Here's a piece I just recently polished. It's a second person piece in which you go through a day in the life when you've been transformed into socks.... permanently. In any case, hope you enjoy!

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How long has it been, since you were transformed?

It's practically impossible for you to conceptualize it, now. Once, you were like the man that owns you now. But an unfortunate brush with fate changed all of that, didn't it?

Most of your days are spent in the dark confines of his drawer. Your form, folded in on itself, sits idly as you calmly await him opening up the drawer for the daily picking. You aren't the only one there, of course. A few others make up some of his other socks and underwear. You can see their own expressions, stretched out and faded according to how long the man has had them. From the fleeting images of yourself you've seen in the mirror, your own smeared and embarrassed expression is the same as the others. You think that you've noticed some faded faces on the furnishings of his apartment as well– but you aren't really sure.

When the drawer is closed, you can barely hear sounds from his room. The air conditioning, the heavy sounds of his footfalls, the muffled speaking of the television. It's impossible to truly distinguish it, however.

Every day, you're greeted with light for a few moments as he pulls open the drawer. The warmth of his large paws rustling around in the nest of socks and underwear, and then… he doesn't pick you. Some other poor guy is serving as his socks today.

Well, it could be worse. You could be one of his gym socks instead of just a normal pair.

After what feels like months, years, of waiting, you're finally chosen. His huge, heavy hand grabs you, smushing you as he yanks you out of the drawer. You've been through this what feels like a million times. The hefty lynx sighs as he sits back on the bed. You swing back and forth like a pendulum, carrying the inertia of his movements. Then, he crosses a leg onto his knee and brings you down to his paw.

Lynx paws are big. Huge, even, disproportionate to their bodies. So as he pulls one half of you onto his right paw, you groan silently. Those fluffy, soft paws stretch and pull inside of you, lighting up the pleasure sensors in your brain– if you still technically have one, of course. Those claws scratch at your surface as you stretch to fit his paw size. With a slight chuckle, you see him behold your faded, inanimate face. The claw on his finger traces your stretched and smeared expression; your white eyes and the blush underneath, your mouth frozen mid-moan (or smile, or grimace? You can't really remember what you look like), the faint outline of your snout long since squashed flat. It feels tantalizing. Your body shivers internally. "Good lad."
That's the most he ever does to acknowledge your former existence.

After a second, he pulls away his hand. The whole action is redone again, now over his left paw. Your threads shudder to contain his monumental paw… but thankfully, they hold. He wiggles his toes, stretching and squashing your face around. Then, into the shoes you go.

You don't know if these shoes used to be someone or not. They've always been the same brown shoes he always wears to work as long as you can remember. He brusquely shoves his paws, and by extension you, inside them. They're nice and cool from the air conditioning and the darkness of his closet– but you know better than to expect that to last.

He stands up, and if you could speak, a groan would be pushed out of your mouth. The last time you saw him weigh himself was… a month ago, maybe two? He wore you onto the scale, so as he was stepping off, you saw the number. It was 362.4 pounds. Being worn by him reminded you of this. His immense weight crushed you, and you could practically feel his natural scent stored in his paws press into you.

Then, it's off to work. Right, left. Right, left. Right, left. The motion was hypnotizing, in a way. One half of your body squeezed and crushed… then released. The other half compressed under hundreds of pounds of fat cat… and then he takes pity on you. It's like the rocking of waves on a harbor… though given his weight, the waves would have to be that of a hurricane, or a tsunami.

You hear his apartment door open and shut, and now, you're outside. The part of you not in his shoes feels the brisk outside air. Right, it's… December? Maybe January? You aren't sure, but it's cold. In his shoes, though, you're already heating up. Those massive paws trapped in a small, leather shoe causes a buildup of heat that almost acts as a feedback loop. Soon, though, you hear the characteristic chatter of the train station. Up and down stairs, squashed the whole time. Then, he waits. His whole body weight now presses into you, as if he was standing right on top of you. If you could groan, you probably would. There are times when it seems that standing is the worst time for you. At least when he's walking, it's only half of your body under that pressure.

Soon, you hear the loud rush of a train entering the station. He steps forward, and you hear the announcer speaking. "This is Cicero. This is Cicero." Her voice is mostly muffled by the sounds of people walking, along with the sheer mental fog in your brain from all this stimulation…

After a moment, though, the weight is off you. You feel like you can breathe again, think again. He's sitting down.

The train shudders to motion, and you're finally able to think. How many other transformed people must there be on this train? It wasn't super widespread, sure… but it was certainly normal. You remember going with some friends to a shopping center once that had a small kiosk with transformed people. Underwear, t-shirts, mouse pads, even… socks.

"This is Washington. This is Wahsington."

Your old friend even bought one. You can't remember what it was… a cup, maybe? Or a beer koozie… something. You poked at it. It was brown, and you could faintly see the outline of an embarrassed bull's face on it. You thought it was hilarious.

"This is Andersen Medical Center. This is Andersen Medical Center."

You bought one. You haven't thought about this in so long, but you can remember it. It was a drink coaster, made from a fox. You and your friends chuckled, tracing the squashed fur's face with your claws. It didn't seem real– it had to be a joke, right? There's no way it used to be some random fox that volunteered for this, right? If it was real, who would even volunteer for it, right? The shop even had a little QR code to scan if you wanted to apply. Your memory feels hazy at this point… this is the most you've remembered in a long time. But you can barely recall your friends patting you on the shoulder…

"Come on man, do it!"

"Dude, it's definitely not real. Just fill it out!"

"I dared you, you gotta do it."

You scanned it. You filled it out. And when the email came…

"This is Saint-Lô. This is Saint-Lô."

Musk. Fluff. Paws. Weight. Pressure. You feel it all crash in on you at once as he stands up, and any of the memories you had are pushed out with it. All you can think of is the here and now, your current form. Once more, grasping for your memories is like trying to grab ahold of water. All you can think of now is your owner's paws. He begins walking again, leaving the station.

He arrives at his office and sits down. You don’t really know what job he has— you’ve never been out in his office before, anyways— but he’s sitting down for long enough that you’re finally allowed some time to rest and think. Any time he fidgets with those paws though, your mind practically explodes from the stimulation and you have to do your best to return to your original thoughts.

When you got the email, you went to the factory with your friends. You had to, right? You went in, joking that there was no way it was real. And when you came out…

“They made them socks?”

“Yeah man!!! They’re fucking huge.” Your form dangles in one of your friend’s hands.

“This is real funny, but we better turn ‘em back now.”

“…dude, we can’t. That’s literally what the contract said.”

“I thought that was a joke!!!”

“Fuckin’ dumbass! Contracts aren’t ever a joke!” Your friends argue, each of them taking turns holding your new form. Soon, it went quiet, and one of them spoke up.

“Well, I mean… my uncle’s a lynx, and he always talks about how he could use new socks…”

The rest of the group look at him. They—

Stomp. Stomp. His heavy footfalls pull you back into the present. Warm fluff presses into your face. There’s the hustle and bustle of the city. His shift must be over. The same subway ride, the same walk to his apartment. It’s all the same. You know the number of steps he takes, the particular weight of his paws as they scrunch up your face and stretch it out. It’s the most intimate you’ve ever been with another person— counting boyfriends and girlfriends you had before.

The click of a lock. A deep sigh. The shoes are kicked off, and you can see once again. A huge hand peels you off slowly, and you’re face to face with your owner. An older lynx. He inspects you, his whiskers twitching. He chuckles. “Not bad, lad. And to think, it’s been three years.”

Three years?

Before your mind can register that, he tosses you away, and you land in a heap of laundry. You’ve been here before. All there is to do is wait for laundry day, where you’d be washed and cleaned and ready for another day of work. Until then, though, you can only wait and simmer in the vestiges of his warmth, hearing the sounds of your owner across the apartment barely over the rumble of the train outside.

1727 words