Sock it to me

by Tym Greene

Two gym-buddies find some very unusual socks in their locker, and find themselves…growing to fit the situation.

“I’m just not getting the gains I used to, you know?” The hulking blonde, looking like a modern-day Viking as he stood dripping in the locker room, plucked at the elastic band at his wrist, making the keys it held jingle. He finished toweling off, trying to ignore his buddy Brock’s wandering gaze.

“Yeah, Joey. Man, sometimes I feel like I haven’t gotten anywhere since we met.” Both men paused, thinking of how they had bumped elbows at the condiment stand of a local coffee bar. They’d both been pouring protein powder into their drinks, and the similarity sparked further conversation and the revelation that they attended the same gym. They’d been workout buddies ever since.

“Ha! You still had hair then.”

“Hey, I like the sleek look—don’t wanna be a Sasquatch like you.” He jabbed an elbow into Joey’s exposed obliques, causing him to drop his towel onto the dirty tiles between his sandaled feet. “Shit, sorry, bro.”

“It’s ok. I’ve got a spare in my locker; it was time to wash that one anyway. It’s more hair than towel by now.” They both laughed as Joey unlocked his locker. “Wait, what the hell?”

Brock leaned in close, ignoring for now the way Joey’s prodigious body hair tickled his bare skin. “What? What is it?”

The blonde bodybuilder stepped back, knocking against his friend. “Did you do this?”

“Do what?”

“Well, someone put a pile of socks on top of my stuff.” He sniffed, his bearded face scrunching up. “Used socks.”

“Ew—don’t look at me, dude. You know I don’t do that practical joke shit.”

“Yeah, uh-huh,” Joey plucked up the top sock—a plain white crew with a ribbed leg and a dingy sole—and deftly flung it at his friend. It landed squarely on his face, with the toe hanging in front of his nose. Stifling a guffaw, he watched as Brock stood open-mouthed, nostrils visibly flaring behind the dangling sock.

“Fuck,” was all Brock could say, his thick chest heaving as he inhaled deeply. The one eye that Joey could see was closed in apparent bliss and the bald man’s cock was rapidly rising to attention.

“Dude, I -snrk- I didn’t know you had a thing for smelly socks.”

“I—” Brock blushed, whipping the sock from his head, “I do not have a thing for…” Then he noticed his own arousal, and the way his friends eyes kept drifting down to it. He flung the sock at Joey, scoring a bulls-eye in the blonde’s open mouth just as he was starting to laugh again.

The taste of still-damp cotton filled his mouth, and before he could spit it out he was overwhelmed and aroused just as Brock had been

Joey’s eyes closed, and all sensation seemed to fade away, leaving only the salty taste of cotton and sweat. He instinctively breathed through his mouth, filling his lungs with tiny molecules of sock. “Oh, fuck,” he tried to say, but with his mouth full it came out as: “ook.” And somehow that sounded right to him. “Ook,” he repeated, smiling. “Ook.”

A hand on his shoulder broke the spell somewhat, and he opened his eyes dreamily. Then he saw Brock’s expression, his face flushed and oddly puffy, as though he were having an allergic reaction. “Joey, dude,” Brock said huskily, “your chest…”

Joey looked down to where Brock’s other hand was resting. The skin between his once thickly-thatched pecs was now bare, smooth, and darkening. A downy cloud of shed hair—blonde hair—had begun to float down onto the tiles as his chest denuded itself. Sock still in his mouth, all he could do was reply, “ook.”

“Take that damn thing out,” Brock said with a flash of anger and bared teeth. Joey could have sworn that his friend’s incisors looked more like fangs in that moment. Both men froze as though realizing that an incautious response might result in a fullon battle for dominance, something neither of them wanted.

Slowly, Joey stuck his tongue out, dropping the sock into Brock’s waiting hand. “Sorry, buddy, you know how I can get after a workout,” he admitted, lifting the damp fabric to his nose, which seemed to push forward to meet it. “Aw, it just smells like you now…which, honestly…”

Their eyes met, and they both smiled. “Yeah, I know how you get,” Joey said, “and I know what you like, too.” He leaned in close, spangles of sweat glistening from the taut black skin of his chest, and Brock’s nostrils flared, turning bright magenta with the strength of his sudden lust.

Seeing this, Joey hooted a basso profundo laugh. He flexed his powerful arms, causing a gentle explosion of golden hair, momentarily denuding his body. A “most muscular” pose seemed, on the other hand, to send his follicles into overdrive, and soon his arms, legs, and head were covered in thick black strands, a patch of silvery hair draping down his back and giving him an air of authority and dominance. His cock swelled too in its downy nest, the dark skin taking on a deep midnight-blue sheen as it grew taut.

Brock could only stare, panting and making soft “yak, yak” sounds as his own shaft—bright pink now—stiffened. His body grew its own coat of hair: golden brown with a creamy white belly, short enough to accentuate his physique instead of hiding it. Joey reached out and stroked his friend’s fuzzed cheek with graphite-colored fingers, distracting him while his other hand took back the sock.

With a swift motion, he stretched the neck of the damp fabric around Brock’s blue-and-red muzzle, slipping it all the way up. The mandrill man’s eyes widened and the massive intake of air pressed the cotton against his nostrils; his tusks seemed to be growing too, from the way the stretched the fabric, threatening to break through. A momentary fire lit the smaller man’s eyes—though from rage or lust it would have been hard to tell—as he realized what his gorilla-fied workout buddy had done. With crafty swiftness, he reached into the locker and snatched another sock from the pile that had only moments before been so upsetting.

In a flash of brown hair, the sock was slipped over the gorilla’s cock and balls, a snug fit that only served to make them pulse and grow.

Shots had been fired, and the war was on: both ape men dove for the locker’s contents, grabbing hand- and footfulls of socks. They pressed close together, bodies sweating, heaving, swelling as they slipped the socks over one-another’s hands, feet, genitals, even going so far as to wrap them around Joey’s tall head and Brock’s stumpy tail.

It wasn’t until the bench broke, spilling them onto the locker room’s tiles, that they noticed the effects of the obviously-cursed footwear: they were growing!

Pectorals inflated—nipples long and thick enough to have received their own socks—abs a rack of cobblestones, buttocks like twin cannonballs, necks that threatened to engulf their heads but somehow retained flexibility. Each muscle group apparently picked out with the sort of detail that would make an anatomist cream himself. But, as their growth continued, pushing their broad backs against the lockers on either side of the room they were rapidly filling, it became apparent that the growth was not universal.

Every body part that had been clad in a sock seemed to be doubling or tripling the growth of the rest of the ape men’s bodies. Joey’s skull towered above his face, and Brock’s muzzle—with its bright blue flesh and neon pink nose showing clearly through the stretched fabric—was easily as long as his forearm, long enough to suck his sock-covered cock.

Tiles cracked and locker doors buckled as the gorilla and mandrill pressed close together, Joey kissing Brock long and deep, the sock finally giving way between tusks and tongues. Other socks, their purpose fulfilled, began to burst and shred; the one atop Joey’s head popping off in a shower of cotton confetti that stuck to the sweat-matted hair of their writhing bodies. Nipples the size of Red Bull cans rubbed together, leaking a thick testosterone-laden cream that smeared between their bellies and mixed with the sticky precum pouring from their arm-thick shafts.

The mandrill managed to flip over, presenting the technicolor glory of his arousal-colored rump to his friend. Joey ripped off the remains of a sock that had somehow made its way around Brock’s pucker, puffing it up into a tall pink donut that quivered at his touch. The gorilla man reared back, hooting and pounding his chest with oversized hands before falling forward with a crash to claim his prize. His tall head dug grooves in the ceiling plaster as he rutted into Brock, their balls slamming together like an obscene Newton’s cradle made from cantaloupes.

With a twin roar, they both came, the gorilla flooding the mandrill as the mandrill flooded the destroyed locker room. They collapsed, freakishly-proportioned arms entwined, pulsing cock still stuffed in milky hole, as the cum pooled around them quietly dissolved the remnants of the socks—they’d served their purpose. The puddle, meanwhile, spread, leaking out from under the locker room’s door, smelling faintly…alluringly…of bananas.

When they finally woke, the monstrous gorilla and his mandrill mate would have a host of littler ape-men—chimps, monkeys, even a few lemurs with impossibly long tails—to play with, created from the gym’s other members. But for now their sleep was blissful and deep, with only the occasional moaning “ook” or grunting “yak, yak” to signal the erotic dreams they were having. Dreams that, soon enough, would become reality.

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