Hot Feet
by Nutherlover
I could’ve driven home. The keys were in my pocket, the car parked just a block away. But where’s the fun in that? A car’s just a box with tinted windows—no one sees you. Walking? That’s a runway. And today, I was the show.
The sun was hitting just right, casting a golden sheen on my freshly moisturized skin. My linen shirt—white, crisp, and barely buttoned—fluttered with every breeze like it was choreographed. My shorts? Italian. Tailored. Just enough thigh to say “I lift,” but not so much that it screams “try-hard.” And the sandals—leather, imported, stupidly expensive—were the final touch. I was summer incarnate.
I passed the corner café and caught a few glances. One girl nudged her friend. A guy tilted his sunglasses down. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to. I knew.
My hair was doing that thing it does—messy but intentional, like I’d just rolled out of bed in a cologne commercial. My jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, and my walk? That slow, deliberate rhythm that says, “I own this sidewalk.” I was thinking about the beach party next weekend, the rooftop mixer after that, and the pool shoot I’d probably crash just for the aesthetic. Summer was mine.
Then it happened.
A soft snap—like a betrayal whispered in leather. I looked down. My sandal strap dangled like a broken promise. I froze. One foot still cushioned in luxury, the other now bare, vulnerable, exposed to the wrath of the sun-scorched concrete.
I took a cautious step. The ground was lava. Not metaphorically. I swear I heard my skin sizzle. I winced, tried to play it cool, but my swagger was melting faster than my dignity.
People were still watching. But now it was different. Less admiration, more curiosity. Was I limping? Was I hopping? I couldn’t tell anymore. My foot was on fire, my pride in ashes.
I considered calling a ride. But no—this was my walk. My stage. I’d just have to finish it barefoot, one blister at a time.
And as I hobbled past the last stretch of sidewalk, I couldn’t help but laugh. Even the sun had a sense of humor. Turns out, being hot isn’t just a vibe—it’s a hazard.
I looked down at my feet again. My sandal was dangling like a broken promise. I tried to wedge the strap back into the sole, but it was useless. The thing was dead. And I was three blocks from home.
The sidewalk shimmered like a skillet under the sun. I hesitated, then peeled off the surviving flip-flop in solidarity. If I was going down, I was going down barefoot and symmetrical.
The first few steps were tolerable. I told myself it was fine. I could handle this. I was tough. I was a man. But by the second block, the concrete felt like it was trying to brand me. Every pebble was a dagger. Every crack, a trap. I clenched my jaw and kept walking, trying to channel some kind of stoic warrior vibe. I imagined I looked like I’d just come from a beach fight or something. Like I chose this.
Then I saw her.
Sophie. The girl that my low-key (and down-low) self had been orbiting for months. She was walking out of the corner café, iced coffee in hand, sundress catching the breeze like it was made for slow-motion entrances. She spotted me instantly.
I straightened up, tried to hide the limp that had become my default gait. I gave her a nod—cool, casual, like I was just out for a barefoot stroll because shoes were beneath me.
“Hey,” she said, smiling. “Did you lose a bet or something?”
I laughed, the kind of laugh that says I’m fine, everything’s fine, my feet aren’t burning off. “Nah, just embracing the rawness of life,” I said. “You know, grounding. It’s supposed to be good for your soul.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Looks like it’s murdering your soles.”
I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to sit down and soak my feet in a bucket of ice and never move again. But instead, I shrugged. “Pain is temporary. Swagger is forever.”
She laughed. And for a moment, the concrete didn’t feel quite so cruel. We thankfullty parted ways and I didn't have to pretend so much.
I definitely hadn’t planned on walking home barefoot. The day had started like any other—errands, a quick stop at the corner store—but somewhere between locking my keys in the car and realizing my phone was dead, I found myself staring down a quarter-mile of sun-scorched concrete with nothing but my pride.
The first few steps were tolerable. I told myself I could handle it. I’d played soccer barefoot as a kid, run through gravel like it was nothing. But this was different. The pavement radiated heat like a stovetop, and by the halfway mark, each step felt like punishment. I tried hopping, tiptoeing, even walking on the sides of my feet. Nothing helped. By the time I reached the front door, my soles felt raw, trembling, and I was biting back curses.
I knocked, hoping someone—anyone—was home. The door creaked open, and there he was.
Matthew.
My sister’s husband.
He wore a size-too-small t-shirt that clung to his muscular frame like a second skin, his blond hair pulled up in a messy knot, a smear of flour (he had been cooking) on his cheek. My sister was busy in one of her community college classes. Matt and I were all alone. He blinked at me, then looked down at my feet.
“Oh my gosh,” he said, ushering me inside. “What happened?”
I mumbled something about bad luck and poor decisions, trying not to wince as I stepped onto the cool tile. He didn’t ask questions. Just guided me to the armchair near the television, disappeared into the bathroom, and returned with a basin of water, a towel, and a bottle of aloe.
“Sit,” he said, kneeling in front of me.
I hesitated. “You don’t have to—”
“Don’t be stupid.”
His strong fingers were gentle, dipping my feet into the water, the sting giving way to relief. I watched him work, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way he bit his lip when he dabbed at the worst spots. I tried not to notice his abs, the warmth of his hands, the way his touch lingered just a second too long.
“You’re lucky you didn’t blister,” he murmured, glancing up at me.
Our eyes met. Something passed between us—brief, electric, undeniable.
I looked away.
He was my sister’s husband.
I focused on the ceiling fan, the hum of the fridge, anything but the way Matt’s fingers traced the arch of my foot like he knew it meant something. I told myself it was just kindness, just concern. But the air between us felt heavy, charged.
“You should rest,” he said softly, wrapping the towel around my feet. “I’ll make you something cold.”
After the refreshing drink and a few Tylenol, I fell asleep in the armchair.
When I woke up, Matthew was kneeling in front of me again. But this time he was worshipping my bare feet!
I was stunned but didn’t protest. It was all such a pleasurable shock. Matt kissed my toes softly, in succession. Then he began licking and nibbling at them as I began to giggle and squirm at his ministrations. Matthew tasted between each of my toes and had a look in his aqua blue eyes that revealed an ecstasy never experienced before in his life. He lapped at the bottom of my feet, tasting the sweetness of my skin on his tongue. He rotated the left foot and put the side of my foot between his teeth, rubbing up and down the length of it for a moment. Then he turned the foot back around and chewed lightly on the area just underneath my toes. It was clear to me that his desire to lick his younger brother-in-law became a yearning to eat and swallow my eighteen-year-old body.
“Feel better?” he asked, taking a break.
I nodded, grateful and conflicted. As Matt walked away, I let my head fall back against the back of the armchair, trying to ignore the pleasurable ache in my feet—and the one bloomwhere deeper.
He later told me that what he’d done right then was shameful . . . However, the taste of a young man's feet always turned him on. He knew it was his secret fetish, and he was somewhat embarrassed by it ... but this peculiarity was a sheer delight for the guys whose feet he’d worshipped behind his wife’s back.
After his short break, Matthew proceeded to lick-tickle my toes. I could not believe the sensation. For the first time since we’d met, I didn't feel ashamed for having feelings for my sis’ husband.
To be continued