He never wants to throw them away, saying he’ll keep them until both are ruined

He speaks of keeping them until both are ruined, and the sentiment becomes a sensuous manifesto of fetishistic devotion. Images capture the quiet obsession: socks folded into drawers like treasured letters, stockings draped over chair backs as if waiting to be reclaimed, and the intimate traces left behind by skin — faint oils, stretched fibers, and the delicate scent that marks ownership. The narrative is not violent but reverent, reveling in tactile memory and the erotic charge of possession. Close-ups emphasize the tiny imperfections that make each pair compelling: pilled cotton, softened heels, and the whisper of nylon at the toe. For admirers of foot and sock worship, these photographs are an ode to accumulation — to the slow transformation of new fabric into something intimate and irreplaceable. It’s about consent and desire, about cherishing the evidence of someone's everyday steps and allowing fantasy to linger in the folds.