The apartment was quiet, lit only by the soft light of late afternoon streaming through the curtains, casting long, warm shadows across the floor. The air was still — almost too still — except for the deep, rhythmic breathing that filled the space.

Paulo had gotten home earlier. He was wearing tight bl*ck athletic shorts, long Adidas socks, and a yellow Brazil national team jersey, already soaked in sweat after training. He knelt in the living room, as if in prayer. But he wasn’t facing any altar — he was bowed over Pedro’s sneaker.

The sneaker was worn, drenched in the strong, sour scent of hours at the gym — used without socks. Inside, the fabric was darkened by dried sweat, and outside, scuffed by the street and heavy use. Paulo’s eyes were half-closed, his face buried deep inside the shoe, breathing in like it was pure air.

A soft moan escaped his throat

The door opened.

Pedro walked in calmly, wearing a striped gray shirt and comfortable pants. He stopped — not in shock, but with a slow smile spreading at the corner of his mouth as he took in the scene before him.

Paulo didn’t notice at first. He was too lost, nose buried in Pedro’s sneaker, tongue already tasting the salt embedded in the fabric. He rocked gently back and forth, c*mpletely surrendered to the scent of the man he longed for.

Pedro closed the door with a soft click.

“What’s this, man...” he said, voice low and thick with amusement, thinking to himself, “Someone missed me.”

Paulo startled, caught red-handed — but he didn’t back away. He looked up, flushed and breathless, eyes glazed.

“I-I... the smell is incredible.”

Pedro dropped his bag and approached slowly, fully in control.

“If you like it that much, I’ve got more for you right here.”

Paulo nodded slowly, breathing even deeper.

“I’ve been wearing these shoes all day,” Pedro said, sinking comfortably into the armchair.

Paulo leaned in and carefully removed Pedro’s sneaker, immediately h*t by the strong, slightly sour scent rising from Pedro’s foot. Without hesitation, he pressed his face into the damp sock, as if that act alone was essential — primal.

He stayed there, lost in it, savoring the warm, used scent of the sweat-soaked fabric for a while. Then, slowly, he began peeling the sock down. Even before it was fully off, Pedro’s bare foot started to appear — firm, masculine, the sole faintly pink and still glistening with post-workout moisture. The smell grew stronger at once: dense, musky, unmistakably m*le.

Pedro looked at Paulo.

“You like the smell of my sneaker? Then come here.” His voice dropped, steady and firm. “Smell the real thing.”

Paulo crawled to him without hesitation. Pedro lifted one foot and placed it gently on Paulo’s shoulder, then pressed it slowly against his face. Paulo buried his nose into the sole and inhaled deeply. The scent was strong — a concentrated mix of sweat, salty skin, and the lingering heat trapped in the shoe.

Paulo moaned softly, then dragged his tongue across the bottom of Pedro’s foot, tasting the salt, the raw strength in the flavor.

Pedro leaned back, one arm resting behind his head, a half-smile curling his lips.

“Yeah. You love that, don’t you?” he growled. “You’re lucky, you know? Not everyone gets the privilege of tasting my sweat straight from the source.”

Paulo moved lower, kissing the arch of Pedro’s foot, then dragging his tongue across the entire sole, coating it with devotion. He tugged off Pedro’s other sock with his teeth, revealing the second foot, and immediately began kissing the toes, l*cking between them, savoring every drop of that intense sweat.

Pedro curled his toes inside Paulo’s mouth.
“Suck” he commanded. “Show me what kind of foot boy you really are.”

Paulo moaned with the toes in his mouth, sucking eagerly, his hands gripping Pedro’s legs, face flushed, eyes full of heat. The taste was strong — sharp, musky, rich with pheromones — and it only made him crave more.

The room filled with wet sounds — lips kissing, tongue sliding over sweaty soles, heavy breathing echoing softly. Pedro placed a firm hand on the back of Paulo’s neck, guiding him into his feet without hesitation.

Then he looked down and chuckled, clearly enjoying himself.
“You’re already hard, huh?” he murmured. “Just from my foot on your face?”

Paulo groaned louder, not taking his mouth off the foot.

Pedro smirked.

— I bet your c*ck is throbbing inside your shorts, right? Thick, sticky... I can even see the bulge. And I haven't even touched you yet.

Paulo moaned loudly, his hips moving discreetly, the bulge evident. His c*ck was c*mpletely hard, his underwear was probably stuck to it, wet, and all of this just with the smell, the taste and the delicious humiliation of having Pedro's feet on his face.

Pedro pressed his other foot firmly against Paulo’s mouth.

“Keep going,” he said. “I want my sole shining with your spit. You stop only when I tell you.”

And Paulo didn’t stop. He l*cked, kissed, and sucked like a man addicted — c*mpletely immersed in the scent, the taste, the total surrender. His whole body trembled, hard, fully aroused — and everything he needed was right there: Pedro’s feet — sweaty, intense, masculine, c*mpletely owning him.

And this... was only the beginning.

Pedro Zedann and Paulo Conceicao

M*le Feet Foot Fetish Foot Worship Sweaty Soles, Obedient Mouth - Pedro Zedann and Paulo Conceicao (MP4-HD 1080p) with C4s.com