This Is What Happens When Get A Good Whiff Of Feet From Your Infected Neighbor Beast.

This is what happens when get a good whiff of feet from your infected neighbor beast.

Feels overwhelming doesn't it. That high, that buzz, that strong feeling of my essence crawling on in. While you suck and huff my infectious foot scent. As you puff on em back with your foot breath, it only makes em sweatier.

Further opening your mind to me. But you probably wanted that when you first saw a beast like me huh heh. You wanted to be big, stink, strong like me. Heh you look like nothings on your mind. Now that your face is dripping. I know my stink is scrambling yer brain, eh!

"Mmmmm, y-yes! These feet are...g-good-!"

Well keep sucking the sweat bud. Keep swallowing it. Cause once yer done. It's all you are now. Just how it is, how it should be.

"-sniffs- y-yes, this is!"

Don't worry cause yer gonna turn into me. Ya gonna stink, sweat, grow, and think like me piglet. Already inside ya, but I'll train ya bud. I'll make ya into one hell of a pig. That's it keep huffing em.

"Y-yessir just like you. Just...like...you! B-beefy balls cock and nuts and- and oh god- my nuts sir."

That's it that's it, let it happen bud. It's okay bud. Just keep swallowing my stink while you let your nuts boil over. Rub my feet while it happens.

"-whimpers, while breathing heavily and panting- mmm mrmm ye-yes sir your stink, i gotta breath mmm fuck I need to blow. So much sperm in my nuts, bull balls, aah in-infection. All I am- I- I accept. Stink in my brain, aaaash! -practically frothing at the teeth-"

That's right bud. Let me in, let it in. Let the stink in!

Just ignore it - 1

David is teaching a course on identifying and managing magical anomalies, and begins to suspect there may be a reality-warper in class. Largely because everyone's butt looks too good to believe.

2 (Next)

(btw this is inspired by one of my favorite TF stories)

“Now the point of these journals is to start recognizing energetic and temporal anomalies, better attuning yourselves to…”

I paused mid-sentence, feeling that something was off, taking a beat before I continued with the lecture. I was hoping to have some time to settle into the Fall semester before having to deal with an inevitable minor metaphysical crisis, but a reality warper a few weeks in was not what I saw coming.

Having a job that includes resolving paranormal wrinkles in spacetime seems exciting until you realize that somehow they’ve found a way to turn it into yet another 9 to 5. People often expect some sort of imposing mansion or gothic structure whenever they hear “Center of Supernatural Sciences,” but it’s actually a squat concrete block cobbled together by a regional college in the 70s. The scariest thing for visitors is figuring out how to connect to the WiFi, though if you’re rude to Seema at the front desk, she will put a hex on you and that’s just your own fault. It’s been a mainstay on this campus for decades, but for how much longer was unclear, as administration has been defunding us relentlessly for as long as I’ve been here. The university doesn’t see our value in light of its own investments in mass surveillance technology and a more ‘hard science’ study of spookiness, but the work we do is still important. Supernatural phenomena are much more common than a lot of people realize–it’s just a matter of actually paying attention–and our work is split between teaching, research, and service, addressing issues locally and regionally as they arise.

And no, we’re not magic cops. We’re not out to punish or control, fist bumping each other as we shoot silver bullets first and ask questions later. That’s archaic. We investigate, mitigate, and remediate, stepping in whenever the fabric of reality gets a little too bunched or frayed and mending as best we can.

I teach a class called “Investigating Supernatural Threats” almost every semester, which is a title that I absolutely despise–I think it’s an insult to our more than human neighbors–but the department is worried that if we change it we’ll end up losing funding to the criminal justice program, and it’s a hill I’m only willing to get bruised on. But it’s a survey of identifying and responding to paranormal, metaphysical, and magical shenanigans, so it tends to get all kinds. It’s usually a relatively small group, a smattering of grad students from occult history to crypto-zoology, museum curators and archivists needing a refresher on what to be cautious of, and often–which I’m personally delighted by–new forest rangers sent by the state’s Department of Natural Resources who are doing overnights for the first time.

But back to the issue at hand. It’s my job to stay observant across multiple temporal and dimensional planes, so I’m known for picking up on minor phenomena and patterns that at first glance may not seem significant. So around week 3, I couldn’t help but notice that most, if not all, of the men in the class had near perfect, juicy butts, yet all unique in their own ways. I was used to commanding attention with a round booty sitting pretty on my 6’1” frame, looking downright disproportionate against my lean swimmer’s build–a blessing and a curse, really–but some of them were giving me a run for my money. Which isn’t really an issue, squats are en vogue and there are plenty of male leg day enthusiasts thanks to social media trends, not that I’m complaining, but in week 4, I picked up on the fact that all of their pants fit so well. Too well. Like not just fitted but custom made for each of their unique and sizeable proportions, as if carefully crafted to emphasize and display their bubble butts. A telltale sign.

During class, I kept my extrasensory eyes and ears open, seeing if I could pick up on any novel energetic shifts. And I felt something odd. Something deep and subsonic, pressing tentatively against the borders of our reality, like a sperm whale floating up to a kayak without making a sound. I could feel an energy seeping into local space, something building to some sort of threshold, before, with a submerged *pop* that I could ‘hear’ elsewhere, it was gone. It was like nothing had happened. In fact, nothing had happened. I turned to the board to continue writing something that I had forgotten, only realizing after class had ended that I had been writing about two inches above where I had left off. I did a somatic check, quickly scanning my body from toes to head to fingertips. I felt fine, had all ten fingers, only two eyes, an ass that could stop traffic, still a strapping 6’3”. But had that been true an hour ago? Doubt was setting in.

As someone who teaches the detection and mitigation of magical fuckery, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with a potential situation like this. You’d be surprised how often some horny gay warlock has a little too much fun and needs to be reined in, or someone’s chaos magic manifests without them realizing–even worse, with them fully realizing. If you’ve ever had to neutralize an entire college dorm (and a frat house to boot) you would understand why we need more funding and support in magical education, but this isn’t the time for my soap box. A mystery’s afoot.

My most important piece of advice: Just ignore it. The thing is, a reality warper is a serious matter. If you call someone out, you better come correct and prepared for anything. Even just them knowing that you know–or that you’re on the hunt–can get real messy real fast. So you have to act casual. Don’t let them know you’re on to them, and don’t let them know that you know that something is seriously off. This is why I always introduce an extended project around tracking anomalies in the fabric of spacetime, having my students keep journals of anything weird, unusual, or metaphysically wobbly. Don’t react in real time, just on paper and in private, keeping a record of things as they happen. But it seemed like whoever this was was influencing the passage of time in very subtle ways and everyone’s memories, for the most part, were adjusting accordingly. Which is why no one in class has batted an eye at the fact that the asses in this room look like they were expertly morphed to near-comical proportions. After all, what else is new? So I took a different strategy and laid a trap.

The donk on my 6’4” frame (Hmm…) was a sight to behold. All muscle with a healthy layer of padding ballooning out from my otherwise lithe form. It was leaps and bounds my best feature, had been for as long as I could remember. I was used to men staring dumbfounded in public as my cheeks swished back and forth, including my own students whenever I turned to the blackboard, pushing it out ever so slightly as I leaned forward to write, the globes of my ass encased in one of many perfectly tailored pairs of tweed slacks. I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter, seeing as any pants off the rack would either be way to loose in the waist or way too tight in the glutes, risking catastrophic failure. So I got my pants carefully fitted, but the thing was, so did everyone else. All the men in the class, from muscle butts to perky, round ones, to jiggly booties and wide hips, always had expertly fitted pants without fail. So we know what the focus of the shifts was, but it seemed like it was an expert reworking of time, and with that, memory. The phenomenon of unusually juicy asses in class pinged on my paranormal radar, but mine had always been this way. Right?

The thing is, the fit of everyone’s pants wasn’t just good, it was too good. Perfect, even. Yes, I had memories of having all my slacks tailored but they fit like they had been hand sewn on a lifelike model of my bulbous glutes with millimeter scale precision, not too little and not too much. So I found a pair that I didn’t much care for and took a razor to the back seam to weaken it just so. I squeezed into my form fitting pants and made my way to campus, careful not to stress the stitches too much and too fast, waddling into the room early and looking forward to this ordeal being over. Before anyone showed up, I cast a spell of detection around the space. Not detection of magical activities, which would’ve risked tripping any alarms that my possible warper may have already had in place, not to mention the possibility of interfering chaotically with their own spell whose function I was still unsure of. It was more of an emotional and energetic heat map, tipping me off to any sudden shifts in people’s auras.

Class began like normal as I offered some further thoughts inspired by the previous week’s discussion of AI programs as a potential tool of revealing and visualizing temporal anomalies. The discipline, in order to stay relevant, had been getting into the implications of digital technologies and new media for magical phenomena, so I figured we should spend a little more time on the topic. Also I was genuinely interested in hearing people’s thoughts, albeit distracted by the ticking time bomb of my basketball buns putting catastrophic pressure on my pants as I sometimes too excitedly paced across the front of the room. 

Per usual, I could feel the crescendo of strange, unfamiliar power rubbing almost playfully along the barrier between worlds, but everyone’s auras seemed fine. There was no corresponding wave of connected energy from any one person, beyond the general simmer of erotic activation (i.e. horniness) that spiked every time I turned my back to the class. I had become familiar with the exact threshold that this power would hit before it seemingly reset everything to a new, slightly more enhanced normal, and I was counting on the regularity of that threshold with the timing of this next move.

The previous, and now continuing discussion of new media had led me to realize that the enhanced asses in the room really did look like expertly done morphs and the perfect fit of every pair of pants, no matter the material, was simply improbable. Whoever this was, whatever this was, was operating along the edges of possibility, letting fantasy seep into what we generally regard as the real (or what we think is the real). So I figured, why not use one of my favorite tropes and see what happens.

My tweed slacks were impeccable but not indestructible and as the energetic threshold was reached I just happened to drop my chalk, quickly bending down to retrieve it. The spike in erotic attention from the view of my ballooning backside paled in comparison to what followed, as the seam of my pants finally gave way, my cheeks spilling into view along with a pair of pink and purple polka dotted bikini briefs that did nothing to cover the shelf of my ass.

I played it off with my expert acting skills (this wasn’t the first time I had to feign surprise from some magical mishap), performing a practiced mixture of embarrassment and humor that I assumed the reality-shifter would expect. From the men in class was a mix of nodding in understanding and whispers of It’s even bigger than I thought and How did those pants even fit. I felt a wave of erotic energy move through the room, but there was a spike of something else in the back corner. Something sharper, a tendril of fantastical power peeking into our dimension, concentrated around Logan, who I found staring directly at me with a look of surprise and mild confusion.

I knew of Logan, he was an archivist based in the college’s paranormal artifacts collection, and I think he had signed up for my class as a refresher for methods and safety when investigating and collecting potentially powerful and chaotic objects. He was skinny all around, topping out at no more than 5’7”, his thick, hexagonal rimmed glasses sitting below a mop of bouncy curls with an undercut. He usually came in wearing a pair of loose, flowy drop crotch pants, a surprisingly bohemian look with his otherwise reserved demeanor and sensible button downs. He was demur and unassuming, not seeming like the kind of person to cause this kind of trouble. But at this point he was the only dude in class that didn’t have an absolute dump truck.

The following week, I wondered why I had even hatched that plan in the first place, seeing as I always wear a skirt over tasteful leggings. I had given up on wearing pants years ago because it was just too much of a hassle, opting instead to let the globes of my ass bounce back and forth with more freeform bottomwear. Slacks were constricting enough in the back, but I was also tired of my donkey dick being suffocated in the crotch. A blessing and a curse. It looked like a couple of the guys in class had followed suit, perched on their round glutes as they let some thick bulges snake down leggings or compression shorts.

No wonder those pants ripped, I thought. I probably haven’t worn those in–

Ah ha. Another bread crumb. And an added wrinkle. Time hadn’t been totally rewritten and my memory hadn’t been totally wiped, just altered in the most efficient way in that moment. In fact, I was still mentally very much on the case and making progress. It wasn’t the sort of loose thread that a reality warper this competent would leave, and by now they must realize that I of all people would be on to them. I began to surmise that Logan wasn’t the one pulling the strings, but was actually some sort of conduit. Maybe for a bored trickster god playing an erotic prank–which, frankly, happens much more often than you’d think.

That week, through irony or serendipity, we actually were discussing strategies for navigating the psychological and emotional games that tricksters love to play, but as the supernatural energy began building on schedule, that previous playfulness had hints of… irritation? The power was a little discordant and I could feel it somatically in a way that I hadn’t before; it seemed everyone else could too. We continued on like normal as my leggings felt fuller and tighter in the glutes, my shoes feeling uncomfortably snug as more of my ankles revealed themselves, my dick inexorably snaking its way towards my hip while staying totally soft.

This was new.  And potentially a game changer. But I, along with my students, followed the central mantra of my profession: Note it. Track it. But until you have a plan in place, just ignore it.

How else you gonna get your friend to join?

"Hey man the fuck did you bring me out here."

"For this fucker huff it!"

"Mmm mmmpf the fu-mmpf!"

"Shhhh man just let my fat nut sweat smother ya and take over man. That's it."

"-gags- fuck man what was that!"

"How do you feel man heh?"

"You- damn I feel good. Shit your nuts smell got me all uff. Mmmpf damn I'm horny so horny ah."

"Thats it just let it happen. I really smothered your lips with pre, and sweat glazed infected fat sack. That brain of yours will get buzzed in no time."

"You were infected?"

"Hell yeah, let it happen too. Let the guy shoot into my cockhole and fill my nuts. Now you got it too. So buckle up. Cause my new nuts are buzzing."

"M-my face. I'm growing a-a beard and the smell its- oh. It's oh its its goooood ugh."

"Mmmhmmmm there we go. Here let me coat my hand more. I'm gonna smother you, glaze you like pig."

"You- Your pre and nut stink are m-making my brain fuzzy and drooling and mmmmpf!"

"OH it's gonna be more than that. You ain't just marked now, I'm gonna now turn ya. Now breath, and swallow."

Whooooweee fuck that was intense. Didn't think these feet would stop growing fuck. They're real big now like, 13 or some shit. Damn putting on these socks really did some work then.

Thought they were sweaty before, boy now they're soaked, and I up and ripped through the damn socks. Now the smell is just floating around. It smells...real good hehe, fucking didn't think I could smell this much. This strong either, it feels good. But can't have all this power to myself no. Gotta rub these on someone's face I- I gotta give to them hehe. Gotta spread it mmmm.

Spread my footstink...

hi i would love if you could transform me into your stupid foot slave.

Clean Slate

“What do you want to be in life?” I ask you as we relax at my place at the end of our date. You give a rather non committal shrug as I peel off my socks and rest my feet on the living room table.

“Huh. No career ambitions? Artist, scientist…cleaner?” I smile at you as you approach and sit across from me, scrunching your nose slightly while the scent of my feet wafts over to you.

“N—no. I guess not.” You reply sheepishly, your eyes leaving mine as they lower to my large feet.

“I’m sure we can find your place in life. You probably have lots to give. Talented at many things. Such as…cleaning.” I sway my feet back and forth on the table as I watch your eyes follow them. “Just keep watching.”

“Huh?” Distracted, you don’t even look away. My feet and their movements were utterly fascinating. “I—I don’t…”

“Cleaning.” I repeat bluntly. “I bet you’re good at cleaning.” Your back bends as you naturally feel yourself lean forward, your head lowering slightly as my feet take up more of your vision. I hear you take a tentative sniff, your eyes glazing over.

Cleaning.

“Cl—cleeaning.” You slur as a bit of drool slides from your mouth. I give a little snicker as I witness you lick your lips. Your head begins to sway along with my hypnotic sweaty feet. Mirroring it’s motion. The smell at this point was incredibly overpowering, burning away your feeble inhibitions. My feet are fucking your mind, my toes pushing to the back of your skull. Reshaping your soft brain like playdoh. Back and forth. Back and forth…

“See, I’m not so much looking for a ‘boyfriend’. Too much maintenance. But I’m sure we can find a use for you. Cleaning clothes perhaps? Maybe bathroom cleaning? No. Cleaning…feet.” I look down and validate you with a smirk.

Cleaning. Feet.

“Foot cleaning. Yes, yes I think that’s your place in life. A mindless foot cleaner. Cleaning my rank feet. You’re very skilled at it.” I assert, placing my hand on your head and guiding you closer. “It’s okay. Some of us are meant to improve the world, some of us are meant to be productive members of society. And some of us, some of us are meant to lick the space between men’s toes.”

“I…no. Please.” You plead as your face enters my feet’s gravitational pull. The musk flowing up your nose and swimming around your emptied, foot fucked mind. They smelled just as you suspected they would, of feet. Your attention is captivated by a bead of sweat on my sole. It didn’t belong there, there on my perfect feet. You feel an impulse growing. A need. You needed to…needed to…

“Clean.” I answer for you. Making everything suddenly fall into place. It just made sense. “Clean my stinky feet.”

You shudder, any hint of resistance fading in an instant. Your mouth obediently opens and your tongue glides down the length of my sole, picking up all the sweat and grime that gathered from our long walk. The taste is sour and foul but for some shameful reason, that stirs your cock. You didn’t want this, but not wanting it made you so unbelievably hard. My feet had successfully hypnotised your mind, conditioning you to kneel at the mere sight of them. Seeing my sole was the only trigger needed for your mouth to water, for your thoughts to dissipate. For you to become no more than a rag to wipe my feet clean.

“Always glad to see someone enjoy their job so immensely.” I bend forward and pin a little badge to your shirt. The two words printed on it in basic typeface describe your entire existence ‘Foot Cleaner’. Now no one, including you would be confused about your role in life.

“Cweeann siiir.” You moan with a mouth full of my flavourful foot cheese.

I laugh above you, flexing my arms as you perform your job. “Good boy. Good foot cleaner. Lick every inch until they’re glistening with your saliva. Aren’t you happy I helped you find the height of your aspirations at the bottom of my feet. Dumb idiot.”

“Yusss, thank you sir.” You wanted to be a good obedient boy for master.

“Shut up and work.” I shove my feet into you, rubbing them across your face. “I expect my feet to be spotless slave. You will be here every evening from now on to fulfil your duty. And then you will pay me for the privilege like the pathetic foot slut that you are.”

Do I make myself clear?

He was doing the photoshoot for a friend. The photographer was nice when they talked over texts and the few phone calls they had. It made him feel not as nervous about the photoshoot. He had never done anything like this before, so he anxious, but also excited.

He knew he didn't have the model looks, but he also knew he wasn't unattractive.

'This could be a fun little experience.' He tells himself as he walks into the photographer's studio.

The two men make small talk as he's told to dress in the attire the photographer picked out for him. He was a little confused since they hadn't mentioned anything about him needing to change his wardrobe. As far as he knew, this was just supposed to be a non-professional sort of thing.

He doesn't protest, though, since the outfit wasn't anything crazy. Just simple grey pants and a button-down shirt. Although as he dressed up he noticed how the clothing was a few sizes too big for him. He says as much, but the photographer tells him it's fine.

"I'll make some edits if need be." He says.

With that, he finishes getting dressed and walks over to the backdrop that was set up.

"Okay, give me a nice big smile."

"That's it!"

"You're doing great!"

"Hold the pose. Perfect!"

Each praises and click of the camera stirs something in the young man. His anxiousness just evaporated. He grew more confident, seeming like he had done this many times before. The clothing that was a little baggy on him starts to fit around his growing body. The young man's lean body frame gaining in size with the amount of muscle he was gaining after each photo was taken.

His face that was clean shaven before itches while black hairs sprout along his sharpening jawline. He rubs a hand over his new beard, shuddering over how good it felt under his touch. While he grew more muscular, the young man lost a few inches in his height. Making him a little under average with his height.

To close off the photo shoot, he does his favored and signature pose. Grinning at the compliments, the photographer gives him. With th photoshoot concluded so too was the young man's old self. Now, he was a confident, more attractive model. Eager for his followers to see these new photos of him.