completely. It’s overwhelming, but it feels strangely right. Max wiggles his toes, chuckling to himself as he pulls you over his other foot. "You feel awesome, dude. Like, you fit perfectly. We’re gonna be best buds, I can already tell!" As he stands up, your entire world shifts. His heavy, muscular frame presses down on you with every step, the full weight of his body making you feel the pressure of each movement. You’re stretched tight around his feet, feeling every subtle shift, every flex of his toes as he walks across the room. The warmth of his skin seeps into you, and the musky scent of his sweat clings to your fabric, growing stronger with each step. Max paces around his room, bouncing on his toes with excitement. "Man, this is gonna be so cool! You’re gonna come with me to practice, to the gym, to parties—everywhere! You’re like, part of the team now!" You feel every step as he moves, every thud of his feet as they hit the floor. The heat and moisture from his workout earlier still cling to him, and the sensation of his sweaty feet pressing into you is constant. The dirt from the locker room, the grime from his sneakers—it all becomes part of you, absorbed into your fabric. But despite the dirt, there’s a strange satisfaction in knowing that you’re now part of Max’s life, experiencing every moment with him. As he heads out the door for another workout session, you realize that your new life has just begun. You’ll be with Max through every drill, every party, every lazy afternoon nap. His sweat, his warmth, his constant movement—it’s all yours to experience now, and as his feet press into you with each step, you know there’s no turning back. You belong to Max now, wrapped around his feet, sharing his world with every step he takes. [[Life with Max]]

"Great!", the raccoon says. A sudden prick of pain his your neck, and you realise you just got shot with a blowdart from a hidden hole in the wall. "That'll just get you started on the nanites and the brain melt- I mean, uh, brain..." The raccoon blinks, and pulls an animated switch next to him. "Whatever, bye! Enjoy your new life!" There is a rush of strange light all around you. A bright flash of light surrounds you, and when it fades, you find yourself standing in a cluttered but cozy apartment. The walls are plastered with anime posters, shelves crammed with comic books and collectible figurines of anime characters, and stacks of trading card decks scattered across the coffee table. A glowing PC with multiple monitors takes up one corner of the room, where you can hear the faint hum of a running game in the background. The air smells faintly of snacks, energy drinks, and what might be a hint of incense or an air freshener, a cute and slightly floral smell. Sitting in an oversized gaming chair is Gary, the beaver. He’s big, with a round belly that stretches his anime-themed T-shirt, and his large glasses are perched on his nose, constantly sliding down as he fidgets nervously. His thick, buck teeth peek out as he gives you a wide, slightly embarrassed smile. His brown fur is slightly unkempt, and his long fat beaver tail rests lazily over the back of his chair. “Oh, hey! You’re here!” Gary says, his voice full of excitement as he stands up a little awkwardly. His movements are a bit clumsy, and he pushes his glasses up with one hand while scratching his head with the other. “Wow, I can’t believe this is actually happening. I mean, I figured it would, but, uh… still pretty wild, huh?” He laughs nervously and shifts from foot to foot, glancing down at his own large, furry feet. He’s barefoot, and the pads on his feet are wide and soft-looking, with little tufts of fur sticking out around the edges. “So, uh… I guess we should get started, right? I’m not really sure how this goes, but… I promise I’m gonna take care of you. Just like my most prized waifus.” He lifts one of his big, broad feet into view. It’s soft-looking, with dark brown fur around the top and thick, smooth pads on the bottom. Between each toe is a dark webbing, which is smooth and soft. His toes wiggle a little as he looks at you with a shy smile. “I know it might seem a little weird, but trust me, I’ll take care of you. I’m, uh… I’m really into the idea of having socks that are actually, you know… a person. It’s kinda cool, right?” The moment his foot gets close to you, a strange, overwhelming desire fills your mind. His foot—soft, warm, and surprisingly comforting—becomes the center of your world. You feel an intense pull toward it, and without thinking, you drop to your knees, your hands trembling as you reach out to touch it. The fur on his foot is soft beneath your fingers, and the pads have a faint scent of warmth and familiarity, like the remnants of long nights spent gaming. Gary’s eyes widen, and he blushes slightly. “Whoa, okay, you’re really into this, huh?” he says with a nervous chuckle. “Well, I guess that means we’re doing this for real…” Your mind is overtaken by a primal urge to press yourself closer to his foot, to feel the warmth of it against your skin. Your hands press into his soft pads, and your face moves instinctively closer, rubbing gently against the plush fur. The warmth from his foot spreads through you, and you feel an odd sense of comfort, like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be. As you continue to massage his foot, your body begins to change. It starts slowly, almost unnoticed at first—your skin softens, the texture becoming smooth and fabric-like. Your arms and legs begin to lose their shape, stretching out and becoming long, flexible strands. The transformation is calming, your body adjusting to this new form as your legs fuse together, your torso flattens, and your entire being begins to feel like soft, pliable fabric. Gary watches in awe as your transformation continues, his blush deepening as he grins awkwardly. “Whoa, this is actually happening. You’re really becoming my socks!” Your arms stretch into long tubes, and your feet and legs meld together as your insides hollow out along with the softening of your flesh into cotton. You feel a growing need to be filled, to be worn, followed by a strange sensation as you split into two socks. Gary picks you up carefully, holding you in his hands with an excited smile. You're a pair of pink socks with the logo of a magical girl anime on the hems. “Man, you turned out awesome! You're limited edition merch! This is the best!” He sits back down in his gaming chair and lifts one of his large feet, carefully sliding you over it. The sensation of his foot slipping into you is immediate and overwhelming. His soft pads press against your fabric, and you cling tightly to him, wrapping snugly around his foot. The warmth of his fur seeps into you, and you feel a deep sense of comfort as his toes wiggle inside you. As he pulls you over his other foot, you realize that your new life has begun. Gary leans back in his chair, wiggling his toes and smiling to himself. “You feel great, honestly. I’m gonna wear you to every con, every gaming night, everything!” Your world shifts as Gary goes back to his marathon MMO grind. Hours pass as he sits there, his feet occasionally flexing and shifting as he focuses on the game. You can feel his excitement as he talks to his guildmates through his headset, the tension in his feet rising as he gets caught up in the action. His feet sweat slightly, the warmth and faint musk soaking into your fabric as the hours go by, but it’s never overwhelming—just enough to remind you that you’re part of his life now. Gary occasionally glances down, grinning as he wiggles his toes inside you. “Man, I love this. You’re so comfy. You’re gonna be with me through every raid and every boss fight. And don’t worry, I’ll wash you, I promise!” You feel a strange sense of satisfaction knowing that you’ll be with Gary through all of his late-night gaming sessions, his anime binge-watching marathons, and his trips to conventions. He’s already planning on showing you off to his friends, teasing them about how his socks used to be a person. “They’re gonna be so jealous,” he says with a grin. And as Gary settles into his next gaming session, his soft, warm feet pressing into you with every slight movement, you know that you’re exactly where you belong—wrapped around his feet, part of his world, and ready for every adventure he has planned. [[Life with Gary]]

"Great!", the raccoon says. A sudden prick of pain his your neck, and you realise you just got shot with a blowdart from a hidden hole in the wall. "That'll just get you started on the nanites and the brain melt- I mean, uh, brain..." The raccoon blinks, and pulls an animated switch next to him. "Whatever, bye! Enjoy your new life!" There is a rush of strange light all around you. A flash of bright light surrounds you, and when it fades, you find yourself in a sleek, modern apartment that screams athleticism. There are posters of famous basketball players on the walls, trophies on shelves, and a basketball sitting casually on a chair. You can hear the faint echo of basketballs hitting a court outside the window, and the smell of fresh sweat, gym bags, and polished hardwood lingers in the air. There’s an unmistakable energy in the room, the kind that only comes from someone who lives and breathes sports. Standing in the center of the room, stretching his muscular arms, is Jax. The cheetah’s tall and lean frame is immediately noticeable, his athletic build honed from hours of practice and training. His spotted fur, sleek and golden, clings to his body, still a bit damp from his latest workout. He’s wearing a tank top and basketball shorts, his muscles defined and tight as he glances at you with a cocky, self-assured grin. "Yo, you’re here already? What’s up?" Jax says, leaning back against a nearby wall with a confident swagger. His voice is smooth, laced with pride as he crosses his arms, his eyes glinting with amusement. "So, you’re ready to be my socks, huh? You better be serious about sports, ‘cause I don’t mess around." Without waiting for a response, he pushes himself off the wall and strides toward you, his movements fluid and graceful, like a predator who knows he’s at the top of his game. He lifts one of his feet, showing it off to you with a teasing grin. His foot is large, long, and lean, the fur short and sleek, dotted with the signature black spots of a cheetah. His paw pads are smooth but firm, clearly worn from countless hours on the court, and there’s a faint scent of sweat—fresh, strong, and undeniably athletic. His toes flex lazily as he shows off, clearly enjoying himself. "You see these? You’re gonna have to be able to handle them, especially after a hard game." The second his foot comes near you, something deep inside you stirs. An intense, overwhelming desire fills your mind, and suddenly, Jax’s foot—the very embodiment of athleticism—becomes the center of your world. You can’t stop yourself. Before you know it, you drop to your knees, hands trembling as you reach for his foot. "Whoa, alright!" Jax laughs, clearly impressed with your reaction. "Guess you’re really into this, huh? Good. I like that in my socks." Your heart races as you press your hands against his foot, feeling the firm pads beneath your fingers, the soft fur brushing against your skin. You can smell the faint scent of sweat, fresh from his recent workout, and instead of being overwhelming, it fills you with a strange sense of pride—like you’re already part of his athletic life. His toes wiggle slightly against your hands, sending a small jolt of energy through you, and you feel the desire growing stronger. "Yeah, that’s it," Jax murmurs, a grin stretching across his face. "Let’s see if you’re ready for this." As you press closer to his foot, rubbing your face against the pads, the transformation begins. Your skin tingles, softening, changing. Your arms and legs start to lose their shape, stretching out and becoming smooth and pliable. Your entire body feels lighter, becoming soft and flexible. Your legs fuse together, your arms stretch and merge into your body, and your chest flattens as you slowly but surely start to transform into fabric. Jax watches, his sharp eyes gleaming with interest as your transformation progresses. "Dude, this is wild," he says, leaning back slightly to get a better view. "You’re really turning into my socks, huh?" Your legs fully fuse, becoming sleek and stretchy, and your torso shrinks, flattening out. You feel yourself shrinking as your body completes its transformation, the world around you growing larger as you become small and light. You’re no longer human, you’re a pair of white athletic socks, perfectly shaped to fit around Jax’s strong furry feet feet. Jax picks you up, turning you over in his hands with a grin. "Man, you turned out great. This is gonna be awesome." Without hesitation, he lifts one foot and slips you over it. The sensation is immediate and intense. His foot slides into you with ease, and you wrap tightly around him, hugging every curve and muscle of his foot. The warmth of his body radiates through you, and his smooth pads press into your fabric with each subtle movement. His toes flex inside you, rubbing against you as he wiggles them into place. "You feel perfect," Jax says with satisfaction, flexing his foot to test your fit. "Snug, just the way I like it." He pulls you over his other foot, and suddenly, you’re fully part of his world. Every shift, every movement, every step he takes sends waves of sensation through you. You feel the pressure of his weight as he stands up, his lean, muscular frame pressing down on you as he starts to move around the apartment. The heat from his feet fills you, and you can feel the faint dampness of sweat as his body warms up from the residual energy of his last workout. "You’re gonna have to deal with some sweat," Jax says with a smirk, flexing his toes inside you again. "But don’t worry, I keep my gear clean. You handle the court, and I’ll make sure you stay fresh." As Jax grabs his basketball and heads out the door for another practice session, your world shifts with every step he takes. His feet hit the ground with power and purpose, and you feel every bounce, every press of his toes, every shift of his weight as he makes his way to the court. You’re part of his athletic life now, feeling every jump, every sprint, every pivot as he moves across the hardwood. His sweat begins to soak into you, the musky scent of an athlete in motion becoming part of your reality. But it’s not overwhelming—it feels like you’re right where you’re supposed to be, supporting him through every moment. "Let’s see how you hold up," Jax says with a grin as he dribbles the ball and starts shooting hoops. Each time he lands from a jump shot, the impact sends a rush of sensation through you. His toes press into you, his weight slamming down with each pivot and run. The heat builds, the sweat seeps into your fibers, but you handle it, clinging to him as he pushes himself harder and harder. By the time practice is over, Jax is drenched in sweat, but you’ve held up. You can feel the weight of the moisture in your fabric, the heat radiating from his body, but it’s not unbearable—it’s part of being his socks. "Not bad," Jax says with a grin, heading back inside and peeling you off his feet. "You did good today. Let’s get you cleaned up and ready for tomorrow." And just like that, you’re tossed into the laundry, ready to be washed and freshened up for the next game, the next practice, the next challenge. [[Life with Jax]]

"Great!", the raccoon says. A sudden prick of pain his your neck, and you realise you just got shot with a blowdart from a hidden hole in the wall. "That'll just get you started on the nanites and the brain melt- I mean, uh, brain..." The raccoon blinks, and pulls an animated switch next to him. "Whatever, bye! Enjoy your new life!" There is a rush of strange light all around you. In an instant, a flash of light surrounds you, and the world shifts. When the brightness fades, you find yourself standing in a laid-back, beachy living room. The walls are adorned with surfboards, posters of ocean waves, and strings of colorful lights that give off a relaxed, tropical vibe. There’s a faint scent of salt air and sunscreen lingering in the room. Before you can take it all in, you hear a voice. “Whoa, dude! You’re here already? That’s awesome!” You turn to see Terry, the tall, lanky fox, lounging on a couch with a lazy, crooked grin. His fur is a mess of bright orange with streaks of sand-colored fluff, and his trademark Hawaiian shirt hangs loosely over his frame. His beanie sits haphazardly on his head, and his bushy tail swishes lazily behind him. He kicks his feet up on the coffee table, giving you a playful wink. “Guess it’s time to get you settled in, huh? This is gonna be so rad.” Without wasting a second, Terry hops off the couch with an easygoing, casual swagger and approaches you. His grin widens as he touches you, stroking your cheek, looking you up and down, thinking about how you'll be when you're his. Then you see it. Terry’s bare foot, lifted into view. His foot is long and slender, covered in soft, sandy-orange fur, with pink, smooth pads on the bottom. He wiggles his toes with a laugh, clearly enjoying the moment. “Check ‘em out. This is where you’re gonna be spending most of your time from now on.” The second your skin makes contact with his foot, something inside you stirs. It’s like a switch has been flipped, and suddenly, your thoughts are filled with a deep, overwhelming desire to be close to him—specifically, to his feet. Your mind races, and before you know it, you drop to your knees, instinctively pressing your hands against his foot, massaging the fur, feeling the warmth radiate from his pads. “Whoa, easy there,” Terry says, a laugh in his voice. “You’re really gettin’ into it, huh? I dig it.” Your heart pounds in your chest as your body moves on its own. You press your face against his foot, taking in the scent of the sand and surf that clings to him. It’s intoxicating, almost hypnotic. The smell of the ocean and a faint trace of salt mixed with his natural musk fills your senses. You rub your face along the length of his foot, tracing the pads with your hands, your mind clouded with nothing but the intense desire to be closer to him. As you continue to worship his foot, your body starts to change. It’s subtle at first—your skin tingles, softening, losing its shape. You glance down and see your arms growing thin, elongating, turning into smooth, stretchy fabric. The transformation has begun. Terry watches in fascination, his golden eyes twinkling with excitement as you slowly change before him. “Dude, this is wild. You’re really becoming my socks, huh? Far out.” Your legs follow suit, melding together and stretching out like threads, your feet disappearing as they fuse into fabric. Your chest compresses, flattening and becoming sleek and stretchy. Your entire form is shifting, becoming something new—something designed for one purpose: to be wrapped around Terry’s feet, to serve him as his socks. The feeling of your body changing is overwhelming, but it feels right. Your arms are no longer arms—they’re soft, pliable fabric, perfectly designed to mold around his foot. Your torso is now a long, sleek shape, perfectly suited to slip onto his foot and hug him tight. The transformation feels complete as your vision blurs, the world around you stretching and distorting. You shrink down, becoming lighter and smaller, until you’re no longer human at all. You’re a pair of socks now. Terry’s socks. You are sky-blue, with little surfboards stitched into you all over, a light hearted and cute design perfect for this chill fox. Terry picks you up with both hands, inspecting your new form with a grin. “Man, you turned out perfect. Just what I need for a day at the beach or hitting the waves.” Without hesitation, he slips you onto his foot. The sensation of being worn by him is immediate, intense. His foot slides into you, the soft pads of his toes pressing down into your fabric form. The warmth of his skin surrounds you as you hug his foot tightly, clinging to every curve, every contour. It feels amazing—like you were made for this. Terry flexes his toes inside you, chuckling to himself. “Yeah, you fit like a glove… or, uh, a sock, I guess. You’re gonna be with me for every step, dude.” As he slips his other foot into you, your entire world becomes the rhythm of his movement. Every flex of his toes, every slight shift of his weight, every step he takes—it's all you can feel. You’re wrapped snugly around him, feeling the pressure of each step as he moves around the room. It’s a strange, surreal sensation, but it fills you with an odd sense of satisfaction. Terry grabs his skateboard, sliding his foot (and you) into a pair of scuffed-up sneakers. The warmth and comfort of his foot remain, but now there’s the added pressure of the shoe pressing you tighter against him. He heads out the door, cruising down the street toward the beach, and with every push of the skateboard, every grind of the wheels, you’re there with him, experiencing the thrill of it all. “You’re gonna love this life, dude,” Terry calls out, even though you can’t respond anymore. “We’ll hit the waves, go to bonfires, skate around town. You’re stuck with me now, and I think we’re gonna have a blast.” As he rolls down the street, you feel every vibration, every bump on the pavement, every subtle movement of his feet. You’re part of his life now—part of the chill, relaxed world Terry lives in. And as he heads toward the beach, the sun shining down and the salty breeze blowing through the air, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be. [[Life with Terry]]

"Great!", the raccoon says. A sudden prick of pain his your neck, and you realise you just got shot with a blowdart from a hidden hole in the wall. "That'll just get you started on the nanites and the brain melt- I mean, uh, brain..." The raccoon blinks, and pulls an animated switch next to him. "Whatever, bye! Enjoy your new life!" There is a rush of strange light all around you. A flash of light surrounds you, and when it fades, you find yourself standing in a modest, cozy living room. It’s simple—plain furniture, a couple of framed photos on the walls, and a faint smell of coffee and the hint of tobacco from a well-used pipe. The air feels warm, almost comforting, like the place has been lived in for years. The quiet hum of a radio playing soft oldies fills the background, setting a relaxed tone for the space. Standing in the middle of the room, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses and rubbing his large belly, is Bill—the middle-aged bear you’ve chosen. He’s a heavy-set figure, with a round belly pushing against his button-down shirt and a thick, graying moustache that twitches as he speaks. His brown fur is a little patchy, especially around his slightly balding head, and his tired but kind eyes blink at you in slight confusion. “Well, I didn’t expect you’d really show up,” Bill says, his deep, rumbling voice carrying both surprise and warmth. He scratches the back of his head, looking a bit awkward. “I, uh… I’m not sure why anyone would wanna be socks for a boring old man like me, but… here we are, huh?” He chuckles softly, his belly jiggling as he laughs, but you can tell he’s flattered. He’s clearly not used to being the center of attention, and the idea of someone wanting to be his socks seems to baffle him. Still, he takes a deep breath and gives you a small, grateful smile. “So, um, I guess we should get started?” Bill says, adjusting his shirt nervously. “I’m not exactly sure how this works, but… I’m willing to give it a try. Who knows, maybe I’ll enjoy having someone to keep my feet warm.” With a bit of hesitation, he kneels down, his wide frame filling the space between you as he slowly removes his leather shoes. He chuckles again, this time more sheepishly. “Sorry if I don't do this right. Not really something I’ve ever done before.” Once his shoes are off, Bill stands up and glances down at his feet. They’re huge—wide and thick, with dark brown pads covering the broad soles. His fur is thick and slightly unkempt, covering his feet in a soft layer of brown, and his claws are short but blunt. “You sure about this?” he asks, wiggling his toes slightly. “I mean, my feet aren’t exactly… uh, glamorous. They’re big, wide, and, well… kinda old, like the rest of me.” But as his foot inches closer, something deep inside you stirs. An overwhelming sense of curiosity and desire fills your mind, drawing you toward his wide, warm feet. The air feels charged with anticipation, and you can’t stop yourself from stepping forward, drawn to the sight of his large, inviting foot. Without thinking, you drop to your knees, your hands reaching out to touch his foot as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Well, would you look at that…” Bill mutters, his voice filled with surprise and a hint of amusement. “You really do want me, huh?” Your heart races as you press your hands against his thick, furry foot, feeling the warmth radiating from his pads. The fur between his toes is soft, almost comforting, and there’s a faint, earthy smell of clean fur mixed with a hint of tobacco—nothing overwhelming, just the natural scent of someone who spends his days working in an office and enjoying simple comforts. You rub your face gently against his foot, breathing in the warmth and scent, feeling your body respond with an odd sense of contentment. “You’re, uh… sure about this?” Bill asks again, a bit flustered but clearly warming up to the idea. As you continue to press into his foot, your body starts to change. Your skin softens, the texture slowly becoming smooth and pliable fabric. Your arms and legs begin to stretch and thin, losing their human form as they merge into cotton. Your torso compresses, becoming sleek and flat, your insides vanishing and hollowing out as your legs fuse together into one smooth, sock-like shape. The transformation is calm, peaceful, and strangely soothing, even when you feel yourself flex and split into two identical pieces. Bill bends down and carefully picks you up, holding you in his large, soft hands. “You’re softer than I thought you’d be,” he says with a smile, running his fingers over your new fabric form. “This might actually be kinda nice.” He sits back down on the couch and lifts one of his feet, carefully sliding you over it. The sensation of his foot slipping into you is immediate and overwhelming. His foot is warm, wide, and surprisingly soft, and as his thick pads press into your fabric, you cling to him snugly, wrapping tightly around every inch of his foot. His toes flex inside you, rubbing against your fabric in a slow, lazy rhythm. “Well, I’ll be,” Bill says with a chuckle, wiggling his toes inside you. “You fit pretty darn well, don’t you? I haven’t worn socks this comfy in a long time.” He pulls you over his other foot, and the weight of his large body presses down on you as he stands up. You feel every shift of his feet as he walks around the room. His steps are slow, deliberate, each footfall heavy but gentle as he moves around his home. The warmth from his body seeps into your fabric, and you can feel the subtle flexing of his toes with every step he takes. “I gotta say,” Bill says, looking down at his feet with a smile, “this feels kinda nice. Maybe having socks that are some young guy isn’t as weird as I thought.” As Bill goes about his day, whether it’s making coffee, sitting at his desk to check emails, or just relaxing in his recliner with a pipe, you’re there for it. His feet are always warm, but it’s never overwhelming. You soak it in, feeling a sense of satisfaction in being part of his routine, part of his life. Bill leans back in his chair, glancing down at you with a grin. “I gotta admit, it’s nice to have someone around, even if it’s just… y’know, as socks. I guess I’m not so boring after all, huh?” And as the day winds down, Bill takes a moment to kick his feet up on the ottoman, wiggling his toes inside you with a contented sigh. “You’re alright, kid. I think we’re gonna get along just fine.” [[Life with Bill]]

"Great!", the raccoon says. A sudden prick of pain his your neck, and you realise you just got shot with a blowdart from a hidden hole in the wall. "That'll just get you started on the nanites and the brain melt- I mean, uh, brain..." The raccoon blinks, and pulls an animated switch next to him. "Whatever, bye! Enjoy your new life!" There is a rush of strange light all around you. A flash of brilliant light surrounds you, and when it fades, you find yourself standing in a lavish, modern penthouse suite high above the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a panoramic view of skyscrapers, while sleek, expensive furniture decorates the open space. Everything screams luxury—polished floors, designer décor, and the unmistakable scent of wealth and power. The faint sound of classical music plays in the background, underscoring the atmosphere of quiet dominance that fills the room. Standing in the center of this opulent space, adjusting his cufflinks with a smirk, is Damon Drakemore. He’s tall, with powerful, muscular limbs wrapped in shimmering emerald-green scales. His golden eyes gleam with cold, calculated arrogance, and his movements are fluid and purposeful. His suit is perfectly tailored, emphasizing his broad shoulders and well-defined frame. Everything about him exudes confidence, wealth, and control. “You’ve finally arrived,” Damon says, his voice smooth and dripping with disdainful confidence. He barely spares you a glance as he speaks, as though your arrival was an inevitability, something he’d expected from the moment he agreed to the arrangement. “I knew you would. It’s only natural that you’d want to serve me.” His golden eyes flick toward you, and a cruel smile curls across his lips. He steps forward, his powerful form towering over you, his presence overwhelming. “I assume you already know how lucky you are. After all, you’ve chosen me—Damon Drakemore. A dragon of my caliber deserves nothing but the best, and now, you’ll have the privilege of being my socks.” He reaches out with claw-tipped fingers, stroking your chin idly. His claws move with precision and elegance, despite the raw strength that you can sense within him. Damon stands back up, straightening his cuffs once more before lifting one of his massive, clawed feet toward you. His foot is covered in thick, powerful green scales that gleam in the light, each one perfectly polished and strong. His foot is enormous, wide, and intimidatingly firm, with sharp black claws extending from his toes. The scales glisten with a faint sheen, and there’s an earthy, musky scent that rises from his foot, a smell that makes you think of power, wealth, and a life lived at the top. He wiggles his toes slightly, watching you with amusement. “Look at these feet,” Damon says, his voice dripping with arrogance. “This is what you’ve chosen to serve, and you should be grateful. You will spend the rest of your existence wrapped around them, feeling their power as I walk through my superior life. Whatever you were before is nothing compared to the honour of being my property.” As his foot inches closer to you, a sudden, overwhelming desire surges through your body. Your mind is consumed with an irresistible need to serve him, to belong to him, to be wrapped around his powerful, muscular feet. There’s a magnetic pull that draws you toward him, and before you can stop yourself, you fall to your knees, your hands reaching out for his foot with trembling anticipation. “Of course,” Damon says with a cruel chuckle, watching your reaction with cold satisfaction. “You couldn’t resist, could you? It’s only natural that you would want to worship me.” Your fingers brush against his scaled foot, and the sensation sends a shock of pleasure and submission through your entire body. His scales are smooth and firm, and the raw power beneath them is palpable. The scent of him—rich, musky, and faintly smoky—overwhelms your senses, filling your mind with a heady mixture of awe and obedience. You press your face against his foot, inhaling deeply as your hands caress his strong, clawed toes. “Yes,” Damon murmurs, his voice low and menacing. “That’s where you belong. On your knees, at my feet.” As you continue to rub and massage his powerful foot, your body begins to change. The transformation starts slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, but soon your skin begins to soften, stretching and reshaping. Your arms and legs lose their definition, becoming smooth and fabric-like as they lengthen and change. Your chest flattens, and your entire form starts to shift into something light, soft, and pliable as you feel weak, hollowing out and going limp. Damon watches the transformation with cold fascination, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement. “Look at you. Throwing away your humanity to be mine, to be clothing, to be under my feet. Like all non-dragons should be.” Your legs fuse together, becoming a single, sleek length of fabric, while your arms stretch out and merge into your chest. Your mouth opens wide, craving the touch and taste of Damon's feet. You continue to shrink, your human form fading away as you split in two, transformed completely into a pair of luxurious, high-end black silk socks, perfectly suited for Damon’s powerful feet. Damon picks you up, holding you between his fingers with a smirk of satisfaction. “How fitting. You’ll look perfect on me.” He sits down in one of his leather armchairs and slowly pulls you over his foot. The sensation is overwhelming as his large, scaly foot slips inside you. You cling tightly to him, wrapping snugly around every curve of his foot, the smooth, firm texture of his scales pressing into your fabric. His toes flex inside you, and you can feel the raw power of his body as you stretch to fit perfectly around him. “You fit beautifully,” Damon says, his voice filled with quiet arrogance. “Exactly as I knew you would.” He slides his other foot into you, and now you’re fully wrapped around both of his massive, powerful feet. The warmth from his body seeps into you, and you can feel the subtle movements of his toes inside you, every flex, every shift of his weight as he stands up. You’re snugly wrapped around his feet, feeling the strength of each step as he walks across the polished marble floor. “From now on,” Damon says, his voice dripping with authority, “you will accompany me through every part of my life. You will feel the power of my every step. You will be there as I succeed, as I conquer. And you will be reminded, every moment, that you belong to me.” As Damon slips into his sleek, polished leather shoes, you feel the weight of his entire body pressing down on you with each step. The pressure is intense, the power of his strides undeniable, but you are perfectly designed to handle it. You cling tightly to him, absorbing the warmth, the strength, and the musky scent of success that seems to follow him wherever he goes. “You should feel honored,” Damon says with a cruel smirk, glancing down at his feet as he heads toward the door. “You’re now part of something far greater than you could have ever imagined. From this moment forward, you belong to me, and you will serve me well.” [[Life with Damon]]

"Great!", the raccoon says. A sudden prick of pain his your neck, and you realise you just got shot with a blowdart from a hidden hole in the wall. "That'll just get you started on the nanites and the brain melt- I mean, uh, brain..." The raccoon blinks, and pulls an animated switch next to him. "Whatever, bye! Enjoy your new life!" There is a rush of strange light all around you. In an instant, a flash of light surrounds you, and when it clears, you find yourself standing in a small, cluttered apartment. The room is dimly lit, with piles of comic books and stacks of video game cases scattered across the floor. Posters from movies and bands line the walls, and the faint hum of a gaming console comes from the corner. You spot Zach almost immediately, sitting on the edge of his bed, his lanky frame hunched over a guitar. He jumps in surprise when he sees you, fumbling with the instrument before setting it down quickly. His ears twitch nervously, and he pushes his disheveled hair out of his eyes, flashing you an awkward but genuine smile. He’s wearing a band T-shirt that’s slightly wrinkled and a pair of jeans that look like they’ve seen better days. His sandy fur is speckled with dark spots, and his tail flicks back and forth behind him. “Whoa! Uh, hey! You’re here already!” Zach says, his voice cracking slightly with excitement. He rubs the back of his neck, clearly unsure of how to start. “This is… I mean, this is kinda crazy, right?” Before you can respond, Zach stands up, his nervous energy making him shift from foot to foot. He glances down at your shoes, then looks back up at you, his smile growing a bit wider as the realization sinks in. “Oh, right!I better get my shoes off I guess.” He steps forward, his hands fumbling slightly as he kneels down to take off his shoes. He tosses them aside, his ears flicking as he stares down at his own bare feet. Zach lifts one of his feet into view, showing it to you with a shy smile. His foot is covered in soft, sandy fur, with dark spots lining the top and padded toes that are slightly rough from long hours of band practice and late-night walks. “Uh, so… these are them,” he says, wiggling his toes. “I hope you’re okay with ‘em. I mean, you’re gonna be spending a lot of time with them, so…” The moment your skin touches his foot, something deep within you stirs. A rush of warmth and excitement floods your senses, and your mind is overtaken by a strange, overwhelming desire. Zach’s foot, once just a normal part of him, suddenly becomes your entire focus. You feel an intense, almost magnetic pull toward it, like it’s the center of your world. Without even thinking, you drop to your knees, reaching out to touch his foot, pressing your palms against the pads of his toes. “Whoa, uh… that’s cool,” Zach says, his voice cracking again. He looks flustered, but there’s a hint of excitement in his eyes as he watches you. “I mean… I didn’t think you’d, like, get into it this fast.” Your heart races as you press your face against his foot, your hands running along the fur, feeling the texture of the pads under your fingertips. The scent of him—faint and a little musky, with traces of worn sneakers and long nights—fills your senses. You breathe it in deeply, and it only intensifies the desire pulsing through your body. You need to be closer, to be with him, to belong to him completely. As you rub your face and hands against his foot, something begins to change. Your body tingles, and you glance down to see your skin starting to soften and stretch. Your hands thin out, the texture of them shifting into something smooth and flexible. Your arms grow longer, more pliable, and you realize with a strange sense of calm that your transformation has begun. Zach’s eyes widen as he watches you change. “Whoa, it’s happening! You’re… you’re really becoming my socks!” Your legs fuse together, elongating and losing their structure, becoming soft and stretchy like fabric. Your chest flattens, and your entire form begins to shrink, the world around you expanding as you grow smaller and smaller. Your arms and legs stretch into long, tubes and combine together, your feet disappearing as your body completes its transformation, your mouth hanging open as the new entrance before you split jarringly in two. The feeling is surreal—your body no longer feels solid. Instead, it’s light and soft, a perfect fit for Zach’s feet. Your vision blurs, and soon enough, you’re no longer human at all. You’re a pair of socks, made to wrap around Zach’s feet and keep him warm, to be with him every step of the way. You're black, with red stripes at the top, your fabric thick and hard-wearing, appropriate for wearing in boots without wearing out. Zach picks you up with an amazed grin, his nervousness fading as excitement takes over. He runs his fingers over your new form, admiring the way you feel. “Wow… this is so cool. You’re, like, perfect.” He sits down on the bed and lifts one foot, carefully sliding you over it. The sensation of his foot slipping into you is overwhelming. The soft pads of his toes press into you, and you cling to him tightly, hugging his foot as if you were always meant to be there. The warmth of his skin spreads through your fabric, and the musky scent of his feet fills you completely. It feels right. It feels like home. As he slides his other foot into you, your entire world shifts. You can feel every subtle movement of his feet—the way his toes flex inside you, the pressure as he stands, the slight shifts in his weight as he takes his first steps. The sensation is all-encompassing, and you realize that from now on, this is where you’ll be—wrapped around Zach’s feet, feeling every moment of his life. Zach wiggles his toes inside you, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “You feel awesome, man. We’re gonna be such a good team. You’ll be with me at practice, at gigs, at work… everywhere.” He stands up, pacing around the room, and each step sends waves of sensation through you. The slight friction of the floor, the warmth of his feet, the soft squish of his pads pressing into you—it’s all you can feel now. And somehow, it’s exactly what you wanted. You’re part of his life now, sharing every moment with him, from band rehearsals to quiet evenings spent gaming. As Zach sits back down and grabs his guitar, strumming a few lazy chords, you can’t help but feel content. [[Life with Zach]]

Days blur together as you settle into your new existence as Nico’s socks. The transformation, at first shocking, becomes your new reality, and each day brings a strange mix of sensation and stillness. It’s not like being human anymore—your entire world is Nico’s feet, and you experience life through the constant contact with his skin, the pressure of his steps, and the warmth of his body. From the moment Nico pulls you on in the morning, you feel an immediate rush of connection. His long, slender feet slip into you, and you mold to him perfectly, snug and warm. You can feel every bit of him—each pad, each toe, every curve of his arch. His fur tickles your fabric as you cling to him, providing him with comfort and support. It’s not just physical—it’s deeper, like you’re truly part of him now, and each day you spend on his feet only strengthens that bond. When he walks, it’s as if your whole world moves with him. You feel the floor beneath you, hard and cold in the kitchen in the mornings, or soft and smooth when he shuffles around the carpeted rooms. Every step sends tiny jolts of pressure through your fabric body, the sensation of being pressed down, lifted up, then pressed down again in a rhythmic, almost hypnotic pattern. Nico doesn’t step lightly—he’s a busy artist, moving constantly around his chaotic studio, and you feel every moment of it. As the hours tick by, you become more and more familiar with the textures of his life. The cool hardwood floor of his apartment, the gritty roughness of paint-splattered carpets, the soft give of his old, worn sneakers when he finally slips his shoes on. And when he sits at his easel, lost in a trance while creating, you feel the subtle movements of his feet shifting underneath the table, occasionally tapping as he focuses, or rubbing together absentmindedly while he thinks. The sensations are overwhelming at times—particularly when Nico is deep in the zone, painting for hours without a break. He’s always moving his feet, flexing his toes, pressing down harder into you when he’s frustrated or restless. And when he stands, stretching his legs after hours of focus, it’s like your whole existence is squeezed under his weight, his slender feet pressing down into the fabric that you’ve become, reminding you just how closely you’re bound to him now. You get used to the smells, too. Nico rarely remembers to wash you, and as the days pass, the scent of his life clings to you. The smell of cigarette smoke, cheap wine, and art supplies—all of it mingles together, soaking into your fibers. Occasionally, he’ll splash a bit of paint on you when he’s working, or you’ll catch the faint scent of charcoal from when he rests his feet on a stack of sketches. You even get the occasional wine stain when he tips a glass just a little too far, laughing to himself as the red liquid soaks into you. You don't know why, but each new stain feels incredible. A red splotch of wine, a smear of charcoal, a splatter of blue paint, all of it turning your white fabric into a canvas of messy, chaotic colour, while your material is slowly darkened and soaked in Nico's scent. It's orgasmic, overwhelming. You find yourself trembling with lust and need when he's painting, eager for another little droplet of paint to stain you, to wipe away more of what you once were, to remind you and mark you that you are Nico's socks, his property, his object. Sometimes, he takes you out to smoky clubs, slipping you into a pair of worn-out boots as he heads to a late-night poetry reading or an underground art show. You feel the vibrations of the music through the soles of his feet, the dull thrum of bass, the subtle beat of jazz. Each step in those crowded, dimly lit spaces is alive with sensation, from the crunch of gravel underfoot to the cool chill of a nighttime breeze seeping through his shoes. You’re there for all of it, an unseen part of his life, experiencing every moment as it happens. And, just like he promised, sometimes you get a little dirty—splattered with paint, or left stained by the dust of chalk and charcoal. But Nico never minds. He doesn’t wash you often, and the grime of his daily life builds up, settling into you like a part of the art he’s always creating. You come to understand that, for Nico, this mess, this chaos—it’s all part of something bigger. It’s art, it’s life, it’s him. And you’re an inseparable part of it now. There’s an odd sort of intimacy to it all. You feel everything—his steps, his weight, the pressure of him curling his toes when he’s deep in thought. His feet have become your entire world, and though it’s far from glamorous, it feels oddly fulfilling. Each day is a new page in his messy, chaotic story, and you are wrapped around him, witnessing it all from a place no one else can. You’re not just socks. You’re Nico’s socks. And for an artist as passionate and intense as he is, that means you’ve become part of his journey, forever.

Days turn into a strange, hazy blur as you settle into your new existence as Vinnie’s socks. Time doesn’t feel the same anymore. Your world revolves around the warm, sweaty confines of Vinnie’s feet, and every day is filled with the same overwhelming sensations—the press of his toes, the weight of his steps, the constant damp heat that surrounds you. When he first slides you on in the morning, you feel the familiar, greasy touch of his fur as it presses into your fabric. His feet, unwashed and clammy, slide into you like they belong there—like you were made just for him. The grime that has built up on his pads sinks deeper into your fibers, the oily residue of his laziness clinging to you. It’s a mix of sweat, dirt, and the unmistakable musk of someone who hasn’t showered in days. Vinnie hardly ever takes you off. You’re with him all day, through every lazy shuffle to the kitchen, every smoke-filled lounging session on the couch. You feel every step he takes, the weight of his body pressing down on you with each movement. Sometimes he steps on discarded pizza boxes or bags of chips that litter the floor, and you feel the crumbs and grease squishing underfoot, mingling with the grime already embedded in your fabric. Every so often, he rubs his feet together absentmindedly while he plays video games, the rough pads of his toes grinding into you. The sensation of his feet pressing into you, rubbing dirt and sweat deeper into your fabric, has become your new reality. The smell—the strong, pungent musk of days without washing—fills every thread of your being. You absorb it, the scent of Vinnie becoming part of you, a constant reminder that you belong to him. He doesn’t wash you. Days go by, and you remain soaked in sweat, marinated in the musky scent of his feet. You feel his body heat radiating into you, the occasional tremble of his feet as he gets excited during a game, or the lazy twitch of his toes when he’s stoned out of his mind, lost in thought. Each shift, each subtle movement, makes your entire world quiver. Sometimes, when Vinnie’s too high to care, he forgets to take you off at night. He’ll flop into bed, too lazy to remove his socks, and you stay on his feet as he drifts off into a hazy, weed-induced sleep. You feel the warmth of the blankets pressing down on top of him, the humid heat of his feet trapped inside you as the hours stretch on. The pressure never lets up—it’s constant, unrelenting. His foot odor grows stronger the longer you stay on, the smell building up until it’s all you can think about, all you can feel. When he wakes up, groggy and bleary-eyed, he sometimes gives his feet a lazy rub, smirking as he flexes his toes inside you. “Yeah… you’re gettin’ real ripe now,” he mutters to himself, clearly enjoying how filthy you’ve become. You feel the satisfaction radiating from him as he grinds his feet into you, letting you absorb more of his filth with every passing second. The days bleed into each other, a never-ending cycle of sweat, grime, and the dull, pounding rhythm of Vinnie’s footsteps. Sometimes, you catch the faint scent of weed smoke wafting down to you, mingling with the sweat-soaked fabric of your form. It’s a part of him, just like the layers of filth that have caked themselves into your threads. Occasionally, he takes you off—if only for a moment. You feel the sudden rush of cool air as you’re peeled away from his feet, damp and heavy with the buildup of days spent stuck to him. There's only one reason he takes you off, though. He presses you against his long snout, deeply inhaling his stench that has soaked so deeply into you. Each time he does it, his pyjama pants quickly tent, the weasel's long, unwashed cock getting hard and throbbing from his stench. Whenever he does that, you get used to the feeling of being slid down over his throbbing pole. The feeling of his hand squeezing you around his cock, pumping you up and down. The intimacy of being so close to him, feeling the blood pounding through his cock, his shuddering, and his grunts as he pumps his thick, creamy wet cum deep into your fabric. Afterwards he tosses you into a corner of his apartment, where you lay crumpled in a pile of dirty clothes and trash. The air is thick with the smell of his unwashed laundry, and you can still feel the faint taste of his cum in the fibers of your fabric. Even off his feet, you’re surrounded by his world—his laziness, his filth. But you always end up back on him. Vinnie grabs you with a lazy grin, his half-lidded eyes red from hours of smoking, and pulls you back onto his feet with the same careless ease as before. Each time, it’s like slipping back into your rightful place, hugging his dirty, sweaty paws, feeling his weight pressing down on you once more. The longer you’re with him, the more you sink into this new reality. You’re no longer just socks—you’re Vinnie’s socks. You exist for him, for the filth he brings, for the grime and sweat and the sensation of being trapped under his feet. The world outside his apartment fades into a distant memory, and all that remains is the stench of his body, the damp, dirty pressure of his feet, and the never-ending cycle of his lazy, stoned lifestyle.

Living as Terry’s socks is like riding the slow, easy rhythm of a never-ending summer. Each day melts into the next, full of sun, surf, and a constant sense of freedom. From the moment he pulls you on in the morning to the time he finally kicks his shoes off at night, your world is wrapped around his long, sandy-furred feet. When Terry slides you on, the sensation is immediate and familiar now—a snug, warm embrace as his toes slip into place and you stretch perfectly over his paws. His feet are slender but strong, the pads smooth yet worn from years of skating, surfing, and wandering along the beach. You cling to him with every step, perfectly fitted to his unique form. The softness of his fur presses into your fabric, and his laid-back energy seems to seep into you as you wrap around his feet, ready for another day of easygoing adventure. The days are long and relaxed. After a day relaxing on the boardwalk or getting morning mimosas, Terry often pulls his shoes off and walks barefoot in you across the warm sand, letting the grains of it stick to you, working their way into your fibers. You feel every step he takes, the soft give of the sand beneath his feet as you’re pressed deeper into it with each footfall. There’s something soothing about the sensation, the gentle pressure, the warmth of his paws radiating through you as you cling to his feet, protecting him from the elements. Sometimes, Terry sits at the beach with his friends, lounging in the sand or on a boardwalk bench. You’re there for it all—the laughter, the jokes, the lazy afternoons spent watching the waves roll in. The salty breeze carries the scent of the ocean, mingling with the warmth of Terry’s feet. He occasionally rubs his feet together while he talks, absentmindedly massaging his toes against you, flexing his pads as he listens to his friends, completely at ease. Sometimes he gets a little closer with those friends, too. Terry's relaxed laid back lifestyle applies to love, too, and more than once you've been a passenger on his feet as he ruts and grinds against one of his bros, feeling his toes curl as he nuts deep inside them and then kisses them sloppily on the beach. You never leave his side. Whether he’s surfing, or just chilling by the fire at a bonfire party, you’re with him every step of the way. The sweat from his feet soaks into you after a long day of movement, and the salty air and sandy terrain leave their mark on your fibers. But it’s all part of the experience, part of living this laid-back life with him. Terry doesn’t seem to mind if you get a little dirty or worn out—it’s all part of the vibe. He’s not overly worried about washing you frequently, but when he does, it’s usually just to toss you in with his other clothes, barely paying attention as you get tumbled around in the washer. On nights when Terry hits up local clubs or bonfire parties, you experience the thumping of music through the soles of his feet, the vibrations of the bass coursing through you as he dances with carefree abandon. His feet press into you with every step, and you can feel the warmth of his body as he moves to the music, lost in the moment. You’re wrapped around him, part of his every movement, part of the rhythm of his life. Over time, your mind starts to change, becoming lazy, relaxed and laid back, just like Terry. Your former concerns, your old life, none of that seems to matter. You just go with the flow, let Terry do what he wants, and live in the moment. This is where you belong, relaxed, chill and mindless on this surfer fox's musky feet.

Living as Zach’s socks is a strange, comforting blend of quiet moments and bursts of nervous energy. From the moment he pulls you on each morning, your world revolves around his soft, slightly sweaty feet, and you can’t help but feel a sense of belonging with each step he takes. The first thing you feel every day is Zach’s gentle hands as he slides you on. His feet, still warm from bed, slip into you, and you stretch around his toes, hugging them snugly. His pads press into your fabric as he stands, and the slight musky scent of him from the day before lingers, but it’s something you’ve grown to expect—part of the natural rhythm of his life. Zach is constantly on the move, even if it’s just nervously pacing around his small, cluttered apartment. You feel every shuffle, every small, anxious step as he moves between his different hobbies. Some mornings, he spends hours strumming his guitar, and you can feel the subtle shifts in his weight as his feet tap along with the rhythm. His toes curl absentmindedly inside you as he plays, and you feel the pressure of each movement, each strum of a chord vibrating through his body and down into his feet. There are days when he has to rush to his part-time office job, and those mornings are full of hurried, awkward steps as he slides his feet into sneakers, squishing you down as he shuffles out the door. You can feel the slight dampness of his socks, the pressure of his feet moving quickly across the floor. At work, he’s often fidgeting under the desk, tapping his feet nervously or shifting in his chair, and you feel the constant motion, the way he can never quite sit still for too long. The fabric of your form hugs his feet closely, absorbing the warmth and moisture as the hours tick by. But the most intimate moments come when Zach is indulging in his true passion: music. At night, when the world quiets down and he retreats into his room, you’re there for every second. When he practices with his band, the rhythm of the music pulses through him, and you feel it in the way his feet move, the way they press into the floor or tap out beats to the songs they’re working on. He’ll shift his weight, his toes flexing as he gets into the groove of a song, and you’re there for every note. Some other nights are quieter, more subdued but no less intimate. Zach will sink into his gaming chair, feet resting on the edge of his desk or propped up on a pile of books. His toes wiggle inside you as he becomes absorbed in the game, occasionally muttering to himself or letting out soft, nervous chuckles. You feel the vibrations of the game controller in his hands, the tension in his body when he gets frustrated or excited, and the way his feet squirm inside you when he’s deep in concentration. Over time, you get used to the subtle dirt and sweat that builds up. Zach doesn’t always remember to wash you, especially after long band practice sessions or late-night gaming marathons. The scent of his feet, a mix of nervous sweat and worn shoes, clings to your fabric. It’s not overpowering, but it’s ever-present—a constant reminder of your bond with him. Sometimes, the dirt from his sneakers seeps in, leaving faint marks on your fabric, but you’re too close to him now to mind. It’s just part of being his socks. Occasionally, when he’s feeling extra tired, he’ll leave you on overnight, curling up in bed with his feet still snug inside you. The warmth of the blankets presses down on you, and you feel his toes flex and twitch in his sleep, soft breaths escaping him as he dreams. Those are the quietest moments, when the world feels small and safe, and all you can feel is the gentle rhythm of his body at rest. There are nights when Zach takes you out with him to his band’s gigs at small, grungy clubs. He slides his feet into his worn-out sneakers, the familiar press of his soles grinding you against the rough insides of the shoes. The sticky floor of the venue leaves its mark on you, but you don’t care—you’re part of his life, part of the rhythm and energy of the band. You feel every jump, every stomp, as Zach loses himself in the music, and there’s a strange sense of pride in knowing that you’re right there with him, wrapped around his feet through every song. Zach makes it clear he appreciates you too, in his own way. One night he strips naked, pulling off his shirt, his pants, his underwear, wearing nothing but you. His modest but thick cock is semi-hard, and he's flustered and embarrassed. He pads across the flat and sits in a beanbag chair, his toes flexing inside you. He then grabs his guitar and strums out a song - "Punk Is As Punk Socks", an ode to his own socks. It's amateurish and the rhymes are messy, but he wrote a song about you, and as he mumbles and finishes it, his face embarrassed and flushed, you can tell he loves you intensely. He reaches down and pulls you off, holding you in both hands and pressing you to his nose. "Fuck, you picked me. You were a person, and out of all the guys you coulda gone with, you wanted to be mine. You thought I was cool. You like me", he says, panting, squirming and huffing you more. He shudders, growling a little, and gasps as his rock-hard cock erupts hands-free, spraying his belly with cum and even splattering some all the way up to his face and onto you and his hands. Drunk and dizzy, he falls asleep and starts to snore, while nuzzling and cuddling you in his sleep. You're Zach's property, and he loves you. As much as your new mind worships him and belongs to him, you get the feeling he feels a little like that to you, too. You doze off into your version of sleep, filled with happiness about your choice.

Living as Gus’s socks is a relentless, never-ending experience of filth and degradation. From the moment he pulls you on in the morning until he finally kicks you off at night—if he even remembers to—you are constantly subjected to the overwhelming heat, grime, and stench of his disgusting lifestyle. Each morning begins with Gus grunting awake, his heavy body shifting in bed. Without much care or thought, he grabs you from whatever filthy pile he left you in the night before. By then, you’ve been sitting in the dank, musky air of his apartment, soaked with sweat and reeking of days-old dirt and grease. Your fabric clings to the stench of his apartment, mixing with the lingering odors of half-eaten food, garbage, and his unwashed clothes. When Gus pulls you on, it’s like being swallowed by heat and moisture. His massive, sweaty foot slides into you, the pads of his feet pressing down heavily. Immediately, you’re soaked again, absorbing the sweat that never seems to stop pouring from him. His toes dig into you as he stretches and stands up, his weight crushing down on you, grinding the dirt and grime deeper into your fabric. Each step he takes sends waves of pressure through you, the rough floor of his filthy apartment scraping against your form as his feet move. The smell is inescapable. It fills you completely—thick, sour, and overpowering. The musk of his unwashed feet is intense, a mixture of old sweat, dirt, and the lingering grease from his greasy meals. It seeps into your fibers, coating you in layers of filth. Every step he takes adds to the mess, as his feet grow hotter and sweatier inside you, the moisture building up until you’re practically drenched. You can feel everything—every shift of his feet, every curl of his toes, every lazy step as he shuffles through his day. Gus is a man of minimal activity, content to sit on his sagging couch for hours, scratching his belly and belching while watching TV or playing video games. But even in his stillness, you are never at rest. His feet squirm constantly inside you, rubbing against you as he adjusts his position or lazily kicks his feet up on the coffee table. The weight of his body presses down, the heat growing unbearable as the day wears on. When Gus does decide to move, it’s even worse. His heavy, lumbering steps crush you into the floor with each footfall, the dirt and grime of his filthy apartment getting worked into your fabric. You can feel the sticky residue from food and garbage clinging to the bottom of his feet as he walks across the room, and it all becomes part of you, absorbing into your form. There’s no escaping the filth—it’s your entire existence now. Occasionally, Gus will wear shoes, sliding his sweaty, filthy feet into a pair of equally disgusting sneakers. The pressure inside the shoes is intense, his foot pressing you against the sole with every step. The heat inside the shoes is stifling, and the sweat pours out of him even faster, soaking you completely. The smell intensifies, becoming a choking mix of sweat, dirt, and the musty, stale air inside the shoes. You’re trapped in the darkness, completely at his mercy as he goes about his day, each step pounding you further into his filth-ridden world. Gus doesn’t wash you. He doesn’t even consider it. You’re left soaked in sweat day after day, marinating in the grime that has built up over time. The stench grows stronger with each passing day, the dirt and grease never leaving you. He seems to take pleasure in how filthy you become, rubbing his feet together absentmindedly as he relaxes, grinding the dirt and sweat deeper into your fabric. Sometimes, when Gus remembers you're there, he’ll laugh to himself, flexing his toes inside you and muttering insults. “Bet you wish you could get out of this, huh? Too bad,” he’ll say, smirking as his dirty feet shift inside you. “You’re stuck with me forever. Better get used to it.” When he's feeling particularly cruel, he'll heave himself onto his bed and start to jack off. You feel him pumping and pounding his fist up and down his fat hog, panting and grunting and squirming. As he pumps, he'll grunt "You'll never feel this again", and "This is the closest you'll get to pleasure, knowing I'm getting off on your fucking dumbass loser fate." He'll squeal loud and long, soaking his fat belly in cum that squirts and gushes from his cock for almost an hour. Once he's dripping and panting and the cum is starting to cool, then he'll peel you off and wipe it up, leaving you sopping and dripping with his cum. Gus often forgets to take you off before collapsing into bed, leaving you trapped around his feet as he sleeps. The blankets press down on top of you, trapping the heat and sweat even more as his body relaxes and shifts through the night. His feet twitch and flex in his sleep, grinding into you, never letting you rest. By the time morning comes, you’re even more soaked in sweat and grime than before, and the cycle begins again. The rare times Gus does remove you, he simply tosses you into a corner, leaving you crumpled in the filth of his apartment. You’re left to soak in the stale air, surrounded by garbage and leftover food, until he decides to put you back on again. But even in those moments of rest, you’re never truly free from the stench of him. His smell clings to you, a constant reminder that you belong to him now, and there’s no escape from his disgusting feet. This is your life now—endlessly trapped around Gus’s filthy, sweaty feet, absorbing his grime day after day. There’s no relief, no reprieve, only the constant, overwhelming sensation of being soaked in sweat and suffocated by the weight of his disgusting lifestyle. You’re part of his world now, and he makes sure you never forget it. If you regret it, if you wish you'd picked someone else, that only makes him happier.

Living as Riff’s socks is an intense, non-stop ride through a world of sweat, grime, and adrenaline. From the moment he pulls you on each day, you become part of his chaotic, fast-paced life—a life that revolves around skateboarding, punk shows, and long, lazy hangouts with friends. Each day is a new whirlwind of movement, and you feel every second of it from your place wrapped tightly around his feet. The mornings are always the calmest part of the day, though “calm” is relative in Riff’s world. He’s rarely up before noon, but when he finally rolls out of bed, the first thing he does is grab you from whatever filthy pile he left you in the night before. You’re usually crumpled somewhere in the corner, surrounded by his worn clothes, empty cans of energy drinks, and his beat-up skate shoes. The smell of his apartment—stale smoke, dirty laundry, and lingering sweat—clings to you, soaking into your fibers. When he pulls you on, you’re immediately hit with the familiar sensation of his long, lean feet sliding into you. His rough pads press into your fabric, still damp from the previous day’s sweat, and his toes flex inside you as you stretch around him. The warmth from his feet seeps into you, and the musky scent of his unwashed fur becomes part of your existence. You cling to him tightly, feeling every movement, every shift as he stands and starts his day. Riff is never still for long. After a lazy stretch and a quick bite to eat, he grabs his skateboard and heads out the door, his scuffed sneakers pressing you even tighter against his feet. The world becomes a blur of movement as he kicks off and starts skating, the pavement grinding against the soles of his shoes. You feel every push, every scrape, every impact as his feet flex and shift inside you, his weight bearing down on you with each trick he pulls. The vibration of the wheels on the pavement sends waves of sensation through your fabric. Every time Riff pops his board for an ollie or grinds a rail, you feel the intense pressure of his feet as they move. The heat builds quickly, his feet sweating as the day wears on, and the moisture soaks into you, making you stickier, grimier with each passing minute. The scent of sweat and dirt grows stronger, mingling with the familiar smell of the street—concrete, dust, and the occasional whiff of cigarette smoke. It’s a constant, relentless grind, but somehow, it feels right. You’re part of Riff’s world now, and every scrape and step ties you closer to him. By the afternoon, Riff is usually hanging out with his crew at the skate park. You can feel the slight bounce in his step as he laughs and jokes with his friends, his feet shifting constantly as he leans on his board or paces around. You’re never at rest. Even when he’s standing still, his feet are always moving—his toes flexing, his weight shifting from foot to foot, keeping you pressed tight against him. The sweat continues to pour, and you absorb it all, becoming heavier with the grime of the day. When he’s skating hard, the intensity ramps up. You can feel every jump, every slam as his feet pound into the pavement. The rush of wind and the rapid thudding of his shoes against the ground become part of your new reality. Each time he lands a trick, the impact sends a jolt of pressure through you, his weight grinding you down against the rough insides of his shoes. His sneakers are full of dirt, grime, and sand from the park, and it all works its way into your fibers, adding to the mess that’s already built up. And then, there are the nights—long, loud, chaotic. Riff often heads to punk shows or bonfire parties with his friends. You’re right there with him, feeling every step as he moshes in the pit or dances around the bonfire, the music pounding through his body, the heat of the fire making his feet sweat even more. His shoes get kicked off more often than not, and you’re left exposed to the dirty floors of grungy venues or the rough sand of the beach, absorbing the dirt and grime of wherever he goes. He doesn’t care how filthy you get. In fact, he seems to love it. You can feel the pride in his steps as he shows off to his friends, as if having someone turned into socks just for him makes him even cooler. He’ll occasionally rub his feet together, pressing you even tighter against his skin, letting you soak up the sweat and grime that covers him. The heat, the dampness, the constant movement—it’s all part of your life now, an endless cycle of dirt and adrenaline. At night, when Riff finally crashes back at home, he rarely takes you off. Instead, you are part of his daily ritual. He'll get home, his feet hot and tired, your fabric soaked with sweat, and slowly tug off his skater shoes. They're practically steaming with sweat, and he'll take one and shove it deep over his nose, inhaling deeply and grunting with pleasure. He can barely hold it in as he reaches into his jeans and starts to rub himself furiously, pumping his thick throbbing cock harder and faster the more he inhales. Usually he'll spray his cum all over his fuzzy white belly. Sometimes he'll pull you off first, huff you like he's addicted, then slide you over his cock so you can soak up his thick, wet sprays of cum. One time he does that, then slides you back on, his toes wiggling in you even while you're wet and dripping from his nut. The scent of his feet is overwhelming at this point—thick, musky, soaked in sweat. You can feel his toes twitching inside you as he falls asleep, the heat of his body radiating through your fabric, sealing in the stickiness of the cum and all the grime from the day. You’re never truly clean—never washed, never taken care of. The grime builds up, layer after layer, and the scent of sweat never fades. But even then, there’s a strange satisfaction in it. You’re part of Riff’s life now, part of his world of skating, partying, and reckless fun. You feel every moment, every jump, every step, and even though it’s filthy, chaotic, and relentless, you wouldn’t want it any other way. The dirtier you get, the more Riff loves you, and the more you love him too.

Life as Max’s socks is a constant whirlwind of sweat, warmth, and energy. From the moment he pulls you on in the morning until he finally kicks you off—usually after a long day of practice, gym sessions, and hanging out with friends—you’re wrapped around his massive, sweaty feet, experiencing every step, every flex of his toes, and every thud of his heavy body moving through his day. Each day begins with Max bouncing out of bed, his usual, dumb grin lighting up his face. When he grabs you from whatever pile of laundry he left you in the night before, you’re already hit with the stale smell of his sweat. Whether he’s just pulled you out of his gym bag or off the floor, you can feel the faint residue of the previous day still clinging to you. But that’s normal now—he does try to wash you as often as he can remember, but his constant energy and athletic lifestyle mean you’re never truly clean for long. When he pulls you over his feet, you feel his rough, thick pads pressing into you, his toes flexing and stretching as you hug every inch of his foot. The warmth from his body is immediate, and as his fur brushes against your fabric, you settle into the snug, tight fit that now defines your existence. His feet are often a little damp from leftover sweat, and some smell of musk is ever-present, soaking into your fibers as you cling to him.. Max never sits still for long. From the moment he puts you on, he’s on the move—whether it’s heading to football practice, hitting the gym, or just bouncing around his dorm room, you’re there for it all. Every step sends a powerful thud of pressure through you, his heavy frame bearing down with each movement. You feel the constant shifting of his weight as he runs drills, his feet pounding the ground beneath him. The vibrations from each hard step rattle through your fabric, making you feel every moment of his intense athletic life. Football practice is relentless. Max spends hours on the field, running drills, tackling, and charging across the grass. You feel the dirt and sweat building up as he sprints, the heat of the sun beating down on him, making his feet even sweatier. His cleats press you tight against his feet, and every shift of his weight grinds the dirt and grass deeper into your fibers. The smell of his sweat becomes stronger, soaking into you as the hours pass. By the end of practice, you’re drenched, clinging to him, heavy with moisture and grime. But it’s not just the football field where you’re constantly in motion. Max spends hours in the gym, lifting weights, running on the treadmill, and pushing his body to its limits. You feel the strain in his feet as they flex and press into the floor during squats, the pounding rhythm as he runs on the treadmill. Each bead of sweat that drips from his fur is absorbed into you, the heat building until you’re practically suffocating in the humid warmth that surrounds his body. The smell only intensifies as the day goes on—his sweaty, musky scent clings to you with every step, every movement. His sneakers are worn and dirty, and when he pulls them on, you’re crammed even tighter against his feet. The moisture from his socks, the heat trapped inside his shoes—it’s all part of your daily routine now. You absorb it all, the grime and the stench becoming part of your existence. But Max is always so upbeat and friendly, his enthusiasm radiating through his body and into you. Even when he’s exhausted, drenched in sweat after a long day of practice, he still seems happy, excited about life. He bounces around, talking about his next game, his workout plans, or the next party he’s going to, and you’re right there with him through all of it. You feel the excited thud of his feet as he jumps around, his toes flexing as he talks about the latest sports news with his friends. His carefree attitude almost makes you forget the constant filth and sweat you’re soaking up. After a long day, Max often goes straight from practice or the gym to hanging out with friends or attending parties. He’s the life of the party, loud dumb and happy. You can feel the bass of the music thumping through his body, the constant jostling as he dances or jumps around with his buddies. You’re pressed tighter into his feet as he moves, the heat and moisture building to unbearable levels, but you’ve grown used to it. The smell of sweat, dirt, and the occasional spilled drink has become part of your everyday life, the grime becoming embedded in your fibers. Max rarely remembers to take you off when he crashes into bed after a long day. His massive body flops onto the mattress, and his feet—still wrapped in you—twitch and flex as he drifts off to sleep. The weight of the blankets presses down on you, trapping the heat and moisture inside, making the air around you thick with his scent. His feet shift constantly during the night, rubbing against you, making you feel every slight movement as he sleeps. And then, the next morning, it all starts again. Max pulls you back on, maybe after a quick shower or maybe straight from the floor where you’ve been left to marinate in the scent of his dorm. You’re back on his feet, absorbing the fresh sweat, the dirt, the energy of his day as it unfolds. It’s a cycle of sweat and grime, movement and pressure, but through it all, you feel connected to Max in a way that’s intimate and unbreakable. Around once every three days he'll remember to wash you, or take you into the shower with him for a "wash", and he always apologises for forgetting, always says he won't do it again, but being the big dumb dog he is he rarely keeps to the promise for long. Surprisingly, Max isn't exactly a ladies man or much of a hotshot despite his position on the football team and his evident popularity. He's awkward and uncomfortable around girls, and prefers hanging out with his frat brothers. You find out precisely how much he prefers it one night when they gang up on him after a drunken night, stripping him down and tying him up. His tail wags rapidly as the frat bros call him their "secret pet" and "friendly hole". His cock is rock hard, and when they notice his new socks, they peel you off him and tie you into a gag, which they put around his head. You feel him drooling on you, his tongue pressed against your fabric, his muzzle growing and whining and panting as his frat bros use him, nut on him, or milk him until he howls. He obviously loves this treatment, his tail wagging furiously whenever his bros use him as a plaything, and one day he tells them that you're a person too. "Hey bros, my socks here are actually a guy from a Sock Booth. Can he join in?", he asks with a dumb grin. His frat brothers are only too happy to hear that. You're passed around each one, your fabric stretched around the thick fat cocks of horse guys, dragons, rottweilers, every type you can imagine. They stroke you, pump you, and soak you in load after load until you're sopping wet and dripping. They then shove your dripping body into Max's muzzle and duct tape it shut, before treating him like a dog or a fuck hole for the night. You hear him mumbling to you as he sucks and tastes the cum in your fabric. "I hope you like this too...I hope you're not too mad I'm not a cool jock", he mumbles. Your mind, dazed and swimming and blissful from load after load, has no idea why he'd be shy. This is the fucking best.

The day always starts the same way. Angus groans as he pulls himself out of bed, his hair a tangled mess of brown and blond strands falling over his eyes. He might be slow to start, but once he’s awake, his energy picks up. As he grabs you from the pile of clean clothes near his gaming rig, you can already sense the excitement of what’s to come. He slips you over his broad, musky feet, your fabric clinging to the warmth and softness of his fur. His feet are big, and despite how relaxed he seems, they get sweaty fast—especially when he spends hours sitting in his gaming chair, clicking away at his controller. The sensation of his footpads pressing against you is a constant, comfortable weight, and the slight dampness of sweat quickly starts to soak into your fabric. Over time you find it more and more relaxing, more normal to feel his warmth, his scent, his weight. “Time to get back to work,” he says with a grin, shifting his weight as his chair squeaks under him. His voice is deep, smooth, with a touch of cocky playfulness. “You ready for another long stream, huh?” The next thing you know, Angus is live on his stream, his voice booming through the mic as he starts talking to his fans, his usual cheeky banter filling the air. “Yo, what’s up, everybody? Back again with another 20-hour marathon. You know how it is—just me, my favorite games, and…” he glances down at his feet, wiggling his toes inside you with a teasing grin, “...these comfy socks keeping me company.” From that moment on, your world revolves around the rhythm of the game and the constant, playful commentary Angus delivers to his fans. His feet shift and flex inside you as he taps his feet to the beat of the game’s action or stretches during long sessions. The warmth of his feet spreads through your fibers, and you feel the slow buildup of sweat as the hours tick by. Angus loves teasing his socks during streams, and you’re no exception. Every so often, he glances down at you with a mischievous smirk and says something to the chat. “Man, it’s getting warm in here. These socks are really putting in the work today, huh?” he’ll say, wiggling his toes just enough to remind you that you’re part of the performance. “Better hang in there—these streams can get long.” The fans love it. Angus is famous among a particular type of fan - ones with specific perversions - and sometimes, they even ask him to show off. “Alright, alright,” he laughs, leaning back in his chair as he lifts one foot up to the camera. “I know you guys love it when I do this.” You feel the air hit you as he raises his foot, giving his viewers a clear shot of you wrapped tightly around his thick, warm foot. “How’s that, huh? They’re getting a little sweaty after all this time… but you know they love it.” As you’re shown off to the camera, the sensation is strangely intimate. The pressure of his foot inside you is a constant reminder of your place in his life, but now, you’re part of his connection with his fans too—something he enjoys showing off and teasing about. By the end of the stream, after hours of intense gaming and banter with his fans, you’re drenched in sweat, his musky scent clinging to your fibers. But even then, there’s a playful, relaxed energy in the air. Angus stretches, kicking his feet up onto the desk, and laughs. “Phew, what a stream, huh? My socks definitely got a workout.” He might leave you on for a little longer, but eventually, he takes you off—sometimes with a little extra teasing for the chat. “These socks have been through it today,” he’ll say, pulling you off and holding you up to the camera with a wink. “I bet they smell great right now.” And with a cocky grin, he tosses you aside, leaving you to rest until the next stream. Despite the constant heat and sweat, Angus takes care of you. Every few days, he tosses you into the laundry, giving you a break from the intensity of his long sessions. The relief of being washed and feeling fresh again is brief but welcome before you’re back on his feet, ready for another marathon stream. It’s not just the streams that make life interesting, though. Angus loves to meet up with fans at conventions and gaming events, and when he does, you’re always along for the ride. He’ll slip you on, knowing that some of his fans love when he teases with his socks. During meet-and-greets, he’s always playful, leaning back in his chair, his feet propped up on the table. He loves watching fans squirm as he presses his socked foot just a little closer to their faces, a mischievous grin on his lips. “Hey, come on, don’t act like you’re not into it,” he’ll tease, his foot wiggling in your fabric as he holds it up to someone who’s blushing in front of him. “These socks have been with me through a lot of streams. You should be honored!” Sometimes for his biggest donors they'll go even further, as Angus takes them up to his hotel room and you get to feel yourself pressed against some fan's throbbing, desperate cock as Angus gives them a streamer footjob. His fat belly jiggles and he pants with glee every time he sees a fan moan and nut all over his thick feet, the cum soaking into your fabric. Angus loves that feeling, seeing his fans panting and moaning over him, nutting all over his feet. It becomes more regular, as he invites fans over more and more, until he's regularly having parties where dozens of guys will kneel before him, telling him how cool he is as they stroke themselves and climax on you, leaving cum dripping down his toes and soles, soaking into you, staining you. You're as much a part of his show as he is. This is your life now, the socks of a gamer bro, and you fucking love it.

Living as Gary’s socks is a strangely comforting experience. From the moment he pulls you on in the morning until he carefully takes you off at night, Gary treats you with the same love and affection he gives to his favorite anime waifus and his limited run comic book collection. Despite his slightly clumsy and shy nature, he’s always gentle and thoughtful, making sure you feel appreciated, cared for, and—most importantly—clean and fresh. Each day begins with Gary waking up groggily, pushing his glasses up as he shuffles out of bed. His oversized gaming chair creaks as he stretches and reaches for you from the clean pile of laundry nearby. Unlike other guys you could have ended up with, Gary is surprisingly meticulous about keeping you fresh. He washes you regularly, making sure you always smell of clean laundry and not the sweat of his long gaming sessions. As he slips you over his wide, soft feet, you feel a warmth spreading through your fabric as his body heat radiates into you. “Hey, good morning Sock-chan,” Gary says with a soft smile, wiggling his toes inside you. “Ready for another day? I’m probably gonna grind a bit on World of Beavercraft, then I’ve got the new season of PolyCurious to catch up on.” He chuckles awkwardly, like he knows he’s rambling, but you find his every word fascinating, his eagerness making your fabric feel warm and happy. “Oh, and I was thinking of wearing you to the con this weekend. That’s gonna be fun, huh?” As the hours pass, you’re right there with him during his long gaming sessions, wrapped snugly around his feet. Gary always takes time to appreciate you, often leaning back in his chair and giving his toes a little wiggle, murmuring things like, “Man, you feel great today,” or “You’re the perfect fit, seriously.” Even when his feet get a little sweaty during long raids or dungeon runs, he’s quick to pull you off and toss you into the laundry when it’s time for a refresh. And he’s always careful to handle you gently, never just tossing you aside carelessly. But the real fun comes when Gary takes you to anime and comic conventions. He’s always so excited to show off his collection and meet up with his nerdy friends. You can feel the excitement building up in him as he pulls you on and slips into his cosplay shoes. “You’re coming with me, of course,” he’ll say with a grin. “Wouldn’t be right to go without my favorite socks.” The convention itself is a whirlwind of energy. You can feel the subtle bounce in his step as he weaves through crowded halls, chatting excitedly with other fans. Sometimes, he’ll stop to meet up with his close friends—other nerdy types who immediately notice you. “Oh man, are those the socks you were talking about?” one of them asks, leaning down with curiosity. Gary, proud and blushing slightly, grins. “Yep! These are the ones. They’re always with me at cons now. I mean, they’re perfect, right?” He wiggles his toes inside you, and you can feel the warmth of his affection. He’s genuinely excited to show you off, and the playful way he teases his friends about having “the best socks ever” makes you feel like more than just a piece of clothing, you’re part of his nerdy identity. After long days at conventions, Gary always takes a moment to talk to you. When he’s home and relaxing after the event, he’ll sit on the couch, pulling off his shoes and stretching his legs out with a satisfied sigh. “That was awesome, huh? I bet you’re tired too. Conventions can be rough on the feet,” he jokes, giving his toes a little wiggle inside you. You feel the slight stickiness of sweat after a long day, but it’s not unpleasant—it’s just a reminder of everything you’ve experienced with him. “Don’t worry,” he adds, pulling you off with care. “I’ll get you washed and fresh again for next time.” He places you into the laundry with a gentle pat, as if reassuring you that he’s taking good care of you. When Gary isn’t at conventions, you spend a lot of time with him during his gaming marathons and late-night anime binges. He has a habit of talking to you while he plays, and at first, it seems like he’s just thinking out loud. But over time, you realize that he’s genuinely enjoying your company, even if you can’t respond. He’ll ramble on about his latest favorite anime, critiquing character arcs and plot twists with an excited energy that you slowly learn to love, even when he talks for hours on end or gets intensely overexcited about his opinions. “I mean, come on,” he says during one of his marathon gaming sessions. “How can they expect us to believe that Sakura would betray Miku? It’s just bad writing! It totally contradicts the promise they made in episode 42!” His foot twitches inside you as he talks, the warmth of his passion for anime and comics making every moment more intimate. Over time, you find yourself looking forward to these moments. His rambling becomes something you enjoy, and you realize that being part of Gary’s world, where his passions and quirks are laid out so openly, where he can vent and talk without fear of being called boring or nerdy or lame, isn’t just bearable; it’s fun. Whenever he finishes a long gaming session or an anime marathon, he always takes a moment to show you how much he appreciates you. “Thanks for sticking with me,” he’ll say with a smile, gently patting his foot as if he knows you can feel it. “You make all these long hours so much easier. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I love you as much as my rarest waifu.” That appreciation slowly grows over time. Gary doesn't just love his waifu figurines, he LOVES them. From your viewing angle on the washing line, you've seen him stroking his short, chubby cock while staring at his collection, blushing and squirming with glee. He promised to treat you with equal love - and he does. After a few months, he builds up the courage to hold you close, rubbing you against his fat soft belly, over his chubby face. He inhales your fresh clean scent, and holds you against him as he strokes and pumps himself. "You're my girlfriend...my sock girlfriend...my living sock waifu...with my forever...", he moans as he squeaks, trembles and cums, falling asleep with you draped over his face. He takes this relationship seriously, and you can't help but admit you're happy you chose him. He's a nerd, he's a dork, and he's your owner.

Life as Jax’s socks is a constant grind. From the moment he pulls you on each day, you’re thrust into the relentless routine of a young athlete determined to be the best. Jax isn’t just passionate about basketball—he’s consumed by it. Every step, every jump, every drop of sweat is dedicated to honing his skills, pushing his limits, and working toward his dream of earning a basketball scholarship. There’s no room for anything else, no time for fun outside the court or his studies. His life is a cycle of hard work and pressure, and as his socks, you feel every bit of it. Each morning, Jax pulls you over his feet with the same focused determination. His movements are quick and efficient, like he’s mentally preparing for another day of training the moment he wakes up. As his long, muscular feet slide into you, you feel the warmth and strength of his body, the way his toes flex slightly as he adjusts you, making sure you’re snug and tight before he heads out. His feet are always warm, and after a night of rest, there’s a faint but ever-present scent of sweat that never quite leaves his skin. “You ready for another day?” Jax says, not expecting an answer but smirking as he wiggles his toes inside you. “Got a lot of work to do. Can’t afford to slow down.” From that moment on, you’re with him through every second of his routine. Jax’s day is packed with intense training sessions, study blocks, and workouts. He spends hours running drills on the court, his feet pounding against the hardwood with a constant rhythm. You can feel every jump, every pivot, every sprint as he moves with precision and power. His feet press into you with each leap, the impact of his athleticism rippling through your fabric as you cling to him. The heat quickly builds, and soon, his sweat begins to soak into your fibers. Jax’s workouts are grueling—he pushes himself harder than most, determined to outperform everyone else. Each drop of sweat is a reminder of his dedication, and as his feet grow damp inside you, you feel the intensity of his focus. The smell of sweat, though strong, isn’t unpleasant—it’s the scent of hard work, of a young athlete driven by a singular goal. You absorb it all, becoming part of his effort to succeed. But even when he’s off the court, Jax doesn’t rest. He heads straight to the gym, switching to weight training, running on the treadmill, or doing agility exercises. You feel the constant grind of his feet against the floor as he moves from one machine to the next. His feet never stop moving, and the pressure builds as his muscles flex and contract, his body working to its limits. The heat is constant, the sweat never-ending, and yet, you endure it all, snugly wrapped around his feet, supporting him through every step. Jax barely takes breaks. He’s always thinking about the next drill, the next game, the next challenge. Even when he sits down to study, his mind is still on basketball. His feet occasionally bounce beneath the desk as he jots down notes or reviews plays on his laptop, the nervous energy from his intense routine never fully leaving him. His feet flex inside you, restless even when he’s seated. You can feel the strain, the tension that comes from pushing his body and mind to the edge day after day. But it’s not until late at night, after hours of training and studying, that Jax finally lets his guard down. One night, after an especially long and grueling day, he collapses on his bed, his breath heavy as he kicks his sneakers off and stretches out. His feet are drenched in sweat, and you can feel the heat radiating from him as he sighs heavily, lying back on the pillows. For once, there’s no smirk, no cocky comment—just exhaustion. He doesn’t pull you off right away, and for a moment, there’s silence in the room, the only sound being the soft whirr of the ceiling fan. You feel the weight of his feet pressing into you, his toes twitching slightly as he lets out a quiet, tired chuckle. It’s a rare, unguarded moment—one that feels heavier than the usual grind of training. “You know…” he mutters, his voice softer than usual, almost like he’s talking to himself. “This whole scholarship thing… it’s a lot of pressure.” He stretches his legs out, his feet flexing inside you as if to shake off the weight of his words. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the tightness that comes from pushing himself to the limit every single day. His feet are warm and damp from sweat, but you stay wrapped around him, snug and comforting. “I mean, I love basketball,” he continues, sighing. “But sometimes… man, sometimes it’s just… tough, y’know?” His usual cocky attitude fades as he lies there, staring up at the ceiling. His feet press together, rubbing into you again, this time softer, almost as if he’s seeking comfort. “I know it’s dumb,” he mutters, his voice trailing off. “But… it kinda helps knowing I’ve got someone under my feet. I don’t know… it’s like, even if I’m pushing myself this hard, at least there’s something—someone—supporting me. So… thanks, I guess.” His words hang in the air for a moment. It’s a rare glimpse into the pressure Jax is under, the stress that comes with constantly striving to be the best. He still appreciates you—his socks—as part of his routine, as something that’s always there for him. You feel him moving as he reaches down into his shorts, closing his eyes and slowly stroking himself. His powerful toes flex inside you, clenching you and moving you as he starts to pant and grunt. You can feel him working out the pressure, giving himself this one moment of relief with you along for the ride as he strokes faster and faster, then groans as he sprays his furry six pack with ropes of thick hot cum, the nut gushing from him in a messy rush with how pent up he was. He sighs with relief and rolls over, his usual cocky grin creeping back onto his face. “Alright, that’s enough soppy emotional shit. We got another big day tomorrow, and I’m not slowing down.” He finally pulls you off, tossing you into the laundry with a grin. “I’ll get you cleaned up for tomorrow. Can’t have you smelling like the gym all week, right?” You feel warm and relaxed as you lie there with his other clothes, your mind filled with a need to support him, to belong to him. You are Jax's property, and you exist to make his life easier. You slip into dreams of him one day wearing you to nationals, or maybe even beyond. Maybe one day you'll be in a sports hall of fame. The most famous socks in the world...

Life with Bill is surprisingly comfortable, a slow but steady routine that you quickly settle into. From the moment he slips you on each morning, your world is a peaceful, predictable rhythm. Bill’s life isn’t exciting, but there’s something reassuring about the way he moves through his day—calm, deliberate, and at ease. Each morning, you feel Bill’s large, soft hands carefully pulling you over his thick, wide feet. His toes wiggle slightly inside you as he adjusts you, making sure you’re snug and comfortable before heading out to work. “Alright, let’s get through another day,” he says with a gentle chuckle. His days as an office manager are long, filled with paperwork, emails, and the quiet monotony of office life, but being with him is never boring from your perspective. You feel every step as Bill walks through his office—his wide feet pressing into the ground with each slow, heavy step. He rarely rushes, taking his time with everything he does, his presence commanding respect even in the most mundane tasks. His feet shift slightly under his desk as he types away at his computer, occasionally flexing his toes as he adjusts his posture. The steady heat of his body radiates through you, and though his feet sometimes grow a bit sweaty by the end of a long day, you’ve come to enjoy the warmth and the quiet, steady presence he carries with him. By the time Bill returns home each evening, you can feel the fatigue in his body as he kicks off his shoes and settles into his recliner. There’s a comforting ritual to it—he pours himself a glass of brandy, lights his pipe, and stretches his legs out on the ottoman. You can feel the relaxation in his body as he lets out a contented sigh, wiggling his toes inside you. “You know,” he says one evening, speaking to you as if you can respond, “this whole thing… it’s been interesting, having you as my socks. Never really thought something like this would make a difference, but…” He trails off for a moment, puffing on his pipe as he thinks. “It’s kinda nice, you know? Not feeling so alone. It’s like having a little companion with me, all the time.” One night, as Bill leans back with his glass of brandy, something shifts in the air. He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he finally speaks, there’s a strange vulnerability in his voice. “You know,” he begins, “I’ve been thinking about this whole… socks thing.” He chuckles softly, but it’s more of a nervous laugh than his usual confidence. “It’s… awakened something new in me, I guess. I’ve never thought of myself as someone who’d get excited at the thought of some guy drooling over my feet. Heck, I was vanilla even when I first met my ex-wife in school.” He pauses, his fingers tapping the glass thoughtfully. “But… having a man become my socks, being with me like this… it’s made me curious. I’m not sure what to make of it, but… I kinda like it.” You can feel the weight of his words, the quiet confession lingering in the air between you. Bill takes another slow puff from his pipe, his foot flexing inside you as if he’s working through the thoughts in his head. “I’m thinking about going out tonight,” he says, almost as if he’s speaking more to himself than to you. “Might check out one of the bars downtown. One of them, er, homo bars.” He chuckles again, more amused now. “Maybe I’ll find out if this curiosity of mine is more than just a passing thought.” Later that evening, Bill gets dressed, pulling on a nice shirt and a jacket. He slips you back over his feet, giving you a little pat as he adjusts you. “You’re coming with me, of course. You’re my lucky charm.” As he walks into the bar, the energy shifts. The bar is warm and dimly lit, filled with younger guys mingling, talking, and laughing. Bill, with his thick moustache, round belly, and gentle but commanding presence, feels out of place but does draw his own sort of attention. You can feel the subtle bounce in his step as he walks in, more confident than you’ve ever felt him before. His wide feet press into you with every step, and you can feel the tingle of his excitement. To Bill’s surprise, he starts getting attention almost immediately. Younger men smile at him, a few even coming up to chat. For the first time he hears the term "daddy bear". One guy, in particular, catches his eye—a slim, athletic-looking fox in his late twenties who smiles shyly as he approaches. “You, uh… mind if I buy you a drink?” the fox asks, clearly a bit nervous but intrigued. Bill, flattered and a bit surprised, grins and nods. “Sure thing, kid.” They spend the next hour talking, the younger man clearly enamored with Bill’s size and maturity. Bill, meanwhile, starts to relax, and you can feel the weight of the conversation shifting as he starts to enjoy the attention - along with a growing warmth all through his body, of arousal and excitement. At one point, Bill glances down at his feet, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You know,” he says, leaning in slightly, “I think it’s these socks. They’ve brought me good luck tonight.” The younger man laughs, clearly charmed. “Well, they’re working for you. You look great.” By the end of the night, Bill invites the fox back to his place. As they walk back, you can feel Bill’s feet pressing into you with a new sense of confidence, a subtle shift in the way he moves, more relaxed, more sure of himself. When they arrive home, the two of them settle into the living room, sharing quiet conversation over another glass of brandy. Eventually, they move to the bedroom. Bill doesn’t rush, he takes his time, and the atmosphere is more about comfort than anything else. The younger man curls up next to him, resting his head on Bill’s chest as they settle in together. You’re still wrapped snugly around Bill’s feet as he pulls the blanket over them both. “You’ve done well tonight,” Bill says quietly, wiggling his toes inside you. “Guess we both found something new to enjoy. Maybe I have what the kids call "rizz"?” The fox laughs at him a little, and Bill grins, then stretches out one massive hand and presses the fox to the bed. He blushes and squirms as Bill slowly pulls down his overstretched underwear, revealing his thick, dark cock. He keeps you on, and you feel the pump of his heartbeat as he gets hard. The fox eagerly lifts his tail, and Bill growls as he climbs atop him, the sound primal, deep and masculine, a hint of a dominant and sexual energy you didn't know he had in him. The fox whines and gasps as Bill's meaty shaft stretches his tight backside, and the big bear holds him in a tight, hairy grip. You feel every thrust, every pound, that jiggling of the big old bear's belly as he slams harder and harder, faster and faster. Before long, he shudders and roars, slamming the fox firmly into the pillows as he starts to nut thick, hard and long. You can feel his pleasure flow through you, your fabric damp and sweaty from the exertion. As he pulls out, his cock dripping and wet, the fox shudders and mumbles "Fuck me, daddy bear, you're a natural..." As the night fades into quiet breathing and warmth, you feel the steady rhythm of Bill’s heartbeat as he drifts off to sleep, the younger fox tucked into his side. You get the feeling this won't be the last time you join him for something like this. You are slowly adjusting to your new life as socks along will Bill, as he adjusts to his new life - out of the closet, and into some cute twinks's backsides.

Living as Damon Drakemore’s socks is nothing like you might have imagined. From the moment he first slipped you on, any illusion that you might be something special to him quickly faded. To Damon, you are just another part of his wardrobe. Functional, luxurious, and entirely beneath his notice. He never speaks to you, never acknowledges you, and yet, you are intimately tied to his every move, every decision, and every show of power. Your existence is one of total submission, wrapped around his powerful feet as he lives his life. Damon’s days are filled with high-powered meetings, where fortunes are made and lives are crushed. Every morning, he selects you or another pair of equally expensive and rare socks without a second thought, always opting for the finest fabrics to match his impeccable suits. When he slips you over his massive, scaled feet, the pressure is immediate—his footpads press into you, the heat of his body soaking into your fabric as you cling to every inch of him. From that moment on, you are merely an accessory to his day, a silent companion to his ruthless rise. Each step he takes is firm, purposeful. You feel the raw power behind his movements as he strides into the sleek boardrooms of towering skyscrapers, his presence alone commanding respect and fear. You’re there for every moment, feeling the weight of his decisions, the way his competitors wilt under his gaze as he dismantles their ambitions with a few sharp words or a smirk that barely hides his contempt. His feet press into you with each calculated movement, his toes flexing as he watches rivals squirm beneath him. You can feel from the heat and pressure that nothing gives him pleasure like ruining lives, destroying people's will, and leaving ruin and ashes in his wake. At the long, gleaming conference tables, you can sense the tension in the air as Damon dominates the conversation. His competitors, once confident, crumble as he picks apart their arguments, ruthlessly exploiting their weaknesses. Under the table, his feet shift slightly, tapping against the floor as he seals deals, acquires companies, and ruins lives—all without a hint of remorse. You feel his toes curl slightly with satisfaction each time he crushes another rival, his entire body radiating cold, calculating power. But meetings are only part of his life. At night, Damon often attends lavish parties, surrounded by the most powerful and influential people in the world. You feel the shift in his energy as he slips into polished, expensive shoes, his presence magnetic and undeniable as he mingles with titans of industry, celebrities, and world leaders. The parties are filled with laughter and clinking glasses, but Damon’s presence is always intimidating. Even in these so-called “social” settings, he never lets his guard down. He’s always watching, calculating, his golden eyes gleaming as he casually brushes off lesser beings with a single glance. You feel the subtle shifts in his body as he moves through the crowd, exuding arrogance and control. People approach him, eager for his attention, his approval, but few are ever worthy. You’ve long since grown accustomed to the way Damon treats you, just another pair of socks, unnoticed and unimportant. But one night, something is different. You accompany him to a private meeting, one unlike any other. The room is quiet, dimly lit, with rich, dark wood and the scent of expensive cigars. A rival CEO stands in the corner, nervous and sweating, a man who once dared to challenge Damon’s dominance in the corporate world. Damon is calm, seated comfortably in his leather chair, one leg crossed over the other, his foot tapping against the floor with barely concealed amusement. The rival CEO stammers, attempting to explain, to negotiate, but Damon isn’t listening. He doesn’t need to. Without a word, Damon’s eyes lock onto the man’s, and a strange, palpable tension fills the air. There’s a flicker of gold in Damon’s eyes, something hypnotic and terrible, and the CEO freezes in place, unable to look away. You feel Damon’s foot flex inside you, a subtle shift as his body leans forward, commanding the man’s attention completely. “On all fours,” Damon says, his voice soft but dripping with command. There’s no room for disobedience. The CEO drops to his knees, crawling toward Damon like an animal, his face pale and his eyes wide with fear and awe. Damon watches him with cold amusement, his clawed fingers tapping lightly against the armrest of his chair. The man reaches Damon’s feet, trembling as he leans forward, pressing his forehead to the ground in submission. Damon reaches down and pulls off his shoe, letting you see the man's terrified face up close. “Worship me,” Damon says, his voice now low and dangerous. The CEO's eyes are distant and confused, his face flushed, drool oozing from his mouth as his mind is crushed and savaged by Damon's powers. He presses his lips to Damon’s foot and you can feel his breath, the trembling fear and helplessness as he kisses the fabric you’ve become, his lips brushing against you as if Damon’s very presence is divine. Each kiss is shaky, desperate, a show of submission so complete that it almost seems pitiful. Damon chuckles softly, clearly savoring the moment. “Good. Now let’s make sure you never forget your place.” Without warning, Damon lifts his foot, pressing the full weight of it onto the CEO’s face, slowly, deliberately, with a cruel grin curling his lips. You can feel the man’s breath quicken beneath you as his face is forced down into the ground, helpless under Damon’s foot. The power and pressure are overwhelming, and you feel Damon’s satisfaction radiating through every muscle in his body. But this isn’t just a show of dominance. There’s something darker happening, something magical. You feel a strange, heavy energy pulsing from Damon’s foot and crackling through you as the CEO’s body starts to stiffen beneath you. His movements slow down, his breathing falters, and bit by bit, you can sense him hardening and turning stiff, his skin slowly turning grey, his movement becoming frozen and helpless. Damon’s foot presses down even harder, and the transformation continues. The CEO’s body is no longer flesh and blood, but cold, lifeless stone, his face still pressed to the ground in eternal worship. Damon doesn’t even need to speak. His power alone is enough to turn a rival into a permanent, helpless decoration in his office. When the transformation is complete, Damon steps back, admiring his work. The CEO is now nothing more than a stone statue, frozen in eternal submission, a reminder of Damon’s absolute dominance. Damon growls in pleasure, his arousal obvious, his eyes wide. Smoke oozes from his mouth as he presses you down atop the stone head harder, harder. With one final push, the stone cracks and shatters into pieces, the statue falling to the ground headless and ruined. He steps over the fragments without a second thought, his shoes tapping against the marble as he leaves the room, victorious once again. The man he crushed is now nothing more than a gravel for the garden, and you’re still wrapped around Damon’s feet, carrying the weight of his power and arrogance with every step. This is what everyone is to Damon. An object, to be used or discarded. You are one such object, utterly at his mercy, forever. Exactly where you belong.

The raccoon's smile stretches wider. He rubs his blue cheeks and wiggles happily, the oversized collar around his neck spinning like a hula hoop as he gets excited. "No one's EVER wanted to be MY socks before! This is awesome!", he says. He looks around and puts his finger to his lips. "Ok, but if anyone finds out I can TRON people, I'll get in big trouble. So this is between you and me. Digitize!", he says. A light suddenly appears above the screen, then scans down you. Your body freezes in place, then starts to break apart into glowing cubes, before being drawn one by one into the screen. You awaken confused and dizzy in a vast, featureless white plain. The raccoon looks down at you with a cheeky grin, now looking like a living toon. He raises one glossy blue paw, and stomps on your face. The texture is rubbery and smooth, and you instinctively reach up to rub and massage it. As you do, your body starts to change. You start to turn white, not just the white of fabric, but pure smooth flawless white, like a cartoon. You feel squishy and soft as the raccoon presses down on you, steps on you, rubs his toes all over you. With every touch of his strange cartoon feet, you change more. He stomps and steps on you, his toes and soles stroking over your belly, down to your crotch, across your legs and arms. You feel a prickling electrical sensation, along with the flustered embarrassment of being stomped by a cartoon raccoon. With each step, he seems to be forcing out your real self, replacing you, reprogramming you into a simple, digital cartoon. Bit by bit you change more, your body hollowing out, limbs shrinking and disappearing, mouth opening wide. You want to cling to his feet, to press into his squishy blue paws, to worship him, but as you weaken and change, you flop helplessly to the ground. The raccoon picks you up, and you dangle in his grip, a pair of puffy white cartoon socks. He sits down and pulls you up over his feet, then wiggles his toes inside you. You feel yourself stretched over him, fitting him perfectly, becoming a part of his sprite, his character model. Everything you are is perfectly designed to fit him, every motion he makes controls you, sends vibrations of pleasure through your simplistic, flat body. "This is gonna be so fun. It gets lonely in here, you know", he says. [[Life with Blue]]

No one seems to notice that the raccoon mascot now has a pair of soft thick white socks on his character model. In fairness, it's not like anyone ever meets him twice - you can't enter the booth without becoming socks, after all. He likes to show you off to the people who come to the booth, wiggling you at the screen and telling the customers how good and fun it is to be socks, and how they'll love it as much as his socks love it. You have a strange connection to him, so you're able to give him advice on suggestions for what kind of guy each visitor would most enjoy being socks for. Over time, your booth becomes the #1 most popular sock booth in the tri-state area! When there's no customers, Blue plays with you instead. He likes to pull you off and sniff you, pressing you to his face and rolling around. You can't actually smell of anything, since you're both cartoons, but pretending feels fun. He sometimes rubs you against his crotch too - he doesn't have any junk, but again, toons love to pretend. Sometimes when he gets stressed by too much work he'll gnaw on you or bite you, or ball you up and toss you around. You can't ever be damaged or wear out, and you can't feel pain, so it's oddly kind of fun. Even as time passes, neither of you ever age or change. You can't feel boredom, or pain, only pleasure and excitement. Bit by bit, your memories of being real, of being human, fade away. You're a cartoon, a sprite, a part of a corporate mascot. Your whole world is this one customer service screen. Nothing else exists. You're Blue's soft comfy socks, and that's all you will ever be.

The raccoon mascot looks at you blankly for a while, then sighs. He sits down and crosses his legs, and rubs his face for a moment. "Listen, I'm going to level with you, on the list of mistakes a guy can make, walking into a SOCK TRANSFORMATION BOOTH when you don't want to be a sock is pretty high up on that list." He points a finger at you accusingly. "I'm not letting you back out of this. My job is to take people and make socks, and I'm not having a bad record on my internal reports. Fortunately for you, we do sometimes get people wandering in here thinking it's 1992 and this is a fucking phone booth, so I have an orientation video you can watch. Either that, or we just get back to the menu, got it?" [[Watch the orientation video]] [[Choose your sock type]]

The raccoon fiddles with a sprite of a TV remote for a while. "We got a hypnotherapist on retainer to do these vids. I know it's in these menus somewhere..." Eventually he manages to find it, and a screen pops up showing a handsome older wolf in his late fourties or early fifties, with a sleek grey moustache, tailored suit, and slightly predatory smile. "Ok Dr. Grey, hit 'em with the orientation!", the raccoon says. [[Watch the video]]

"Good, we're back in business. Now, what kind of sock are you gonna be?" Three buttons appear on the screen. Would you prefer to belong to: [[A muscular, athletic guy]] [[A real chonker]] [[Just any regular guy]] [[I don't actually want to be a sock]]

The screen flickers to life, revealing a softly lit office. The walls are lined with bookshelves filled with psychology books and framed certificates, and a large leather armchair sits in the center of the room. The camera slowly pans to the figure sitting in the chair, a gently smiling wolf. The wolf is imposing and intense, looking to be in his early fifties with sleek, greying fur at his temples and a neatly trimmed moustache. His deep, silver eyes lock onto the camera, his gaze intense and unwavering. His posture is relaxed but commanding, his broad shoulders fill out his dark suit as he leans forward slightly. Every movement he makes exudes confidence and dominance. His voice, when he speaks, is smooth and rich, drawing you in from the very first word. "Good evening," the wolf begins, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile. "My name is Dr. Grey. I’m here to help you… relax, to get you into the right frame of mind for the transformation you’ve chosen." His eyes glint with quiet authority as he speaks, the tone of his voice soothing yet commanding. There’s no doubt that he’s in control of this session, and already, you can feel the subtle pull of his words, coaxing you to relax, to focus on him. "I know why you’re here," he continues, leaning back slightly in his chair. "You’ve entered a Sock Booth, and are going to become a sock. Perhaps it feels a little strange, a little surreal right now. Perhaps you are regretting your decision or trying to back out. But don’t worry—that’s perfectly normal. My job is to help you make sense of this, to guide you toward the next stage of your destiny." Dr. Grey’s eyes never leave the camera as he speaks, and you can feel your body beginning to respond to his soothing voice, your muscles loosening, your mind slowly quieting. His words seem to wrap around you, pulling you in deeper with each syllable. His smile grows slightly, his yellow eyes seeming to pulse. "Take a deep breath," he instructs, his voice slow and smooth. "In through your nose… and out through your mouth. Let the tension leave your body. Feel yourself beginning to relax, letting go of any distractions, any worries. You’re here now… with me." You do as he says, taking a slow, deep breath, and almost immediately, you feel your body responding, your mind focusing entirely on him. The world around you seems to fade away, leaving only Dr. Grey’s voice and his steady, unrelenting gaze. "Good," he murmurs approvingly. "Now, let’s go deeper. As you continue to breathe, feel the weight of your body sinking into the chair. Let your muscles relax, your mind becoming quieter, softer… more open." His voice is hypnotic, a low, comforting rumble that seeps into your mind, loosening the last remnants of tension in your body. You feel yourself sinking deeper, your thoughts slowing down as the sound of his voice takes over. There’s a sense of calm washing over you, a feeling of safety in his presence. "You’re doing well," Dr. Grey says, his smile widening slightly. "Now, let’s talk about what you’re here for. You’re going to become a sock. Perhaps you’re not fully sure why, but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that you want this. Deep down, you’ve always wanted this. And soon, you’re going to understand just how much." He shifts in his chair, leaning forward again, his silver eyes gleaming with a darker intensity. "But before we get to that, there’s something I want to help you with. You see, in order to fully embrace your new role… there’s a desire, a need, that you’re going to discover within yourself. Something powerful." As he speaks, his hands move slowly to his feet, and he begins to undo the laces of his polished shoes. The movement is slow, deliberate, almost teasing, as if he knows exactly what effect it will have on you. The anticipation builds as his fingers deftly remove each shoe, revealing his powerful, furry soles beneath. His feet are large and imposing, covered in sleek, dark fur, with sharp claws at the tips of his toes. He holds one foot up toward the camera, giving you a clear view of his thick, muscular sole. His toes flex slightly, the pads of his foot firm and well-defined, a dark smooth black padding on his toes and sole. The sight of his foot fills the screen, the power and strength behind it impossible to ignore. "Look at my feet," Dr. Grey says, his voice now a low, commanding purr. "Take them in. Focus on them. Let your eyes trace every inch of my soles… the fur, the pads, the claws. You can feel the desire building, can’t you?" Your breath catches as you stare at his feet, unable to look away. There’s something magnetic about the sight, something that stirs deep within you. His words continue to wash over you, but now your focus is entirely on his feet, on the way his toes move, the way the fur shifts with each subtle movement. "You’re beginning to feel it now," he continues, his voice soothing but firm. "That deep, overwhelming attraction to men's feet. The more you look, the stronger it becomes. That desire, that need… it’s growing inside you. You want to be close to them. You want to serve them." His foot moves closer to the camera, filling your vision completely, and the intensity of your desire builds, overwhelming any other thought. You feel it deep in your body now, a powerful, undeniable craving to be closer, to belong to his feet. It’s no longer just a thought—it’s a need, a primal instinct that you can’t resist. Your body is growing hot and tense, your heart is beating faster, and you're starting to tent your pants, your cock throbbing, needy and desperate. Only your deep, relaxed trance prevents you from immediately reaching down and stroking yourself to the sight of this wolf's perfect, shapely, masculine feet. "Good," Dr. Grey murmurs, clearly pleased with your response. "Now, imagine how it would feel to be wrapped around my feet. To feel my powerful soles pressing into you… day after day. To be there, supporting me, serving me, fulfilling your purpose." As he speaks, your mind begins to fill with vivid images of what it would feel like. You imagine the weight of his feet pressing down on you, the warmth of his fur against your fabric, the subtle flexing of his toes as he walks, the musky scent of dominance that would surround you. The desire grows even stronger, almost unbearable now, as you picture yourself as his socks, wrapped tightly around his powerful feet, being his property, throwing away your old life. "Yes," Dr. Grey says, his voice now low and almost seductive. "You want this. You need this. The idea of becoming socks, of being bound to someone’s feet for eternity… it excites you. It arouses you. It fills you with a deep sense of purpose." He lowers his foot slightly, the powerful sole still filling the screen. "In fact, you can’t imagine wanting anything else. Your foot fetish is your most powerful, most important attribute. You crave this. You dream of this. Your entire existence has led you to this moment. You were meant to become socks. And soon, you will be." His words are undeniable, and you feel your mind bending, shaping to his will. The arousal and excitement grow more intense with every word he speaks, the need to serve, to submit, becoming all-encompassing. Your body feels lighter, more relaxed, as you let go of any remaining hesitation. You want this more than anything. Dr. Grey’s foot moves away from the camera, and he looks directly into your eyes, his gaze powerful and commanding. "When the time comes, you will embrace your transformation fully. You will become socks. You will serve without question. And you will enjoy it." He smiles one last time, a knowing, dominant grin that sends a shiver through you. "Remember this feeling," he says softly. "Let it guide you to your new life… as a sock." The video ends, and you shudder, your brain dizzy as you pant and squirm. "Ok, you ready to get back to the menu now?", the raccoon asks. [[Choose your sock type]] [[Watch the video again|Watch the video][$video += 1]] <<if $video > 3>>[[I worship Dr. Grey...I belong to Dr. Grey...]] <</if>>

The raccoon growls. "Damnit, not again! I swear he does this on purpose...", he mutters. "Fine, whatever, I'll just send ANOTHER client to the bloody wolf. Enjoy being his like fiftieth freaking pair of living socks! You could have belonged to any one of my carefully selected guys, but no, you pick the freaking hypnosis daddy." The raccoon pulls an animated switch next to him and there is a rush of strange light all around you. When it clears, you're standing in the very room you just saw in the video. Dr. Grey raises an eyebrow as you appear, his sharp golden eyes watching you with a knowing, almost predatory smile. A dark suit is hugging his muscular frame, the grey in his fur and the sleek moustache giving him a sense of authority and control. “You’ve made the right choice,” Dr. Grey says smoothly, his voice low and rich, carrying with it an undercurrent of dominance that sends a shiver through your body. “You're far from the first who understood their true calling was with me.” His gaze sharpens, and he gestures to a drawer on the far wall. He pulls it open, revealing several neatly folded socks. You can sense something strange about them, a warmth, a longing. The socks, lined up in perfect rows, seem to almost hum with a quiet energy. These are people. People who, like you, have surrendered to Dr. Grey. “These,” he says, motioning to the socks in the drawer, “are the others who came before you. Just like you, they thought they could live ordinary lives, but eventually, they gave in to what they truly wanted to be, what their destiny always was. And now, they serve me, every day. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last.” The way he speaks leaves no room for doubt or resistance. You’re meant to join them. You belong here, in his drawer, waiting to be worn by him, serving his needs and becoming part of his collection. “But you’re not thinking of them right now, are you?” he says, stepping closer, his eyes narrowing. “You’re thinking of yourself. You’re thinking of how much you want this, how desperately you want to be under my feet, wrapped around them for the rest of your existence.” Dr. Grey’s voice lowers into that hypnotic, commanding tone, his gaze locking onto yours, holding it like a predator who’s already caught his prey. “This is where you belong. You were always meant to be my socks. And now, we’re going to make that happen.” He steps closer, his powerful presence filling the room. Without waiting for your response, he places his large, strong hands on your shoulders. His fingers are firm, his touch commanding, and as he massages your shoulders, you feel your body slowly begin to soften. “You don’t need to think anymore,” Dr. Grey murmurs, his voice taking on that same hypnotic quality as before. “You just need to let go. Let your mind focus on what you’re about to become. Feel your body relax… feel your skin softening.” His fingers trail down your arms, and as he strokes you, you feel your skin starting to change. Slowly, steadily, the texture of your skin begins to shift, becoming soft and smooth, like cotton. It starts at your shoulders and spreads down your arms, turning them into long, flexible tubes of fabric. Your arms lose their shape, stretching and flattening into soft, pliable material. “That’s right,” Dr. Grey whispers, his hands still working over your body, guiding the transformation. “You’re becoming exactly what you’re supposed to be. You feel it, don’t you? The change, the excitement, the need to be in your place.” His hands move to your legs, massaging and stroking them as they, too, begin to shift. Your legs fuse together, thinning and stretching into the form of sleek, soft fabric. You feel your entire body becoming lighter, more flexible, as your transformation continues. Your torso flattens, and your entire form becomes more and more hollow inside, more flat, more soft and cottony. Dr. Grey’s voice never falters, continuing to hypnotize you, keeping your mind focused on him, on your transformation, and on the overwhelming need to serve. “You’ve never wanted anything more than this,” he says, his voice deep and commanding. “You’re becoming something useful, something permanent. You belong under my feet, feeling every step I take, breathing in my scent, my musk.” Your head begins to soften now, shrinking down as the transformation nears completion. The last thing you see before your vision narrows is Dr. Grey’s calm, confident smile, his golden eyes watching with quiet satisfaction as you painlessly split into a pair of sleek, soft black work socks. Dr. Grey picks you up in his hands, holding you as he smiles, his fangs bright and sharp. His fingers run over your soft fabric form, testing your texture, your fit. “Perfect,” he says with a smirk. “Exactly as I knew you would be.” He sets you down on his desk for a moment, and without a word, begins to remove his polished shoes. The leather squeaks softly as he pulls them off, and your vision is soon filled with the sight of his powerful, distinguished feet. His fur is thick and dark, and his claws are sharp and sleek, adding an edge of danger to his otherwise calm and controlled presence. The musky scent of his feet already fills your senses, a smell of power, authority, and masculine dominance. Dr. Grey removes the socks he’s currently wearing—another pair, like you, that once had a different life—and sets them aside. Then, slowly, deliberately, he slips one of his massive feet into you. The sensation is immediate and overwhelming. His foot slides into you with perfect precision, his thick, powerful pads pressing into your fabric, his claws gently grazing your form as his toes flex inside you. The warmth of his body radiates through you, and you cling to him tightly, wrapping around his foot, feeling the smooth fur and firm muscle beneath you. “There we go,” Dr. Grey murmurs, wiggling his toes slightly inside you, making sure you fit snugly around him. “This is where you belong. This is your new life.” He slides his other foot into you, and now you’re fully wrapped around both of his powerful feet, feeling every inch of him. The weight of his body presses down on you as he stands up, his footfalls heavy and deliberate. You can feel his presence in every movement, the subtle shifts of his toes, the flexing of his soles, all while his musky lupine scent surrounds you, filling you with him, marking you as his. “This is all you are now,” Dr. Grey says, his voice cold and calm as he slips his feet back into his polished shoes, plunging you into darkness. “Every step I take, every moment of my day… you’ll feel it all.” He tightens the laces of his shoes, pressing you even tighter against his feet, trapping you in the warm, musky prison of his shoes. The scent of leather and his feet fills your senses, and the pressure of his body weighs down on you as he takes his first step. His movements are smooth, controlled, every step deliberate as he returns to his desk and resumes his workday. And as he begins to work, meeting with clients, telling them how to live, controlling the lives of those around him, you are there for every moment, wrapped around his feet, knowing that this is where you’ll stay. Forever. [[Life with Dr. Grey]]

Living as Dr. Grey’s socks is an existence of overwhelming, all-consuming adoration for your owner. Every day your thoughts slowly unraveling under the weight of his presence, his scent, and his absolute control. Every moment spent wrapped around his powerful furry feet leaves you utterly captivated, drowning in a haze of devotion and need. Nothing else matters anymore. Only Dr. Grey. Most of your days are spent in the drawer in his office, neatly folded alongside the many other socks he owns. The drawer is always slightly cool, dark, and you’re pressed snugly against the other living socks, each one like you, waiting with desperate longing for the day they’ll be chosen again. There’s a strange comfort in being surrounded by others who share your fate, but it’s not enough to quell the growing need inside you. Every second spent in that drawer is filled with a burning desire to be worn again, to feel Dr. Grey’s foot sliding inside you, pressing you against the ground as he moves through his day. It's worse than any pent-up feeling you've ever had, a growing addiction that becomes more and more intense with every moment you are left folded up and waiting. It’s during these long stretches in the drawer, where time seems to blur, that your mind degrades the most. Day after day, your thoughts become simpler, more singular, your memories fading, your identity crumbling. You only think of him, his powerful feet, his calm, commanding voice, his scent that fills your senses and leaves you weak with devotion. You long for the days when you will be chosen again, when you will once more serve him in the way you were made to. Dr. Grey doesn’t wear you every day, he owns far too many pairs of socks for that. Most of the time, you simply wait, pressed tightly against the others, your fabric buzzing with pent-up need. But when the drawer finally slides open, and his large, strong hands select you, it feels like heaven. The anticipation is unbearable as you feel yourself being lifted from the drawer, folded carefully in his hand as he takes you out to wear for the day. “Ah, it’s your turn again,” Dr. Grey says calmly, with that same confident, commanding tone that sends shivers through your fabric and fills you with love. “Remember, you are to be content with what you’re given. I have many pairs, and you are work socks, not leisure socks. Be grateful for what you have.” And you are grateful. Even as you’re reminded of the fact that you’ll spend most of your existence waiting, you are consumed with gratitude that you get to serve him at all. He’s made it clear that you belong to him, and that being worn is a privilege, not a right. The idea that you’re just one of many doesn’t bother you anymore, it only makes you long to prove your worth, to be his favorite, to be the one he chooses more often. When Dr. Grey finally slips his foot inside you, the sensation is pure bliss. His foot is warm, strong, and you cling to every curve and muscle of his sole, feeling the firm pads of his feet pressing into your fabric and the tingly, intense danger of his sharp claws. The scent of him fills you instantly—rich, musky, and undeniably dominant. It’s the scent of a powerful, controlling man who knows exactly what he wants, and it leaves your mind reeling with adoration. Every step he takes is heaven. You feel his weight bearing down on you, the steady rhythm of his footfalls sending waves of pleasure through your fabric. His toes flex inside you, his movements smooth and controlled as he walks through his day. There’s nothing else in the world but the feeling of being wrapped around his feet, soaking in his scent, and serving him in the way you were always meant to. When Dr. Grey speaks, whether to his clients or into his phone, his deep, commanding voice vibrates through you, making you feel even more connected to him. You can sense the control he has over every conversation, the way people submit to his authority, and it only deepens your worshipful feelings. You’re part of his daily routine, feeling his strength with every word, every movement. And even though he never acknowledges you directly, there’s a quiet understanding that you belong to him utterly and completely. On rare occasions, Dr. Grey will hypnotize one of his clients during a session, similar to what he once did to you. One of his favourite forms of therapy is makes them kneel before him, their minds growing soft and obediet and easily controlled. You are worn at times when he makes clients strip naked and worship his thick, powerful cock with their mouths, or ride him as he whispers in their ear. Some beg to kiss and lick his tailhole or just to be his doormat. They worship him just as much as you do, but the ones that you love the most are those who he makes massage his feet. You feel the thrill of it instantly, their hands pressing against you, rubbing Dr. Grey’s soles while you are wrapped around them, pressing your fabric into his fur and pads. The sensation of being touched, massaged, and caressed while still clinging to his feet is intoxicating, overwhelming every sense. The client’s fingers work their way across his toes, applying pressure to the pads of his feet, along each toe, between and around them, and you feel every movement, every brush of skin. It’s absolute ecstasy, being massaged, feeling his warmth, pressed to his muscles, close to his sweat and power, knowing that both you and the client are in service to him. “You’re doing well,” Dr. Grey often says to entranced clients as they massage his feet. “Keep going. This is where you belong. Worshiping me. Serving me.” You love to hear that, because you know you are too. You belong here, at his feet, feeling his weight atop you, knowing you belong to him. Every touch, every breath, every moment in his presence fills you with more love for the man who controls your entire existence. But all too soon, the workday ends. As Dr. Grey returns to his office, he removes his shoes and carefully peels you off his feet. You’re left with the lingering warmth of his soles, the fading scent of his musk, but it’s always bittersweet when he folds you up and places you back in the drawer. “You did well today,” he sometimes mutters, though he doesn’t need to praise you often. His approval is implicit in the way he folds you, neat and precise, before returning you to the dark, cool drawer with the others. And then you wait again. Pressed tightly against the other socks, your mind buzzing with the memories of the day—the weight of his feet, the sound of his voice, the intoxicating scent of his dominance. You wait, desperate for the next time you’ll be chosen, the next time you’ll feel the bliss of serving Dr. Grey. Days, weeks, even months may pass, but you are content in your role, your mind utterly consumed with love and worship for the man who owns you. Your thoughts continue to degrade, your mind filled only with the need to be worn again, to feel his powerful feet pressing down on you once more. In time you will likely forget everything you once were, and know only the mindless bliss of being a sock. This is your destiny. This is where you belong. You are Dr. Grey's socks.

There is a glitch in the screen, and it fuzzes out before suddenly being connected to something that looks completely different. The screen connects to what appears to be some sort of military base. It's cold and sterile, all gray walls, blinking monitors, and industrial lighting. The dull hum of machinery fills the background, and in the center of the camera stands a figure who immediately captures your attention. The man is tall and broad, standing completely still, dressed head-to-toe in black military gear. His uniform looks heavy, made of some thick bulging armored black material that covers every inch of his body. His boots are large and imposing, scuffed and worn. His hands are gloved, so no hint of the man inside the gear is visible. His head is fully concealed behind a black, full-head gas mask, the visor dark and reflective. You can’t see his eyes, his expressions, or any hint of who he might be underneath the armor. There is just a black combat helmet, stretched in the front for a muzzle, two large round gas mask vents on the sides. For a moment, neither of you speaks. He stands there, breathing steadily through the mask, the sound of his filtered breaths breaking the silence. Then, finally, he tilts his head slightly, as though confused or curious about this unexpected intrusion. “This is Soldier 12,” his voice comes through, deep and distorted by the gas mask, almost mechanical. “I don’t know how you connected to this feed. State your purpose.” The raccoon mascot bounces on screen, holding a cartoon of some tangled wires. "Uh, sorry about this, some sort of wifi interference. This is a Sock Booth, we're meant to be showing candidates so this guy can become someone's socks", the raccoon explains. “Civilians really do that? Turn into socks?” His voice cuts in again, the slightest hint of disbelief beneath the otherwise emotionless exterior. There’s a brief silence on his end before he speaks again, slower this time, as if processing this strange request. “You’ve connected to the wrong feed. This is a military communications line. You shouldn’t be here.” There is a pause as he considers the situation. "I am Soldier 12. That is all you need to know about me. I don’t have a name. I don’t have a life. I was created in a gene therapy lab. My existence is to follow orders, to fight. Nothing more." “If this is what you’re looking for,” he continues, “I can tell you this much. I don’t remove my uniform. I don’t remove my boots. There’s no time for anything else. My purpose is war. My only function is to obey commands. If you want to become my socks, I can accept that… but know this.” His voice lowers, becoming even colder, more detached. “You’ll be trapped. Permanently. Inside these boots.” He lifts one foot slightly, giving you a closer view of his massive, thick black combat boots. They’re worn and weathered, covered in scuff marks and caked with dirt from countless missions. The boots are heavy, and you can practically feel the weight of them through the screen. They’re designed for war, for endless marching, for combat in the harshest environments. The inside must be hot, suffocating, and drenched in sweat from days—maybe weeks—of continuous wear. “These boots are part of my uniform,” Soldier 12 explains, his voice never wavering. “The uniform never comes off. I don’t rest. I don’t take breaks. My life is spent in the field, following orders, completing objectives. If you become my socks, you’ll live inside these boots forever. You’ll feel the heat, the pressure, the sweat. And it will never end.” There’s no malice in his voice, no attempt to intimidate. It’s just a fact. A reality of his existence. He’s laying out the truth for you—if you choose him, you’ll be giving up any hope of freedom or comfort. You’ll be trapped, just like him. “I don’t know why anyone would want that,” he admits after a pause, his tone still deep, gravelly and hard. “But if this is what you want, I will not stop you.” He leans forward slightly, his visor reflecting the light, making it impossible to see even a hint of what might lie beneath. “I don’t feel things like civilians do. Fun, relaxation, even sex or pleasure, those concepts don’t apply to me. I am a drone soldier. I exist to obey. If you choose me, you will exist to obey as well. There will be no comfort. No affection. Just the weight of my boots pressing down on you, day after day, mission after mission. And that’s all there will ever be. You’ll be just like me. Trapped in service, your entire existence tied to my feet. Think carefully.” The video feed freezes as the raccoon finally gets control over it. "Uh...well, he still technically counts. You like him, or you want me to connect you to a different random guy? Like, one who actually paid us for this?", the raccoon says. [[Accept Soldier 12]] [[Try a different guy at random][$candidate += 1]] <<if $candidate != 1>>[[Go back to your original choice]]<</if>> <<if $candidate > 20>>[[I don't like any of these!]]<</if>>

"Anyone ever told you that you're deranged?!", the raccoon says. A sudden prick of pain his your neck, and you realise you just got shot with a blowdart from a hidden hole in the wall. "That'll just get you started on the nanites and the brain melting so that you love his feet, not that you need much brain melting if you chose to belong to this weirdo." The raccoon pulls an animated switch next to him. "Whatever, bye! Enjoy your new horrible life!" There is a rush of strange light all around you. When it fades, you find yourself standing in the cold, sterile environment of the military base. The air is heavy with the scent of steel, oil, and machinery, and the low hum of electronic equipment fills the space. Standing in front of you, imposing and unreadable in his black military gear, is Soldier 12. In person he's even taller and scarier, over eight feet tall and sinister in his emotionless, stiff posture. His face remains hidden behind the black visor of his gas maskas his voice, distorted by the mask, breaks the silence. “You have chosen,” he says matter-of-factly, with no hint of emotion. “Understood. I will proceed.” Without hesitation, Soldier 12 moves toward you with the mechanical precision of someone who is used to following orders. His large, gloved hands reach out, gripping the hem of your shirt, and he strips it from you in one fluid motion. You don’t resist. He continues with the same detached efficiency, removing every piece of clothing from your body until you are completely exposed, vulnerable in the cold, sterile air of the base. As he gets to your pants and rips them down, he stares for a moment at your erect cock, clearly unused to the concept of sexual pleasure. “This is protocol,” he explains, “This is not for pleasure. You must be prepared for integration. You are government property now.” He steps back, his head tilting slightly as he regards you for a brief moment. Then, without another word, he bends down, his large, armored fingers unlacing the thick, black boots he’s worn for so long. You watch in silence, your breath catching in your throat as the boots creak and groan under the pressure of his hands. He pulls them off one by one, and as he does, a gush of steam escapes, filling the air with the pungent scent of sweat and heat, the unmistakable odor of long, grueling days spent in combat. For the first time, you see his feet. They are doglike, putting you in mind of a doberman or a similar dangerous canine. They are covered in sleek short brown fur, with firm black pawpads and sharp, dark claws. His feet are damp and slick with sweat, radiating heat, as though they’ve been trapped in those boots for years. The sight of them fills your mind with something primal, something beyond mere attraction. It’s a deep, overwhelming need to serve, to belong to them. You feel your heart race, your thoughts clouding as the heat from his feet washes over you. “These are my feet,” Soldier 12 says simply, lifting one slightly to examine it, as though seeing them himself for the first time. “I have never removed my boots since I received this uniform. It is not necessary for my function.” His voice remains emotionless, even as he looks down at his feet, but you can sense a faint undertone of curiosity, as if he’s processing something unfamiliar. You can't focus on that for long, though. As soon as you smelled his scent, your mind was starting to crumble, your thoughts overwhelmed with need. You drop to your knees, your hands trembling as they reach out toward his paws. The moment your fingers brush against his damp, heated pads, a wave of desire floods through your body. There’s no thought, only the need to serve, to worship. You press your hands against his large, firm paws, massaging the damp fur and thick pads beneath your fingertips. The musky heat of his feet fills your senses, and all you can think about is how desperately you want to belong to him, to serve him, to be part of his endless, unfeeling mission. Your hands work with a growing sense of urgency, rubbing every inch of his feet, your face drawing closer as if you’re utterly addicted to him. Soldier 12’s visor tilts downward, watching your every move. His voice, though still flat, carries a faint note of confusion. “I do not understand… this feeling. I have never experienced the touch of another person.” His toes flex slightly under your touch, and you can feel the raw power in them, the years of combat, of endurance, pressed into your hands. “Is this pleasure?,” he asks with cautious confusion. Your mind is already too far gone to reply. The moment your skin touched his paws, something began to shift inside you. You feel your body starting to change, the transformation happening slowly but steadily. Your skin begins to soften, the texture turning thick and durable, fuzzy cotton forming all over you. A rough, hard-wearing fabric spreads over your limbs, your insides hollowing out, your torso flattening and stretching as you begin to take on a new form. Soldier 12 watches in silence as your body continues to change. His eyes, hidden behind the dark visor of his gas mask, seem to follow every movement as you transform before him. The deep green and brown of a camouflage pattern spreads across your skin. Your arms stretch and then pull to your sides and merge with you, your legs fuse together, and your entire being becomes more streamlined, more flat, more inhuman. You collapse to the ground, hollowing out and deflating, and then shudder as you feel yourself split into two identical pieces. Without a word, Soldier 12 bends down and picks you up, holding you in his gloved hands. He examines you closely, his head tilting slightly as if he’s assessing your fit, your purpose. “You are now part of my uniform,” he says, the cold professionalism returning to his voice. “You will remain with me. Forever.” With that, he lifts one of his powerful feet and begins to slide you over it. The sensation is immediate, his foot, large and warm, filling you completely, and you cling tightly to him, wrapping around every inch of his paw. His toes flex inside you, the rough pads pressing into your fabric as he adjusts you to ensure the perfect fit. The heat from his foot is overwhelming, and his scent, the sweat, primal masculine musk, the danger of a genetically modified soldier, overwhelms your senses. “There,” Soldier 12 says, pulling you over his other foot. “You are where you belong.” Without hesitation, he reaches for his boots, and you feel a sudden rush of panic. The dark entrance is oozing sweaty steam, and before you can fully process it, he shoves his foot, and you along with it, back into the stifling prison of his combat boots. The air is humid, thick with the scent of sweat and leather, and the pressure of his boot tightens around you as he laces them up, trapping you inside. “You will remain with me,” Soldier 12 repeats, his voice calm, mechanical. “I will never remove you again. You are now part of my mission. My endless service. There is no escape.” He takes a step, and the weight of his body slams down on you. The heat is suffocating, the pressure relentless, but all you feel is an overwhelming sense of belonging. This is your purpose, to be inside his boots, to feel every step he takes, every mission he completes. His feet are the center of your existence now, and the thought of anything else fades away. [[Life with Soldier 12]]

Living as Soldier 12’s socks is a brutal, relentless existence. From the moment he first shoved you into the thick, suffocating prison of his combat boots, your world became one of unending heat, pressure, and discomfort. Day after day, mission after mission, you are trapped beneath his feet, feeling every single step, every jarring impact as his heavy boots slam into the ground with military precision. The tightness of the boots presses you firmly against his rough, furred soles, his paw pads rubbing you raw with every movement. You feel the weight of his entire body bearing down on you, the dampness of his sweat soaking into your fabric, filling you with the scent of musk, dirt, and exhaustion. There’s no respite. Soldier 12 never rests, never pauses. His life is a series of missions, orders followed without question. He marches, runs, and fights with you wrapped tightly around his feet, and the sheer force of his existence slowly begins to wear you down. The heat inside his boots is unbearable, the air thick and humid, making it impossible to escape the constant dampness. His feet grow slick with sweat, the moisture clinging to you, soaking into your fibers until it feels as if you’ve been submerged in it for weeks, even after only a few days. You don't know how you'll manage it when you've been part of his life for months or even longer. Every shift, every flex of his toes grinds into you, the roughness of his paw pads scraping against you as you cling to him, your only purpose now to endure, to serve. The pressure is constant, unyielding. His boots are tight, almost painfully so, and every step forces you deeper against his feet, crushing you into the unforgiving leather. The ground beneath him shifts from hard-packed dirt to jagged rocks to slick mud, but the sensation never changes for you. You’re trapped, confined, forced to bear the weight of his relentless march. There’s no relief, no pause. It’s endless. As the days, weeks, and months stretch on, your mind starts to shift. You can feel yourself forgetting the life you once had, the memories of who you were fading away as your existence becomes consumed by Soldier 12’s existence. The old you becomes a distant, fading thought, something buried deep beneath the constant weight and heat. Now, all that fills your mind is the mission, the duty to serve. To be worn. To be part of his war. There is no room for anything else. But one day, after a particularly grueling mission, something changes. Soldier 12 slumps down on a ruined wall, the enemies routed, his body bruised, exhausted, and covered in dirt. His steps are slower, heavier than usual, and you can feel the weariness in every movement. He sits down, his breath coming in labored, steady breaths, his body slumped as he waits for his next communication from HQ, his next orders. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, he pauses. Soldier 12 reaches down, his gloved hands gripping the laces of his boots. There’s a moment of hesitation, as if he’s debating whether to continue, but after a long pause, he begins to unlace them. Slowly, methodically, he pulls the heavy, black boots from his feet. Steam rises from the opening, and you feel a sudden rush of cool air against your damp, overworked fabric. It’s the first time in a year that you’ve been freed from your leather prison. As the boots fall to the ground with a heavy thud, Soldier 12 stares down at his feet, flexing his toes slightly. You cling to his paws, still wrapped around them, your fabric soaked through with sweat and grime. The relief of being outside the boots is immediate, the coolness of the air, the relaxation of not being squeezed by the leather and laces.. Soldier 12 reaches down and begins to stroke you, pressing his gloved fingers into the worn fabric that covers his soles, massaging you against his flesh. You feel the pressure of his touch as he squeezes you, working the tension from his own feet with deliberate, slow movements. The pleasure is dizzying, orgasmic, a relief from the endless grind of being marched into the ground that you thought would be all you would ever feel.. A low, rough growl escapes him, vibrating through his chest. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters, his voice thick with restrained frustration. “It’s against protocol. Taking off my boots. Feeling pleasure. It’s forbidden.” Despite his words, he doesn’t stop. His fingers knead into his feet, his claws grazing against the fabric of your form as he massages them. The sensation is unlike anything you’ve felt in the long, brutal months of endless missions. You can feel his excitement too, his pounding heartbeat, his shuddering bliss. “I don’t understand this,” Soldier 12 mutters, his voice deep, angry and rough. “This is because of you.” His visor tilts down toward his feet, his head cocking slightly in thought. “You have changed me somehow. You have made me think of pleasure. Of touch. Of...penises...” His voice cracks slightly, conflicted and confused. “I don’t feel things,” he says, his voice low, like he's trying to convince himself instead of you. The moment is fleeting. The sudden sound of a communication tone echoes from his radio, signaling his next set of orders. The softness in Soldier 12’s demeanor vanishes instantly, replaced by the cold professionalism you’ve come to know. His hand jerks away from his feet, and without hesitation, he reaches for his boots. His voice returns to its normal, emotionless tone as he laces up his boots, his movements swift and efficient. “This was a mistake. I can’t afford to indulge. I won’t take them off again.” And just like that, you are shoved back into the tight, humid prison of his boots. The heavy leather closes around you, and the familiar weight of his body presses down on you as he stands, adjusting his gear. “You will remain with me,” Soldier 12 says flatly, his voice distant once more. “Forever. I have no need for rest. You are part of my mission now. War never changes. I do not want pleasure. I do not fantasise about masturbation. I do not want to know what my fellow soldiers look like naked. I do not want to stretch you over my penis and fill you with cum. I do not think of these things. This is not approved thinking. Thinking like that could cause me to overthrow my superiors.” Soldier 12 marches forward, returning to his miserable life. Except now, from inside his boots, you have a sneaking suspicion there is a chance that his life could change one day...