Brandon could remember his first erection. Probably most guys could. His came around five or six after seeing a commercial for Cascade dish detergent, oddly enough. Brandon couldn’t recall the details of the commercial—only a scene of white dishes crashing and shattering against a wall, thrown by unseen hands. It was in mentally replaying this commercial whilst in the bathtub that his cock stiffened unexpectedly for its first time.

Why dishes? Perhaps it was in the brazen destruction, the reckless power of the invisible orchestrator. Maybe in that was some parallel to sexual domination. Brandon had no idea. But what he did know was that years after seeing those gleaming white dishes hurled against a wall, he felt the same shuddering pleasure watching Anthony’s new black Vans and starkly contrasting white socks plunge into the coppery, silty ooze again and again.

Having recognized that his last two encounters with Anthony had been some of the most sexually intense moments of his life, Brandon had seemingly shed his shame like a winter coat. And as Anthony’s latest video posts had immortalized one of them, Brandon found himself looking forward to the evenings when he could peer into the laptop and relive them, hoping to recapture even a tenth of the intensity of the original experience. He even went so far as to clap headphones to his ears and strain against the foreground noises of Anthony’s first post with the Hunters, listening past the creaks of the selfie stick and the slurps of the boots for that one tiny moment at 3:56, when a small thud against the side of the unseen Jeep signified the moment of ecstasy that he had shared with Anthony’s left black canvas shoe.

So it wasn’t without disappointment that Brandon received a call from Anthony that he would be away the following weekend.

“Yeah, I’ve got a work conference that I completely forgot about,” he sighed gustily into the phone. “I really hate these things. It’s like they’re always trying to switch us over to something new when we never really had a chance to get good at the last thing.”

“That sucks,” Brandon agreed, wondering what shoes were on Anthony’s feet under the desk today. He pictured the cognac triple monk strap shoes that he knew Anthony owned. It was after 2:00, so they’d probably be damp inside by now, crackling slightly as he shuffled his feet…

“…so would you mind stopping by?” The inflection in Anthony’s question snapped Brandon’s brain back to reality.

“Sorry, what?”

“Marbles. Can you feed him?” Marbles was Anthony’s ancient cat, so named for his pearly, nearly-blind eyes. Originally, Anthony had called him something else, which escaped Brandon in his distraction.

“Oh. Sure. Of course.”

“Awesome, thanks. And if you feel like it, it wouldn’t be a bad idea if you had time to weed eat a little. Now that it’s been a little cooler I can’t seem to keep up. The place will look completely derelict by the time I get back..”

“No problem,” Brandon assured. It wasn’t exactly the weekend he had hoped for, but he was newly invested in remaining close to Anthony. A weekend of cat food and weed whacking was a small price to pay for the possibility to repeat their most recent episodes.

Brandon took the key from under the pot of a dead mum on a chipped gnome planter and let himself in. The inside of Anthony’s house was better than the garage, but that wasn’t saying much. It didn’t reflect a style or taste so much as the eclectic end result that only a blend of Facebook Marketplace and old cast-offs could achieve. Brandon stepped inside and was immediately greeted by Marbles, who sat nonplussed on the tile floor amongst a scattering of shoes that Anthony had kicked off against the hall dresser and accumulated over half a dozen different homecomings.

“Hey, Marbles, “ Brandon clicked his tongue and beckoned with his hand. Quintessentially feline, Marbles turned and stalked down the hallway toward the kitchen, brushing past a crate of old newspapers and a crumpled umbrella. Brandon knelt on the leaf strewn rug and, after watching Marble’s upturned tail disappear around the corner, like a flag of disapproval, he turned to the mess of shoes. Brandon was the polar opposite of Anthony in most respects. After all, opposites attract. A designer for a furniture gallery and a self-proclaimed neat freak, his own home was impeccably kept, and he felt a distinct satisfaction in bringing a drop of that order to those who did not possess the inclination. Why not start with floor inside the front door? Brandon smiled to himself as he sorted through the shoes searching for their mates.

He reunited a pair of Asics running shoes, which had seen better days. How recently had Anthony run in these? He lifted one to his face and inhaled. A musky odor of sweat would have been a turn on, but Brandon was surprised to find that they had little smell at all. A faint sweetness, perhaps, like fabric softener. He could make the outline of Anthony’s heels mashed into what had once been lime green insoles and were now a dusky sage. He pointed the toes Asics against the hall baseboard. Marbles had returned to the kitchen doorway and glared with milky eyes.

Next from the pile he pulled some gray Allbirds wool runners. These were newer, though somewhat flat from constantly having other shoes cast on top of them, and also covered with car hair. Brandon turned this over briefly, and then set them next to the Asics, then followed by a nondescript pair of tan Oxfords for work and the gray Crocs, which had ended up surprising him with so much pleasure the previous week. They really were ridiculous shoes, Brandon thought as he picked up and eyed the inside of the left one. No sign of the piece of corn, of course, but that didn’t keep Brandon’s semi erect cock from drooling a little at the memory.

An indignant yowl came from the kitchen. Brandon stood and admired the neatly arranged shoes, then started down the hall toward his charge, tripping over an opened flat of Hint water on the way.

Once Marbles was temporarily appeased, Brandon stepped down from the kitchen into the screened in back porch. He could only imagine that the previous owners had added this space as another dining area, a place for family to gather for meals in mild weather. Anthony, however, used this space as a catch-all…the transitional space between the house and nearby garage that it was. The long, low ceilinged porch had two ceiling fans whose paddles dropped like wilted sunflowers. The green AstroTurf floor, where visible between stacks of Amazon boxes, was covered with cat litter, this being where Anthony kept Marbles’ box.

Brandon chuckled at the woefully inadequate can of Febreeze sitting nearby as he knelt by the box, granules of litter digging into his knees, and began to scoop into a plastic grocery bag. He could never reason why Anthony cared about the things that he did, like Marbles, and shrugged off those he did not, like the house. Relieved to be done with the most foul part of his visit, Brandon pushed open the battered back door and dropped the bag into the plastic can that sat conveniently next to the steps. Because who wouldn’t want to see the cat-shit-filled garbage can first thing in and out the back door? Brandon thought.

He was shaking his head in bewilderment when he turned back and saw two black Vans slip-ons beside the back door. His cock pulsed. Anthony had clearly taken the hose to them after their outing, but the evidence of their adventure remained. The elastic and the rubber roles were now a creamy color, faded from their previous dazzling white. The canvas had returned to black, but not the shiny deep black of a box fresh pair of shoes. A chunk of the Vans tag on the back of the right shoe was now missing. But Brandon thought they looked sexier than ever. “Hello, friend,” he murmured as he picked up the left shoe. Examining the inside, there was no evidence to specifically point to their intimate moment together. Soaked up by Anthony’s sock, diluted in mud, and hosed out, the glisten of dried cum was disappointingly absent from the insole.

“We could fill it again,” Brandon’s cock suggested, squeezing another drop into his underwear as if to prove it was up for the task.

“Maybe later,” Brandon said out loud, which was startling in the otherwise stillness of the back porch. The possibility made his heart quicken. Brandon headed to the garage to look for the weed eater, which proved only slightly easier than looking for the lighter fluid. He was slightly annoyed to discover that Anthony owned an electric, corded machine. Such a pain, he thought as he began to search high and low for an extension cord long enough to reach anything in the yard.

When he finally unearthed one from a shelf of Christmas lights (this can’t be the one he normally uses, he thought), and cursing as he untwisted the orange coils, his eyes fell upon the red Adidas Tubulars, resting just where he had dropped them when Anthony had surprised him the week before. Still not quite back down to earth from his reunion with Anthony’s vans, the soldier was at attention toot suite.

He looked at the already encrusted soles of the high tops. Clearly, Anthony had not been careful where he had worn these. Would he care or even notice if Brandon borrowed them? After all, he was helping out with the yard work. His cock wetly yawned at the thought of those padded collars rubbing against his own ankles. He glanced over his shoulder out the door as if to make sure that Anthony was returning from his conference three days early, then sat on the concrete floor by the suede high-tops. Just being next to them again was electrifying.

Brandon slowly unlaced his own UAs, the same grass-stained ones he had worn on his last trip with Anthony, and kicked them off. He picked up the red high-top, and ran his finger across the suede, pressed the sole against this crotch, imagining it was Anthony’s foot pressing down, revving the accelerator between his legs. Dirt crumbles dusted his running shorts.

Shaking with excitement, Brandon pointed his black ankle sock into the depths of the shoe, which being a few sizes larger than his own, easily accepted his foot with a satisfying crunch as the material flexed its first use in ages.

The thing about a fetish is that it happens in the mind. So the fantasy is where it truly lives. The moment one of these fantasies is actually played out, they tend to be unsatisfying. Brandon, however, was not disappointed in this moment. His dick strained against his shiny shorts as the cool of abandoned shoe permeated his sock. The roomy sneaker’s padding rubbed satisfyingly against his bare ankles, and he thought about his foot occupying the same space as Anthony’s, which was just about the hottest thought there was.

Brandon repeated this ritual with the other sneaker, and then stood and walked slowly around the cluttered storage aisle in the garage, taking in every sensation the shoes offered as they flexed generously around his small feet. The Velcro closures were somewhat crudded up with detritus from sitting in the garage for an unknown time, and the unfastened straps waved over the tops of his feet as he walked.

Brandon could have easily cum then with little effort, but he wanted this feeling to last. He grabbed the weed eater and cord and set off the the socket by the front porch to begin his landscaping duties.

Brandon found the drudgery of this task was much relieved by the distraction of his footwear. He happily took down the tall weeds by the front steps, the errant tufts of grass by the mailbox and pole lamp, and even knocked back the viburnum that had gone crazy next to the driveway, all while staring at Anthony’s red Adidas, as though watching one of his YouTube posts. His feet slid about on the expansive insoles, his toes never feeling the limits of the shoe. At one point, his right foot found a crevice next to the downspout at the corner of the house, and Brandon watched in delight as the slight tension of the depression on the sides of the sneaker easily caused his foot to slip out when he lifted up, the black heel of his sock emerging into the fall day.

Brandon had worked his way around the back of the house, knocking back the thistles that clustered about the cat shit can when he ran out of cord. He was inches shy of completing his task. Not about to stop, unplug the cord and seek a closer receptacle so near to the end, he strained on the cord, which clapped around the corner of the house.

“Come on,” Brandon coaxed, as though verbal encouragement would increase the cord’s elasticity. Brandon leaned against the weed trimmer, the handle digging into his already damp shorts as he struggled to take down the last offending weeds. Squeezing the trigger, he was shocked by the delicious vibration that danced through his cock as the machine buzzed through its task. Instantly, Brandon knew it was time to open the floodgates. He lifted the red Adidas and took another step forward, the extension cord now squeaking across the downspout in tension, and depressed the trigger again, the weed trimmer handle now resting squarely beneath his outstretched shaft.

The effect was immediate and intense. Brandon felt his eyes start to roll back from the pressure that was quickly mounting, but he snapped to attention and gazed down at his red suede clad feet, his legs disappearing into their generous, squishy depths. With one final thought about Anthony and the last time he had worn these very sneakers, a hot jet leapt from his cock and exploded through the fabric of the shorts, running onto the handle of the trimmer. Brandon released it, and it jumped away from the tension he had placed on the cord as he collapsed to the ground.

He sat there for what seemed like minutes, his his pelvis jerking through the last fragments of a devastating orgasm. When the world stopped spinning and the last of his twitches had ceased, Brandon sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. Probably third place as far orgasms with inanimate objects go, but still damned moving. He smiled at the two red high tops before him, and surveyed his crotch, still decorated with pearlescent swirls. He stood up and chuckled at the bald spot he had carved into the lawn with the weed eater whilst in his trance.

Then, in a spontaneous moment of creativity, he bounded up the back steps and pushed through the screen door. Marbles watched passively from the doorway into the kitchen as Brandon used his fingers to squeegee the cream from his shorts and work it into the insole of the left black Van.