Brandon raised his eyebrows as Anthony threw his Hunters into the back of the Jeep. It was an involuntary action, but Anthony noticed.

“What?” Anthony asked, pausing in his preparations. Most of what they needed was already haphazardly pitched into the battered vehicle.

Brandon’s heart fluttered. “What, what?” Brandon feigned ignorance. His attempt at nonchalance worked—Anthony shrugged and walked back the garage.

“It looked like you had something to say,” he called over his shoulder.

Brandon stood, transfixed as Anthony stalked off. Normally he would be resisting the urge to stare at the olive wellies crumpled in the back of the Jeep, residue of countless adventures spattered across them and fading their original gloss into that dull, supple look.

It was his own version of exposure therapy.

Brandon was gay and had an inexplicable fetish for footwear—particularly rubber boots—and mud…at least he thought of it as inexplicable. Most stories he had read on online forums where people shared about their fetishes always seemed to start with some precipitating event in childhood. Brandon couldn’t particularly think of anything that *caused* him to be drawn to boots the way he did. The feeling went back just about as long as the sensations were allowed to exist, starting with a few exciting close up shots of booted feet in movies. Brandon remembered playing those clips over and over in his head as he explored his childhood bathtub. Over the years, it morphed into a fetish. Before he even knew what fetish actually was, he was chasing down the everyday scenes that he knew would arouse him. He would turn the car into busy construction, hoping to catch glimpses of booted construction workers slopping through their toils, or he would walk around the block multiple times once realizing that the neighbors were having a concrete slab poured in their new garage and the yellow overboots could be seen flapping about the masons’ calves and plunging into the gray slurry.

Anthony, conversely, was straight. He approached middle age, which showed in the peppering of his temples, the squaring out of his jaw, and the weathering of his face, but those features only enhanced his still very lean, athletic build in Brandon’s eyes. Brandon had reached out to Anthony after following his YouTube channel for years, spending way too many hours, mesmerized and aroused by his mudding content. Ironically, Anthony didn’t do it because he found it sexually stimulating, or frankly, even fun, but rather because it had turned into a ridiculously easy way to make extra cash. He had boots, lived near forested hills where plenty of valleys and creeks made hollows ideal for his movies, he had the time, and now he had subscribers. There was literally no overhead in this venture, which Anthony had stumbled into unknowingly (and literally).

He had attracted a huge following when he had posted his first video, a short, casual documenting of himself accidentally flooding a hiking boot on an afternoon walk. It started out as just a funny anecdote to supplement what was admittedly a pretty lackluster channel about his penchant magnet fishing and observing native wildlife. But just a few months of reading comments, perfecting his angles, carefully selecting his wardrobe, and seeking out the muddiest locales had turned an accident into a boon. Anthony had unwittingly become a bit of a celebrity in a narrow but passionate sect of the gay community—rubber boot/mudmen.

Brandon hadn’t exactly reached out because of Anthony’s celebrity, however. He had done it in an honest attempt to make sense of his proclivities and—perhaps—be one day free of them. After all, fetishes can be a bit of a bother when they revolve around objects as innocuous as a boot. It was damned inconvenient to have to conceal a boner at the gas station because of a strapping, mud-spattered lad gassing up his quad at the next pump. Brandon truly thought that—given enough exposure—the logical realms of his brain would win out and recognize that there’s nothing sexual about a boot or a little bit of dirt mixed with water. And after discovering that Anthony was a fellow Pennsylvanian and just a short 30 minute trip away, he sheepishly contacted him and explained his predicament.

Anthony, as it turned out, didn’t mind in the least, except that he joked about de-fetishizing him losing a “loyal customer.” He was entirely nonjudgmental and happy to have the company—and second cameraman—as he galavanted the countryside, seeking mud worthy of his next post. True, Anthony’s rugged looks didn’t make things easier. Brandon had to be deliberate in not fantasizing about him after spending an afternoon with him, watching watching him over the tripod as he wallowed in the creamy Pennsylvanian clay…

Brandon had thought it was working. The more time he spent with Anthony and came to know him as a pal, the less he seemed interested in what his feet were doing. But now, at this moment as Anthony stepped away from the Jeep in search of his tripod, Brandon felt himself twist around in the passenger seat to watch him, a small heat tingling and spreading through him. Anthony was wearing standard muddying attire—camo cargo pants and long sleeve T with screen printing so deliberately faded that it was pretty impossible to tell what it was supposed to say. But today he was sporting black Vans slip-ons, fairly new—Brandon imagined—from the bluish gleam of the white rubber bands around the soles.

Brandon wasn’t usually turned on by sneakers, thank God—and certainly never anything so featureless as a laceless slip on, but the electric-like hum between his legs suggested something new. Perhaps it was the fact that Anthony dressed so boyishly beneath his age—something that really didn’t matter when your face never really showed in the videos. As far as his audience was concerned, Anthony was both anonymous and ageless, which is the way they liked it. Or maybe it was the lazy air that Brandon associated with slip ons—that Anthony couldn’t be bothered to bend over and adjust or tighten his footwear and indiscriminately plunged his feet in, much like he did when he donned his Hunters. Or maybe it was just a transference from the troublesome rubber boots themselves that Brandon was so desperately trying to escape. After all, they basically looked like black deck boots, he thought, eyeing Anthony’s faded camo pants perfectly breaking over the canvas as he stood in front of the cluttered equipment shelves.

Brandon shook himself and busied himself with arranging the backpack by his own feet in the Jeep footwell as he felt a single drop of hot damp escape his very hard cock. “Damn that happened fast,” he thought with an eye roll as he played back all of the times he struggled to arouse himself in the shower. Anthony flung his tripod carelessly into the Jeep and came to the driver side, folding his arms over the door as he looked at Brandon. “We ready?”

Brandon glanced up at him, trying not to envision the lower half of Anthony’s body—terminating in those oddly amazing Vans—which was obscured by the dusty Jeep’s door. “Yep. Good to go,” Brandon said blandly as he focused intently on straightening the Yeti water bottle on his backpack’s side pouch.

The jeep door squawked its protest as Anthony wrenched it open and plopped into the driver’s seat. Brandon tilted his head from the backpack just in time to see a black and white slip-on disappear behind the other side of the Jeep’s center hump. He stared at his own, nondescript and very un-arousing gray UnderArmors, tinged green from mowing the lawn. “Pull it together Brandon,” he thought. “Remember why you’re here. It’s not going to do you any good to pick up a new fetish that’s even more inconvenient than the first.”

“What’s with you? You okay?” Anthony asked as he started the engine. “You seem quiet all of a sudden.”

Brandon straightened in his seat, which, of course perfectly, afforded him a view of Anthony’s left foot as it slowly let out the clutch. A crisp white sock flashed beneath the frayed hem of the camo pants. Probably brand new. Thick with padding…

“Everything’s fine,” Brandon answered, breaking through his racing thoughts. “Seems like it will be a good day for filming. Weather-wise, I mean..” he added awkwardly, not knowing why he felt the sudden need to qualify his statement.

“Yeah, there’s an area I found the other day at the bend in the creek near the trail,” Anthony stared out the bug spattered windshield as he sped from the driveway. “It’s kind of a nice surprise because it’s covered with leaves. The mud is all under there, kind of unexpected. I’m not even sure how deep it is. I think there’s a lot of silt washing down from that construction site.”

“Mmm,” Brandon mumbled, looking across the browning cornfields. He squirmed slightly as he tried to discreetly adjust his hard cock in his jeans, which were tenting uncomfortably. Anthony glanced over and grinned.

“Hey, am I boring you? Guess that’s a good thing, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Brandon said softly as he thought about the last several months. Anthony had approached Brandon’s relationship much like a sponsor for AA. From their first outing, he would outline everything he intended to do in his video. “Then I’ll head over to that area where it’s a little deeper,” he would say, indicating the far end of a boggy hollow which might as well have been a battlefield as far as Brandon was concerned. “If that’s too much, then I’ll just use the stick and get footage that way. Don’t feel the need to do anything that pushes you too far.” It was admittedly a bizarre relationship, but Brandon thought it worked. He had tried not to turn away from a situation, partly because he didn’t want the shame of showing Anthony that he had lost control, and partly because he discovered that he could compartmentalize things a little differently if he was approaching it as Anthony’s camera assistant. Things were not quite as arousing on the record screen as they were on the play screen, for some reason. This wasn’t a perfect system—on the rare occasion, when the mud was particularly deep or Anthony had proven especially bold, he had become overwhelmed. But on the whole, this seemed to have worked. At least he thought it had.

Anthony droned on about filming sites as Brandon’s mind wandered from the rural countryside flashing by, to his companion’s feet, which he had always so consciously avoided doing before. What did Anthony even usually wear before putting on the rubber boots? Broken down adidas? Crocs? Brandon honestly didn’t know. He had never been interested enough to take notice, but Brandon now found himself consumed with these thoughts. By week day, Anthony’s feet saw a completely different scene, clad in Bass loafers as they rested beneath his desk and a very unexciting insurance job. Brandon imagined Anthony’s ankles under that desk, sheathed in navy, dotted dress socks under a cuffed pinstriped trouser leg…so different from those weirdly hot Vans, which he was now resisting the urge to ogle beyond the gear shifter at this moment. And Anthony would be staring, unimpressed at his computer screen, completely unaware of how his clothing and footwear choices for that day were now tormenting Brandon, just as he was now, peering out at the road, utterly clueless that in simply thrusting those white-socked feet into those black canvas Vans, he was causing a curious damp stain to spread between Brandon’s legs.

Brandon’s spiraling thoughts were interrupted as Anthony banked a little to quickly to the right, pulling from the main road onto the smaller tar-chipped lane that would eventually lead to the turn off into the woods. The tripod clattered in across the back as it found a new resting place, the crumpled wellies bowed to the dirt encrusted cargo area floor, and Anthony’s cell phone glided from its spot on the dash and clattered into the driver side footwell.

“Sorry about that,” Anthony grimaced. “Guess I took that a little too hot.” Brandon glanced once again over to his as Anthony’s left Van plunged the clutch in a downshift, the beautiful white trim and band of sock the practically only thing visible in the shadows of the footwell. Anthony glanced between his legs at the floor beneath him. “Damn. Do you see my phone down there?”

Brandon tried not to appear too eager to look. “Nope.”

Anthony reached down and groped around the footwell with his left hand, bending as far as he could without taking his eyes off the road. “Come on,” he murmured, squinting at the road. “Where is it?”

Brandon spoke almost without thought. “I see it. Hang on.” In truth, Brandon could see nothing in the dim light of the Jeep except that pristine sock and band of rubber around Anthony’s left shoe, like two Cheshire Cat grins floating, beckoning. Brandon unbuckled and quickly leaned over, concealing his soldier that was standing at attention down below, and reached between the shifter and Anthony’s seat. His face was practically touching Anthony’s right leg, and as he flailed his hand in the dusty dark, he allowed his eyes to travel down the leg to Anthony’s foot on the accelerator. Brandon took it all in. The crease in the canvas where his foot rested on the gas pedal. The slight pucker in the collar as the padded edge parted from Anthony’s white sock. The white elastic at the sides of the shoe that flexed like gills on either side of a black fish as Anthony squeezed and released the accelerator. Brandon didn’t know what made this moment so exciting…whether it was because the Vans were such a new, unexpected turn-on, or that this situation he now found himself in had happened so suddenly and organically, but he longed to let himself touch them…even slide his finger down inside them while Anthony’s new white socked foot rested inside it.

“Hey, what are you doing down there?” Anthony looked down. I’ve gotta shift and you’re in the way. Did you find the thing or what?”

Brandon backed out gingerly and sat back in his seat, flustered. “Can’t reach it.”

“Just leave it. We’re almost there anyway.”

Brandon spent the short remainder of the bumpy ride trying to take in the forest, punctuated by large rocks, and Anthony’s incessant prattle…even the clouds scattered across the early fall sky. Anything to put the drooling soldier between his legs at ease before the Jeep would pull up to a stop and he would be forced to get out and stand up. Not that Anthony hadn’t seen Brandon’s boners before. But not when he hadn’t even put his boots on yet.

Fortunately, things were back down from a rolling boil to slow simmer when they pulled into an isolated picnic area. Brandon got out and started to dig the tripod out of its burial place as Anthony grabbed the dusty Hunters from the back and briefly surveyed the ditch beyond the shrubs. He turned and sat on a fat, rotten log at the edge of the parking lot and eased his feet out of the Vans, gathered his camo pants, and pointed them into the olive Hunters.

“This is the spot.” Anthony indicated the boggy, leaf covered expanse behind him. “I thought maybe you could help me figure out where to set up the tripod and do a little pan and scan.” Brandon watched as Anthony dropped the Vans onto the tailgate.

“Actually, I thought I would stay at the Jeep.”

Anthony turned, eyebrows raised. “Okay, any particular reason?”

Brandon shrugged. “I guess I’m…not interested?”

Anthony shot him a crooked grin. “Well I’m not sure if I should be annoyed that you came all this way just to not help, or pleased that you don’t want to watch anymore.” Brandon flushed a little. “Naw, I’m just teasing,” Anthony gave a playful hit on the arm. “You do you. That’s fine. I’ll be right over there if you change your mind.”

Brandon nodded toward Anthony, who was already picking his way over the fallen log. One of the straps on his Hunter boot hung limply, lazily swinging against the rubber shaft as he the ground began to yield beneath his tread. Twigs snapped and wet leaves gurgled, red-brown water already running over the tops of his feet. Anthony turned one last time to Brandon and nodded, grinning. “Yep. This is the spot.” He raised the selfie stick, and plodded further into the hollow.

Brandon’s heart was pounding, the tingling fire reigniting in his cock. He momentarily dwelled on the olive Hunters, which now housed those stunning white socks, only moments ago hosted by the Vans. The black canvas shoes rested on the edge of the tailgate. Brandon walked over to them, and stared inside, as though finally gaining access to something forbidden. The Vans logo was still clearly visible on the insole, only slightly faded in spots by Anthony’s foot as it rubbed inside of them.

Brandon slid his hand inside the left sneaker, his fingers resting on the insole. It was still warm. The thought that he was feeling the warmth of Anthony’s foot, the foot that he had stolen glances at for the past half hour as it had plunged in and pulled off of the clutch sent him into overdrive. He slid around to the driver’s side of the Jeep, opposite of the direction of the bog. He peered through the cargo area windows, which were zipped open, at Anthony, some 100 feet off, who was staring intently at his feet as his Hunters slid into deeper muck. Brandon squeezed the canvas shoe against his crotch as he watched the ground claim the bottom two thirds of the dull olive shafts of the Hunters.

This had never happened before. Okay, that wasn’t exactly true. Brandon had perhaps lost control over Anthony once or twice–especially in the beginning of their relationship. But that had always happened after the fact and in the privacy of his own shower. Certainly it had never taken place right in front of him. It was terrifying, which only served to heighten Brandon’s buzz. Months of restraint came charging out like a steam locomotive, barreling ever faster to an inevitable end. It turned out that Brandon had not succeeded in shedding his fetish after all. What’s more, he had tricked himself into thinking that he was not infatuated with Anthony.

Shades of terror shame tinged an eroticism Brandon hadn’t felt in a long time, perhaps ever, as he slid his zipper down and his soggy underwear bulged forward to meet the top of Anthony’s canvas slip-on in a sticky kiss. “Shit,” he hissed under his breath as he pulled the shoe away, a silvery thread trailing off. He glanced up just in time to see Anthony smile and wave, a boot top now barely visible above a churn of creamy ooze. He had to be wondering what Brandon was doing behind the Jeep, but he was never going to call out and ruin a recording. The flooding of a boot was the climax of a good mudding video, and unless you planned to bring a whole wardrobe change with you, it could only happen once.

Brandon’s spinning mind shifted gears to the white sock inside of the boot. The same one that had been inside the shoe in his hand, which was now sporting a small wet stain. Would Anthony flood his boot today? Would he let a rush of slimy clay cascade down his pant legs and pool over the tops of those gleaming white socks? He didn’t always go for it. This was partly out of convenience, but also partly because he knew his audience craved unpredictability. How was Anthony so perfect at knowing that? It’s not like he was a mudman himself. In spending time with him, had Brandon inadvertently revealed what would make his already intensely arousing videos even hotter? And if so, did that make this predicament he now found himself in his own fault? Or was he a victim of circumstance? Very hot circumstance?

Brandon groaned slightly as pushed the dripping tent of underwear into the shoe. Fuck, that was amazing. Brandon wasn’t even a vocalizer, but he found himself suppressing an urge to moan loudly so as not to attract Anthony’s attention, or ruin a perfectly good video, which he would watch later (knowing what was happening just 120 feet off to the left).

This was happening. Now. There was only one thing left to decide, but it wasn’t really a decision at all. Brandon’s mind, steeped in adrenaline and endorphins instantly played out the possible outcomes, and it was in making this choice that Brandon tipped over the edge. He hooked his thumb behind his waistband and jerked it down. “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he whispered faintly as pearls of semen pumped into the sneaker.