Anthony was cleaning out. Brandon had no idea what precipitated the move, but he wasn’t terribly crestfallen to find out that they would not be seeking YouTube material that weekend when he discovered he would be helping in this venture instead. Brandon and Anthony’s relationship, it seemed, was less and less based on the mudding fetish that originally brought them together, which was ironic considering the increasing number of sexual episodes Brandon had been experiencing. For Anthony’s part, they truly seemed to be enjoying an equitable companionship. Brandon—on the other hand—was beginning to feel like he needed to be helpful as a sort of compensation for what he was unexpectedly getting out of it.

When Brandon arrived on a drizzly November Saturday morning, every window was lit up in Anthony’s farmhouse. Brandon had never seen it look so alive before. Almost cheerful, save for the frightful clutter that seemed to have taken up residence on the front porch. Apparently, Anthony had taken a literal approach to “cleaning out.”

The front door was slightly ajar in spite of the raw weather. Brandon stepped into a nearly bare front hall. Gone was the rug knitted with leaf debris, the boxes, the shoes, and the other detritus that was so trademarked to the house. He glanced into the living room, which had received the same treatment. The sofa, a coffee table, and the tv console were the only thing that had been spared Anthony’s ruthlessness. The room was by no means clean. Rather, the removal of its clutter highlighted the dark, matted pathway from the door to the sofa in the worn carpeting, and the cobwebs that clung to the window scarves that had probably been there for decades, hung by previous owners.

“Hello?” Brandon called out. His voice actually echoed down the tiled corridor back to the kitchen. Anthony appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Oh, hey. I’m up here.” He started down the stairs. He wore a chunky olive colored ribbed sweater today—the kind with no waistband or cuffs, the wide neck revealing a black t-shirt. His light gray jeans were slim, and ended atop pale sage green Supra Skytop Vs. Brandon had never seen this style of shoe before, but they were showstoppers on Anthony. The spandex-like upper on each sneaker had a slight sheen to them, rising up Anthony’s foot to an oversized tongue that stood in front of his jeans, punctuated with a circular opening in the center. A darker cage hugged the sides of his foot, round sage green laces bridging between them, mostly for show. The back of each sneaker was set off with a spoiler of soft green plastic that flared around Anthony’s heels, connecting with a stretchy strap that spanned across each of the tongues and holding them to his black socks. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Brandon watched the Skytops’ descent, neoprene creasing across Anthony’s feet as they lit on each creaking stair. He managed to rake his eyes back up to Anthony’s and reply, “the door was open, so I hope it’s okay…”

Anthony waved him off. “Mi casa, su casa. Thanks for coming! What do you think so far?” He had reached the bottom of the steps, his sneakers tantalizing close to Brandon’s. For once, Brandon didn’t feel like a complete moron next to Anthony, even though he was dressed for a day of cleaning and furniture lifting. He felt adequately stylish in his own skinny jeans, zip hoodie layered over a Henley, and chucks. But still, he had an overwhelming urge to bend down and caress Anthony’s feet. The synthetic uppers looked so soft. He bet he could feel Anthony’s toes through them if he gave them a little squeeze.

“I’m dumbstruck,” Brandon admitted truthfully, although he didn’t elaborate all the reasons for feeling this way. “I had no idea you were going to be so…”

“Drastic?“ Anthony grinned. He ushered Brandon into the stark but filthy living room. “I’m thinking new furniture.” Anthony made a picture frame with his hands as though looking between them could magically brighten the sad room. “And thought you could help me with that. But I want to see how the carpet cleans up first.” Brandon wondered exactly what “new furniture” meant to Anthony, but he kept the conversation on track—especially because discussing the carpet meant he could justify looking at the floor and therefore continue watch Anthony’s green Skytops as they sank into the filthy fibers.

“Are you having them steamed by someone?”

Anthony looked at Brandon as though he said something absurd. “Of course not. I rented a machine. It’s way cheaper.”

Brandon looked dubious as he eyed the darkened, matted areas. “Well,” he said brightly. “Miracles do happen, I suppose.” Anthony rolled his eyes and clapped Brandon on the shoulder.

“Before we do that, I was just about to bag up a few things from the bedroom. I’m trying to get all the shit out before I start on the cleaning stuff. Can you assist?” The two creaked their way up the stairs. Brandon had actually never been upstairs in the farmhouse. Not even when he had recently housesat. For some reason, entering Anthony’s bedroom crossed some sort of a line, even though cumming into his shoes did not. Brandon’s mother’s teachings had never covered that, he reasoned. He was eager to see where Anthony slept, and gladly followed the Skytops’ sail-like heel straps to the second floor.

The upstairs felt close and stuffy, in spite of the November bleakness. The ceilings were low and covered in old acoustic tiles with faded gold speckled designs, heralding the glory of a 1950’s renovation. Anthony’s bedroom spanned the front of the house, two low windows overlooking the damp front yard. A bold pattern of pink peonies covered the walls. The floor, which oddly enough was a step down from the hallway, was fitted with an old, slubby red rug that clashed with the papering. Bsttered hardwoods could be seen around the perimeter of the room. A black dresser from Ikea stood along one of the end walls, it’s boxy Scandinavian design at serious odds with the rest of the room, while a low platform bed sat at the opposite.

Anthony watched as Brandon took it in. “Don’t even say it,” he warned with mock menace. Brandon faced his friend.

“Say what? How truly horrific this room is? I would never. I’m a professional,” he concluded putting a hand to his chest. Anthony’s resultant lopsided grin slew him. “So, what’s the deal up here?” Brandon asked, quickly moving on and regarding the piles of clothes and multitudes of garbage bags around the room.

“Right. This is just about the last of what needs done, pitching-wise.” Brandon attempted to life one very lumpy bag. The handles stretched under the weight.

“Lord, what’s in here?” Anthony glanced over, shoving a wad of tattered t-shirts into another bag.

“Uh, that one’s shoes.”

Brandon flinched. “These,” he raised the top of the bag, “are shoes?” Now he had to see what was in there. He dug his hand through the opening and grabbed the first shoe it splayed against, pulling it through the orifice like a claw machine with a prize. Anthony paused and sat back on his heels, the green handles on his high-tops squashing under his weight. Brandon had unearthed a black Kenneth Cole loafer with a silver horsebit. He stared at it, wondering how many times Anthony had worn it, played with it under his desk, backing his heel out of it like he sometimes did. He turned it and his face toward Anthony, a quizzical expression on his face.

Anthony shrugged. “They were cheap. And they’re hot as hell. They don’t breathe.” Brandon looked back at the shoe, pressing his fingertips into the memory foam insoles with the knowledge that Anthony had sweat through his trouser socks here. He resisted the temptation to smell his fingers, or the shoe itself. He shoved it back into the bag, and retrieved another prize, this time emerging with a navy Polo laceless sneaker. It looked practically new, albeit a bit linty from a long stint in the back of a closet. He faced the v-shaped opening at the tongue toward Anthony, eyebrows raised.

“And these?” Anthony, again pausing as he jammed wads of discarded clothes into his bag, looked over, eyes narrowing as if in concentration.

“Actually, I don’t remember why I chucked those.” He rubbed his stubbly chin.

“Are you sure you meant to?”

Anthony shrugged. “If they’re in there, I had a reason.” He resumed with the garbage bag. Brandon wasn’t satisfied. For a bunch of reasons.

“Uh-uh,” he chided. “Try it on.” He held the shoe by its rubber toe and offered the heel to Anthony, who looked at it with one brow raised.

“You’re supposed to help me throw stuff out. Not give me reasons to keep them.”

“Perhaps,” Brandon conceded. “But as your designer, it’s my job to make sure that you make good choices, and there is nothing wrong with this shoe.” Brandon desperately wanted a reason to see Anthony remove his foot from the Skytop. And hopefully put it back on.

Anthony groaned and rolled his eyes. “One shoe. That’s it. Got it?” Brandon gave a slow blink of acknowledgment, although he wished that with his one and only chance, he had rummaged through the bag for something hotter. Anthony reluctantly took the shoe. He stood up and braced the back of the right Skytop with the toe of the left. Brandon marveled at how easily the shoe released it’s treasure, his black sock sliding from behind the oversized tongue and revealing its sexy gray sole. As Anthony wrenched the Polo open and thrust his foot it, Brandon’s eyes lingered on the Skytop, it’s stretchy strap slowly pulling the tongue in toward the heel in its sad state of vacancy. He could almost feel the heat wafting from the opening.

Anthony walked about the red carpet, flexing his foot and looking disdainfully at the shoe. “It’s really stiff,” he said after a moment. “That’s the reason.” He grasped the heel and peeled it from his foot, jamming it unceremoniously into the garage bag. He returned to the Skytop, bent over, and grasped the loop on the heel while sliding his foot in behind the tongue. The gray sole disappeared behind the stretchy band and the sound of fabric rubbing together issued as Anthony’s heel found its mark, as if the Skytop sighed happily at his return. Brandon felt himself sigh along with them, a hot drop of precum squeezing from his half erect cock.

Anthony glanced at his watch. “Shit, I’ve gotta get that carpet cleaner.” He stepped over the garbage bag and headed to the door. Brandon watched the Skytops as they left, then pivot on the step into the hallway as Anthony turned and surveyed the room. “You good to bring these bags down to the porch while I’m gone?”

Brandon peered at the sea of black plastic at his feet. “Sure. Anything else? How long do you think you’ll be?”

Anthony glanced at his watch. “Hopefully no more than 20 or 30. Maybe you could vacuum if you get done before I get back?” Brandon nodded in the affirmative.

“Got it.”

---

Brandon hauled the bags to the front hall, where he pulled them in front of the dresser. From there, he began to dose them onto the front porch, stuffing the voids between discarded furniture and old boxes to get them to fit without blocking the door. One bag, he decided, would be too many. That one he would have to dispose of at his own house. Brandon’s cock twitched as he heaved the bulky bag of Anthony’s shoes into the back of his Escape. He looked forward to going through them later, but not before spending little more time with Anthony and his beautiful Skytops.

Brandon hauled the vacuum in the hallway to the bedroom. The battered upright, reeking of old cat litter, clattered and chewed on the debris embedded into the red rug. Whether it was all from the activity of dunging out or because that’s the way it always was, he dared not surmise. Not wanting to give his friend anything less than an exemplary job, he slid open the closet doors and began to carefully remove the shoes so as to vacuum the floor inside. It was a treasure trove. Loafers, chukkas, wingtips, basketball shoes and boat shoes, all of them for Brandon to run his hands over and explore. How did Anthony decide each day what to wear, he wondered as he systematically lifted each pair, admiring them briefly before setting them on the floor behind him. He dared not linger too long over any one pair for fear his time with them would run out and Anthony’s crunching tires would signal his return. One particular pair was of great interest, however—a pair of black Champion Rally Pros. They were pretty new, and their sock-like cuffs wore like gloves when Brandon plunged his hands inside them, feeling the walls of their waffle knit uppers with his hungry fingertips. He looked forward to seeing him wear these some day.

When Anthony returned, a Rug Doctor in tow and a bottle of carpet cleaner under his arm, Brandon had just finished replacing all of the shoes in neat rows on the vacuumed closet floor. The room, while still hideous, felt much less oppressive than when he had entered it an hour ago. The cracked windows had allowed the pre-Thanksgiving air to chase away the lingering scent of vacuum, and the red rug was now fully visible, it’s dense pile fluffed in satisfying array of tracks. Brandon took once last look before heading down the stairs to meet Anthony at the door, imagining how Skytops would press footprints into the carpet.

“How’d we do?” Anthony asked, setting his keys and the jug of cleaner on the hall dresser as Brandon reached the foot of the stair.

“Pretty good, I think. All pitched, all vacuumed.” Anthony grinned, hands on his back.

“Awesome. I knew you’d get it done. Thanks.” Brandon couldn’t imagine enjoying anything more than being thanked by Anthony. Except perhaps one other thing.

“So…living room rug?” Brandon nodded to the next room.

“Yeah. Let’s,” he vigorously agreed.

For the next two hours, the men worked side by side in the room. Brandon vacuuming, Anthony coming up behind with the Rug Doctor. Brandon watched with great interest as Anthony backed through each pass with the machine, sucking the muddy water from the rug. His slow backward steps reminded him of the day with the Xtra-tuffs in the pasture, and he stared at the spandex-like uppers that shimmered in the overhead light of the ceiling fan and creased with each step. At one point, Brandon, having used the vacuum’s crevice tool on the baseboards, purposely dragged the hose across Anthony’s toes, just so that he could watch it do what he could not—rub across the foot. To his delight, the ridged hose grabbed the side of the tongue, wrenching it briefly to one side. “Sorry,” he simply said, walking off and pulling his Henley over his jeans.

---

It was a very tired pair that surveyed the living room rug as the gloomy day gave way to night. A chemical sent hung in the air, but it was a reassuring smell compared what it had been before. The carpet was by no means returned to like-new condition, but the darkened spots had lightened considerably, and the pile stood uniformly from one end of the room to another. Anthony squeaked across the damp rug, tracks pressing into the fibers, and collapsed into the sofa, which they had just returned to its position.

He put his head back on the cushion and stared blankly up. “Come take a load off,” he said to the ceiling, indicating the cushion next to him with his hand. Brandon moved to join him, and being that the sofa was the solitary spot to sit in the room, he sank in next to Anthony. He had never sat so close to him before. Usually there was a center console between them. Brandon saw how close their legs were to touching. His heart fluttered. Anthony turned his head in the back cushion to look at him.

“We did an amazing job. Couldn’t have done it without you, bro.” He managed a tired version of that winning smile. “Thanks.” Brandon nodded.

“It’s a pretty big transformation,” he agreed. He yawned and stretched, his foot coming in contact with Anthony’s. Brandon bent forward and looked down. The green Skytop was right there. He could see into it. He could see the way Anthony’s black sock disappeared under the oversized tongue, the way the stretchy strap hugged his ankle. He was close enough to see the laces ripple as Anthony flexed his foot beneath them. Anthony looked at Brandon.

“What is it?” He cocked his head, studying his friend.

“Those are great shoes.” The words slipped out. Brandon wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not, but now that he had released them he couldn’t believe what he had done. Anthony sat forward and looked down at his feet, as though not even sure what he had on.

“Oh. Thanks,” he responded simply, clearly not feeling the same gravity of Brandon’s declaration.

“Are they comfortable?” Brandon pressed. This partly felt right, a natural segue from his compliment. Perhaps he wanted a pair for himself. But this also felt like treading into dangerous territory. Feeling and experiencing his sexual stimulation with shoes was not the same as speaking it. It was almost like he was sharing it, just stopping shy of telling Anthony that he and his footwear choices had been a major part of his life for the last two months.

Anthony turned down the corners of his mouth in thought. “Yeah,” he shrugged. I’ve been wearing them all day and I can’t complain. They’re actually kinda like slip-ons, which I think is pretty nice.” Hearing Anthony actually talk about his shoes to Brandon was an entirely new wrinkle. Brandon felt heat surge through him, concentrating in his groin. He didn’t want to stop. But how much can one reasonably converse about shoes?

“Oh, really? But they have laces.” Brandon feigned perplexity.

Anthony, not yet feeling this conversation was strange and having no clue that it was driving Brandon wild to be having it, indulged. “They’re kinda just for show, I think. They’re stretchy.” He looped his thumb under the laces and tugged on them to prove his point. The cages on either side of the shoe bent inward. Brandon’s underwear was feeling moist. Jesus, not on the sofa right next to him, he thought. How far is this going to go? “In fact,” Anthony was saying, pulling the ends of the laces from inside the shoe, “I’d be willing to bet that there’d be very little difference without them.” He started jerking the laces free of the eyelets on the cages one by one until the last of the length of string snapped free. Anthony flexed his toes inside the sneaker, the rippling spandex-like material now unobstructed in view. The cages, no longer held by the tension of the laces, stood up like opening flower petals framing Anthony’s foot.

“What size do you wear?” Brandon pressed, buzzing with adrenaline.

“Uhh,” Anthony furrowed his brow, then dug his finger behind the tongue and pulled it back to examine the tag. Brandon watched the straps stretch around his ankles and stared at his black sock as though Anthony were purposefully revealing it to him. “These are 12s,” he read, releasing the tongue and allowing it to gently pull against his shin once again. The urge for Brandon to have more was suddenly overwhelming.

He reached out touched the left Skytop. His fingertips brushed the foamy upper. It was springy. He wrapped his index and middle finger around the stretchy band behind the tongue, and slid them in. Oh. My. God, Brandon cried out in his mind. He was touching Anthony’s foot. Not just his shoe, which was sexy as hell and warm, but his actual foot. He felt the soft knit material of Anthony’s sock press against his knuckles. He wanted to keep them there. To slide them around…

Anthony jumped. “Whoa,” he exclaimed. “That tickles.” He turned and looked at Brandon, a question across his face. Brandon quickly removed his fingers, sure to savor the last of the sensation of making contact with Anthony.

“Sorry.” Brandon quaked. “I just wanted to see what they were made out of.” He felt both sheepish and incredibly turned on. The thought of cumming next to Anthony in those shoes, or better, on those shoes was palpable. He pictured his cream stretching across the pale green uppers and up onto Anthony’s black socks in thick, sticky ropes, Anthony staring down at his foot in disbelief.

Anthony, the real one, clapped his hand on Brandon’s knee. “You might not want to put your fingers down there after such a long day,” he said with a sidelong glance. “You don’t know where those dogs have been.” He stood up and stretched, heading for the hallway. “Can I get you a drink?”

Brandon looked up, struggling with a desire to cum and still feeling the warmth of Anthony’s unexpected hand on his knee through his jeans. “I’m not sure I should stay,” he confessed. Did Anthony have a clue what was going on in his head right now? Or his pants?

“Nonsense.” He turned toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “I’m paying you in pizza.”

As Brandon heard the fridge open, a beer can crack open, and Anthony shuffle through the menu drawer, he slammed his palm into his crotch. In three quick pumps, he was piping hot cum into his briefs, the index and middle finger that had touched Anthony’s foot pressed to his lips.