Brandon pushed through the front doors of the furniture gallery into the hot, dusty afternoon. There weren’t a lot of warm days left like this, he thought as he shielded his eyes against the slanting autumn sun. Across the lot, he saw Anthony, leaning against his car, cell phone to his ear.
Damn, he looked good. He always looked good, but Brandon had known that when he had called him, asking if he could pick him up from work the day his car was in the garage, he would get to enjoy a ride with polished work-day Anthony. Work-day Anthony was thoughtfully put together, hair quaffed, classic horn-dimmed sunglasses perched on his nose, driving a Toyota Camry…a version of the man that belied the disorganized, chaotic mud video-chasing guy Brandon knew him to be. Today his attire wasn’t quite as business-like as he had expected—Anthony must have known he wasn’t going to see any clients today—but he was not disappointed by his casual look. His impeccable athletic build showed in his slim-tailored plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up, camel colored khakis, and pale suede chukkas.
Anthony waved at wrapped up his conversation as Brandon made his way over to the car. “Hey, man, how was your day?” He asked, slipping his phone from his ear. It felt weird to have this kind of exchange—like they were a couple.
“Pretty good. Hey, thanks again for doing this.”
“Happy to,” he said over the roof of the Camry as they ducked in. It was a a pretty sweet ride, fully loaded, even if it seemed a little conservative for Anthony. Brandon sank into the sun warmed leather and noticed the new car scent still slightly lingered in an impeccably clean interior. This was certainly not the Jeep, and was probably sometimes used to ferry clients to lunches. Brandon was also pleased to see that the spacious interior also afforded a decent enough view of Anthony’s left chukka as he settled in and started the car.
“This is nice!” Brandon claimed, leaning back.
“Dual climate controls, too! Help yourself,” Anthony grinned that freaking dazzling grin. Brandon felt a little internal groan. He wasn’t sure he was up for the torment today—not in this proximity, not in these clothes. Brandon’s sensible side settled in for an uneventful ride home with a friend. Brandon’s horny side fingered the seat controls and slid the seat back a hair, affording an even better angle of Anthony’s foot resting on the dead pedal. A black ribbed trouser sock rose above the rough leather boot. Anthony glanced over at him. “I’m gonna need gas. Mind if I stop?”
“Not at all—I could use an iced tea. Want anything?”
“Vitamin Water for me if they’ve got it, thanks.” Anthony guided the car up next to the pump and both departed. “I’m going to check my tires while I’m at it, too,” he called over the roof. Brandon gave a thumbs up as he ducked into the store.
By the time he emerged with the two beverages after waiting behind a maddening customer, Anthony had already pulled away from the gas pump and parked by the tire filling station. As Brandon approached, he watched Anthony squat by the back passenger wheel, spring hose stretching around the car. As he carefully removed the plastic cap and inserted the brass fitting of the hose into the fill valve, Brandon shuddered with delight as the bright orange tubing rubbed against Anthony’s right boot. The growl of the air compressor blocked out all noise, but he could almost hear the hose squeal as it dragged up the suede upper and lifted and bunched the khaki pant leg.
Brandon had to walk right by Anthony as he reached for the car door. As he did, he slowed his pace so as to peer down inside the flap of the loose chukka. The late afternoon light raked across the ribs of Anthony’s black sock as they contoured around his ankles and into the soft boot. If only he had a kernel of corn, Brandon thought to himself, settling into the passenger seat, adjusting his pants around the crotch, which felt a little tight at the moment.
Speeding toward Brandon’s house, air conditioning blasting, Anthony turned to the music off and glanced at Brandon. “So, it’s been a couple of weeks since my last video.” Brandon was more that aware of Anthony’s
last video. He glanced over at the left Chukka, which had again taken up residence on the foot rest, and his mind turned to the black van gliding in and out of the clutch on the Jeep.
“Yeah, I guess it has,” Brandon replied as though the thought hadn’t even occurred to him.
“So…if you’re up for it, I kind of want to do one this weekend. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow, so timing is perfect, and I think my followers are a little restless.”
Brandon’s heart sank. “I don’t think I can.” He furrowed his brow. Anthony glanced in his direction. Was that a look of concern? “I have a deadline for a pretty big client. I’ve got to get a few hours in this weekend.” Anthony nodded in understanding.
“Sucks. I mean, I get it. You gotta do what you gotta do. I’m certainly no stranger to working weekends. But it’s too bad. I thought I’d have a cameraman with me.” Brandon raised his eyes at the disappointed tone in Anthony’s voice, and at the left chukka, which Anthony had turned up, digging the heel into the floor mat and pulling his foot partway out of the collar of the boot. The heel of Anthony’s black ribbed sock hung over the folding leather. It was a move reminiscent of that night at the fire pit, when Anthony had backed his foot out of Croc.
“Yeah, sorry,” Brandon said softly, staring Anthony’s foot out of the corner of his eye. His own khakis really started to strain against his cock, which was trying to to stand to gets its own view of the delicious scene.
“Hey, you know what?” Anthony asked suddenly, as if in the grip of a revelation. The heel slid back into the boot, like a rabbit frightened by the noise. “Let’s make one now!”
Brandon, distracted by the impromptu performance in the driver footwell, didn’t comprehend. “Make one what?”
“A video!” Anthony flashed the disarming grin again. “And I think I know just the spot.” He flicked the turn signal stalk.
“I kind of feel like you haven’t fully thought this through,” Brandon admitted as they got out of the car. Anthony had pulled to the side of a back road. Forested hill rose sharply next to the car. Across the road and beyond a meandering wire fence, a pasture sloped toward a small creek. The muddy area was pock marked by cows that had grazed recently. A few geese waddled across the mucky expanse toward the water. “What are you going to wear? How are we going to film?”
“Oh, I’ve always got something in the back,” Anthony said offhandedly, popping the trunk with his key fob. Brandon was momentarily distracted by his observation of Anthony’s left pant leg hung up on the back edge of his boot.
“And what about me?” Brandon demanded. “What am I supposed to wear?”
Anthony turned from the trunk and looked bemusedly at him. “You never wear anything for mudding, anyway. You’ve never gotten in on the action.” There was no judgment or tone of accusation. It was true. Brandon had never dared let himself get in the mud. This was partly because he was afraid the experience would actually disappoint him. And partly because he was afraid it wouldn’t.
“But I’m never wearing work clothes when we go,” he insisted.
Anthony pshawed with a wave of his hand. “Stick to the grass, you’ll be fine.” Brandon peered at the livestock trodden marsh, seeing very little grass.
“And what are we recording with? You have none of your equipment.” Brandon was interrupted by a pair of Xtratuf deck boots dropping from Anthony’s hands and clapping on the asphalt. Anthony looked up.
“Our phones.” he stated as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, in spite of the fact that he had amassed an array of specialized equipment for recording in recent months. His videos had become quite the production. “This isn’t going to be anything huge. Let’s just make a short. I just can’t go two more weeks without new content.”
Brandon had already acquiesced, falling silent at the sight of the Xtratufs. They were uncharacteristically short for Anthony, who usually wore almost knee-height Hunters or le Chamaeus. The black boots had the same silhouette as a regular rubber boot at the bottom, but stopped just above the ankle in a wide mouth that was flanked on either side by stretchy material. Brandon didn’t hide his stare as Anthony reached down and slid off his right chukka, placing it in the trunk. His right sock hovered in the air for a moment before plunging into the deck boot. Brandon’s cock sizzled at the way the boot momentarily rippled around Anthony’s incoming foot, the leg of his khaki bunching around the stretchy sides and over the pull loop. Anthony slipped his index in the loop and gave it a small tug, his foot settling into the boot with a muffled squawk.
Brandon was beside himself. He couldn’t peel his gaze away. But he had already broken down what he thought had been well-built barriers around his fetish and, as it turns out, Anthony. Four times in the last few weeks Brandon had given into the sexual torment that Anthony unknowing put him through. For God’s sake, if Anthony had any clue what just the simple act of putting on a shoe in his presence was doing to him…. He no longer felt prepared to deal with these situations.
Anthony reached for the left chukka to repeat the process. Brandon was enthralled. The late afternoon sun had that coppery autumn glow, brilliantly lighting the front of Anthony’s caramel-clad legs, the dramatic shadows casting every crease in sharp contrast. The face of his smart watch glinted like a square mirror at his wrist as he bent to run his hand along the rumpled hem of his pants. The slope of the boots at his ankles, the turn of his shirt sleeves up over his muscled arms, which were still a fading bronze from summer…he was perfect. And what’s more, he was about to deliberately subject himself to the sloppy landscape, to get messy in order to drive fetishists crazy for him. To drive Brandon crazy, even though he apparently had no clue. He would stop, Brandon knew, if he asked him to. The guy probably wouldn’t even ask questions. A simple, “Anthony, I can’t do this,” and he knew they would be on their way home, probably with Anthony apologizing for pushing things too far.
Maybe that was happening in an alternate reality. In this one, Brandon untucked his button down so it would hang over his bulge, and Anthony proceeded to unknowing push him ever forward toward another cliff of ecstasy and probably shame.
Anthony slammed the trunk and started across the crunching gravel toward the fence. Brandon’s eyes followed the black deck boots as they creased across Anthony’s foot with each step. “Okay, game plan,” he said, pulling out his phone and scanning the pasture with his eyes. “I am wearing work clothes, so I’m not doing anything deep.” Brandon felt himself wilt a little in disappointment. “I’m going to head in up there by the post. I think I can get over the fence.” Anthony indicated a half rotten stump that served as a step over the rusting wire barrier. “Why don’t you shoot from here?”
Brandon nodded, and watched as Anthony aimed his iPhone downward and gingerly stepped onto the stump, which crackled and splintered under his weight. He swung his leg wide so as to clear the wire, and planted his right Xtratufs on the tentative ground. Once his left leg was clear, he stared at his path through the phone and slowly walked toward the creek. Grass roots crunched and the damp earth gurgled beneath his tread, milky spots of dirty water already speckling the toes of the Xtratufs. Brandon raised his phone and zoomed in on the scene, being sure as he always to keep to more or less below Anthony’s waist. He glanced over the top of the screen at the same time Anthony did his. Anthony winked and gave Brandon a small nod, clearly pleased at his spontaneous decision to film here.
It struck Brandon in that moment what a different experience this was for the two of them. To Anthony, this was a business investment. A little time, some phone memory, and some mud on his boots to add to his YouTube revenue. To Brandon, this same moment was the incarnation of dozens of fantasies played out in front of his laptop or in the shower. He thought about how didn’t know how or why he had resisted giving into it before as he felt the warm moist point on his pants to grow. Had his “exposure therapy” been a ruse just to land him here? Brandon didn’t think so. He had tried to do the work. He even thought he had won out for a time. But the dam had burst over that pair of black canvas vans a few weeks ago, and Brandon couldn’t seem to staunch the pent up rush of energy that charged out now.
Anthony tested the smooth expanses of silt by the creek, making his way closer to where Brandon was stationed. The Xtratuf sank satisfyingly into two inches of muck, bunching up around the sides of the domed neoprene toe boxes. Brandon once again adjusted his pants around his aching cock, thinking about the silky soft trouser socks sliding around inside those smooth boots. He watched Anthony for a misstep, hoped for an unexpected hole, hidden in the filth that could sink the deck boot up to that stretchy material on the sides and smear across the black ribbing of the sock that stretched over Anthony’s ankle.
It drove Brandon wild when Anthony started to slowly back away from the creek. Holding his phone to the side and pointing the camera lens at his heels, he stepped backward into the soft footprints left by the cows, not sure what kind of treachery his neoprene clad feet would meet. Brandon had the dawning realization that another hands-free orgasm—something he didn’t even know he could experience a month ago—was possible.
Brandon glanced down at his pants, trying to determine how obvious his boner was pushing through his untucked shirt, when he noticed the ground just on the other side of the wire fence from his position for the first time. The grass fell away sharply, having been carved out, perhaps in the last major summer storm that had swollen the creek. The mud in that area seemed remained somewhat undisturbed by roaming animals, showing only the indentations of birds across the shiny surface. Brandon spotted the spattered blue hump of an upturned grain bin, mostly buried in the filth. This mud was deep. Brandon glanced over at Anthony, who was recording his right foot as he slowly rocked in back and forth in a small patch of slurry, the sole of his boot making sucking noises with each pass. Brandon expanded his fingers on the screen, zooming in on Anthony’s bunched up khaki pant leg as it swung inches from the filth.
And that’s when Brandon’s cock made a decision without much consultation from his mind. His eyes darting once more between the gleaming slurry before him and engrossed Anthony a few yards off, Brandon shocked himself by giving his phone a weak toss. It was hard enough to seem intentional, but it was with just enough force that it landed with a “thwock” in the shiny expanse of rippling mud beyond the fence just out of reach from his position of safety. The phone stood on end in the middle of the soft pasture, slightly askew, but more or less sunken halfway and held upright by the soft earth. Brandon registered what he had done a second after he had done it. He had possibly thrown out a relatively new iPhone. But he had also choreographed a new ending to this mud outing that Anthony hadn’t planned on.
“Shit,” Brandon exclaimed, committing to his lie and knowing that his voice would mark the end of Anthony’s latest video post. It was supposed to be a short anyway. Anthony had recorded long enough. Anthony looked up from his mud slathered deck boot. Brandon heard the soft “bloop” of Anthony pressing stop on the recording.
“What’s wrong?” He called. Brandon gestured helplessly to his phone, it’s silvery gray case gleaming like a ship going down in a brown gooey sea.
“I dropped my fucking phone. I can’t believe this. It’s like, six months old.” Anthony pocketed his own phone and started toward Brandon.
“Alright, alright, calm down,” he said as he splatted closer. Brandon wasn’t calm in the least. His heart was pounding and his cock was leaping with joy that its plan playing out. Anthony was closing the distance between them faster than he normally would traverse the conditions, even in full muddying gear, probably because Brandon had displayed such distress. He seemed either unfazed or unaware of the mud beginning to splatter the bottoms of his khakis as his quickened footfalls parted the ground beneath the Xtratufs.
Where is it?” Anthony asked as he reached the edge of the smooth area of mud. Brandon indicated the phone, still standing up a few feet from his own reach. He made a small show of leaning over the fence. Anthony held up his hand. “Don’t. You’ll never reach it.” Brandon watched with almost smug satisfaction as Anthony took his next step into the pool of cream. He was right. It was deep. But it was also a different consistency from the rest in the pasture. Even Anthony, the experienced mudder, had a look of surprise on his face as his left Xtratuf suddenly met little resistance and plowed into a sea of peanut butter colored clay the consistency of soft ice cream. The unexpected drop of his foot and the force with which he had stepped caused a wave of the slurry to lap over the deck boot and kiss the hem of Anthony’s khakis, the color of the two nearly identical. Mud dribbled from the pant leg to the boot below.
Anthony didn’t seem to notice. He flailed his arms to maintain his balance, then brought his right foot in, more carefully, this time. The cream surged to the bottom of the stretchy material, swallowing his foot. Anthony looked up from his boots, then focused on the phone, still some eight feet away, and lifted his left boot again. Brandon was in a trance, his cock pulsating as he watched the Xtratuf, shedding the soft mud from the previous step and coming down for another christening. This step was deeper and thicker than the last, the ground completely leveling out around the deck boot except for a small dimple in the surface where they had entered.
Brandon’s eyes flitted to Anthony’s face, expecting to see him look down to see how perilously close he was to topping his short boots and stop—or worse—turn back. But Anthony’s gaze remained fixed on the ground ahead of him and the phone frozen within it. Another step and the right foot had joined the left. Anthony’s body now terminated with the hems of his khakis, which bunched about the pull loops of boots that were completely unseen. As he moved to lift his left foot, his black ribbed trouser sock emerged from the yawning stretchy top of the Xtratuf, the boot too weighed down, its opening too wide, and the sock too thin for his foot to gain any leverage. Anthony froze for a moment, his foot hovering above the filth, before he delicately bent down, looped his finger in the strap on the heel of the boot, and tugged it up from the mire whilst simultaneous pushing his foot back inside. Brandon watched a ribbon of mud scrape onto the sock from the top edge of the boot, and he was filled with the guilt and the overwhelming gratification that he had succeeded on getting mud inside Anthony’s boot.
Anthony repeated the process with the other boot. Sock out, boot up, push back down in. As he came closer to the phone, Brandon came closer to falling over the edge. Just as Anthony reached the phone and bent down to grasp it, the Xtratufs gave up the fight against their deepening foe. Liquid mud lapped the bottom of Anthony’s pants, even the loops on the backs of the boots no longer visible. Brandon shuddered in bliss as he envisioned the ooze cascading into the boots and slowly enveloping the black socked feet.
Anthony sighed gustily as he must have been feeling the mud gathering in the Xtratufs, but refrained from the use of expletives should it cast guilt on Brandon for the rescue of his “accidentally” dropped phone. As he straightened to extend the phone toward Brandon, his left foot came free of the boot yet again. Brandon took in the sock as it appeared, a swath of shining clay running down the ankle and along the outside of the foot. Just when he thought he could contain himself no longer, Anthony’s predicament held a final surprise.
As Brandon took the phone from Anthony’s outstretched hand, leaving both of his hands free to grasp the pitifully overtaken deck boot, Anthony found that he could not tug it free. He hung with his partially plastered sock in the air and wrenched at the boot, twisting the soft neoprene into an unrecognizable shape. Still the pasture would not let go. “Come on,” he exhaled as he tried again, the force of his upward pull on the left boot driving his right boot further below the surface of the cream. Bubbles now gurgled around his sock as more and more mud flowed onto the drowning foot. Brandon was acutely aware of this. Anthony seemingly was not.
Brandon’s cock was beginning to dance, his underwear by now as drenched as those forlorn black ribbed trouser socks. There was no pulling back even if he wanted to now. The only question was how deep he would fall. His last orgasm over the weed eater with the Adidas tubulars had left him writhing on the ground. He didn’t have that luxury right now.
Anthony looked up at Brandon, still balancing with a partially soiled sock in the air. His face was blank. Or was it annoyed? Brandon couldn’t tell as he fought to not look like he was about to blow a load while looking directly into his friend’s face about five feet away. But then Anthony shrugged, resigned that he could not achieve freedom for his lost boot whilst balancing on one foot. He lowered his sock directly into the cream, which quickly climbed up the ribs of the trouser sock and over the hem of his pants to claim his shin. Foot now planted in the goo, he gave the Xtratuf another sharp tug, then another, each time his left leg plowing forward a few inches into deeper territory. By the time the Xtratuf was relinquished with a surprisingly loud and long protestation, Anthony had committed nearly to his left knee, not to mention is right boot, which was fully saturated.
Brandon’s body was wracked with spasms as Anthony thrust his coated foot into the filled boot. Cream shot out from the top of the sodden Xtratuf in concert with the cream that shot into Brandon’s khakis. As Anthony lurched and squelched toward the entry point to the pasture by the stump, he heard Anthony say “well that was something.”
“Yes it was,” he hoarsely agreed, the final waves of ecstasy still crashing over him.
The phone still worked. That night, after Brandon gave himself and it a good cleaning, he navigated to the videos. As it turns out, Anthony’s entire sticky ordeal, completely orchestrated by Brandon’s cock, was immortalized there. The phone, standing in the mire, had never stopped recording.
Shoe Horny 