The Black Flip-Flops I Found in the Laundry Room

It had been almost a year since that afternoon with Carla’s pink flip-flops, my college friend. Since then I hadn’t had a similar opportunity again, but the desire hadn’t gone anywhere. On the contrary: with every month that passed, my obsession with women’s feet and with the footwear that had contained them became more insistent, harder to ignore.

I lived alone in a small apartment in an old building, one of those that still has a communal laundry room on the roof. I rarely went up there. I felt awkward running into the neighbors, exchanging those empty lines about the weather while we waited for the spin cycle to end. But that night my laundry had piled up for weeks and I had no choice.

I went up around midnight, when I was sure no one would be there. The rooftop was dim, lit only by a yellowish bulb buzzing over the door. I loaded the washer, set the cycle, and as the drum started turning, I saw them.

They were in a corner, beside a stack of buckets and an abandoned floor rag. A pair of black flip-flops, left there as if someone had taken them off to go barefoot into her apartment and never come back for them. They were plain, worn, with the sole sunken in at the heel and toe area from use.

I walked over slowly, glancing over my shoulder as if someone might catch me. There was no one. Only the hum of the washer and the buzzing bulb.

They belong to someone. To a woman who wears them every day.

That thought hit me in the stomach with a force I hadn’t expected. Carla’s flip-flops that time had been an accident, something that happened because she’d taken them off in front of me. These were different. No one had offered them to me. They were there, anonymous, marked by feet I didn’t know and would never know.

I crouched down and picked them up off the cold floor. My cock was already swelling inside my pants, heavy, throbbing with every step I took back toward the stairs. I could feel it rubbing against the fabric, hard as a stone, and I still hadn’t done anything more than touch a pair of rubber sandals.

***

I took them to my apartment hidden under my arm, wrapped in a T-shirt, as if I were stealing something far more valuable than a pair of rubber sandals. I locked the door. Turned off the lights except for the bedside lamp. And only then, sitting on the edge of the bed, did I let myself look at them calmly.

They were black, yes, but the rubber had taken on a lighter tone in the areas of greatest wear. Their owner’s imprint was marked in the footbed: the deep hollow of the heel, the line of the five toes, the curve of the arch. I ran the pad of one finger over that shape and felt a shiver race through me from head to toe, finishing the job of making my dick rock hard against my fly.

I brought them to my nose. The smell was intense, much stronger than I’d imagined. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was the trace of someone real, of a woman who had walked all day with those flip-flops on, who had sweated inside them, who had used them without ever suspecting that a stranger would be breathing them in in the darkness of his room. A woman’s-foot smell, acidic and salty, mixed with rubber and the dried sweat of hours and hours of confinement. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs, and my cock snapped hard enough to nearly make me moan.

I started imagining her without meaning to. Would she be young? Older? Would she have small feet or big ones? The imprint on the footbed suggested a narrow foot, high arched, with slender toes. I built an entire woman from that single clue, a woman I had never seen and who already occupied all my thoughts. I imagined her with her tits out, crouched down, showing me her pussy as she took those same flip-flops off before fucking me. And the more I imagined her, the stronger the urge became to do what I had come up here to do without even knowing it.

I closed my eyes. Inhaled slowly. My hand had already wandered down on its own to the bulge and was squeezing it over my pants.

This is what I like most. What doesn’t belong to me.

The year before, with Carla, I had been left wanting. I’d barely managed to touch her flip-flops for a couple of minutes before she came back into the room. This time no one was coming back. This time I had the whole night to jerk off until I emptied myself over that worn rubber.

***

I stood up and, without thinking too much about it, slid my feet into the flip-flops. They were too small for me. My toes hung over the front and my heel spilled out the back, but I didn’t care. What mattered was something else: the sensation of stepping exactly where she stepped, of fitting my sole into the mold her feet had left behind.

I walked a few steps around the room. The rubber snapped against my heels with that peculiar sound. And as I walked, something began happening in my head, a fantasy I already knew but that night became more vivid than ever.

I stopped being myself. I stopped being a guy in his early twenties walking awkwardly in flip-flops that were too small. I started imagining those sandals were truly mine. That I was the woman who wore them. That I had her feet, her way of walking, the way she dragged the rubber a little with each step.

It’s me. They’re mine. I wear them every day.

I looked at myself in the wardrobe mirror. The image had nothing feminine about it, but my mind filled in what was missing. I imagined myself with shaved legs, with painted toenails peeking out from the tip of the flip-flop, with my body weight resting on one hip. With tits hanging under a thin T-shirt, without a bra, and a wet pussy between my thighs dripping just from thinking about it. The fantasy wasn’t just about touching that unknown woman. It was about becoming her. Taking her place. Being the owner of that footwear and of everything that footwear meant: being the chick with sweaty feet who, after a long day, takes off her flip-flops and spreads her legs so someone can fuck her properly.

My body responded at once. My cock was hard, taut, pulling at my fly to get out, and I still hadn’t done anything. I grabbed it over my pants and squeezed hard, feeling it throb against my hand, feeling the head already wet the fabric with a thick drop of pre-cum.

***

I went back to the bed. I took the flip-flops off my feet and held them in both hands, one in each, like someone holding something sacred. I lay back and brought them to my face again.

I licked the first one with the tip of my tongue, slowly, tracing the outline of the footbed where the imprint of her toes was deepest. The taste of the worn rubber mixed with something else, with that salty, human trace that was making me lose my mind. I closed my lips over the hollow where the big toe would sit and sucked, sucked as if I were blowing her thumb, my tongue working every groove in the footbed, savoring the salt, the old sweat, the accumulated grime of who knows how many days. There was nothing elegant about what I was doing. It was pure surrender, pure devotion to an object that for anyone else would have been forgotten trash on a rooftop.

I ran my tongue over the entire surface, over the heel, over the strap that crossed the instep, over every inch her feet had touched. I spat on the footbed and licked again, mixing my saliva with her trace, soaking the rubber until the surface shone under the lamp light. I sucked the black strap like it was someone’s cock, going in and out, sliding my tongue underneath, and all the while I kept repeating the fantasy to myself.

They’re mine. I’m licking my own flip-flops. I’m her. I’m the bitch who wears them.

There was something of total surrender in that, a way of kneeling mentally before a woman who didn’t even have a face. I wasn’t in charge. The object was in charge. The idea of her was in charge. And I obeyed with my tongue, with my broken breathing, with my whole body trembling with anticipation. With my free hand I opened my pants, pulled down my underwear, and took my cock out. It was purple, swollen, the head shining with pre-cum, throbbing all on its own in the air.

***

I couldn’t hold out much longer. I yanked my pants the rest of the way off and with my other hand brought the right flip-flop closer, the one with the deepest imprint. I pressed it against the tip of my cock and started moving against the rubber, feeling how the curved sole adjusted to the shape of the head, how the texture of the footbed scraped my sensitive skin in a way that made me clench my teeth.

The contact was strange and perfect at the same time. Rough in some spots, smooth in others, cold at first and then warm from the friction. I wrapped my cock with the flip-flop, squeezing the rubber around the shaft as if it were a hand, and started pumping slowly, up and down, feeling how the saliva-wet footbed slid along my length. The imprint of the heel fit right under the head each time I went up; the line of toes scraped the swollen veins on the top of my cock when I went down.

I moved slowly, wanting to stretch each second, repeating to myself that I was the owner of those flip-flops, that I was using myself, that that worn-out pair was the center of my whole world. That I was her, the stranger, legs spread, holding one breast with one hand and rubbing my pussy with the flip-flop against my clit, soaking the rubber with my juices the same way I was soaking it now with mine.

I picked up the pace. My left hand pressed the other flip-flop against my face, crushing it against my nose and mouth, forcing me to breathe only that sweaty foot smell that was driving me insane. I stuck out my tongue between strokes and licked the footbed again, swallowing the salt, swallowing the idea of her. My breathing became short, broken gasps. I pressed the rubber harder against my cock, faster, feeling the pre-cum already dripping over the whole footbed, mixing with the grime and the saliva, turning the flip-flop into a sticky, hot mass.

—Fuck —I murmured against the rubber, almost voiceless—. Fuck, you smell so bad, slut.

I imagined her on top of me, riding me, fucking me with the flip-flop wedged between our bodies. I imagined her licking her own toes, showing me the sole of her foot, rubbing it across my face while she finger-fucked herself. I imagined her whispering in my ear that I belonged to her, that smell was mine, that I should swallow it all.

The tension gathered at the base of my balls, climbed up the shaft, concentrated behind the head until there was no way back.

***

I came all over the flip-flop with a spasm that arched my back against the mattress. The first jet shot out and hit the footbed right over the heel imprint, a thick white splash that spread across the rubber. The second landed on the line of the toes. The third, weaker, ran over my knuckles and finished dirtying the black strap. I kept pumping, squeezing, milking myself to the last drop, with the other flip-flop still crushed against my face, breathing in that stranger’s foot smell while I emptied myself.

I finished on the flip-flop, staining it completely, trembling from the waist down and left hollow and breathless on the bed. The footbed was covered in semen, the heel imprint turned into a little white puddle, thick drops sliding down the sides of the rubber onto the sheets. I stayed still for a few minutes, still holding both sandals in my hands, listening to my own heart hammering against my ribs and feeling my load slowly cool on the black surface.

There was a strange mix of things spinning through me. Excitement, satisfaction, and also that small stab of knowing I’d done something no one could understand. I half-joked, half-seriously, that I had marked those flip-flops like no one ever had, that I had made them a little bit mine forever, even if their owner never found out. I imagined the girl putting her foot in there a few hours later, unknowingly stepping on the dry crust of my semen, walking through the building with my load stuck to the sole of her foot.

The mere idea made my cock throb again, still soft but already wanting.

***

When I finally recovered, I cleaned them carefully. I wiped the entire surface with a damp cloth, erasing every trace, restoring the innocent look of an ordinary pair of flip-flops. I wasn’t going to keep them. They belonged to someone and, in some twisted way, I felt I had to respect that.

I put them away that night in the bottom drawer, wrapped in the T-shirt again, and slept with them a few inches from my head. I woke up now and then and reached out just to make sure they were still there. It was absurd, I know. But there was something about knowing they were with me, stolen and secret, that gave me a strange calm.

I went back up to the rooftop the next day, very early, before the building woke up. I left them again in the exact corner where I’d found them, beside the buckets and the floor rag. No one would suspect a thing. To the world, they were still what they had always been.

I went down the stairs with a smile I couldn’t wipe off my face. I had found a new source of pleasure, different, even more intense than that afternoon with Carla, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last. The building was big. There were lots of neighbors, lots of laundry rooms, lots of pairs of flip-flops waiting to be forgotten for a while in some corner.

And I had learned something that night: life is too short to deny ourselves the pleasures that make us happy, no matter how strange, secret, or unconfessable they may be.