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idesofrevolution · 2 years

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The Red Huaraches

It was hot, sweltering actually: the hottest summer on record. All Jared wanted to do was get home and decompress after the bullshit day he had at the store. Twelve Karens all complaining about the heat inside the store, as if there was anything he could do about it. But, instead of doing what he desperately wished he could do (violent explicatives removed), all day long he had to bite his tongue and just “empathize” with the valued customers. For gods sake, Deborah Wyatt had come in three times and complained to managers about “why the a/c wasn’t working” and had to be removed by the police.

The heat does crazy things to people, particularly the ones who you’d least expect to turn into some monster. Thankfully before he could turn into one himself, Jared punched in that time card and bolted; wishing the best of luck to his sour faced colleagues. Walking down State Street, he huffed at the humid air drowning his lungs. Thank god he’d swiped a Dove deodorant from the hygiene aisle before he’d left that day, otherwise he’d be dripping in a pool of musty sweat, and that’s certainly far outside the character of the germaphobic young man. No- if he didn’t smell like a fresh bar of soap he wasn’t clean enough. Though, days like this certainly tested his resolve.

His air pods in, he walked down the broiled sidewalk, reminiscing of the days fresh out of college when everything seemed to be bright and optimistic. That delusion of grandeur every recent college grad has, and dreams of returning to after a few years in the dumpsterfire that is the real world. What he would give to get back to the days of staying out until midnight drinking Vegas Bombs, or impulsively snorting a bag of coke off the sink in the bar bathroom. Well, perhaps not that last one. That youthful ignorance that we all hate but desire- it’s all Jared had been thinking about for weeks.

Turning onto Common Street, he felt a powerful gust of wind nearly knock him from his feet and into the newspaper stand beside him, followed by the dampness that only rain would provide. Closing his eyes for a moment, he paused before looking down at his muddy, damp clothes. Some fucknugget in his ugly yellow Mustang really did just splash him with a puddle a la Charlie Chaplin while running a red light. Not only was it a puddle, but it was a QUESTIONABLE puddle; the ones in the gutters of the streets that are brown, murky, and filled with questionable liquids. The germaphobe closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. Bolting into the alleyway between two skyscrapers, Jared flicked the droplets of street juice from his downtrodden limbs. It would never come out- bleach wouldn’t even save the clothes. In the meantime, he’d have to run by a clothing store to pick up some replacements- but at 7:30 at night, he was unlikely to find a shop that was still open.

He cursed out into the open air, making a few confused heads turn on the sidewalk beyond. Narrowly avoiding a panic attack, he sat down on the steps of the loading platform and sighed. What a metaphor for his life, and one that was far from welcome in that moment. That’s when he saw them. A light in the dark tunnel- the red huaraches.

They sat abandoned on the top of the platform, pristine and new. He looked around the alleyway for their owner to no avail- the loading platform clearly hadn’t been used in quite some time, and there wasn’t even the usual strewn about items that would insinuate a homeless campsite… so as he stared intently at the fresh sneakers, his toes mulling about in the sopping confines of his loafers, he thought to himself, ‘It’s at least better than walking in piss and rotting beer.’

He ripped the loafers from his feet, seeing his once perfectly white tube socks now brown and yellow, which promptly came off as well. He picked up the right shoe, examining it closely. It was a size 12.5, about three sizes larger than his current shoe size. Though, with the situation as dire as it was, he could just tie them tightly for the mile and a half walk home. Nervously bringing the shoe toward his nose, he gently took a single breath, and nearly tossed the shoes altogether. Despite looking fresh out of the box they were most certainly used prior to him. A wafting scent of lingering sweat flowed out of the cavernous opening, even the insoles having the definitive impression of a blackened footprint embedded into them. Jared nearly stood up and walked away, but knowing the trek before him, and the city itself, barefoot street hiking was not an option.

Once again biting his tongue, forcing himself to overcome the sharp disgust he felt, he wiped his feet off with his hands, getting them just dry enough to slide into the massive sneakers. The moment his bare toes slid into place within them, he could feel the slick, sticky texture of trainers often worn sockless. He could not deny, however, that they were by far the most comfortable shoes he’d ever worn. They seemed to hug his whole foot snug and warm, even though the label said 12.5. He stood up, his body weighing down onto the soles of the sneakers, and felt just a tad bit of the previous owners foot juice seep out of the dank insole. He did not, however, feel the slick slimy liquid begin to seep into the pores of his soles. Before he could have an aneurysm, the door to the platform swung open, revealing the hulking form of a man drenched in sweat and bare chested.

“Oh shit. You okay?” The man kneeled down and looked over mud-laden Jared. Glancing down at his feet, the man smiled for merely a split second at the sight of the oversized red huaraches the lanky 30-something now sported. “Hey, man this is a gym in here, and we have showers if you wanna clean up? I’m sure we got some spare clothes too.” Jared sprang to his feet, quicker than even he had anticipated, and took the hulking man up on his offer. The man swung the door open and led him into what seemed to be the free weights room. “You can call me Franco, I’m the owner and main coach, so if anyone gives you trouble for not being a member or whatever, just send ‘em my way, yeah?” Franco slapped Jared on the back, making the walking skeleton nearly falter from the impact. Yet, he recovered surprisingly quickly from the strike, as if nothing had hit him at all.

The pair went into the locker room, and Franco pulled a towel from the fresh bin, tossing it to him. He pointed to the showers and gave Jared a thumbs up before retreating back onto the gym floor. Drenched in god knows what, Jared wasted no time in shucking the clothes from his body and promptly tossing them into the bin from across the room. A little cheer in the back of his mind screamed “basket!” Good god, he was getting delusional. He bolted to the showers, hell bent on getting back to his house as soon as possible. He opened the curtain into the tiled shower stall, and flicked the tap on. Looking down at his feet, he gleefully took off the musky red trainers finally letting his feet out of their grimy, bacteria-inoculated cave. He didn’t notice at first, just how odd his feet looked- as he surely wasn’t paying attention to how the tops of his feet appeared. Though, had he been paying a modicum of attention, he’d have noticed the staunch difference in skin tone, size, arch… he would have noticed the tattoos on his toes and tops, or the familiar scent that once only wafted from the sneakers now emanating from his soles.

He stepped into the shower, letting the hot water flush over him. All the brown dirt, sludge and questionable puddle was washed away after a few seconds, for that he was thankful. He absentmindedly pushed the body wash dispenser out of habit, lathering the suds all over his body. Yet, the habit was not his. He had not stepped foot in a public shower in years, and even then he’d brought his own shampoo and all, never once using the free bathroom suds. Though, he had to admit, this VitaCorp stuff felt lovely.

Initially, it smelt like fresh mint sprigs and tea tree leaves washing all over himself rather easily. The suds got into every crevice, crack, and hole it could find with ease. After a few moments of just scrubbing and poking and prodding, the bubbles began to take on a different sensation and scent. His skin felt tingly and numb, as if he’d been sitting for too long and his limbs fell asleep- but it was all across his body: pins and needles. That lovely essential oil mix rapidly began to descend into a much more… odeur masculin. No, the scent was now salty, briny, savory… the suds began to sting his eyes, and he quickly clamped them shut as his body began to feel a bit more malleable.

Creaking and squeaking sounds began to rumble from his shower stall, echoing loudly in the locker room. As Jared rubbed his eyes, his fingers began to elongate as his veins started to pulsate and bulge from beneath his quickly tanning skin. The soft tips of his fingers began to feel like sandpaper against the soft skin of his face as callouses began to develop.

His muscles ached, and he moaned as they began to spasm and twitch. Beginning in his arms, black ink began to etch into his now caramel skin, flowing upward as his biceps and triceps began bubble beneath the skin. They grew wider, stronger, firmer, smoother, tighter… and before long, his hands were about the size of his entire head.

A loud crack rang from his knees as he shot up in height, thick quads and bulging calves began to twist and warp into existence. The ink on his musky size 12.5’s started to rise up the powerful muscles he now possessed, surging quickly to his abdomen and groin. He doubled over in a massive spasm, his abs popping like popcorn out of his inflating torso. Hair sprouted in his formerly clean shaven bush, now forested with a thick carpet of twisty, curly, musky pubes. Feeling a rising urge within himself to check in on his jewels, his meaty paws crept down to his slowly inflating cock, which was slithering down from his bush like snake coming out of a thicket, getting longer, and longer, and thicker, and juicier, feeling the tightness of a slimy, pre-slick foreskin for the first time in his life before his balls dropped like a sack of potatoes. He grunted loudly, his voice cracking as it dropped with his testes, landing comfortably at a baritone.

His ass and pecs filled out nicely in time, unnoticed by the now slowly stroking tan hunk. Just as the ink had made its way to his throat, he could feel his balls begin to rumble and tighten. As if something were rising up his throat from his core, pushing delicately but firmly against the roof of his mouth, Jared felt as if he were choking on a rubbery condom in his throat. Though he should not have known what that feels like, the sensation felt all too familiar for him, just as he took his last breath and his dark brown eyes shot open.

Geyser.

Buckets of spunk came flooding out of his musty dick as he looked down at his prize fuckstick. Load after load, barrage after barrage, he unloaded his balls until the white slime nearly clogged the drain. Wouldn’t be the first time, but avoiding Franco’s wrath was perhaps preferable. Punishment sex wasn’t too much of a punishment after all. Ryan turned the water off and sauntered out of the stall, sweat dripping from every pore in his cut, chiseled body. He took a not-at-all guilty sniff of his ripe pits and the cocksmell he’d smeared all over his hands before heading to his locker to put on his well-loved training compressions and shorts. Smiling, he slipped his rank feet into his favorite red Huaraches, eager to get them ripe enough for playtime with whoever lost the match afterward.

Walking out of the locker room, he leaned on the belt machine, and glanced at Franco, knowing just what pose would catch his attention.

Smiling, Franco clapped his hands eagerly.

“Rivera! Good to see you on your feet again.” Ryan blew a kiss at the snickering lugs surrounding Franco, knowing all too well that he’d be face fucking all of them by the end of the night. “Get your gloves on and get in the ring. You have three skirmishes here.” Franco winked knowingly at his prize fighter, his prize fucker, his prize specimen, the king of the gym. Quicker than any other boxer he’d ever trained, swifter on his feet than a fox, and an ass as silky as a fleshlight. King Ryan took all three challengers down in a matter of minutes, despite them being twice his size, even at 5’11. Walking his Royal ass back to the locker room, he was met with the forlorn faces of his competitors.

“Awww. Don’t look so sad boys. I got some Latin Leche here that will make you feel much better.” He groped his dripping package, constantly wet with pre and throbbing. “You take my shoes off, you get my shorts, and you better be nose deep in all three.” He pointed one by one to the red faced hunks. “The king could use some pampering.”

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