Sunday I didn’t dare leave the house. Sunday…hell, I probably couldn’t have left the house even if I’d wanted to. I woke up that morning in bed, wearing the filthy underwear as usual, but also found I’d managed to climb in with the derelicts socks and boots still on my feet, crusted with all manner of filth, but it didn’t bother me one bit. I…I wanted to smell them some more, but I also…I also didn’t want to take them off, in the same way that I didn’t want to take off the underwear I had on as well, though with the boots, the urge was less strong. As I went about my day, however, I did notice something strange–that as I would take my occasional break from masturbating to go to the kitchen for something to eat, I would notice that the boots which had been much too large on my feet–so large simply walking home in them the night before had been a challenge…they weren’t nearly as uncomfortable as I remembered.
By the time that evening rolled around, I was no longer sure if I didn’t want to take off the boots because I enjoyed wearing them, or if I didn’t want to take them off because I was afraid of what I might find within them. They were, at this point…the most comfortable shoe I’d ever had on, but I…I needed to know, really. I already knew what I was going to find, of course, but I just…I pulled off both boots, looking down at the browned, holey socks, and I could tell right away that something had changed about my feet. They were…huge. No wonder the boots fit so well, my feet had swollen up to match them! Had I caught some strange disease? Did I need to go to the hospital? I hauled off the socks, expecting some red, horrific infection, but instead saw two…normalish feet. I qualify that, because they were…well, monstrous in size, but otherwise completely normal…aside from the smell.
At first, I couldn’t tell if the stink was coming from the socks and boots, or if it really was coming from my newly changed feet–I had to cross the room, the feel of the carpet under my new feet…it felt wrong, and I wanted to get the boots back on as soon as I could, but I forced myself to get away from them for a moment, crouched down, and took a whiff of my feet alone, and moaned. It…it was both of them, of course. But my feet didn’t smell like my feet anymore–they smelled like the boots, but stronger than them too. Like my feet had somehow…somehow learned from the smell of the boots, like the smell had changed them in the same way that my now nine inch cock seemed to be learning and changing from the underwear I was still wearing. All of it was too much to try and understand, so I did what seemed easiest–I jacked off, and then put the socks and boots back on, feeling much, much more comfortable immediately. They…they were mine, after all. I’d taken them, and they were mine. No–he’d given them to me. He’d wanted my cock, and he’d given me his boots. A fair trade. Finders keepers.
It was harder to tell myself that when I left for work the next day, and as I left my apartment building, driving past an alley, I saw him lying against the side, in an alley. The derelict. The panic and guilt in my throat almost made me throw up in the car, but I tamped it down, and kept driving. Had he followed me home somehow? I hadn’t…seen him following me, and I know I had checked behind me a few times. Still, if someone had stolen my only pair of boots…I’d probably want them back too.
But I hadn’t stolen them. He’d given them to me! They were mine now, they fit, they were mine!
The sheer…force of those thoughts surprised me. The sense of ownership I had for these things I was wearing…I jacked off into both boots that day at work–because…because I had to wear them to work. It didn’t look very good–a nice suit on with two massive, grungy, well worn boot on my feet, but I hadn’t even considered wearing something else…not that any of my other shoes would have even fit me, given the new feet I had after the weekend. Still, I couldn’t focus–what in the hell was he doing there? Was he going to call the police? Accuse me of rape? I…I had to confront him. I had to get him to leave.
Passed by the same alley as I went home, and sure enough, he was still there, and…still barefoot. I did feel awful about that, I admit it. I went down later that evening to confront him, to tell him to leave, but the encounter didn’t go how I was expecting it to go. As soon as he smelled me, he turned to me, and he…fuck, I could see the hunger in his fucking eyes, and he raced over, shoving his face into my crotch, huffing at my stink.
“Fuck I…I needed more sir, I’m sorry,” he moaned, “I could smell you across the city, I…with your shoe, I’m sorry for following but I had to, I had to…I…”
He didn’t get anything else out before I dragged him away from the sidewalk, behind a dumpster halfway down the alley, and fed him my cock. The way he shuddered and groaned–it was like watching an addict get their fix, and rather than horror, what I felt was…was power. I had power over him, just because of my stink. I started to wonder what I could make him do. I ordered him to take off one of my boots, and suck the sweat from my sock–he did as ordered, and the pleasure that washed over him, and the massive load of cum he shot from his cock, was enough for me to shoot as well, blowing a load of cum into his face and beard. I stepped away, got my boot back on, and it was clear that he wanted to follow me, but I told him to stay here…where I’d be able to find him whenever I needed him.
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