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Three Years + Forever | Fleeting Humanity

Grunts and moans echoed throughout a small apartment. Though loud and pronounced, the sounds never extended beyond the brick walls. It had started merely 10 minutes ago, not long after a worn pair of black sandals had been licked clean and neatly placed by the front door.

Patches of saliva left the surfaces moist but free of debris. Even with the ceiling fan spinning above, the enhanced airflow did little to advance drying. The young bottom had done a good job tonight. Mr. Torres' sandals were ready for another use. And for it, the twink's ass would be set ablaze by the advances of a well hung, 46-year-old man.

It disgusted the living sandals beyond no end to violated by a man's tongue like that. A little over a year ago, the former human named Lane had been the one to receive Diego's loads. A misguided decision brought upon by an ultimatum left the living footwear with little choice - either say goodbye to enticing wide size 11 feet or take a permanent role at them. Unable to part with the hardened soles, Lane made a choice the former human quickly regretted.

Diego feared his wife might become wise to the one-sided relationship of tongue foot cleanings and blow jobs the man had with Lane. To silence any chances, Diego opted for new footwear, leaving Lane unable to spill the secret. But months afterwards, Mr. Torres couldn't go without his side action and easily picked up a replacement, with the added benefit of another hole to shove his dick into.

The living footwear resented Diego for this, especially the bottom. But just as much as the former human hated it, love for the man’s demanding feet remained strong. By now, Diego's feet were perfectly imaged in the sandals, offering superior comfort manufactured footwear couldn't provide. Matching the curves of the man’s soles did little to stifle the pain, though. Just like day one, being plowed into the hard ground remained painful and disorienting.

But, being stomped on and abused wasn't the worst part. It was the psychological issues presented to the sandals that hurt the most. The former college student's home was next to Diego's. That meant seeing Lane's mother and father at times. Without them knowing their flesh and blood had become the surface Diego walked on, after a year of being missing, Lane was formally declared dead.

Diego hid Lane's situation well, even though it was essentially out in the open for anyone to see. He played along with the parents' plight, giving them hope in finding Lane and lending a hand searching for the college student permanently stuck to his feet.

Eventually these attempts to locate Lane became less and then none at all. The two lost hope and started coming to terms with Lane never returning home. After legally being declared dead, they held a service and buried a symbolic casket in the cemetery. While the former human wasn't part of those services, since Mr. Torres dressed up, Diego did return to the gravesite later and walk all over it with the living sandals hugging his feet.

Eventually Lane's parents moved away. Diego helped them pack, using their missing son as proper foot support lifting heavy boxes and moving furniture. The former human cried internally at all of this, especially watching from the hot street surface as the moving truck and its parents drove away, all while Diego waved goodbye.

With only Mr. Torres' wide feet for company and family, the living sandals could do nothing more than simply exist in a lust filled state that felt wrong but also very right. The very man that wrecked the former human's life gave the sandals purpose but also destroyed it further with the natural degradation footwear goes through.

After 30 minutes of hard pounding, Diego finally blew and cleaned up. Every visit was transactional. No love. Just use and pleasure. The twink was filled with cum and in need of a plug.

Nothing more but always less, if Diego decided so.

Before long, Diego appeared and jammed his sweaty feet into the sandals. The living footwear winced in pain as the titan's soles sunk into the abused leather vessels. As he grabbed the door handle to leave, Diego turned back to the twink who stumbled out of the bedroom, still sore from taking it.

"This place needs to be cleaned better if you want me to come by again. Got it?" Diego said sternly, digging his toes painfully into the sandals.

"Yes sir," the bottom replied immediately.

Mr. Torres promptly left the small apartment and stomped to his vehicle. A text message from his wife awaited him, asking if he would be home soon after spending the evening out with the boys. Knowing his reason for being out was nothing more than an excuse, he replied back and took off from the apartment. Another message appeared shortly after, with one emoji the two used to depict sex.

Immediately Diego got hard again thinking about sex with his wife. This translated to heavy pounding against the foot pedals, leaving the living footwear withering in pain and wishing to have its former life back...

This is a sequel to the older story Three Years + Forever.

Vintage

A relentless years-long search initiated by Santiago was about to end, all thanks to a small box sitting outside his home. While most wouldn't feel the kind of excitement he felt over the package, Santiago couldn't remember a time when such a delivery left him this happy.

Just holding the brown box left him jittery. All his hard work was literally condensed into this one parcel. Santiago wanted to violently tear the box apart in anticipation. But he kept his feelings tempered, knowing the object within could become damaged from such barbaric actions.

Walking into the garage, he set the box on his workbench. As he sliced the tape with a sharp knife, he glanced at the vintage motorcycle sitting a few yards away. A smile crept across Santiago's face.

"It's time," he said to himself, looking inside the box, "I will make you live again."

The part itself wasn't abundantly complicated. The difficulty rested with locating a decent replacement. Old, used parts sometimes worked. But those either failed after a few miles or broke immediately upon start up. Replica parts never matched perfectly, despite manufacturer claims.

It became so off-putting Santiago considered selling the bike. Just the thought made him sick. But he wasn't having much luck and offering the vintage motorcycle up for sale might breathe new life into other bikes that needed parts.

The major break Santiago needed came from a website he stumbled upon by chance. He liked the name, 'Vintage'. A quick glance at the webpage checked off all the right boxes for Santiago. Everything seemed legit. The catalog was extensive, not only for old bikes but many other products. Finding the particular part he needed took 10 minutes from start to finish.

Now holding the new item, Santiago found his interest in this website well placed.

"It's perfect. Absolutely perfect," the man said quietly, almost bringing a tear to his eye.

Eager to make his motorcycle whole once more, Santiago dove into making the repair. The specific location on the engine was already disassembled, making installation a breeze. Having made this repair many times before, Santiago had become a bit of a pro at disassembling and reassembling his vintage motorcycle. But in this moment, he hoped that would no longer be the case. The new part fit seamlessly, leaving him confident the bike would run again.

Santiago sat back and just looked at the engine. His admiration for this historical mode of transportation was commendable. And for his devotion, it would be rewarded. Grabbing the final protective plate, he leaned forward and secured it in place.

Knowing his vintage motorcycle would live again brought pure joy to him. Absolute pure joy.

But what Santiago didn't realize was just how much life he was breathing back into the bike. From behind the metal plate, fierce cries for help would remain locked inside the metal part. The pleas and struggles would be lost within the confines of the engine, doomed to be drowned out by the hum of something bigger and more important.

As the motorcycle roared to life, the daunting reality of the former human's plight took shape. Relentless spinning and vibrations painted a bleak picture. No one would come to its rescue. No one would free it from this hell.

Everything was perfectly legal.

And everyone wanted to use Vintage, the website keeping an old world running like new...

Story content is original and human produced. Imagery created using Microsoft Bing Image Creator.

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.