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A Metal Pipe from Real Life is being blended!!

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Ugly

To Break in New Clothing

The guy paid me $50 to wear this jockstrap everyday when I went to the gym. He asked that they get exceptionally sweaty. I’m not one to turn down money for dignity, so I agreed.

I had a suspicion of what he was doing with my jockstrap when I gave it back to him, but that just made me more turned on. I took a drink as I rested between sets. With the 3-inch inseam shorts, I could feel the summer breeze airing my puckered hole. I took a breath and rubbed my hand along my hairy chest, smearing the sweat down my abs toward my dick and balls. Speaking of balls, I adjusted them, rubbing the jockstrap cloth deeper into the swampy groin. I guessed I like the thought of the guy inhaling my stench while he jerked off. He wasn’t attractive, but the fact he wanted to breathe in my man musk was enough to make me precum, and maybe I should charge him more for how much of my precum I soaked the dirty jockstrap with.

When I met the guy again, he handed me the money and I made a show of slipping off my shorts, then pulling off the jockstrap. The rush of cool air caused an immediate reaction to my sweaty cock, but I tossed the strap to the guy and dressed myself again. I was hoping for a bit more, but the guy thanked me and left. I was a bit disappointed. I was hoping for some begging, some desperate attempt to check me out, but nope. It was suspicious, so I decided to follow the guy. What was his deal?

It took a while, but I found the guy in the hills out of the city limits. I hid myself behind some rocks, peeking from the corner, conspicuous as I was with no underwear in running shorts. Then what I saw was impossible.

The guy placed the jockstrap on the ground and uttered some words then... the jockstrap transformed into a cute twink. His hair was messy; he was nude; he was drenched in sweat; and he gave a relaxed, content grin to the guy. He looked beyond satisfied. He pulled on some shorts, and it looked as if he had just completed a run. He was so sweaty.

“God, you stink,” the guy said to the nude twink. “Did you enjoy your day out? I can’t imagine why you like it.”

“I enjoyed it,” the twink said. He slurred his words as he was buzzed. A lazy smile melted on his lips. “He was a sweaty boy today. We worked out and he messaged me against his cock. He was getting hard and I drank his precum. I think he likes it just as much as I do.” The twink started to walk towards the guy.

“Hey, stay away. Take a shower first, then pay me.”

“Why would I shower? I wish I could smell like this forever. Maybe you could make me his gym sock, but I would miss his dick. He finally broke me in, but I’m gonna be broke at this rate.”

I could’t believe what I was hearing. This whole time, the jockstrap I wore and abused with my sweat was actually a person. The thought was hot. With this info, I imagined all the ways I could play with this gay guy--make his dreams come true. I stepped from behind the rocks. Both men glanced at me with wide eyes.

“Hey, I’m gonna need my jockstrap back,” I said. I walked closer to the twink. He smelled absolutely ripe. He smelled like my gym bag, and he needed to get back there.

The twink gave a nervous smile and backed away. “Look man, there must be some misunderstanding.”

“No no, I don’t think I missed understood anything. I want my jockstrap back. I’m not finished with it yet.” I stared him in the eye. “Maybe I want gym socks instead or even a cum rag.” I turned to the other guy, “How much to get what I want?”

The guy stammered and settled on $500. “You say these words to change him.” He spoke something in another language. “And if you want him to become something else, just say it also. But make sure you change him human every once in a while.”

“Why?”

“So he can eat.” The guy seemed confused at my question. “And shower and live his life.”

I stared them both in the eye. “He eats when I tell him to and his life is over. My cum rag shouldn’t worry about his life.” I spoke the word and watched the twink shrunk and fell into the street as a piece of clothing. I swear I saw him smiling, and I had smiled back.

The Unusual Prank

The Unusual Prank

Mark always had an inkling that his college roommate, Ben, had an odd fascination with his underwear. Occasionally, he’d find his worn boxers missing from the laundry, and the few he did find seemed oddly stretched out. Mark had a hunch about what Ben might be up to, and while it was a strange situation, he also saw an opportunity for a unique prank. One evening, Mark stumbled upon an online store that sold "TF potions," elixirs that could temporarily transform humans into objects. An idea popped into his head, and after confirming the potion’s reversible effect, he made a purchase. The next morning, Mark discreetly poured the potion into Ben’s orange juice at breakfast. Within seconds of drinking it, Ben found himself transformed into a pair of boxers, neatly folded on Mark’s bed. Mark, hearing Ben's confused thoughts, chuckled.

“You’re in for an experience today, Ben,” Mark teased, picking up the underwear. “Ever wanted to know what it’s like being someone’s boxers for a day?” The shock was evident in the fabric's subtle quivers. Mark put on the Ben-boxers, making him feel sensations he’d never imagined. Every step Mark took, every sit, every jump was a new sensation for Ben. He felt stretched, compressed, and warmed. As the day wore on, Mark attended lectures, played basketball with his friends, and even went for a run. The intense physical activity made the Ben-boxers sweaty and damp. Initially, Ben's mental protests were loud and frantic, but as the day continued, they lessened in intensity. The scent that he had once secretly admired now enveloped him, and he found himself feeling more at ease.

That evening, after a particularly vigorous workout, Mark threw the Ben-boxers into his laundry hamper, where they lay buried under other sweaty garments. All through the night, Ben felt the weight and warmth of other clothes on him. Come morning, Mark did his laundry. As he added detergent, he also poured in a memory-erasing solution that he'd acquired. The boxers swirled and tumbled in the washing machine, and with every rinse, Ben’s memories of his day as underwear faded.

Once the cycle was done, Ben found himself back in his human form, lying in his bed, groggy and disoriented. He remembered nothing of the day before, only a vast emptiness where memories should be. Mark looked at his friend, torn between revealing the truth and enjoying Ben's bewilderment. For now, he chose silence, smirking at the thought of the secret he held.

Mark found it hard to shake off the memory of how Ben had felt as a pair of boxers. The unique sensation was unlike anything he'd ever experienced, and it felt like an intriguing secret between them, even if Ben was unaware of it. The temptation was too strong to resist, and Mark decided to recreate the prank. Every few days, he'd discreetly administer the TF potion to Ben, transforming him into a pair of boxers. With every transformation, Ben's protests and discomfort seemed to decrease, becoming mere murmurs that faded quickly. It was as if, subconsciously, he was adapting to his temporary state, finding a strange peace in the simplicity of being an inanimate object. Mark reveled in the experience, feeling an odd connection with his friend during these episodes. He'd often wonder what went through Ben's mind during the transformations. Was there a familiarity? Did he somehow recognize the routine? Weeks went by, and Mark noticed a pattern. The initial confusion Ben experienced during his transformation shortened with each occurrence, replaced swiftly by a quiet acceptance. It was as if a part of him was surrendering to the experience, finding solace in the temporary escape from the complexities of human life. However, as the frequency of these episodes increased, Mark began to feel a growing unease. Was it right to continue subjecting Ben to this without his knowledge or consent? The ethical implications of his actions weighed heavily on him.

One day, Mark found a note on his desk. It read: "I don't know how, but I feel it. I know something's happening, even if I can't remember. Please, whatever you're doing, stop."

Mark was consumed by the sensation. The feeling of Ben as his underwear was incomparable, providing a sense of intimacy and power that he had never known before. Even though he recognized the ethical implications of his actions, the allure was too great. He rationalized his actions, telling himself that Ben didn't seem to mind anymore. The muted protests from the past were almost non-existent now, replaced with what felt like a silent acceptance. Weeks turned into months. Each transformation was followed by a cycle of laundry, complete with the memory-erasing solution, ensuring Ben remained unaware of his recurring plight. As far as Ben knew, he was just experiencing occasional bouts of fatigue or disorientation. But as Mark continued to indulge his desires, he began to grow bolder. Instead of returning Ben to his human form after a day, he let the transformations last longer. Two days, then three, and soon, Ben was spending entire weeks as nothing more than fabric against Mark's skin. With every transformation, Mark became more convinced that this was how things should be. Ben seemed almost at peace in this form, and Mark wondered if maybe, at some level, his friend preferred this simpler existence. Consumed by his obsession and the newfound control he felt, Mark began to entertain the thought of keeping Ben as his underwear permanently. The campus around them carried on, none the wiser. Friends inquired about Ben's whereabouts, and Mark would simply reply that he was visiting family or taking some time off. No one suspected the truth.

One day, as Mark was about to administer the potion once more, he paused. In front of him was an old photograph of the two of them, laughing at some long-forgotten joke. Memories of their friendship, their shared experiences, and the bond they once had flooded back. Was this fleeting sensation worth losing a lifetime of camaraderie and trust?

Torn between his desires and the weight of guilt, Mark made a choice. He decided not to use the potion again. The next morning Ben stands in front of his bedroom door and bangs on it It was Ben, looking confused and concerned. "Mark," he began, his voice quivering, "I don't know how, but I remember... everything." Their eyes met, a silent acknowledgment of the secret between them. The room was thick with tension as they faced the reality of their situation and the uncertain future of their relationship.

Confronted with fragments of memories that didn’t fit his normal life, Ben felt like he was grappling with two distinct realities. The first was his life as he had known it: a simple college student with aspirations, shared moments with friends, and the daily grind of studying. The second, a more visceral and intimate experience as a pair of underwear worn by his best friend, Mark. The initial anger Ben felt was inevitable. To have his agency taken away and to be transformed without his consent was a breach of trust of the highest degree. "How could you?" he shouted at Mark, the weight of betrayal evident in his eyes. Mark, guilt evident on his face, tried to apologize, but words failed him. There was no simple way to justify his actions, no matter how they might have started as a harmless prank.

However, as the days turned into weeks, a strange feeling began to grow within Ben. The more he reflected on his time as Mark's underwear, the more he found himself missing certain aspects of it. There was a primal comfort in the experience: the warmth, the closeness, the almost meditative simplicity of just existing without the worries and anxieties of human life. And, as strange as it was to admit, there was something about Mark's scent that felt reassuring, a constant in the disorienting world of being an object. One evening, Ben approached Mark, his demeanor softer. "Mark, what you did was wrong," he began, "but there's something I can't shake off. Some parts of being... well, your underwear... they weren't all bad."

Mark looked up, surprised. "I never imagined you'd say something like that." "It's confusing," Ben admitted. "I feel violated, but at the same time, there's this odd sense of nostalgia. Maybe it's the safety, the simplicity, or just the break from reality. I don't know." The two sat down, discussing their feelings at length. They shared their fears, desires, and the myriad emotions the situation had brought up. Mark confessed his obsession, while Ben delved into the unique sensations and experiences he remembered. Realizing the depth of their bond and the unusual circumstances that had tested it, they decided on a compromise. With full consent, they would allow Ben to transform occasionally, but with clear boundaries in place. The two friends entered a new chapter of their relationship, one marked by trust, understanding, and a shared secret that only brought them closer.

After their heart-to-heart, Mark and Ben agreed that any future transformations would require mutual consent, understanding, and set boundaries. Ben's curiosity, combined with the strangely comforting memories of his past experiences, made him decide to undergo the transformation again, this time willingly. One evening, with Mark by his side, Ben drank the TF potion. A familiar sensation enveloped him as he transitioned from his human form into a pair of soft, well-fitted boxers. Mark carefully picked him up, the fabric of Ben-boxers warm in his hands. This time, the experience was markedly different for both of them. There was no secrecy or guilt, just mutual understanding and trust. As the days went by, Ben became increasingly attuned to his surroundings. The rhythm of Mark's day, the play of sunlight and shadow in the room, and especially the intimate sensations of being worn became an intrinsic part of his existence. For Mark, the week was a lesson in empathy and responsibility. Knowing that his friend was fully aware of each moment, he was more conscious of his actions. The two developed a unique form of communication. Subtle shifts in fabric tension allowed Ben to convey basic emotions, while Mark would sometimes talk aloud, sharing his day or simply chatting as if Ben were still in his human form beside him. The week was a mix of mundane routines, introspective moments, and the occasional laughter. But as the end neared, both felt a growing anticipation. What would Ben feelings be once he returned to his human form? How would this shared experience shape their friendship?

When the transformation reversed, Ben sat up, taking a few moments to adjust to the flood of sensations that being human brought. Mark, watching closely, saw a mix of relief, contemplation, and something he couldn't quite pinpoint in Ben's eyes. "How do you feel?" Mark finally asked. Ben took a deep breath. "It was... enlightening. Being an object, especially something as intimate as underwear, is both limiting and liberating. I missed being human, but there were moments of pure contentment that I've never felt before."

Mark listening intently as Ben began to delve deeper into his experience as underwear. He watched Ben's expressions closely, noticing the slight furrowing of his brow, the intensity in his gaze. It was evident this was a topic Ben had been mulling over, trying to find the right words to explain. "When I said the experience was enlightening, I wasn't just talking about the good parts," Ben began, his voice slightly shaky. "There were moments of pure discomfort, sensations that were, for lack of a better word, toxic." Mark leaned forward, genuinely concerned. "Toxic? How?"

Ben took a deep breath. "Your sweat, Mark. Over the week, I became saturated with it. And it wasn't just the dampness. It was... penetrating. I felt every molecule, every salt particle. It seeped into my fabric form, and I couldn't escape it. There were times when it felt oppressive, almost suffocating." Mark swallowed hard, guilt evident in his eyes. "I... I never thought about it that way. I mean, I knew you'd feel the sweat, but I didn't realize it'd be so... intense."

"It's hard to describe," Ben continued. "Imagine being trapped in a room filling with water, and you can't escape. It's like that, but at a microscopic level. There's a certain vulnerability to it. I was at the mercy of your body's natural processes, and while some moments were comfortable and even enjoyable, others were overwhelming." Mark nodded, absorbing Ben's words. "I'm so sorry, Ben. If I'd known-"

Ben interrupted, "It's not entirely your fault. I chose to undergo the transformation again, knowing the potential challenges. But I felt it was important for you to understand the full scope of the experience." The room was silent for a moment, the weight of Ben's revelations settling between them. Mark finally broke the silence, "Thank you for sharing that with me. I can't imagine how difficult it must have been. If we ever consider doing this again, we'll need to think about these things." Ben smiled faintly, "It's a journey, Mark. One filled with highs and lows. But I'm glad we're navigating it together."

Ben had tried everything. Showers, perfumes, essential oils – nothing seemed to rid him of the residual sensation and odor that clung to him since his transformation. Every breath he took, every movement reminded him of the week he'd spent as Mark's underwear. It wasn’t just a memory; it felt like a part of him now, and it was driving him to the brink of despair. One evening, he approached Mark, desperation evident in his eyes. "Mark, I need another dose of the TF liquid." Mark looked up, concerned. "Why, Ben? Why would you want to go through that again?" Ben exhaled heavily, "It's this smell, this sensation. It's like it's imprinted on me. I thought it would fade, but it hasn’t. I think... I think if I transform again and you wash me properly, it might cleanse this lingering effect." Mark frowned, contemplating the implications. "It's a risky proposition, Ben. We don't know if that will work, or if it might make things worse." "But I can't keep going like this," Ben's voice cracked, showcasing his frustration and desperation. "I need to try something, anything." After a long discussion, weighing the potential risks and benefits, they decided to give it a shot. Mark retrieved the TF liquid, and with a steadying breath, Ben drank it. The transformation was quicker this time, the familiar sensation of fabric replacing flesh. Mark gently picked up the Ben-boxers and headed to the laundry room. He wanted to be thorough, using a mild detergent and ensuring a complete rinse cycle to hopefully rid Ben of the lingering sensations.

Hours later, after a careful drying process, Mark administered the antidote. Ben slowly returned to his human form, the transition smoother with each occurrence. Taking a deep breath, Ben tried to gauge if the procedure had worked. The initial results were promising; the overpowering scent seemed to have faded. But it would take time to see if the residual feelings were truly gone. "Thank you," Ben whispered, gratitude evident in his eyes. Mark nodded, "Anything for a friend. Let's hope this did the trick." Over the next few days, Ben monitored his senses closely. The cleansing seemed to have made a difference. The intense, pervasive sensations had dimmed, replaced with his familiar, human feelings.

Despite Mark's careful handwashing, the effect seemed temporary. Within a week, the overpowering scent and sensation returned, casting a shadow over Ben's daily life. The persistence of the residual feeling was beginning to take a toll on his mental well-being. "It's like I'm stuck in this perpetual state," Ben admitted to Mark one evening, a look of desolation in his eyes. "The mild solution didn't work. Maybe we need to try something more... extreme." Mark considered this, looking thoughtful. "Perhaps a proper machine wash? Multiple cycles might help. Or even dry cleaning. They use chemicals and processes that might do the trick." Ben looked hesitant but determined. "I'll take the risk. If it means a chance to be free from this persistent feeling, I'm willing to try." Having made their decision, they used the TF potion once again, and Ben transitioned back into a pair of boxers. Mark was meticulous this time. He placed Ben inside a mesh laundry bag for protection and set the washing machine for a gentle cycle first, hoping that a gradual escalation might work.

After the first cycle, Mark took Ben out, allowing him to air dry before repeating the process. Two more wash cycles followed, each slightly more intense than the last. However, after three cycles, they felt it was best to also explore the dry cleaning option. Mark carefully packed up the Ben-boxers and took them to a trusted local dry cleaner, explaining that the fabric was unique and required special attention. The dry cleaner, intrigued by the fabric's texture and the peculiar scent it carried, agreed to try a couple of different methods. After two days, Mark returned to collect the now-cleaned underwear, hoping against hope that the processes had done the trick.

Administering the antidote, Ben transitioned back to his human form. Taking a few moments to gather himself, he took a deep breath. "It feels... clearer. Less saturated." Days turned into weeks, and the oppressive feeling and scent didn't return. The combination of thorough washes and professional dry cleaning seemed to have purged the residual effects from Ben´s system.

Both friends sighed in relief, grateful for the return to normalcy. They had learned their lesson about the unpredictability of the TF potion and the potential ramifications of their decisions. As the days went by, they focused on rebuilding their lives, ensuring that their bond remained untainted by any external influences.

A Secondhand Life

How does one measure the life of a shoe?

Does the fading size stamp on its insole convey everything a person needs to know? Or is there more to an object than the abuse it faces on careless male feet?

Shoes could be as well traveled as the individual they're tethered to, traversing many beautiful and awe-inspiring places. The dirt collected in its worn out treads, along with the bits left from those same treads, speak volumes to their existence.

But does a person really value a pair of secondhand shoes for such travels?

Wear confirms what kind of life the footwear lived. Material that slowly dwindles with age and rough foot steps. The ever growing creases from the commanding foot secured inside. The signs of ownership are very clear.

Yet, being such a canvas for use also deters people, seeing the shoes as nothing more than worn junk.

Maybe it's the style that really conveys how important a pair of shoes are. Cheap designs do not yield the kind of responses a sneakerhead is looking for. But something that catches the eye, that could lend itself to an object's value.

Though, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And no matter how nice something may look, a pair of shoes sitting in a secondhand store are nothing more than unwanted footwear.

The insoles act as an official historical register, noting how much use and abuse the footwear faced during its service. Each indent tells a story. Every tear in the fabric captures the kind of movement it witnessed beneath the owner's soles.

But as unique as the insoles are, again, it just represents use. Nothing more. Always less.

Beyond the obvious, does much more lurk below the surface? Could the life these shoes lived hold even more than simply the feet that once possessed them? As objects, these vessels face the consistent rejection of customers, unable to see past their clear traits. But within the confines of the leather and fabric, does a silent voice scream to be recognized and embraced?

To these shoes, this secondhand store represents another chance at life. Their old owners deemed them worthy of another adventure and disregarded the very common choice of trashing them. And even though they were reconditioned in an attempt to remove the signs of their past experiences, on the outside, they are simply used footwear.

It's a difficult thing to overcome. Even harder for customers who view shoes the lowest part and priority over other clothing on the shelves. Once vibrant individuals turned pathetic vessels to care for masculine man feet, they are left to plead with any passerby and hope for a new chapter to open.

Because, if they fail at this gracious opportunity, destruction is what awaits...

Another post on my musings about footwear. These photos come from a secondhand store I was browsing a few months ago. It's hard to say what happened to this footwear since.

II Ginjinkas!!

Piantbrush and Lightbulb human designs + Headcannons!! I love them so much

Hiya Bryce can ya draw lightbrush I wanna see ur art :D

oh my gah... lightbrush moment

Attention!

The OSC community is hosting a charity stream on The Cascade Collection channel! Join the stream and if you can donate!

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Humanized Mephone4S & Balloon

I drew Taco (inanimate insanity season one) and Match (bfdia, bfdi

can you blend the blender from this blog?

The Blender from @your-fave-is-being-blended is being blended?!

You cannot save it.

Microphone drawing!!! XP

As you are a doll, I would love to fill your tits and ass with some plastic

fill up my doll body even more 🥰

Did not go as planned (Collage roommate Sneaker TF Story)

My roommate Tyler like new sneakers, i was dying to know what it was like to be his sneaker, so when he left the room to go to the bathroom, i transformed into a pair of sleek, brand-new sneakers, for him, nothing will go wrong, i thought.

My perspective has radically shifted; seeing the room from the sneaker's point of view and him coming out of the bathroom. I feel Tyler's feet coming closer, and before I know it, his socks are slipping into me. It's a weird feeling, not unpleasant, but I am suddenly very aware of how sweaty and smelly feet can get. I can't move or express any emotion, but internally I'm both thrilled and apprehensive.

"Wow, these feel great!" Tyler exclaims, oblivious to the fact that his new kicks are actually his friend, me, transformed. He ties the laces, securing his feet snugly within me.

That's when I notice Tyler reaching for a marker on the table. He uncaps it and scribbles something on the sneakers tongue. I feel a slight tickling sensation but can't see what he's written. Instinctively, I know that Tyler's just marked me as his property. My heart sinks, realizing the gravity of what that might mean for my ability to change back. I frantically focus, trying to muster the energy to revert to my original form. But nothing happens. I'm stuck, and the panic begins to set in. My situation worsens as I remember Tyler's reputation for making his belongings quickly smelly and worn out. I'm about to become one of those belongings, I think to myself, but all I can do is "exist" as a pair of his sneakers.Tyler starts walking around, and I can feel his weight pressing down with each step. The warmth and moisture from his feet start to make me feel more and more like a regular pair of sneakers, and less like Josh trapped in this form.

Finally, Tyler heads to his friends college dorm room, where he meets up with some friends, notorious for their messy habits. They're impressed with Tyler's new sneakers, giving them a few admiring glances, completely unaware that I am those sneakers. Tyler kicks me off, throwing me casually into a corner where I land next to other worn-out shoes and discarded clothes. The smell is overwhelming, a cocktail of sweat, dirt, and who knows what else. As I lie there, waiting for what comes next, a sinking feeling washes over me. Tyler and his friends start a video game marathon, and I know it's going to be a long night. Even worse, Tyler's got a track meet tomorrow, and I've got a front-row seat—or perhaps more accurately, a foot-row seat. All I can do now is be the best pair of sneakers I can be, because for the foreseeable future, that's all I am. And as much as I'd like to change back, it looks like I'm stuck in this form for a while—Tyler's smelly, well-worn sneakers. And there I am, Josh, trapped as a pair of sneakers with no way to communicate or revert to my original form, subjected to whatever Tyler and his college buddies have in store for me.

Over the course of several weeks, I come to realize that my efforts to transform back are futile. Each day, Tyler's activities—whether it's a long run, a gym workout, or simply walking around campus—intensify the smell inside me. Initially, the stench was overpowering and unpleasant, but a strange thing starts to happen as the days pass. With every wear, the scent permeates me more deeply, and I find myself becoming increasingly disoriented yet oddly calm. It's as if Tyler's distinctive smell has become a potent aroma that affects my very essence. I become more accustomed to the smell, and the sharp edges of my previous panic and anxiety start to blur. As Tyler slips his feet into me day after day, something within me starts to change. What was once a nauseating odor has become, inexplicably, comforting. I feel more attuned to Tyler's rhythm and routine. It's like I'm enveloped in a sensory haze, somewhat akin to a high. When he takes me off at the end of the day and tosses me into the smelly corner of his room, I no longer dread it; I actually look forward to joining that pungent pile of worn clothes and old shoes. After a few weeks of this, I find myself in an almost zen-like state whenever Tyler wears me. My earlier thoughts of changing back into my human form have all but vanished. It's as if Tyler's smell has a hypnotic quality, grounding me in this new existence. And so, I find a strange form of peace in my new life as a pair of sneakers, completely intoxicated by Tyler's scent. My worries, my former life, and even my sense of self become distant memories. I'm not just a pair of sneakers; I'm Tyler's sneakers, and strangely enough, that has become my entire world. I don't know if I'll ever change back, or even if I want to. For now, I'm oddly content, basking in the heady atmosphere of Tyler's college life. And so, I continue to exist, half-aware and half-lost in a fragrant fog, a small but integral part of Tyler's world.

I can't imagine anything better than being Tyler's smelly sneaker…

First part of at least 4 parts.