Vintage Socks
by GoldToeJake

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“Hey, you’re open,” I said as I entered the door of the shop.

The small bell that clanged against the door announced me to the owner, who was seated behind a desk working at a laptop. “Yes, c’mon on in, please,” he replied. As he stood up he added, “I’ve been in New England on a buying trip all week. I just got back in at noon today and thought I’d open up for at least part of the day. You caught me digging out of a backlog of e-mails.”

It was 5:50 p.m. and the posted closing time on this gentleman’s shop was 6 p.m. “Hey, sorry to get here so late in the day, but I just was swinging by on my way home, I said, adding, “I came by because I heard you have a vintage clothing section.”

“Yep…I have some great stuff in stock just now. I’ve got some good looking vintage bowling and Hawaiian shirts that just came in—and a great tux that looks like it would be your size. 44 long—about a 32 inch waist, right? You probably could wear it without any alterations.”

I acknowledged that he’d sized me up right and then I learned that he’d learned to size guys up when he sold men’s retail clothes for most of his career before opening his antiques shop. He was a very handsome, tall man, with blue eyes and thick and curly salt-and-pepper hair. He had a moustache and beard and was hairy all over--judging from the thick chest hair that showed inside the top of his shirt. He was in a button down shirt and slacks with tassel dress shoes. His sport coat hung over the back of the chair where he’d been seated.

“Actually, it’s kind of odd, but I collect vintage men’s socks—do you carry any of those?” I asked.

“You’re in luck,” he replied coming toward me. He was taller than I first thought, at least two inches over my 6-foot-frame. “I just brought a nice little selection in from home. They’re in the back office and not even priced yet.”

He stopped on his way walking toward me and pointed at the door to the shop.

“Hey…would you mind if I go ahead and lock the door and put up the sign to let folks know I’m closed for the day?” he asked. “I’m beat after traveling all week, so I’m making you the final customer for today.” I agreed and quickly offered to come back another day if that was better for him. “No…no problem at all. I’m glad to help you out and I really think you’ll like my selection.”

He pulled his keys from his pocket as he walked to the shop’s door and locked it from inside. He flipped the sign over so that the “Closed” sign showed through the door. Off went the lights in the front of the store with the flick of a switch.

“Sorry for the darkness in here, but I’ve had folks try to knock down the door to get me to reopen if they see lights on,” he explained as he walked toward and then past me in the dim light created by the last rays of the evening sun streaming through the door. “Come on back to my office.”

This shop was located in a great revitalized area of the city, but the economic downturn had forced the closing of the coffee shop on one side and a dry cleaner on the other. I asked if there were any prospects to reopen those shops as we walked toward a door marked “Private.” “Not likely in the next two years,” he replied.

Using keys once again retrieved from his pocket, he used one to open the locked office door. “So…tell me about this collection of yours. What do you like about vintage socks?”

He opened the door to reveal a small room that resembled an efficiency apartment, complete with a small kitchen and washer/dryer combo, a table that doubled as a desk, an armoire and a full-size old iron bed.

“I just like the way they look and feel,” I replied. “I think they look sexy.”

“I agree,” he said, smiling. “My name is Gary, by the way,” he said, extending a hand to shake mine.

Although I told him my name was Jake, I did not reveal that I had a raging fetish for any kind of dress socks and that my cock was starting to stiffen at his agreement about socks being sexy. I also didn’t tell him my fantasy of being made to serve an aggressive verbal sock guy with strong foot scent. That was truly too odd to tell anyone and best managed as a personal fantasy.

“Damn,” he said suddenly. When I asked what was wrong, Gary replied, “I’ve got to apologize, Jake, but I just remembered that the socks I brought in before my trip need to be laundered,” he said walking toward the washer and dryer combo. He grabbed a laundry basket off the top of the clothes washer. “I keep a washer here to clean blue jeans and other washable stuff to get them ready for sale. If you want to pick the pairs you like from the basket, I can get them cleaned and ready for you to pick up by tomorrow.”

He explained a great coincidence: he liked vintage socks, too, and had collected them for years. He had at least 150 pairs at home and that he added more whenever he could. Occasionally, he would bring in pairs to sell once he’d enjoyed wearing them for a while.

“I hope that’s okay with you that I’ve worn these…I figure that most folks realize that ‘vintage’ means pre-worn,” he said with a wink. “I brought these in before my trip but never got a chance to wash them. I apologize again because this isn’t usually how I present my wares to the buying public.”

He set the basket of rumpled nylon socks in front of me. Although I wanted to bury my face in the pile, I asked, “So I should just pick the ones I like?”

“Right,” he said. “You may want to match them up first and make sure there are no runs or holes in them.” I dumped the socks onto the table that also served as a computer desk in the office, sat down in the chair and then sorted the socks into 16 pairs.

“You know, you have to be careful not to launder them too often—that’s where they get damaged. And never dry them in a dryer, just let them hang dry,” he said.

I picked four pair from the 16. There was an olive pair with embroidered diamonds down the side. A burgundy pair with cream-colored stripes. A brown plaid pair that was really cool. And a pair of thin gold nylon socks with contrasting black toes and heels.

“You’ve got good taste, Jake” he said. “You’d better check to make sure they don’t have any holes or snags.”

He leaned against a counter and watched me as I pulled each of the socks over my hand, spreading my fingers to check for flaws. My cock grew hard in my suit pants as touched each dirty sock. I wanted to sniff each one. I managed to hold them close enough to sniff them, but made it look like I was just inspecting them closely. Then, I had an idea.

“You know, Gary, it’d be no problem for me to wash these myself at home,” I said, hoping he’d agree. “Why don’t I just pay you for them and head out so you can relax and enjoy the evening that’s ahead of you?”

“I suppose you’d want a deep discount on the price since some of them still probably smell riper than hell even after a week’s airing out,” he laughed.

“No,” I smiled, “the scent adds ‘provenance’ to these socks. It proves they were well-worn--and obviously by a great guy.”

He looked at me intently and then with a playful, evil grin said, “You like that scent?”

“I….uh….” I stammered, “no, I just meant…”

“Because if that’s the case,” he quickly added, putting his hands in his pockets and pulling up his slacks with an evil grin, “you should get a whiff of these.” He exposed some of the sexiest socks I’d ever seen: navy thick-and-thins with white pin dots down the side. They looked incredible with his burgundy tasseled slip-on shoes, which were at least size 12s.

“These are some of my faves,” he said. “and they hold scent like crazy.” I was mesmerized looking at his dress shoes and socks. And he knew it. “That actually could be a dangerous thing, since I forgot to pack any other socks, so I’ve worn these for four days straight on my trip. I kept thinking I’d rinse them out since I have a bit of a foot odor problem, but there never was time between late nights and early mornings on this trip. I felt sorry for the guys standing in front and behind me in line at airport security today…they both winced and kept their distance after I took off my shoes.”

I don’t know if he could see me quiver. I tried to steady my voice and said, “Aw…they can’t be that bad.”

“Yeah, actually, I think they are,” he said. After a pause, he added, “Hey, want to make a little wager on it? I bet you couldn’t go five minutes with my socked toes directly under your nose without flinching or turning away.”

I was dreaming. This was a conversation I only had in fantasies.

“What do I get when I win this bet?” I said with a laugh. “A year’s membership in your free sock-of-the-month club?”

“I can make that happen…IF you win this wager. But let’s talk about what happens when you lose” he said with a slight sneer in his voice.

“What do you mean?” I questioned.

“Let’s say you flinch…and you will, my friend. Then what do I get? I’ll tell you what I want and then you decide. I think it’s hot as hell to have that kind of power and control over a guy—to be able make him respect my socked feet,” he said grinning, “so I’d have you for a couple of hours this evening to train you on how to honor my feet.”

“This is too easy,” I boasted. “I could do two hours without flinching. If I do that, I think I should get your whole collection of socks.”

“You’re pretty cocky, Jake, but I’d be willing to take that bet, too. But you just made the stakes a lot higher,” he noted. “If you flinch or turn away any time during the two hours, your ass is mine to sock torture every Sunday from 5 p.m. to midnight for the next three months. We’d do it here in the shop after I close on Sundays. I’d then spend every week getting a pair or two of raunchy socks ready to train you as my sock slave.”

I looked at the sexy socked feet on the hot guy standing in front of me…then at his smiling face…and again at the shoes and socks he was wearing. “Gary…I’d be willing to make that bet.” And we once again shook hands.

Within five minutes, I found myself lying under Gary’s desk/table on a small padded mat like those that float in a swimming pool. I’d been allowed to remove my suit coat and my tie. I had reluctantly agreed to have my wrists restrained to the table legs to prevent me from pushing his socked feet away. He said it was only fair, since his entire collection of socks was at stake.

Gary left and retrieved his laptop from the front of the store and returned to the office. I could hear him lock the door from the inside the office using his key and then open a drawer in the armoire, I thought, and drop the keys in it. I couldn’t exactly see the drawer where he hid the keys.

He kneeled down and the next thing I knew I had a piece of duct tape covering my mouth. “I had to grab my laptop and the duct tape from up front. The tape’s to ensure there’s no mouth breathing on your part.” He laughed at the obvious concern in my eyes. Then he proceeded to clip a webcam under the table’s edge and focus it on me to “document this wager” for his records. “I have a couple of sock buds who I may invite to watch online when we meet for one of our Sunday sessions after I win this bet,” he said confidently. I began to struggle against the restraints that held my wrists, but Gary just laughed and told me to keep squirming because the activity would eventually just make me breathe harder and deeper. I knew he was right, so I tried to calm myself.

“Yep…I can see you on my screen now,” he said calmly. “You look comfortable, but that’s about to change.”

With that statement, he planted a dress shoe on either side of my head. Honestly, I could smell his rank socked feet within his shoes as soon as they were close. I wanted to stroke my dick so badly, but couldn’t. Gary reached down and slipped both heels from his shoes and the sharp smell of mansweat and leather was released in full force.

“I told you I had a foot odor problem,” he laughed. My eyes darted to his feet that now were slowly crossing my cheeks. “Ready or not….” His flexing toes converged on my nostrils.

I tried to hold my head still, but within four minutes I jerked my head to one side to get fresh air. I had to. The sweaty, stiff toes of one sock followed my nose and guided my head back to center with gentle force. I felt like I was going to pass out the smell was so intense.

“Welcome to Sock Hell, Jake. You’re mine now, buddy. I hope you don’t have to be anywhere for dinner, because you’re here for the next few hours.” I made a muffled cry for help through the duct tape. Gary told me to yell all I wanted because no one could hear. No one was anywhere near us.

I looked up to see Gary unzip his pants. He pulled out his cock, pulled one of his worn socks from the table, slipped the sock over his dick and slowly began to stroke.

“Let’s see how many of these socks I can fill up tonight during your first training session, boy. And, of course, I’ll expect you this coming Sunday at 5 p.m. for our first long next session.”