Brandon had never known an orgasm this intense, which felt wrong considering the partner. As he felt the last of his wasted seed spurt onto the insole, he staggered into the side of jeep, which made a dull metallic thud.

Anthony glanced over toward him questioningly, having not a clue as to what had transpired. Brandon weakly managed a sheepish wave. He was pulling his now cold, damp clothes back over his still quivering cock when Anthony started to plod toward the jeep. “Oh, fuck,” Brandon exhaled as he stared at the christened shoe in his hand. There was no time to clean it, and in fact possibly no time to even reunite it with its mate on the tailgate without Anthony seeing it. Shit. Was this it? Would this spell the end of their friendship? Was that what this even was?

Brandon stole a look at Anthony, who was at this second focused on his clay spattered boots as he carefully retraced his water-filled footsteps across the mire. It was just a moment, but long enough for Brandon to pull his shirt over his cum stained jeans, tip the sneaker forward so that the silvery dribbles raced into the toe box and out of sight, leaving gleaming trails behind them like slugs, and rest it back on the tailgate next to the first, all in one quick, deft move.

Anthony was none the wiser.

He stepped over the log to the gravel lot, the last of the swamp detritus gliding down the slimy boots. “How did it go?” Brandon managed, not sure he could keep his voice from cracking.

“Really good.” Anthony unclipped the camera from the selfie stick, which he unceremoniously chucked into the back of the jeep. “It wasn’t quite as soft as I expected. And not as deep.” Brandon examined the tops of the boots, which showed a small wavy band of olive still showing. In one area by Anthony’s right knee crotch, a small scuff of brown indicated a slight breach, but nothing as significant as a flood.

Brandon’s heart thudded as Anthony picked up the Vans and dropped them to the ground. “Oh, really?” he questioned, hoping to draw his gaze from the shoe, which would surely look at least wet on the insole. “Are you even sure you found the best spots here? You didn’t seem to be out very long.”

Anthony lifted his right leg from the boot, revealing a gleaming, unsoiled sock. “Yeah, I don’t think there are any surprises out there,” he said as he grasped the Van and slid it on. Brandon noted the satisfying muffled thud that it made as it accepted Anthony’s foot. He reached for the other shoe. “How do you know?” Brandon pressed. He was both terrified that Anthony would see the glistening trail inside the shoe, yet also fully aware of the delight he felt in knowing that he might succeed in Anthony unknowingly wear a shoe he had filled with his cream just minutes before.

As it happened, the fetish gods smiled on Brandon, seemingly accepting him back into the fold. Anthony had removed his other dazzlingly white sock from the left boot and was just reaching for the black canvas slip-on, a small cum kiss stain still visible on the top, when he looked up and stared out over the swampy terrain.

“It’s surprisingly dry around the edges,” he said all too ironically as he slid his foot into the shoe.

Brandon waited. How much would cum soak through a fluffy new white sock? He mentally queried google, but could imagine no results. He half expected Anthony to screw up his face and look at him. “What the fuck is in my shoe, you little perv? It feels like cum!”

No such drama.

Anthony stood up and brushed himself off. “Should we find another spot? Do you have time?” Brandon was distracted, his minds eye transfixed by the image of his ropes of cream clinging to the bottom of Anthony’s foot.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. I have time.”

“Cool. Can you grab the boots?”

Anthony stalked to the driver door, which gave its perfunctory squeal, and Brandon, adjusting his sticky crotch, bent down and scooped up the limp Hunters, slathered in clay and bits of leaves. Anthony probably thought this would be no big deal for Brandon, having supposedly “graduated” from his fetish. But in his head-spinning, aroused state, Brandon felt the soft folds of the rubber in his hands and caught the faint whiff of the warm insides of the worn boots and did not exactly experience indifference. He plopped them into the cargo area, where they collapsed into a sodden heap.

Brandon climbed, watery legged, into the passenger seat and glanced over at the Van as it pressed into the clutch yet again. As the jeep jerked and bounced along the creek to another marshy destination, Brandon began to feel stirring in his loins once again. This was unprecedented. Brandon had been a once and done guy for as long as he could remember. But as he watched Anthony deftly operate the Jeep and guide it over the rugged terrain, his eyes started to travel from the vans to his wrist, clad in an army green watch, resting relaxed on the gear shifter. Then to the nylon belt that ran through the loops on his warm camo pants. Then up to his sun beaten neck. Damn. Anthony was HOT. He had never allowed himself to think it. Anthony was a teacher. A guide. A friend. And STRAIGHT. Yet all of these reasons made the attraction forbidden and therefore all the more palpable.

Brandon’s eyes had traveled back down to the vans, mashing the pedals as they were suddenly jostled and the Jeep fishtailed in a low drop in the road and came to a halt. “Well that was unexpected,” Anthony said dryly as the two surveyed the sodden mess surrounding the jeep. Brandon watched mesmerized as again and again, Anthony shifted between reverse and first, pumping the clutch with that beautiful foot, knowing his jizz was in there, working deeper into the fabric of that sock all the while.

The jeep rocked and jolted, but remained stubbornly planted. A hot smell began to drift from the engine to the two passengers. Anthony glanced at Brandon.

“Well, shit. I guess we’re stopping here.” He said, half winking. “Guess we’re going to need rocks or branches to wedge under the wheels.” Anthony unbuckled and turned around in his seat, straining to reach the Hunters, now drying in a stiff heap. He stopped mid reach, and turned toward Brandon, vinyl seat crunching, an almost mischievous light in his eyes.

“I just had the best idea.”

Brandon, who had been staring at the Vans as Anthony had contorted in his seat, tore his eyes away and looked at him, bewildered. “What?”

“Let’s not use the boots,” he said smiling.

Brandon stared, dumbfounded. “Huh?” The soldier was already starting to stand at attention, though thankfully his t-shirt bunched over it.

Anthony was already reaching for his camera, nodding as though he approved of his own idea.

“Let’s switch it up. No boots for this one.” He opened the jeep door and swung his feet out over the mire. Brandon felt his juices surge. He didn’t want to miss this.

“Wait!” He cried, climbing over the shifter and peering over Anthony’s shoulder. Anthony looked back at him, puzzled.

“What?” he asked, Vans poised.

Brandon grasped for something to say. “Um, aren’t those shoes new? They look new,” he stammered, trying to justify his sudden extreme interest.

Anthony shrugged. “Eh. They’re just Vans.”

At that Brandon watched as Anthony leaned forward and landed with both feet in the mire. At first, it seemed anticlimactic. True, there was a satisfying squelch as the waffle gum soles made contact with the soggy earth, but not much else happened. The mud didn’t appear to be deep. Anthony was already filming, staring at his feet through the camera, but he also seemed a bit disappointed. He glanced at Brandon with a sheepish grin and shrugged. But as he took another step, Brandon watched as a patch of seemingly dry, crumbly earth completely gave way beneath the right sneaker, and two great curls of shiny tan clay heaved up and over the top of the black canvas, almost completely engulfing it. “Oh, fuck,” Anthony murmured in amazement, as though echoing Brandon’s thoughts.

Brandon reached for his crotch. He couldn’t believe this was going to happen again, and this time Anthony was standing right there. Anthony’s right shoe had been almost completely swallowed by wet, sloppy earth. His white sock hovered momentarily, unsoiled. Anthony attempted free himself, pulling up on the shoe, but the ground had no intention of giving up its prize. Brandon saw the white elastic stretch as Anthony’s foot strained against the top of the shoe, and then, in an equally opposite action of force, Anthony’s weight shifted back onto his foot, which plunged in further. His white sock vanished in a small gurgle, mud now coating frayed hem of the camo pants.

Brandon was racing toward the edge of the cliff for the second time in a half hour, perhaps a higher, steeper cliff than before. He watched Anthony’s face for a look of horror, concern or disgust, but instead found a look of mild bemusement as he continued to steadily hold the camera out over his marsh-swallowed shoe. If Anthony himself had been turned on by this predicament, that might have been pretty hot in it of itself. But the fact that he didn’t care in this least, and that he was orchestrating this, as though merely carrying out a procedure, seemed to drive Brandon insane.

Just before Brandon tipped over the edge, his fingernails digging into the armrest of the drivers seat as he hung out over the side of Jeep, he watched Anthony pick up his left shoe. The one that had pumped the clutch all morning. The one with the cream in it. And with that bemused look on his face, he briefly glanced at Brandon and, for the second time, winked before driving it into mire even deeper, his ankle completely claimed. Brandon stifled a whimper as Anthony recorded himself gently pumping his legs, softly kneeding the ooze until it climbed halfway up his shins. And as Anthony’s legs pumped, so did Brandon’s cock.