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I carried the groceries up and let myself in. I've had the code to this place since he moved in, and the key to the one before it. Sunday is when I come.

I put everything away where it belongs. Washed the fruit and veg, wiped down the counter, made a note of what was running low for next week.

He was still asleep.

We were roommates in college. He was on the rugby team. The room was always a mess and at some point it became mine to deal with. The dorm, the shared kitchen, the errands. Ten years ago.

I started on the cooking first as I had a full week worth of meals to prepare. I had the stove going before I touched anything else.

Started cleaning the living room while the first pot came to a boil. Surfaces, the shelf above the TV, the windows. Floor. Back to the kitchen, I checked the heat, stirred, started chopping the veggies. Seasoned, adjusted, set a timer.

He came out of the bedroom around ten. I heard his footsteps going to the bathroom.

He showered for around thirty minutes. When he came out he had a towel around his waist and didn't look at me. Opened the fridge, stood there for a moment, closed it. Pulled on a shirt in the doorway of his bedroom. He'd always been big. Chest, shoulders, arms. I kept my eyes on the counter.

He picked up his keys and left. The door closed and the flat went quiet.

I went to the bedroom. Stripped the bed, fresh sheets on, straightened, floor, surfaces. The bathroom after. Toilet bowl, the rim, the tank. Sink, taps, mirror. The tiles. His products wiped down and put back in order. His towels in the wash, fresh ones folded on the rail.

The laundry ran while I cooked. I went back and forth, checking temperatures, adjusting heat, portioning into containers, stacking them by the day. Hoovered the bedroom, the hallway, the living room again once it was fully dry. Mopped after. Went back to the kitchen to start the next batch.

He'd figured it out in college. Third or fourth month in. He came back from training, dropped on the couch, feet up on the table like he always did. I was folding the laundry while eyeing his feet. He clocked it. Things got different after.

It started with the dorm. The cleaning, the errands. After graduation we lived together for another year. Then he moved for work. Different city, different flat. I thought that would be it. He texted me two weeks later with his new address. Sundays became standard.

The food was done by early evening. Boxed by meal, stacked in the fridge, labeled by day. I scrubbed the hob, the oven, inside the microwave. Cleaned the sink, dried every surface. Dishes washed and put away. Bin out, new bag in. I went through the flat once more. Checked the bathroom, straightened the bedroom doorway.

I was wiping down the kitchen counter when I heard his key in the door.

He came in and dropped his jacket on the hook. Went to the fridge, opened it, looked at the containers stacked by day. Stood there for a moment. Closed it. He moved to the living room without saying anything.

I finished the counter. Rinsed the cloth, wrung it out, folded it over the tap. Took a breath.

Then I went to him.

He was in the armchair, arms crossed, one leg resting over the other. He didn't look up.

I lowered myself to my knees.

"Done, Master."

He didn't move for a moment.

Then he shifted his leg and extended his foot toward me. Sole forward. His feet were huge. Wide at the ball, dry at the heel, the arch deep. Long toes, the second stretching just past the first.

I put out my tongue.

Heel to toe. One slow lick. The skin was warm and dry. He didn't move, didn't make a sound. His leg stayed exactly where it was.

Then he pulled back.

He reached for his phone. I stayed on my knees for a moment, then stood. Picked up my bag from the hallway. Let myself out.

Part 2 of 2

My door opened without being knocked.

I looked up from my desk to see Connor walking in. He closed the door behind him.

Since last time he'd only been in with his father, two visits, maybe three. Check-ins, quick walkarounds. He hadn't looked at me once.

"Connor. Is your dad coming?"

"No."

He just stood there. Hands in his pockets, eyes on me. Not aggressive. Just still.

"Please have a seat."

I gathered what I needed and moved aside, leaving him the desk.

He sat down.

"Would you like anything? Water, something to eat? You look tired."

He rotated the chair to face me.

"Long drive."

Same words as last time.

I still don't know how he knew. I'd done this before, with partners, people I'd chosen, situations I'd had some say in. Connor was nineteen, maybe twenty. He'd walked in and somehow already knew what I was.

I dropped to my knees right between his legs.

I could feel him looking down at me. I reached for his trainer to untie the lace.

He kicked my hand away.

He leaned forward and untied both himself, slowly, watching me the whole time. Pulled the tongue back. Dropped one shoe, then the other.

He pointed at them.

"Tell me how they smell."

I hadn't expected that. I reached for the nearest one and he shook his head.

"Keep it down."

I set it on the floor and bent forward, nose at the opening. The smell hit me immediately. Warm, worn, moist.

I came back up.

"Warm. A bit moist. Good."

He smirked.

He lifted one foot and held it above my face, sock still on. Just held it there.

I pressed my nose up into the sole and inhaled.

"Same smell here."

He peeled both socks off and rested his foot on my face and waited.

I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his sole. Then my tongue. I ran it slowly from the heel up, the skin was warm, slightly rough at the heel, smoother toward the arch. I could taste the salt. I went back to the heel and did it again, slower.

He said nothing.

I worked up the arch. Pressed my tongue flat against it and held it there. I kept going, up toward the ball of his foot, the base of his toes. I took my time there, ran my tongue along each one, between them.

I moved to his toes properly. Took the big one into my mouth, then the others one at a time.

He switched feet without a word. Just pulled one back and set the other in front of me.

I started at the heel again.

This sole was softer. Same smell, same salt. I ran my tongue up slowly, took my time at the arch.

"My dad would find this funny, faggot."

I didn't say anything. I kept going. Toes again, between each one, slow. I could feel his eyes on the top of my head.

I don't know how long I was down there.

At some point I put my hands around his soles to rub them.

He pulled his foot back and kicked me, knocking me onto my back.

He put his socks and shoes on. Stood up. Picked his phone off the desk. Didn't look at me.

The door opened and closed.

I met Leon at a bar on a Saturday night.

He was at the counter and I sat next to him. We talked until the bar closed. I woke up in his bed the next morning with his arm across my chest.

By the following weekend we were together.

In bed he was direct. He knew exactly what he was doing. He'd just bend me over and breed me.

He was vers but he never pushed me. Occasionally he'd ask me to top. I'd try, and it would be bad. I already knew I was bad at it. After a few minutes he'd reach up, hands on my hips, and turn me over without making anything of it. He'd slide back in and I'd feel the shame and the relief arrive at exactly the same moment.

He never said anything about it.

The foot thing started early. He'd noticed I got nervous when he touched me with his feet. Started resting his heel on my thigh when we sat together chatting. His feet on my chest while he watched something on his phone. His sole pressed to my face in the middle of sex.

Leon paid attention to what I responded to. He'd learn something once and remember it permanently. He'd let me finish to his feet sometimes, his sole against my mouth or his toes pushed between my lips while I jerked myself off.

Then things started to slow down.

I don't know exactly when I first felt it. We still ate together, slept in the same bed, still talked, still laughed. But in bed something had shifted. His attention was somewhere else. When we had sex it was quick and efficient. He'd finish and reach for his phone. I'd lie there.

I tried harder. It didn't matter.

One night I got desperate enough. We were in bed, lying there, and I reached for his waistband and started pulling his pants down. He pushed me away. Then he pointed at his foot.

"Just lick it and jerk off."

He pulled the sheet back up and turned on his side.

I went down and finished to his feet.

I didn't bring it up in the morning. He didn't either.

It kept happening.

I came home on a Friday evening, later than usual.

The lights were on inside. I could hear voices before I got the key in the door. Leon's laugh, and another one I didn't immediately place.

I opened the door and saw them on the couch.

Leon was leaning back, drink in hand, relaxed, enjoying himself. The guy next to him was from our gym. I'd seen him there enough times. Mike. I'd heard Leon mention the name once or twice over the past few weeks.

He was lean and young, curly dark hair. He had a drink too.

Neither of them looked up when I walked in.

I stood there for a moment. Then I set my bag down and sat in the armchair across from them.

"Hey"

Leon glanced over briefly. Mike didn't turn at all.

They kept talking. Leon said something and Mike laughed and leaned into him slightly. Leon didn't move away.

I sat there.

At some point Leon stood up. He said something to Mike I didn't catch. Mike stood too.

They went to the bedroom.

The door closed. I heard the lock a second later.

I sat there for another minute after the lock clicked.

I don't know what I expected. Some part of me was still waiting for the door to open again, for Leon to come back out and say something explain, acknowledge, anything. He didn't.

Then I heard Mike moaning.

I moved from the armchair to their couch. The wall between the living room and the bedroom ran directly behind it. I sat against it and listened.

Leon was the one moaning next.

I couldn't do that thing.

I don't know why I got hard. I sat there with my boyfriend's sounds coming through the wall. I listened and stroked myself and thought about the fact that Mike was doing something to Leon that I had never been able to do.

I came when they did. I fell asleep with my pants around my thighs, head back against the wall.

I woke up in the early morning with my pants still down.

I pulled them up and sat there for a moment. I got up and went to the bedroom door and knocked once. No answer. I tried the handle and it opened.

The room was dim, curtains still drawn. Leon and Mike were in the bed together, both in boxers, Leon half on top of Mike, Mike's arm around him.

I went to the wardrobe and changed out of my work clothes.

Then I saw Mike's feet.

They were at the end of the bed, rubbing with Leon's. Both together made me hard.

Leon looked at me for a moment.

"Did our feet make you hard, babe? Come suck our toes while we make out."

I didn't say anything. I got down on my knees at the foot of the bed.

Mike's sole was warm. I started there, pressing my mouth to it, running my tongue along the arch. He didn't look at me. I took his toes in my mouth while the two of them kissed above me.

I switched to Leon's feet and did the same. I stayed down there for a while.

"That's enough. Go make us breakfast. Don't come back in until I call you."

I got off my knees.

I pulled the door shut behind me and stood in the hallway for a second, then went to the kitchen.