The Secret I Kept All Day for Him

In expensive tourist destinations, there are things you pay for with time and effort, not money. One of those things is walking. And that day in Florence, I walked with a very specific purpose.

I woke up that morning in a small room in the historic center, near the Duomo, wrapped in the warmth of the sheets and in the smell of Rodrigo. The light that filtered through the blinds had that specific golden tone of Italian cities at nine in the morning. He was still asleep, with one arm over my waist and the slow, even breathing of someone with no urgent plans.

I grabbed my phone without moving too much. "10°C high, cloudy, feels like 7°C".

Perfect.

Cold enough for feet to stay enclosed all day. Enough for heat to build up inside the sneakers for hours of movement. Enough to give him exactly what he needed without my having to do anything special, just walk.

I got up quietly so as not to wake him. I had a plan and I wanted to carry it out without telling him yet. I went straight to my bag and took out the white sneakers I’d brought from home: the same ones I’d worn in the first days of the trip, unwashed. I held them for a moment and smelled them discreetly. Just barely, very softly, the beginning of something. Good.

I looked for the socks. The thick cotton ones I’d worn during the fourteen-hour flight. I’d put them in a little bag at the bottom of my purse precisely for this moment. I smelled them too. Yes. That was exactly what I was looking for.

I put them on. I slipped into the sneakers. I put on the tightest jeans I had and a long warm jacket. My feet were going to spend the whole day shut in, building up heat, building up that specific smell that drives Rodrigo crazy and that I find fairly hard to generate. I’m not someone who sweats much. But after twelve hours of walking with all that on, something gets done.

When I came out of the bathroom he was already awake, sitting on the bed with tousled hair and a sleepy smile.

—Good morning, beautiful.

—Good morning —I said, going over to kiss him—. Get up. We have a lot to see today.

I didn’t say anything else. The secret was mine.

***

We left after breakfast and didn’t stop until the afternoon. First Piazza della Signoria, where we spent twenty minutes looking at the replica of David and arguing about whether the original statue was worth the two-hour line at the Accademia. Then we crossed the Ponte Vecchio twice: once to look at the jewelry stores we wouldn’t be able to buy from and once because Rodrigo wanted to photograph the midday light on the Arno.

We went up to Piazzale Michelangelo by the long staircase, four hundred uneven stone steps that make you regret everything after twenty minutes, but the view of Florence from above is one of those things you don’t argue with. We came down the other side, crossed the Oltrarno district, and went into a small trattoria where the day’s menu was handwritten on a chalkboard.

I calculated it later: between twelve and thirteen kilometers. All in closed sneakers, all over cobblestones that make the foot muscles work twice as hard as on asphalt. By midafternoon I was already feeling the heat building up inside the leather, the soft dampness in the cotton pressed against my arches. I could feel how the socks had adapted to the temperature of my feet, and every time I thought about the night it was hard to focus on the information plaques at the monuments.

Is he still going to be like this after five years? After ten months of distance, is he still going to need this with the same urgency as before?

I didn’t answer myself. I was going to see.

***

At the trattoria we ordered pasta and red wine. It was late for dinner by Italian standards but early for ours. The place was almost empty, the lighting was candle-soft, and outside you could hear the city cooling down with the arrival of night.

Rodrigo lifted his glass when the wine arrived.

—To the two weeks we have left —he said, looking at me with that soft seriousness he gets when something truly matters to him.

—To the two weeks —I replied, and took a long sip without stopping looking at him over the rim of the glass.

He fell silent for a moment, watching the wine swirl slowly.

—You’re very calm tonight —he said after a beat—. I know you. You’re plotting something.

I laughed.

—Plotting? Me?

—You. Definitely you.

I wound spaghetti around my fork and looked at him with as much innocence as I could muster.

—I walked a lot today. My feet hurt.

I saw him change. It was subtle, only for a second, but I saw it: his eyes darkened a little, he lowered his fork, he swallowed before answering.

—Yeah? —he said, his voice a little deeper.

—Yeah. All day in the same sneakers. With the socks I wore on the flight.

Silence.

—Marina… —he murmured, and in that one word there was everything: pleading, excitement, a soft reproach for telling him that in the middle of a dinner where there was still half a bottle of wine left.

—Eat your pasta, love —I told him, sweetly, unhurried—. There’s still dessert.

—What dessert?

—One that’s not on the menu.

He ran a hand over his face. He laughed, but it was a tense laugh, the kind someone makes when they’re already thinking about something else and can barely hide it.

—I don’t know if I’m going to be able to finish eating.

—You will —I said—. And you’ll eat slowly. The night is long.

We had dinner like that: with that silent tension that only exists when two people know exactly what’s going to happen and still choose to take their time. He looked me in the eyes and I let him look. Sometimes I crossed my legs under the table and felt the concentrated heat of my feet inside the sneakers, the weight of what I was keeping for him later. I watched the hard bulge under his jeans every time he shifted in his chair and knew he’d been hard for a while, that he’d be coming into the room with his cock ready for whatever I wanted to do to him.

When we finally paid, we went out into the cold Florentine night. He took my hand, squeezing a little more than usual.

—Let’s hurry —he said in my ear.

—No —I replied, walking calmly—. Slowly. I want to feel the cold a little longer.

He looked at me. He understood. We walked slowly.

***

When we closed the door to the room, I leaned against it and kissed him. Calmly at first, then hungrier, pushing my tongue all the way to the back of his mouth, biting his lower lip until I pulled a groan from him. I loosened his jacket and took it off. He took off mine. I ran my hand over his pants and pressed it hard against my palm: he was rock-hard, swollen, throbbing through the fabric.

—You’ve been like this since the trattoria, haven’t you? —I whispered in his ear, squeezing his cock through his jeans.

—Since you said “my feet hurt,” fuck.

—Hold out a little longer.

We undressed each other unhurriedly, enjoying the process, until I got to the point I’d planned from the morning.

The sneakers. The socks.

I sat on the edge of the bed, crossed my legs, and looked at him.

—Come here. Kneel down.

I said it in a calm voice, without drama. It was an instruction, not a request. He took it exactly that way: he knelt in front of me without saying anything, eyes fixed on mine, waiting for what came next.

—Take off my sneakers first. Slowly.

He untied them carefully, one by one, setting them aside. Then he stayed still, my feet in his hands, looking at me and waiting for the next instruction.

—Now the socks. Even slower.

He started to lower the elastic of the first one, rolling it down centimeter by centimeter with deliberate patience that told me he understood the game perfectly. And when he took it off, the smell came with it: concentrated, warm, with that intensity built over hours of movement and confinement. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was exactly what we had built together over the years: something that meant nothing to anyone else, but to him it was like opening something that belonged to him.

He closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply. He brought the sock to his face and buried his nose in the sole, in the part that had been pressed against the arch all day. His breathing hitched.

—God —he murmured—. God, Marina, what a smell.

—Yeah —I said—. All day. Just for you.

—I’m already dripping. Look.

I looked down: the tip of his cock was marked through his boxer briefs, with a dark stain of pre-cum growing on the fabric. I smiled.

—Later.

I brought my foot close to his face and let him press against his nose, against his half-open mouth. I ran the arch slowly from heel to toes, and heard his breathing break and re-form. He stuck out his tongue without being asked and licked my heel, went up along the edge of my foot, took the tip of my big toe into his mouth and sucked it hungrily, eyes closed, groaning softly as if it were happening to him.

—The other one.

He took off the second sock with more urgency. I put my hand on his head.

—Slowly.

He obeyed.

With both feet uncovered, I made him back up a little and lay down on the bed. Soft skin, high arch, burgundy-painted toenails I’d done three days before the trip thinking about this exact moment. Still slightly damp from the day’s confinement. He looked at them with that attention that’s hard to describe: it wasn’t just arousal, it was something closer to reverence, to the total concentration of someone who finally has in front of him what he’s been waiting for.

—Massage me —I asked—. With both hands. Start with the soles.

He got to work with his thumbs in my arches, pressing in circles from heel to the base of my toes. I moaned for real, because thirteen kilometers on Florentine cobblestones leave their mark on the muscles in a very specific way, and his hands at that moment were exactly what I needed. But it wasn’t just that. It was the whole picture: him kneeling in front of me, obeying every instruction, all his attention on giving me exactly what I asked for.

—The tops of the feet now.

—The ankles.

—Between the toes.

He received and carried out every instruction without protesting, without rushing, without asking for anything for himself yet. I liked seeing him like that: contained, expectant, completely focused on my feet, his cock jerking between his legs every time he breathed hard.

When we’d been at it for a while, I looked at him.

—Now suck.

He started with the big toe, closing his lips carefully, using his tongue slowly. Then he went one by one, taking his time, licking the base, running his tongue between them. He tasted the accumulated sweat with that expression of intense concentration that tells me he is exactly where he wants to be. He took all five toes into his mouth together and sucked them as if he were sucking cock, cheeks hollowed, tongue working between them.

—The whole sole now. Run your tongue from bottom to top.

He did it. Once, twice, three times. Four. I had one hand in his hair and guided him without pulling too hard, just marking the rhythm. I tugged a little harder when I wanted him to linger on the arch, let go of his hair when I wanted him to go back up to the toes. I ran the sole all over his face, over his forehead, over his cheeks, over his open mouth. I pressed my toes against his tongue and left them there for a while, watching him swallow around them, watching him breathe through his nose because I had his mouth occupied.

—Did you miss them? —I asked softly.

He nodded with my foot in his mouth, unable to answer with words.

—Say it.

He pulled back just enough to speak.

—I missed them like a motherfucker. Ten months thinking about this every night.

—Now you’ve got them. Suck.

He put them back in.

Five years and still the same. Five years and he still kneels like this, without me having to insist or negotiate.

I sat up a little.

—Get naked and lie on your back.

He stripped off everything quickly, almost yanking off his boxers. He flung himself onto the bed. I sat at the foot of the bed and watched what the whole day of anticipation and thirty minutes of obedience had produced: completely erect, tense, his cock pointing at his belly button, red at the tip, with a shiny drop hanging from it and wetting the skin of his stomach. His balls tight, pulled up against his body. His whole cock throbbing with his pulse.

I placed one sole on his chest first, just to feel how he breathed. I lowered it slowly, leaving a mark across his sternum, and dragged my foot over his stomach until my heel brushed the tip of his cock. He shuddered all over.

—Don’t you dare touch yourself —I warned him.

—No —he said, hoarse—. No.

I lowered the other foot. I wrapped both around him, one on each side, creating pressure from both directions. His cock disappeared between my arches, hard and hot, throbbing against the soft skin of my soles. I started moving them in a slow rhythm, sliding up and down, feeling the pre-cum soaking my feet and making the motion easier.

—Don’t come yet —I told him—. Tell me when you’re close.

He nodded, eyes half-closed and hands gripping the sheets as if he needed something to hold onto. A long groan escaped him when I pressed my feet a little harder against the sides of his cock.

—Marina, for fuck’s sake.

—Shut up and look.

I ran my soles along his entire length, slowly at first, then with more pressure and firmness. I stroked the tip with my big toe, feeling it swell more each time I pressed on it. I went down to his balls and wrapped them in one foot while with the other I kept sliding up and down the shaft. I squeezed and released, varied the rhythm deliberately so he wouldn’t come before his time. Every time I saw him clench his teeth, I eased off. Every time I saw him relax, I sped up.

—I’m close —he panted a few minutes later.

I stopped dead. I left his cock throbbing in the air, pulsing on its own with nothing touching it. He writhed.

—No, no, no…

—Yes —I said—. Not yet.

I waited until his breathing calmed down a little. Then I pressed my soles back against the sides of his cock and started again, slowly, squeezing hard. I did that three more times: bringing him to the edge, leaving him hanging, waiting, starting again. Each time he was redder, shinier, his balls tighter. Each time it got harder for him to hold back.

—Look at me —I told him.

He opened his eyes. He looked at me.

—That’s it. Don’t close them.

I kept moving, never breaking eye contact. I put the toes of one foot in his mouth while the other continued the rhythm around his cock.

—Suck —I told him—. And keep looking at me.

He obeyed: lips closed around my toes, tongue moving between them, eyes locked on mine. His tongue moved desperately between my toes, he sucked with his cheeks hollowed, and I felt the groan vibrating in his throat each time I pressed my foot harder against his cock. Like that for a while—I didn’t know how long because I had stopped keeping track.

I felt him tense more, felt his breathing turn shorter and less controlled, felt his thighs start to shake.

—I’m… —he panted around my fingers—. Marina, I can’t hold it.

—Now you can —I said, when I saw he couldn’t hold it any longer—. Finish. On my feet. All of it.

I squeezed my feet tighter around his cock and sped up. He went rigid from shoulders to soles, closed his eyes for a second despite the order, and then came with the built-up force of the whole day and three straight pauses: the first spurt hit my chest, hot and thick, and the next ones fell one after another onto my soles, between my toes, over the burgundy nails I’d prepared three days earlier thinking of this exact moment. He came a lot. The orgasm kept gushing out of him while he trembled and moaned nonstop, his cock throbbing between my feet, until the last drop escaped and ran down his shaft. I stayed still, feeling the warm semen slide between my toes, watching it collect in the cuticles, watching it stick to the skin of my arches.

—Open your eyes —I told him, when his breathing started to calm.

He opened them.

—Look what you did.

I lifted one foot so he could see. My soles were covered, dripping, with the cum running down the sides of my heel. He looked at it with that expression that comes after, that mixture of complete satisfaction and something very close to gratitude.

—Now clean it off —I told him.

He sat up on his knees and lowered his head without hesitation. He ran his tongue over my whole sole, gathering his own cum, swallowing it without making a face. He sucked each toe one by one, took all five into his mouth together to collect what had gathered at the bases, licked my arch from top to bottom until it was shiny with saliva instead of semen. I watched him work without saying a word, with the other sole resting against his cheek, watching him swallow again and again.

—The other one too.

He switched feet. He did the same with the other sole: whole tongue, toe by toe, the cuticle where droplets had gotten trapped against the burgundy of the nails. He left it spotless.

—Good boy —I said, running my fingers through his hair—. Very good boy.

***

After that we stayed silent for a while, me resting against his chest, him with one hand in my hair. The room smelled like the two of us mixed together.

—Rodrigo —I said after a long moment.

—Mm.

—We have two weeks left. And then another four months apart.

I felt him tighten his hold a little.

—I know.

—I want to record something before we separate. So you can have it when you miss me.

He lifted his head and looked at me with that mix of love and curiosity that has been melting me for years.

—What thing?

—Grab the phone —I told him—. And film.

He reached toward the nightstand, took the phone, and opened the camera. The room’s soft light was enough to show everything clearly.

I sat in front of the camera, looked straight into the lens, and began. Slowly, with my feet still shiny from his saliva and from whatever traces of semen had escaped the cleanup, I brought one foot to my mouth. I stuck out my tongue and ran the tip over the sole slowly, tasting what was left, feeling the salty taste of his cum mixed with the taste of my own skin. I licked the whole arch, closed my lips around one toe and sucked it like a small cock, my tongue circling the tip and my cheeks hollowed. Then I moved on to the next one. One by one, unhurried, looking into the camera the whole time. What remained in the arch I gathered with my fingers and brought to my mouth too, sucking my fingers with the same calm he’d used to suck my feet.

—This is for you —I said softly, my voice still hoarse—. For the months ahead. For when you miss me. For when you’re alone in bed, on the other hemisphere, with your hand on your dick thinking about me.

I showed my tongue to the camera, with the little that was left shining on it. I closed my mouth and swallowed slowly, never taking my eyes off the lens.

—All yours.

I made a gesture. He stopped recording.

We both flopped onto the bed. He held me tight, his face buried in my hair. I stroked his arm in silence.

—Two weeks left —he repeated, very quietly.

—Yes —I said—. And there are still things I want to do before we go back.

He pulled back a little to look at me.

—What things?

I kissed him slowly and whispered against his lips what I’d been saving for the end of the night: that I wanted him inside me, that it had been ten months since I’d fucked him in person, that I wanted to feel him all the way in while he bit my neck, that then I wanted him to turn me over and take me from behind with his hands gripping my hips, that he was going to come inside me as many times as necessary until his balls were empty, and that the next morning, if he still felt like it, we’d do the whole thing again with the socks from the next day.

He laughed softly, the warmth of his breath in my mouth. He was hard again. I felt it against my thigh while he held me.

—We have all night —he said.

—Exactly —I answered, climbing on top of him and feeling him settle between my legs—. That’s why I’m not in a hurry.

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