The light bulb begins to flicker. You think, "Oh, great" just as the bulb burns out. You lie there in the darkness with that ghastly document in front of you. It seems to tempt you, though your mind says the chance of the janitor taking you back to his closet is greater as a rag than as his slave.
Just then the door opens. Light streams in. A moment of panic besets you. Has it been all night already? Do you need to choose now or forever be a rag? The silhouette is not the janitor. Perhaps it's your room mate come to rescue you.
"Dang," drawls a deep Southern accented voice, "The light doesn't work. I'm sure I saw some insoles in this supply closet yesterday."
His foot strikes you, and he bends down. You are no longer a rag, but a pair of insoles.
"Just my luck!" exclaims picking you up.
The janitor had lied to you about you having to be in the janitor's closet, or had been mistaken. You think back to your previous transformations, the broom, mop and bucket, and plunger had happened in the closet, but the plunger to rag hadn't happened in the closet. Maybe the spell lay in the uncertainty. A person normally expected an object to be the object it appeared to be. However, if they couldn't see the object, they would reach for what they wanted or expected, and the spell would change you to meet that expectation.
As he emerges from the dark supply closet, you see that you're in the men's locker room. He carries you over to his locker where a pair of sneakers are sitting with their sorely worn insoles sticking out. He finishes ripping them out of the shoes and holds them up to you to see how much he needs to trim.
"Definitely lucky, these new insoles are perfect. They don't need to be trimmed at all."
You sigh in relief internally, as you did not want to be "trimmed." The relief is short lived as the reeking stench of the old sneaker overwhelms you, as you are slid in first to the right shoe and then into the left shoe. It's odd, you're still one being but somehow you've been divided. Odder still, while divided you are still fully aware of each half of yourself.
The big muscled Southern boy has blond hair, blue eyes, and as he strips out of his street clothes you are surprised to see that he is hairless and has no tan line. His skin is tanned all over. Wait, almost all over, there is a tan line at his ankles. The tops of his feet are paler.
He grins and pulls the shoes on to his barefeet. You mentally scream as his giant weight bears down on your thin rubberized insole bodies. He ties the shoes tight. You can no longer see him, but you hear him cast a glamour spell on himself. At a casual glance, anyone who sees the blond athlete will see him clad in yellow nylon running shorts and a blue A-shirt/vest. That explains the tan lines or lack thereof. You wonder why this nude athlete bothers with shoes at all, until you hear the sound of gravel under his shoes. You can feel the tiny sharp stones impact through the rubber sole. You feel the terraine change. The gravel gives way to dirt and grass. Every now and then a foot will hit something hard. You imagine errant tree roots, fallen logs, rocks, and perhaps even trash in the parkland surrounding the magical academy.
It must be three hours before the runner ends his nightime jog. Your insole bodies are thoroughly soaked in sweat. It's as if all his sweat flowed over his naked body and into his shoes where you absorbed every last drop. You know that most of his sweat probably evaporated as he ran naked. At first, you had been horrified to taste his salty excrement. As he ran, the sweat seemed to change. The saltiness became concentrated and mixed in were natural body oils. After about an hour, you found yourself savoring the taste of your new owner's sweat like a fine wine.
Back at the locker room the man strips off his shoes, and wipes away his glamour. He heads to the shower, when he returns he opens his locker. He gets dressed accept for his shoes. He stands there stocking footed, and speaks softly to himself.
"Those must be magic insoles. They fit too perfectly, and I've never had a better run. I wonder if they'd change to fit my other shoes?" he says pulling you out of your new homes.
The cold air cloys at your thin naked form as you are helpless in the giant's grip. You feel so flimsy and powerless.
The man pulls out a gym bag. It makes a loud metallic clunk as it comes to rest on the bench next to him.
He's looking right at you now, holding each of your halves in one hand. He explains, yes-he's talking to you, "I've got polo practice in the morning. So let's see how versatile you really are."
He sets you down on the bench, and opens his gym bag. He extracts 4 iron horseshoes and carefully sets them nails pointing into you on top of you-two on each of your halves. Your body quivers and changes and flows like molten rubber. The white and blue insoles are gone. A dark charcoal grey-black rubber insulates the under side of each horseshoe now.
He grins down at you, "It worked!"
He shoves you and the horseshoes to which you are now attached back into his gym bag. Then he heads back to his dorm to catch a few hours sleep.