tf-kinky

[tf-kinky]

Howard reclined on his couch, the dim glow of the TV casting flickering shadows across the living room. His legs were propped up on the coffee table, and on his feet were a pair of plain black socks—unremarkable to the untrained eye. But these were no ordinary socks. They were Raj, his once-talkative friend, now reduced to soft cotton threads through a twisted experiment Howard had perfected in his garage lab. The transformation had happened hours earlier, a flawless fusion of engineering and spite. Raj’s last words before the change lingered in Howard’s memory: a whining complaint about how much he despised feet.

Howard smirked, wiggling his toes inside the socks. He’d engineered Raj’s senses to be razor-sharp—every fiber woven with heightened awareness, amplifying smell, touch, taste. And today, Howard’s feet were a perfect storm. After a long day tinkering with machinery, skipping a shower, and letting the sweat pool, his soles were slick and rank, soaking into the fabric with relentless persistence.

He flexed his arches, feeling the damp warmth spread. Raj, trapped in the weave, would be overwhelmed—each bead of sweat a deluge, each whiff of stale skin a suffocating fog. Howard’s lips curled slightly, picturing the silent torment, knowing how Raj’s amplified senses would turn the salty bitterness into an inescapable nightmare. It was fitting, considering Raj’s disgust for feet had been so vocal, so absolute.

The night stretched on. Howard didn’t bother changing or washing up. He let the hours pile up, the dampness deepening. He grabbed a bag of chips, crumbs tumbling to the floor, some catching in the socks’ fibers��grease and salt blending with the rancid moisture. He chewed slowly, methodically, his focus drifting to the sensation of his feet shifting inside the socks.

By midnight, the room’s air hung heavy, thick with the musk radiating from his soles. Howard peeled one sock off briefly, holding it up to the light. It looked so mundane, so lifeless. He dangled it for a moment, letting the air tease the fabric, then slid it back on, pressing his heel in hard. He leaned back, eyes closing, a faint satisfaction settling over him. Raj’s hatred of feet had been his undoing, and Howard relished every unspoken second of it. The night was still young, and he had no intention of stopping.

[tf-kinky]

The dimly lit room buzzed with the soft hum of Joe Locke’s phone as he tapped away at the screen, a sly grin curling his lips. The app glowed an unnatural shade of violet, its interface sleek and predatory—Transmogrify, it was called, a black-market gem he’d stumbled upon in the depths of the dark web. The world saw Joe as the quiet one, the soft-spoken charmer with a boyish laugh, always yielding to Kit Connor’s brash confidence. Everyone assumed Joe was the submissive one, the bottom in their unspoken dynamic. But they were wrong. So very wrong.

Joe relished the secret he kept buried beneath his gentle facade: he was the one in control, the one who pulled the strings. And tonight, Kit would learn that the hard way.

Kit sprawled on the couch across the room, oblivious, scrolling through his own phone. “Mate, you’ve been glued to that thing all night,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar teasing edge. “What’s so fascinating?”

Joe didn’t look up. “You’ll see,” he murmured, his fingers hovering over the app’s final command. He’d already input the details: Target: Kit Connor. Transformation: Permanent insoles for my black Converse. Sensory amplification: Maximum. A little checkbox labeled Awareness was ticked—because what was the point if Kit didn’t know?

He pressed Execute, and the air shivered.

Kit’s phone clattered to the floor as his body seized, a gasp choking in his throat. “Joe—what the—?” His words dissolved into a strangled cry as his form began to warp. His arms folded inward, his legs twisted grotesquely, and his skin shimmered like liquid rubber. Joe watched, heart pounding with a thrill he couldn’t suppress, as Kit’s six-foot frame shrank and flattened. His horrified face lingered for a moment—wide eyes locked on Joe’s—before it too melted away, reshaping into something smaller, simpler. Two thin, cushioned slabs of material, perfectly molded to fit Joe’s sneakers.

The transformation was complete in seconds. Joe stepped forward, picking up the newly formed insoles from the floor. They were warm to the touch, faintly trembling. Kit was still in there, trapped in his new existence. Joe could almost feel the panic radiating off them.

“Perfect,” he whispered, turning them over in his hands. He slipped off his Converse and slid the Kit-insoles inside, pressing them down with a deliberate, cruel slowness. He knew Kit hated feet—loathed the smell, the sweat, the very idea of them. It was a running joke between them, one Joe had always laughed off. But now? Now it was the punchline to Kit’s eternal torment.

Joe laced up the sneakers and stood, shifting his weight. The insoles molded to his feet instantly, soft yet resilient, and he could sense Kit’s heightened awareness screaming beneath him. Every step, every shift of his toes, would be agony for Kit—amplified beyond human limits, inescapable. Joe took a slow stroll around the room, savoring the faint, imagined whimper he couldn’t hear but knew was there.

“You always thought you were the big shot, didn’t you?” Joe said aloud, his voice low and venomous. “Strutting around, acting like you owned the place. But look at you now. You’re mine, Kit. My little footrest. Forever.”

He dropped onto the couch, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table with a thud. The insoles cushioned every move, and Joe leaned back, closing his eyes. He could picture Kit’s disgust, his silent rage, locked in that sensory hell—smelling the faint musk of Joe’s socks, feeling the press of his heels, tasting the salt of his sweat. It was perverse. It was delicious.

Days turned to weeks, and Joe wore the sneakers everywhere. To set, to interviews, to the gym. The insoles never wore out—some perk of the app’s dark magic, he supposed. And with every step, he felt Kit’s presence, a secret only he knew. Friends complimented the bounce in his stride; fans gushed over his laid-back charm. No one suspected the truth: that Joe Locke, the sweet-faced darling, was a predator in plain sight, dominating Kit in a way no one could fathom.

One night, alone in his flat, Joe kicked off the Converse and peeled out the insoles, holding them up to the light. “Still hate feet, Kit?” he asked, smirking. “Too bad. You’re stuck with mine forever.”

He slid them back in and went to bed, dreaming of the power he wielded—over Kit, over the world’s perception, over everything. Joe wasn’t the bottom. He never had been. And now, with Kit beneath him in the most literal sense, he’d never let anyone forget it.

Even if Kit was the only one who’d ever know.

[tf-kinky]

The faint hum of Ninja’s streaming setup filled the air, a symphony of RGB lights and cooling fans casting an eerie glow across his room. It was late—too late for his usual audience—but this wasn’t a typical night. His chat buzzed with the usual fervor, though tonight, their hero wasn’t clutching a Victory Royale. He was clutching something far darker: a secret he’d kept buried behind his trademark grin.

Ninja leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the desk as he stared at his phone. The app glowed on the screen, its icon a swirling vortex of black and purple. He’d stumbled across it weeks ago on some sketchy deep-web forum—a transformation tool, they called it. No one believed it was real, just another troll thread. But Ninja had tested it. A stray sock had become a mouse. A water bottle had morphed into a flickering candle. Small stuff. Harmless. Until tonight.

“Clix has been talking smack again,” Ninja muttered to himself, his voice low, almost drowned by the whir of his PC. The kid had been relentless—dissing Ninja’s skills, his age, his relevance. It wasn’t just banter anymore. It was personal. And Ninja had a plan to shut him up for good.

He tapped the app, its interface cold and minimalistic. A single input field appeared: Target. Ninja grinned, typing “Clix” with a deliberate slowness, savoring the moment. A second field popped up: Form. His fingers hesitated, then danced across the screen: Adidas Samba OG White Sneakers. Clean. Classic. Permanent.

The app pulsed once, twice, then a prompt appeared: Enhancements? Ninja’s grin widened. He wanted Clix to feel this. He typed: Heightened senses—extreme sensitivity. Full awareness. A final tap, and the screen flashed red. Somewhere, miles away, Clix’s world was about to unravel.

Clix had been mid-stream, trash-talking his chat with that cocky smirk plastered across his face, when it hit. A jolt—like electricity surging through his spine. His vision blurred, his limbs locked up, and a scream caught in his throat as the room warped around him. His body folded inward, shrinking, twisting, reshaping. Skin hardened into leather. Bones melted into rubber soles. His senses didn’t fade—they sharpened, excruciatingly so. The faint hum of his monitor became a deafening roar. The stale air of his gaming den stung like acid. And then—nothing. Darkness. Stillness. But he was awake. Aware.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, but he could feel. Every fiber of his being screamed in silent horror as he realized what he’d become: a pair of pristine white Adidas Sambas, laces neatly tied, sitting in a sleek black box. The smell hit him next—packaging foam, faint rubber, and something distant, musky. Feet. Oh God, no. Clix’s mind recoiled. He’d always hated feet—sweaty, grimy, repulsive things. The thought alone made him gag, back when he could gag. Now, it was worse. He could sense everything.

A delivery drone dropped the box at Ninja’s doorstep within hours. No questions asked. The app had its ways.

Ninja peeled open the package, his eyes glinting as he lifted the sneakers out. “Well, well, Clix. Look at you now.” His voice was a mocking purr. He turned them over in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship. They were perfect—crisp white leather, black stripes, a faint sheen under the studio lights. He could almost feel the rage radiating off them. Good.

“Chat, check these out,” he said, holding them up to the camera. “Fresh kicks for the stream. Limited edition.” The comments exploded—Dope shoes, Ninja! Where’d you get those? He chuckled, slipping them onto his feet. The moment his socks brushed against the insole, Clix’s silent scream echoed in his own mind. Ninja’s feet—warm, slightly damp from hours in his gaming chair—pressed down, and Clix’s heightened senses erupted. Every crease of skin, every bead of sweat, every shift of weight was unbearable. He wanted to shrivel up, to die, but he couldn’t. He was trapped, forced to endure the stench, the pressure, the feet.

Ninja flexed his toes, smirking as he stood. “Comfy as hell. Might keep these on permanently.” He paced the room, each step a fresh torment for Clix. The kid’s disgust fueled Ninja’s glee—he could almost imagine Clix’s voice, whining about how gross it was. “Should’ve kept your mouth shut, man,” Ninja whispered under his breath, too quiet for the mic to catch.

Days turned into weeks. Ninja wore the Sambas everywhere—streams, workouts, even casual strolls outside. Clix’s awareness never dulled. The dirt from the pavement, the sweat from long gaming sessions, the occasional spill of energy drink soaking into the fabric—it was a nightmare without end. His hatred for feet, once just a quirky gripe, became his eternal prison. And Ninja? He never took them off. Why would he? They were his trophy, his silent victory.

One night, mid-stream, Ninja leaned down, brushing a speck of dust off the toe. “Still holding up,” he said to no one in particular. “Guess you’re built to last, huh, Clix?” The chat laughed, oblivious. But deep within the sneakers, a consciousness raged, helpless, drowning in the repulsive reality of its new existence. And Ninja kept winning.

Months dragged on, and the once-pristine Adidas Sambas began to fray. The white leather yellowed, the soles thinned, and a faint stench clung to them despite Ninja’s relentless wear. Clix’s heightened senses had cataloged every degrading moment—the scuffs, the sweat, the slow unraveling of his prison. Ninja barely noticed at first, too caught up in his streams, but one night, mid-rant, he glanced down and grimaced.

“These kicks are trashed,” he muttered, peeling them off with a flick of disgust. The chat spammed RIP shoes, oblivious to the weight of his words. He stood, holding the worn-out Sambas by the laces, their tattered form dangling like a defeated foe. “Time to retire you,” he said with a smirk, striding to the kitchen.

Clix’s mind raced—relief, dread, fury—as Ninja swung open the trash bin. The sneakers hit the pile with a dull thud, sinking into a mess of soda cans and takeout wrappers. The lid slammed shut, plunging Clix into darkness. The rancid stench of garbage replaced the torment of feet, but the reprieve was fleeting. His senses, still razor-sharp, drowned in the rot. Ninja walked away, already scrolling for a new pair, while Clix lay buried, abandoned, his silent screams lost to the heap—forever aware, forever trapped.

[tf-kinky]

Finn had always lived in the shadow of his older brother, Brock. At nineteen, Finn was a wiry, pale kid with a mop of greasy black hair and a knack for tinkering with tech. Brock, on the other hand, was a chiseled twenty-two-year-old jock, six-foot-three with biceps that strained every shirt he owned. He’d been the golden boy of their small town—star quarterback, prom king, the works. Finn? He was the weird one, the kid who’d rather debug code than throw a football. Brock never let him forget it, either. “Hey, Finn-tastic,” he’d jeer, ruffling Finn’s hair like he was still a toddler, “gonna build me a robot girlfriend since no real girl’s gonna look at you?”

Finn had taken it for years, swallowing the bitterness like a jagged pill. But last week, when Brock “borrowed” Finn’s laptop to stream a game and spilled beer all over it—ruining months of work—that was the final straw. Finn wasn’t just mad. He was done. He’d had enough of Brock’s smug grin, his effortless charm, his stupid, perfect life. Finn wanted something for himself, something Brock could never take away. And then he found the app.

It was buried deep in a dark web forum, a sketchy .apk file called “PermaMorph.” The description was cryptic: “Transform anything—or anyone—permanently. No takebacks.” Finn’s pulse raced as he downloaded it onto his cracked old phone, the kind Brock mocked him for not upgrading. The app’s interface was simple: a single text box to type the target’s name, a dropdown for the transformation, and a slider labeled “Sensory Amplification.” Finn didn’t hesitate. He typed “Brock” into the box, scrolled through the options—dog, toaster, chair—until he landed on “Tesla Cybertruck.” He’d been drooling over that angular, futuristic beast since it hit the market, but at $80,000, it was a pipe dream. Until now. For the sensory slider, he cranked it to max. If Brock was going to be a truck, Finn wanted him to feel every second of it. Then he hit “Execute.”

The change happened fast. Finn was in his basement room, hunched over his phone, when he heard a muffled yell from upstairs. He bolted to the living room, where Brock had been sprawled on the couch, midway through a protein shake. Now, Brock was frozen mid-sip, his body shimmering like a glitchy video game character. His skin turned metallic, his arms elongated into sharp, angular panels, and his legs fused into thick, rugged wheels. His face—oh, his stupid, handsome face—flattened into a sleek windshield, his eyes becoming headlights that flickered once before going dark. The protein shake clattered to the floor, splashing across the hardwood as Brock’s massive frame settled into the unmistakable shape of a Tesla Cybertruck. Silver, gleaming, and utterly lifeless.

Finn stood there, mouth agape, as the transformation finished. The room smelled faintly of ozone and burnt rubber. Where Brock had been lounging moments ago, a full-sized Cybertruck now took up half the living room, its front bumper nudging the coffee table. Finn reached out and tapped the hood. Cold. Solid. Real. He grinned.

But Brock wasn’t gone—not entirely. nside the inanimate shell, Brock’s mind was screaming. Every vibration of the floorboards as Finn paced around him felt like an earthquake. The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen was a deafening roar. The faint breeze from the open window scraped across his metallic surface like sandpaper. He could feel it all—every scratch, every speck of dust, every shift in temperature—but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even blink those headlight eyes. He was trapped, a prisoner in a body that wasn’t his anymore, hyper-aware and helpless.

Finn didn’t know that part, and he didn’t care. He climbed into the driver’s seat, running his hands over the steering yoke. The interior smelled new, like leather and factory steel. “Hey, Brock,” he said, patting the dashboard. “Guess who’s useful now?” He turned the key—well, pressed the start button—and the truck purred to life, its electric motor rumbling softly. Finn laughed, a sharp, triumphant sound, and peeled out of the driveway, tires squealing as he left tire marks on the street.

For Finn, it was freedom. He cruised through town, windows down, basking in the stares of neighbors who couldn’t believe scrawny little Finn was rolling in a Cybertruck. He didn’t care that Mom would freak when she got home and found Brock missing. He’d figure out a story—Brock ran off with some girl, maybe. For now, this was his victory lap.

For Brock, it was hell. Every pothole Finn hit sent shockwaves through his frame, every honk from passing cars pierced his nonexistent ears, and every bug that splattered on his windshield felt like a personal violation. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t beg, couldn’t do anything but endure. Finn had his dream ride, and Brock was it—forever.

Hope you enjoyed the story! I was aided by Grok AI

[tf-kinky]

// First TF story of 2025, based on tv show Young Dracula. Enjoy! 😈😈 \\

In the shadowy, time-worn corridors of Garside Grange, Vladimir Dracula, affectionately known as Vlad among his circle, was known for his kindness and gentle nature. He was a vampire who prided himself on compassion, often going out of his way to help both the living and the undead. But when it came to Malik, a vampire whose treachery had once caused havoc in Vlad's life, that kindness was nowhere to be found.

Vlad found himself in his ancient study, surrounded by the relics of his long life, with a plan fueled by a mix of vengeance and dark magic. He had retrieved a vial containing the remnants of Malik, who had been dusted by enemy vampires. With a heart hardened only against this particular adversary, Vlad began to chant in an age-old language that echoed with the weight of centuries.

The air shimmered as the spell took effect, the dust of Malik swirling into existence. But Vlad, with an uncharacteristic twist of cruelty, altered the magic at the last moment. Instead of reviving Malik in his former glory, he transformed him into something both elegant and degrading—a pair of black gothic vampire boots with sharp, pointed toes, the leather as dark as the void.

Malik, now the boots, was assaulted by an intense barrage of sensations. Every footfall sent waves of sensory information through him, from the cold of the stone floor to the musty scent of the castle. His senses were heightened to an excruciating degree, making his new existence one of constant, overwhelming awareness. But what gnawed at him more than the sensory overload was the humiliation of his state, especially at the hands of Vlad, whom he despised.

Vlad, however, felt no remorse. He admired his new boots with a cold satisfaction, their gothic design complementing his usual attire. "Malik, my dear," he said with a voice devoid of his usual warmth, "you've finally found your place." He slipped his feet into the boots, feeling them mold perfectly to him, a dark smile playing on his lips.

Each step Vlad took was a reminder to Malik of his new, powerless existence. His hatred for Vlad boiled silently, a sharp contrast to the gentle nature Vlad was known for. He felt every movement, every shift, every step Vlad made through the castle, each one a testament to his fall from grace.

Vlad, now adorned with his new, unwilling boots, walked through Garside Grange with a different kind of pride. To the rest of the world, he was the kind-hearted vampire; to Malik, he was the embodiment of vengeance. In this dark twist of fate, Malik was forever bound to Vlad, a constant, silent companion in his most humiliating form, while Vlad enjoyed the irony of having his enemy so close, yet so utterly at his mercy.

From Malik's perspective, existence had morphed into a relentless nightmare. Each day brought with it a fresh wave of agony, his very being now synonymous with the soles of Vlad's boots. His face, once proud and fearsome, was now the insole, pressed flat against the hard, unyielding leather, only to be crushed under the weight of Vlad's feet.

Every step Vlad took was a torment. The pressure of Vlad's heel was like a boulder grinding into him, his skull feeling as if it would burst from the constant pressure. The balls of Vlad's feet pressed down with each stride, sending shockwaves of pain through what was once his face, now a mere part of the footwear. The texture of the stone floors, the occasional sharp pebble, or the smooth glide over the castle's carpets—all translated into a symphony of suffering for Malik.

The sensory overload was maddening. The smell of the ancient stone, the dust, Vlad's scent, all mixed with the leather's mustiness, was ceaseless. But the worst was the taste, the bitter, stale taste of the inside of the boot, combined with the occasional drop of sweat from Vlad's feet, which felt like acid on Malik's senses.

Time had lost its meaning; there was no day or night for him, just the endless parade of steps. There were moments when Vlad would sit, and the pressure would lessen slightly, but the pain was always there, latent, waiting for Vlad to move again. Malik's screams, once loud and defiant, were now silent, trapped within the confines of his leather prison.

The humiliation was as palpable as the physical pain. To be reduced to this, to be at the mercy of Vlad's every whim, was a fate worse than death for Malik. He could feel Vlad's smug satisfaction with every step, the subtle shift in weight as Vlad would perhaps pause to gloat over his new boots, over him.

Malik's hatred for Vlad grew with each passing moment, but it was a futile emotion. There was no escape, no way to fight back. He was bound to Vlad, not just by magic but by this excruciating cycle of pain and degradation. Each step was a reminder of his fall, his powerlessness, and Vlad's unyielding vengeance.

In this personal hell, Malik could only endure, each step a strike against his very essence, every moment a testament to his new existence as nothing more than the boots Vlad wore with cold satisfaction, walking through the shadows of Garside Grange, forever.

[tf-kinky]

Zane was the kind of fan who lived and breathed Timothée Chalamet. His walls were plastered with posters, his phone background was a candid shot from a premiere, and his social media feeds were dedicated solely to celebrating every moment of Timothée's career. So, when Zane won a contest to meet his idol backstage at a film festival, his excitement was beyond measure.

The meeting was brief but magical. Timothée was charming, his smile disarming, and he listened intently as Zane gushed about his favorite movies. Amidst the chatter, Zane mentioned his peculiar disgust for feet, the thought of which made him cringe even in conversation. Timothée noted this with an amused smirk, his mind already concocting a plan.

Inviting Zane back to his luxurious home under the guise of showing him some exclusive memorabilia, Timothée led the unsuspecting fan into a world of opulence. The house was everything Zane imagined and more, with art, books, and personal items scattered around, each telling a story of Timothée's life.

Once inside, Timothée revealed a gadget he jokingly called his "TF ray gun," explaining it was from a sci-fi movie prop he never got to use. Zane laughed, thinking it was part of the playful banter until Timothée pointed it at him and pulled the trigger.

In an instant, Zane's world twisted and shrank. His senses were overwhelmed as he felt his body morphing, his consciousness trapped within the very fabric of a pair of blue Converse sneakers. The transformation was not just physical; Timothée had ensured that Zane's senses were heightened to an excruciating degree.

Timothée slipped his feet into the new sneakers, and immediately, Zane was engulfed by sensations he had always loathed. The dampness of sweat, the musky scent, and the oppressive warmth of Timothée's feet soaked into what was now Zane's entire being. The pain was indescribable, each step Timothée took sending waves of agony through what was left of Zane's consciousness.

For Timothée, however, it was a delightful twist of fate. He admired how the shoes looked on him, feeling a perverse satisfaction in knowing that his fan was now serving a purpose, albeit in the most twisted way imaginable. He walked around, enjoying the comfort of the sneakers, never once contemplating reversing the transformation. Instead, he relished in the silent torment of his once-admirer, now forever bound to his feet.

As days turned into weeks, Timothée wore the sneakers often, each time reveling in the power he had over Zane, whose agony was his secret amusement. Zane, now sentient fabric, was trapped in a reality where every step was a reminder of his fanatical devotion turned into an eternal nightmare.

Once Zane felt the world shrink around him, he knew he was no longer himself. The transformation was disorienting, a swirl of colors and sensations until everything settled into a nightmarish reality: he had become a pair of blue Converse sneakers.

The first assault on his senses was the smell - potent, overwhelming, an acrid, musky odor that now defined his existence. Timothée's feet slid into him, and with that, Zane felt the warmth and dampness of sweat soaking through his fabric. Each step Timothée took was like a hammer strike to Zane's consciousness; the pressure of his foot against the insole was a constant reminder of his new, horrific purpose.

Zane could taste every drop of sweat, feel every grain of dirt that had found its way inside him. It was beyond disgust; it was torture. His senses, heightened to an unbearable degree, made every sensation agonizing. The pain was not just physical; it was the soul-crushing realization that his idol, the person he had admired from afar, had turned him into this object of convenience and amusement.

Days passed, or what Zane perceived as days, for time had lost all meaning. Each step Timothée took was a reminder of Zane's eternal sentence. He could hear Timothée's laughter, see through the tiny gaps in the shoe's design, witnessing the world from an utterly demeaning perspective. Timothée wore him to events, on casual strolls, and each environment brought a different kind of torment. The heat of summer made his feet sweat more, the cold of winter made the dampness chilling.

Zane longed for relief, for escape, but there was none. He was trapped, his only interaction with the world being through Timothée's feet. His every step was a sentence without parole. Zane could feel Timothée's satisfaction, his lack of remorse, as he moved about, never once considering Zane's plight.

In moments of solitude, when Timothée would take him off, there was no respite. The air was a slight relief, but the memory of Zane's former self, the fan who would never have imagined such an end, haunted him. He was now part of Timothée's life in the most literal, yet dehumanizing way, his existence reduced to serving his feet.

As weeks turned into months, any hope of returning to his old life faded. He was no longer Zane, the fan; he was Zane, the sneakers. His identity, his dreams, his admiration, all had been transmuted into this endless, silent suffering, a grotesque parody of what he once thought was devotion. Every day was a new lesson in agony, and every step Timothée took was a further step away from any semblance of humanity Zane once knew.

[tf-kinky]

Noah, a man whose heart had been shattered by betrayal. His former love, Jay, had cheated on him, leaving Noah with a bitter taste of love gone wrong. But Noah had discovered something extraordinary in his despair: a Transformation App, or TF App for short, which promised to turn any living being into inanimate objects of one's choosing.

One chilly evening, with the stars winking down at him through the winter sky, Noah decided to use the app. While talking to Jay about it, Noah quickly with a few taps used the TF app, Jay was transformed into a stunning diamond engagement ring, the facets of the jewel reflecting the moonlight with an icy brilliance. Jay could still feel, still think, but now he was bound to a new form, cold and unyielding.

Months passed, and Noah found solace in the arms of Jace, a kind-hearted man with eyes like the warmest autumn leaves. Their love grew like ivy, strong and unbreakable. One day, under the boughs of an ancient oak, Noah knelt before Jace, the ring - which was once Jay - gleaming in his hand.

"Jace, this ring, it's... it's my ex, Jay. I turned him into this," Noah confessed, his voice a mix of humor and seriousness.

Jace looked at the ring, then at Noah, his eyes twinkling with mischief and acceptance. "You turned him into a ring? That's... quite the commitment," he laughed, sliding the ring onto his finger. "I love it. And I love that you're so creative with your revenge."

Noah smiled, a weight lifting from his shoulders. "I thought it was fitting. He'll be cold but he'll always be close, feeling the warmth of our love, forever on your finger."

Jace admired the ring, feeling the coolness of the diamond against his skin. "He'll feel all the love we share, won't he?" There was a smirk in his voice, knowing Jay's new existence was both a poetic justice and a constant reminder of the consequences of betrayal.

And so, Jay, now an exquisite diamond, became a symbol of their union. He felt every touch, every gesture of love between Noah and Jace, his once warm heart now as cold as the stone he'd become, wrapped around Jace's finger for the foreseeable future. Noah and Jace would often chuckle at the irony, their love growing stronger with each shared secret, each knowing glance, while Jay was there, silent, cold, a constant yet powerless witness to their happiness.

As the days melded into weeks, Jay, now a diamond ring on Jace's finger, was engulfed in a relentless cold, trapped in his new form with no escape. His fear, his upset, his sense of imprisonment was not lost on Noah and Jace; instead, it became a twisted source of amusement for them.

Every touch, every moment where Jace would slide the ring off and on, was done with a knowing smirk. Noah and Jace were acutely aware of Jay's consciousness within the diamond, and they relished in it. They often spoke of their plans, their love, their future, right where Jay could hear, feel, and yet do nothing about it.

One evening, under a sky ablaze with sunset colors, Noah and Jace sat on their balcony, the world below them a vibrant tapestry of life Jay could no longer participate in. Jace twirled the ring, feeling its chill against his warm skin, his eyes glinting with mischief.

"I bet he's scared, huh?" Jace said with a laugh, looking directly at the ring, almost as if he could see Jay's trapped soul.

Noah grinned, "Oh, I'm sure he's terrified. But think about it, he's with us all the time, feeling every bit of our happiness. It's poetic justice." His voice was laced with a dark humor, enjoying the thought of Jay's perpetual fear.

They shared a look, one that spoke volumes of their satisfaction in knowing Jay was there, scared, upset, and utterly powerless. They kissed, their lips meeting with the joy of knowing that Jay was forced to witness their love, his own fears amplifying their enjoyment.

As the night deepened, they whispered sweet nothings to each other, deliberately loud enough for Jay to hear. They talked about how his fear was like a seasoning to their love, making everything sweeter by contrast. Every time Jace touched the ring, it was with the intent of reminding Jay of his new reality - cold, scared, and forever at their mercy.

Jay's mind was a whirlwind of dread, his silent screams unheard. He was a prisoner to their love story, his fear feeding the very enjoyment Noah and Jace derived from their macabre situation. He was there, on Jace's finger, a constant reminder of betrayal, now turned into a spectacle of his own terror, with no reprieve in sight.

[tf-kinky]

Reece was at his wit's end. Sharing a small dorm room with Kurt was challenging enough, but the real torment came from Kurt's habit of never updating his wardrobe, particularly his sneakers. These weren’t just any sneakers; they were an ancient, battle-scarred pair that had seen better days, probably back when they were new in the early 2000s. The stench that emanated from them was like a toxic cloud, enveloping the room whenever Kurt kicked them off after a long day.

Day after day, Reece aired his grievances. "Kurt, man, those sneakers are biohazards. You need new ones, like, yesterday," he'd say, pinching his nose in dramatic fashion.

But Kurt just shrugged, his response always some variation of, "They're broken in. I like 'em."

Weeks passed, and Reece's complaints grew more desperate. He tried everything from leaving subtle hints to outright begging, but to no avail. Kurt's sneakers remained a staple in their shared space, their smell intensifying with each passing day.

One evening, as Reece was once again lamenting the state of their room, Kurt's patience snapped. With a mischievous grin, he pulled out his phone and tapped on an app no one had ever seen before – the "TF App," which stood for "Transformation."

"You want to shut up about my sneakers?" Kurt asked, his eyes glinting with an odd light. Before Reece could respond, Kurt pressed the screen.

In a flash of light, Reece felt an odd sensation, like every part of him was being flattened and reshaped. When he came to, he was no longer human but had become a pair of insoles. Not just any insoles, but ones designed to fit perfectly inside Kurt's repulsive sneakers.

Kurt, with a chuckle, pulled out the old, worn-out insoles and replaced them with Reece. The horror for Reece was immediate and overwhelming. As Kurt shoved his bare, sweat-drenched feet into the sneakers, the experience was magnified for Reece. His senses were heightened; every odor was amplified, every touch was a nightmare.

Kurt's feet were the epitome of nastiness. They were unwashed for days, covered in a thick layer of sweat and grime, with nails that hadn't seen a clipper in ages. The smell was like a physical entity, invading what would have been Reece's nose if he had one. And the taste, oh, the taste was worse – salty, bitter, with a hint of whatever Kurt had stepped in that day.

Reece would have screamed if he could, but all he could do was absorb the horror of his new existence. Each step Kurt took was a crushing blow, each second an eternity of suffering. The irony was cruel; Reece, who hated feet more than anything, was now intimately acquainted with the very thing he despised.

As days turned into weeks, Kurt's feet only grew more vile, and Reece's torment seemed without end. But in this bizarre twist of fate, perhaps Reece would finally learn to keep his complaints to himself – or at least, that was what Kurt hoped as he laced up his sneakers, ready for another day of college life, with his former roommate underfoot.

As time wore on, the melding of Reece into Kurt's sneakers became complete. The insoles, a source of pure horror for Reece, now conformed so perfectly to Kurt's feet that they seemed like they were part of him. But for Reece, this melding was a never-ending nightmare.

With each step Kurt took, the terror in Reece's existence was palpable. His senses, unnaturally heightened, were assaulted by the constant stench and sweat of Kurt's feet. The pressure of each footfall was a reminder of his loss of humanity, his once vibrant life reduced to the sensation of being crushed and molded underfoot.

Kurt, oblivious to the true horror of his former roommate's plight, reveled in the newfound comfort. His feet felt supported and cushioned in a way they never had before. He walked with an ease that suggested he was floating rather than walking. But as he noticed this miraculous change, a decision brewed in his mind, one that would seal Reece's fate.

One night, while lounging with his feet propped up, Kurt pulled out the TF app. He contemplated the reversal process, but the thought of returning to discomfort was unbearable. With a cold resolve, he deleted the reverse data, ensuring Reece could never return to his human form.

"Sorry, man," Kurt said aloud, though he knew Reece couldn't respond. "But you make the best insoles I've ever had."

Reece, trapped within the confines of the insoles, was in constant, silent horror. He tried to scream, to plead, to beg for his humanity back, but his voice was gone, replaced by the silent endurance of inanimate suffering. Each day was a relentless cycle of sensory overload; the smell, the taste, the feel of Kurt's feet were all magnified to torturous levels.

He felt every step, every shift in weight, every moment Kurt's feet rested on him. The horror of his situation never dulled; instead, it grew with each passing second. He was aware, acutely so, of every moment, every touch, and yet, he was powerless, voiceless, his protests nothing more than the inaudible cries of a sentient insole.

Kurt, now accustomed to this perfect fit, wore his sneakers more than ever, seldom taking them off, even when he could. He had no idea of the torment he was perpetuating with every step. For Reece, there was no escape, no relief, just an endless, horrifying existence as the insoles beneath Kurt's feet. His mind, trapped in this cruel reality, could do nothing but endure, hoping against hope for a miracle that would never come.

[tf-kinky]

Vince was consumed by an obsession that bordered on madness. His roommate, Charlie, was the unwitting object of his fixation—his feet. But Charlie, ever the straightforward and unassuming guy, had no interest in Vince's peculiar desires.

In a moment of reckless desperation, Vince decided to take a highly experimental drug he'd heard about, one that promised to turn him into any inanimate object he wished. With his heart pounding and his mind racing with the implications, Vince muttered his intent and felt the world around him warp. His body contorted, shrank, and reshaped into a pair of black slides. He lay there, now just a pair of slides in Charlie's room, waiting for to be worn.

Charlie returned from his outing, in need of a quick change of shoes. His eyes glanced over the slides, and without suspicion, he stepped into Vince. The moment his feet made contact, Vince's new reality was nothing short of a living hell. The smell was overpowering, a potent mix of sweat and the day's grime. Then came the sweat, relentless and soaking, turning Vince's new form into a swamp of discomfort. But the pain was the most excruciating—every step Charlie took was like being crushed underfoot, a constant, grinding agony that made Vince's previous life seem like a distant dream.

Charlie, oblivious to the torment beneath his feet, walked around, getting ready for his evening. He paced, he lounged, he even danced a little to the music playing in the background, each action amplifying Vince's suffering. Hours passed like this, with Vince enduring each moment, wishing he could scream, but only able to exist in silent agony.

Late into the night, when Charlie finally decided it was time to sleep, he removed Vince, put him in his footwear cupboard. With no room for Vince to revert back to human form, tthe drug's effects should have worn off, Vince realized with growing horror that the transformation was now permanent.

The drug, within the confines of the cupboard, had solidified his fate. Vince was now, and would forever be, Charlie's slides. Each day brought the same routine—Charlie would wear him, the weight, the odor, the sweat all part of Vince's eternal torment. He was no longer Vince, the person, but an object of utility, his existence reduced to suffering beneath Charlie's feet.

Vince's new life was one of endless pain, his desires turned into a cruel, unending reality. Every step Charlie took, Vince felt the weight of his choices, a reminder of the folly of his obsession, now his permanent, torturous existence.

Five months had passed since Vince's life had been irrevocably altered. The slides, once a simple, black pair, were now a testament to the wear and tear of constant use. The material had frayed, the soles were worn down to nearly nothing, and the smell was a diabolical pungent reminder of their daily journey through Charlie's life. Vince, trapped in this decaying form, had endured every moment of it, his consciousness a prisoner to the relentless cycle of pain and degradation.

Charlie, finally noticing the sorry state of his slides, decided it was time for a change. He was unaware of the living nightmare he had been walking on for months. To him, they were just another pair of shoes that had reached the end of their lifespan. One evening, after a long day, Charlie decided to clean up his space. He gathered the old, ruined slides along with other trash and carried them down to the basement where the trash compactor was located. With no sentimentality or hesitation, he tossed Vince into the compactor, thinking only about clearing out clutter.

As the compactor hummed to life, Vince felt the crushing weight descend upon him. The initial pressure was like nothing he had felt before—far worse than any step or the confines of the shoebox. The machine began its work, compressing everything within, including Vince. The pain was beyond what he had known, a sensation of being squeezed out of existence, his very being compressed into nothingness. In those final moments, Vince's consciousness, already stretched thin by months of suffering, began to fade. The slides, his prison and his identity, disintegrated under the relentless force of the compactor. With each mechanical grind, Vince's awareness dimmed until there was nothing left—no pain, no scent, no Vince.

Charlie, upstairs, was already forgetting about the slides, moving on to other tasks. The trash was taken away, compacted, and disposed of, ending Vince's existence without fanfare or recognition. The experiment that had once promised transformation had instead delivered an eternal sentence, concluded by the mundane act of throwing away trash.

And so, Vince's story ended—not with a bang, but with the quiet, mechanical closure of a trash compactor, his essence lost forever in the detritus of everyday life.

Charlie bought a new pair of slides the next morning, although he couldn't understand why these new slides were significantly less comfortable. He may discover the transformation drug one day, and realise what happened to his roommate and discover humsn material makes the best transformation material, although he forgot Vince's name ages ago.

[tf-kinky]

Noah's fascination with control had always lurked beneath his charming exterior. When he discovered "Transmo," an app that could turn anyone into any object, he knew Jake, his sweet and unsuspecting roommate, would be the perfect subject. Jake was the kind of person who'd do anything for others, unaware of the darkness that was about to envelop him.

On a quiet Sunday, with Jake absorbed in his usual reading, Noah activated Transmo. He aimed his phone at Jake, a sinister smile forming as he chose "White Tank Top" and added the option to make the transformation permanent. A dazzling light flashed, and in place of Jake was now a simple white tank top, but to Noah, this was far from simple.

Jake's consciousness was suddenly trapped within the fabric, his senses heightened to an excruciating degree. He could feel, hear, smell, and see, though his sight was now a distorted view through the weave of the tank top. His panic was immediate; silent screams for his humanity echoed within him, but no sound escaped.

Noah picked up the tank top, feeling the fabric that was once his friend. He knew Jake was aware, feeling every touch, hearing his voice, smelling his scent, seeing the world in a disorienting way. "You're mine now, Jake," Noah whispered with a dark glee, slipping Jake over his head.

As Noah started his daily activities, Jake felt every stretch, every breath, every drop of sweat that seeped into his new form. The sensation was unbearable, a constant assault on his heightened senses. The smell of Noah's sweat, the sound of his movements, the sight of the room through a blurred lens — all of it was overwhelming.

Noah knew exactly what he was doing. "You'll never escape this, Jake. You'll feel every moment," he taunted. He decided then and there that he would never wash the tank top, letting Jake experience the accumulation of dirt, sweat, and grime. "I like you like this — no more showers for you, buddy."

Days turned into weeks. Jake, now a permanent fixture on Noah, felt the fabric grow stiff with dried sweat, the smell becoming his constant companion. Every time Noah wore him, the fabric stretched and contracted, the odors intensified, and the stains grew darker. Jake's silent pleas for release were his only company in this new, unending reality.

Noah took perverse pleasure in the situation, often commenting, "You're getting quite the collection of smells, aren't you, Jake?" as he put on the increasingly grimy tank top. He enjoyed the control, the permanence of Jake's new state, knowing that Jake could do nothing but endure.

Months passed, the tank top, once white, now bore the marks of neglect — yellow stains under the arms, an unpleasant scent that lingered even when not worn. Jake's world was one of sensory torture, with no escape or relief in sight.

The transformation was irreversible; Jake was to remain a sweat-soaked, never-washed tank top for as long as Noah lived. Noah's dark experiment had turned into a permanent nightmare for Jake, a testament to the depths of human cruelty and the horror of losing one's humanity to another's twisted desires.

[tf-kinky]

Noah had always been the quiet type, harboring a secret that set him apart from everyone else. He had the power of transformation, a gift or curse, depending on how you looked at it. One sunny afternoon, his patience with his incessantly annoying father snapped. His father, a man with no tolerance for anything he deemed unhygienic, especially feet, became the target of Noah's newfound resolve.

After a particularly grating argument over Noah's untidiness, Noah decided it was time. With a flick of his finger and a whispered incantation known only to him, his father's form began to twist and shrink. His loud, authoritative voice was silenced; his body morphed into a pair of black VANS sneakers. Noah looked down at the sneakers, feeling a rush of satisfaction at the silence that now filled the room.

Noah felt no remorse. For him, this was an act of justified rebellion against years of nagging and control. He slipped his feet into the sneakers, feeling a sense of empowerment with each step. The sneakers fit perfectly, almost as if they were made for him. Every step he took was a reminder of his control, his power, and he relished in the thought of his father's discomfort.

"Finally, some peace," Noah thought, a smirk playing on his lips as he walked around, his feet sweating more than usual, almost as if his body was in on the cruel jest.

Inside the sneakers, what was once a man was now an object, yet his consciousness remained, trapped in an endless nightmare. His senses were heightened to an excruciating degree. The smell—a mixture of old sweat, foot odor, and the stench of confinement—was unbearable. Each step Noah took was like a thunderclap, each shift of his foot a torment.

The humiliation was profound. Here he was, a man who could not stand the mere sight of feet, now forced to be the very thing he detested, enveloped by the essence of what he loathed most. His mind screamed in silent protest, but his new form allowed no escape, no voice to express his agony. The odor was not just vile; it was a relentless assault on his sense of self, his dignity stripped away with every passing second.

Noah continued his life, enjoying the silence and the subtle control he had over his father. He took great care to never clean the sneakers, ensuring that the experience remained as wretched as possible for his dad. Meanwhile, his father's mind was a whirlpool of despair and rage, stuck in a loop of sensory overload, each day a blur of darkness and stench. His dad only hopes his son would give back his humanity one day, although he and Noah knew that ain't happening.

[tf-kinky]

"I would say next time don't make a bet with me big bro, but your gonna be my Nike sneakers permanently now"

Jace got the upper hand over Noah this time. They bet who would win in a 1v1 build battle fight in Fortnite. Jace ultimately won easily. Noah agreed to a 2 day transformation into his little brothers sneakers. Unfortunately for him Jace had other plans.

"Let me just"

Jace picked up the TF device and deletes his bigger brothers human form data.

"Oops! I accidentally deleted your human form. Looks like you're stuck as these sneakers"

Jace laughed and continued wearing his brother on his damp sweaty feet. Noah realised he really fucked up, stuck as his little brothers sneakers.

[tf-kinky]

"Huh? Oh you can't find your boyfriend? I forgot. He's these socks I've been wearing for the past week. Yeah, he lost a bet and I got to TF him for 24 hours. Unfortunately I "accidentally" deleted his human pattern from the TF app on my phone. But don't worry, he can still hear us. Heck, all his senses got massively increased by the app"

Lukes boyfriend Jay didn't expect it would be that bad. But as soon as Noah slipped him on his feet, reality set in. The pain. The sweat. The odor so bad a pile of horse shit would smell better.

Luke was pissed but didn't challenge Noah. No one ever beat Noah at anything. Luke decided to look for a new boyfriend. Jay's fate was sealed.

[tf-kinky]

"You're always taking my stuff," Noah complained to his brother, Leo, as he rummaged through the messy drawer.

"What? It's just a pair of socks," Leo shrugged, tossing the socks in question over his shoulder.

"They're not just socks," Noah said, his voice taking on a rare seriousness. "They're the ones mom knitted for me. And now, they're gone."

Leo's eyes widened. "Whoa, chill. I'll grab you a new pair from the laundry basket."

Their mother's socks had always been a point of contention between them. Hand-knitted with love, they were as much a symbol of her care as they were a practical necessity. Noah had a collection of them, each with a unique pattern that told a story of their mother's mood when she created them. He cherished every stitch, every imperfection that made them one-of-a-kind.

But Leo saw them as just socks. Functional, replaceable. He didn't understand the connection Noah had with them, the way each pair felt like a warm hug from their mother who was no longer with them.

"You know what," Noah said, his voice tightening. "I've had enough of this. You're going to learn the value of things."

Leo chuckled, thinking his brother was joking again. But Noah's expression was unyielding. He had been holding onto a peculiar app on his phone for months now, something a mate of his has been working on. He used it to zap a pair of "regular" socks.

"Take these," Noah said, handing Leo the oddly knitted socks. "Put them on."

Leo, ever the daredevil, didn't think twice. He slipped them over his ankles, feeling the warmth spread up his legs. And then, everything changed. His vision blurred, and suddenly he could hear every heartbeat in the house, smell every scent, feel every fabric with a new intensity. His laughter faded into confusion as he looked down at his legs, which now ended in a pair of... regular ankle socks?

"I transformed you into what you truly appreciate," Noah said, his voice cold. "Now, you're just a pair of socks."

Leo looked around wildly, trying to understand what had happened. But all he could see was the world from a sock's perspective, the floor stretching out like an infinite desert, the smells of the house a cacophony of memories and new terrors. He was no longer a person; he was a piece of clothing, subject to the whims of the world.

"No, no, no!" Leo screamed, but no sound came out. Panic set in as he realized the gravity of the situation. He was trapped, unable to communicate, unable to move, unable to do anything but experience the world in a heightened state.

Noah picked him up, examining him closely. "Looks like it worked," he murmured to himself, his eyes gleaming with a mix of triumph and curiosity. Leo tried to struggle, but his sock body remained limp in Noah's hand. He felt his brother's fingers trace the intricate patterns of his new form, the tactile sensation sending shivers up his...legs? He wasn't sure what to call them now.

"Time to give you hell," Noah said, his voice echoing through the vast cavern of the room. He dropped Leo onto the floor, and the impact was jarring, sending a wave of panic through his...cottony self? The sensation of gravity was different, heavier somehow. He could feel the floorboards' roughness, the fibers of the carpet digging into his non-existent flesh.

Leo lay there, trembling, as Noah stomped away to his bedroom. He didn't know what was coming next, but he knew it wouldn't be good. The house was eerily quiet, and all Leo could hear was the thump of his brother's footsteps receding and the muffled sound of his own heart beating in his...socks. The fabric felt tight around him, constraining him in a way that was both terrifying and oddly comforting.

The door slammed shut, and Leo felt a rush of cool air as Noah returned, his footsteps heavy. He could smell the faint scent of sweat and grass from outside, and his heart raced as the world grew louder, closer, as Noah approached. The floor was cold under him, a stark contrast to the warmth of the socks. He tried to scream, to beg for mercy, but all that came out was a muffled sound that no human ear could detect.

Noah towered over him, his face twisted into a smug smile. He bent down and picked Leo up with two fingers, holding him up to his face. "How does it feel?" he asked, his voice echoing in the quiet room. Leo could see the pores on Noah's nose, the stray hairs curling at the corners of his mouth. He wanted to punch him, to yell, but instead, he just felt... tiny.

With a snicker, Noah slipped his foot into his sneaker, and Leo felt a cold dread wash over him. The shoe smelled faintly of sweat and dirty socks, and as his brother's foot descended, he realized what was about to happen. He was going to be worn. He was going to be stepped on, squished, and stinky, all because he didn't appreciate a simple pair of socks.

Noah sat on the nearby chair, removed his old dsmp worn out socks and slipped on his brother and chuckled darkly at what he had done to Leo. He then proceeds to put his sneakers on.

The shoe engulfed him, and he was plunged into darkness. The fabric of the sock stretched and contorted around his form, molding him to the shape of Noah's foot. It was a tight fit, and the sensation was claustrophobic, a stark contrast to the openness of the floor. He could feel the heat and weight of Noah's foot pressing down on him, and he was forced to endure every contour and callus.

Days passed, and the socks grew grimier, the fabric wearing thin with each step Noah took. The heightened senses that had once been a terrifying novelty now became a prison, trapping Leo in a world of unending sensation. He felt every pebble on the sidewalk, every thread of dirt that clung to the floor, every drop of moisture that seeped in. His existence was one of constant discomfort, the only solace the occasional moments of stillness when Noah took the socks off to shower, but he never took him off any other time.

Leo's thoughts swirled with anger, regret, and fear. He had never appreciated the socks, but he had never wanted to be socks. He missed his life, his friends, the freedom to move and speak. The warmth of the socks was a constant reminder of the humanity he had lost, the softness taunting him with a gentle touch that could never be reciprocated.

The morning light streamed through the kitchen windows, and the sound of their mother's favorite mug clinking against the counter brought a pang of longing to Leo's non-existent heart. Noah's heavy footsteps approached, and he braced himself for the daily ritual of being taken off and discarded. The sensation of being peeled away from the sweaty, grimy shoe was almost painful, a reminder of his new form's fragility.

With a flick of his wrist, Noah sent him flying through the air, landing unceremoniously in the trash can. The world was a blur of shadows and stench, and then, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Leo made out the shapes of the items surrounding him. His stomach churned as he realized he was nestled among crumpled tissues, half-eaten food, and the crinkled remains of multiple used condoms. The smell was overwhelming, a cacophony of bodily fluids and decay that made his heightened olfactory senses recoil.

Leo realises this is the end of the line for him. Noah discarded him like regular socks. Noah meanwhile went outside to enjoy breakfast their mother prepared. Oh she knew what happened to Leo, in fact she thought it a fitting punishment. Leo lay there in the trash, his life is over.

// I used AI to help write this. I gave it prompts and what I wanted to happen and it filled it in. Some parts I manually typed. Its just easier. \\

[tf-kinky]

Some twat really started on me huh? Well I have always wanted some really cool nice sneakers, and VANS are really cool. So that twat became these high top VANS I'm now wearing! Gonna pick on me your gonna get TFed! 😈😈😈😈

I can't even begin to imagine how his new life is wrapped round my feet. I'm already wearing really dirty socks as well who were once another guy who tried to start on me. One of the socks recently developed a hole making his TF permanent! Not that I was gonna turn that twat back anyway. 😈😈😈😈

It must be such a rancid experience for the insole face of the sneakers, having those filthy dirty socks pressed into his insole face! I have such a massive hard on just thinking about his new life in his own personal hell! 😈😈😈😈

[tf-kinky]

If it were possible I'd love to be a fleshlight for a few weeks for some hunky musky sweaty guy.

[tf-kinky]

"Fuck you losers! Not so big anymore are ya fucks!"

Noah had enough of his big brothers picking on him all the time, so he decided to take care of them. He turned them into a sock each, Reece on the right foot, Vince on the left foot!

"Look at you cunts! Already leaving damp footprints on the floor! Already had your husbands lick loads of those up before turning them into these pair of white Nikes, gonna wear em losers everyday with you both on as well, all four of you in permanent purgatory! Oh by the way you two gonna be my cumrags as well, and don't forget I have that hyperspermia condition gonna literally drench you two and your husbands in pints of cum every time I rub one out!

Noah puts his brothers husbands on and heads out for a run.

Reece is in such pain and has a genuine fear of feet. He finds feet beyond vile and terrifying. He can't believe this is his life now, and also feels terrible for his husband Luke.

Vince the other sock is also in extreme pain, each type pure agony. Like someone is jumping off a trampoline onto his balls non stop. He also is scared for his husband Kurt, but both Vince and Reece have to accept this is their dark future now.

Noah meanwhile has had a constant hard on since he turned them all into these things. Noah os very happy to be the only child in his family now.