It didn’t occur to him to be concerned. He cranked the spigot on the garage wall and turned the hose sprayer on the shoes.  As the refreshing cool permeated the uppers, the dust began to fall away in yellow rivulets. His socks became saturated sponges, and water squelched and shot from the vent holes on the insteps. Brandon was scarcely aware that he had started furiously rubbing himself.  

He could have walked away at that moment. He could have returned the beautiful Nikes to the shadowy space beneath the bench in the kitchen where they would have dried to a close enough approximation of their original state.  Their impromptu romp could have remained nothing more than his own personal thrill to relive in the shower. Who knows? He may have even encountered Mr. McHale wearing them at some later date, which could have breathed a whole new life into the fantasy. 

But what Brandon couldn’t have known was that his fetish, though still in its adolescence, had adopted a new brand of potency—one that could overthrow even basic logic given the right circumstances.  For instance, standing in the hottest pair of shoes he knew next to a hose and a pile of dirt.  

It’s not that it unfolded with Brandon suddenly becoming glassy-eyed and left to the devices of a hypnotic trance. It was more sinister than that—a gradual cascading failure of impulse control that gathered momentum, like the chunks of shale that scrabbled down the side of dirt mound, pulling more and more of the structure with them as they clumsily tumbled at tore at the surface. 

With a flick of the wrist, the cone of water droplets issuing from the hose was suddenly  directed away from the shoes and toward the pile, which darkened and immediately began to absorb the moisture.  Brandon tentatively pressed a sole against the damp clay, compressing it into a perfect, shiny impression of the tread.  He pressed harder, the water still steadily drumming its hundreds of tiny wet fingers against the the earthen mound and his shoe. This time, a rusty ring pushed out and bunched around the rubber outsole, which had quickly assumed a sticky yellow tinge.  Excitement surged. He imagined the foot cutting into the muck before him was not his own, but Mr. McHale’s. Perhaps he had jumped off his tractor onto a patch of muddy ground. 

Brandon dragged the hose up to the pile’s summit, the damped clay beginning to gather on the bottoms of the shoes, and twisted the end of the hose sprayer. The wide cone focused into a powerful jet, which he aimed between his feet. The water drilled into the soil, sending misty rainbows arcing around him as pudding-like globs of clay began to loosen and spatter the tops of the shoes and his legs.  “I should stop,” he murmured half-heartedly.  Less than half-heartedly. He couldn’t scarcely hear his voice above the hiss of the hose nozzle.  It was the pretense of an inner struggle that had never actually begun. The animal ache that had seized him began to deepen into a blissful throb.  He felt the too-large shoes begin to tip forward, the top of the rapidly eroding mound growing too soft to support his weight. 

The descent wasn’t dramatic enough for him. He wanted to see Mr. McHale get into a real bind. He dropped the hose and jumped from the pile.  Skidding and lurching across the concrete floor on muddy skates, he procured a spade from the unlocked garage. Then he set to work carving a bowl out of the top of the mound, jamming the soggy toes of the GTSes into the side of it to brace himself as he did. When he had finished, the clay pile resembled Mt. Vesuvius post eruption.  The Nikes were looking gray and tired as he pulled them from the dirt, so he gave them another rinse and returned them to black with the hose before filling the crater with water. 

By the time he had pushed the freshly shoveled dirt back into the pool of water, he was quivering.  There were no pitiful protests this time, nor even the wisp of a thought of turning back. Slack jawed, he watched Mr. McHale’s shoes slide wetly into the mire.  Tan water belched from beneath the surface and coated his legs. The only portion of the beautiful sneakers that remained visible and untouched was the emblem at his heel, like the name “Titanic” emblazoned across the stern of the liner as it was claimed by the sea. He leaned back, and even they disappeared from view. Lumpy, slimy clay climbed his Achilles, then to his calves.  Small rocks dug at his skin and crunched somewhere beneath his feet. His palm mashed against his muddy shorts. In his mind’s eye, Mr. McHale was staring down at his swallowed feet in surprise, his mouth a perfect black o.  

He attempted to prise his right foot from his gelatinous creation, but not surprisingly, his soiled right sock came up without the shoe. He looked down into the sneaker, another black o in the ooze that began to disappear as globs of wet clay began to tumble into void. His youthful cock began to dance. He stumbled back, his left foot now coming lose without its corresponding GTS.  

Brandon fell hard to the grass, it’s drought-petrified blades spearing his back through his sweaty t-shirt.  But he was oblivious. His eyes were fixed unseeingly on the milky-blue haze and jagged line of the crowns of the trees that lined the forest clearing when he came.  He furrowed his brow and whimpered as his climax devoured him, and the cold, clammy feel of his shorts was replaced with a sticky warmth that spread over his groin.  

---

Brandon stepped out onto the driveway.  He could feel an anticipatory burn at his core, hotter than the dry heat on the western side of his face as he started toward Kyle’s truck.  He could see a tanned elbow hanging over the driver door, and he discerned a trace of something like sandalwood mingling with the heavy scent of sweet grass as he drew alongside the cab. 

Kyle was animatedly talking on his phone when Brandon came even with his open window.  He glanced over and flashed a damned sexy smile, pulling the cell away from his cheek and resting it on his shoulder. 

“Hey, Brandon. Good to see you, man.” He bobbed a head toward his phone. “I’m just wrapping this up. Mind waiting a bit?”

“No, no.” Brandon waved his hand dismissively. “Take your time. I need to get situated here anyway.” He thumbed at the house over his shoulder.  Situated? What did that even mean?  He nearly grimaced, but Kyle raised the hand resting on the door appreciatively. 

“Great. I’ll be right out.”

Brandon turned and went into the house, where he “situated himself” by pacing around the kitchen island and glancing periodically out the window over the sink.  He knew that behind the immaculate mirror-like shine of that truck door panel rested a pair of black neoprene boots that were already threatening him with an erection.  He groaned slightly as their unsuspecting wearer gesticulated to his unseen caller, the thick white band of his watch emphasizing every movement of the masculine wrist it was wrapped around. 

“Get a fucking grip,” Brandon hissed to himself as he brought a glass of water to his lips. He miscalculated and water streamed over his cheeks and ran down his neck, soaking the neck of his undershirt. “Jesus!”  He peeled he shirt off and bounded upstairs for a replacement. It was high time he bricked over that fucking kitchen window. 

By the time he had returned with dry clothes, the truck cab was empty. He felt like a tightly-coiled spring as he pushed through the back porch door and looked for Kyle in the yard. He spotted him standing just beyond the patio with his hands on his hips, his back to the house as he surveyed the grade of the backyard. Brandon crossed to flagstones and stepped onto the grass when he noticed a glimpse of tan at Kyle’s feet. His heat sank. He wasn’t wearing the Kujos. 

“Hey, Kyle. Thanks for coming,” he managed brightly as he came up beside him.  “I hope it wasn’t any trouble.”

Kyle turned and grinned, offering Brandon his hand in greeting. It felt a little strange, considering all of the times they had met in this very yard and struck up conversations without the formality.  But the feel of Kyle’s hand was electrifying. Broad and firm, and surprisingly uncalloused.  Brandon supposed those gloves with the flared cuffs he always wore served their purpose well.  

“No, it actually worked out really well,” he exclaimed. “I already had meetings with some prospective clients today. Wasn’t on any jobs, so I had the flexibility to drop by.”

That’s when Brandon noticed Kyle’s attire. He wore a dry-fit shirt as always, but it was a coral-colored polo, not a hi-viz long sleev tee, and it was crisply tucked in.  Gray jeans flared slightly as they broke over coppery leather wedge boots—pull ons from the looks of them. And new. The grain was still soft and almost suede-like, unlined by creases. Brandon absorbed all of this with a split second eye-flick he had perfected over the years. 

“Great! Glad you stopped by.”  A half-truth. He would have much preferred Kyle in his regular gear since he had been fantasizing about the black Jags getting sucked off his feet for days. But the pit probably wasn’t even ready yet, so he would have to keep up the pretense of giving a damn about the swale along the house and wait for the next visit. They moved further along the back of the house to where the lawn dipped. It certainly wasn’t all bad. Kyle was always fun to look at.  And upon further inspection, the initially disappointing footwear had its own appeal. Their tall, russet domes over the toes made his feet look massive and powerful, and their unblemished cream soles rippled delightfully beneath his gait.  The heels were embossed with “Brunt,” another name Brandon had never heard of but would undoubtedly be on his next internet search. He was just wondering how well they breathed on a day like today when Kyle got down to business.