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You found me in my favorite grey armchair, feet kicked up on the ottoman, still glowing from my workout. These size-7 peds are wrapped in damp white Puma ankle socks that smell like cardio and power. I wrinkle my arches and laugh at the instant bulge you’re sporting. “Already stiff, sock freak? You’re too easy.” One slow roll at a time, I inch the left sock down my ankle. It peels off with a sticky, wet sound, leaving a perfect sweat imprint of every tiny toe. I dangle the cotton torment under your nose. Sniff it. That’s right, inhale my workout like the desperate little foot slut you are. Right sock comes next. I tug it off with my teeth, then flick it straight at your face, popping it right in that mouth. Bare soles free, I scrunch them hard, making wrinkles pop like a roadmap you’ll never travel. My crimson toenails sparkle as I spread them wide. Look how small yet mighty they are. They own you in seven little inches. Hands in your lap, wallet in my DMs. You pay to breathe the same air as these sweaty socks. Ready to fund my next pedicure, loser?