Tom had always known - always, from the first time he met her - that his girlfriend’s little sister was nursing an impossible crush on him. Young women did that, after all: they fixated, they dramatized, they made gods out of the people who barely noticed them. The phenomenon was universal, a running joke amongst adults, and Tom had laughed along with it at first. 

Time would cure her, Tom thought. It would slow her mind and rearrange her priorities. In the end, Becca would forget about him and attach herself to someone her own age, a floppy-haired boy with acne and a driver’s permit, and the three of them - Pamela, Tom, and Becca - would become just another normal family with normal boundaries.

But time, it turned out, didn’t want to cooperate. If anything, Becca’s infatuation calcified, growing more intricate and persistent the older she got. When Tom first started dating Pamela, Becca was a sophomore in high school, a surly goth with oversized headphones and a near-pathological allergy to sunlight. At family dinners, she sat at the end of the table, hunched over a book or a Nintendo Switch, feigning indifference. He never thought of her as a threat. 

High school ended, and Becca graduated into a different body: the same long black hair, but now with a narrow waist and an almost feline confidence. Her eyes, always too big for her face, acquired a kind of self-aware mischief, and she learned how to weaponize them against anyone who dared to hold her gaze for more than a second.

Pamela, for her part, found the transformation hilarious and was never afraid to speak her mind. “You know my sister has a thing for you, right?” she teased, poking Tom in the ribs. “She’s going to end up on one of those true crime podcasts if you keep ignoring her.”

He shrugged it off. “She’s just a kid.”

“She’s nineteen,” Pamela said. “You should be flattered.”

“Isn’t it weird for you?” he asked, not entirely joking.

Pamela shook her head. “She’s always been dramatic. I’m used to it.” 

But now Becca was in college, living in some rickety student townhouse across the city, and still the crush persisted, like a radio signal that refused to weaken with distance. Tom was always trying to avoid her, but she found new reasons to show up at their apartment: to borrow a book, to return an old hoodie of Pamela’s, to “hang out” for no particular reason. 

Sometimes, Tom would come home from work to find her sprawled out on the couch, eating his leftovers and watching reality TV at full volume, her feet propped up on the coffee table in a pair of battered black Converse. She never acknowledged him at first, but she always watched him out of the corner of her eye, like a cat waiting for a mouse to move.

He steeled himself. Eventually, she’d get bored, find someone else to orbit. He just had to wait it out.

But he underestimated her. As more time passed, Becca began to refine her approach. She studied his routines, his habits, the way he liked his coffee, or the shows he streamed late at night. He noticed her watching him during dinner, eyes darting between his hands and his face, as if she were mapping out every micro-expression, every nervous tic. At first, it was flattering, in a stupid, forbidden way. Then it became unsettling.

Pamela never saw it. Or if she did, she didn’t want to talk about it. “She’s finally growing out of her phase,” she said one night, pouring herself a glass of wine. “She posts pictures of, like, frat boys now. You’re yesterday’s news.”

Tom wanted to believe it. But then he started finding little traces - forgotten scrunchies, a mascara-stained mug on the kitchen counter, a pair of socks in the laundry that weren’t his or Pamela’s. Once, he found a sticky note wedged into his work notebook: “Hope you have a good day! <3 B.” He tore it up and flushed the pieces before Pamela could see.

“You can’t just show up here whenever,” he told Becca one Friday evening, when she appeared in the hallway as he was locking the front door. She wore an oversized sweatshirt, no pants, just black bike shorts, and the same Converse. Her hair was up, messy and severe.

“Why not?” she said, stepping into his space. “It’s not like I’m not family.”

He tried to laugh it off, but she didn’t blink. “You know, you’re really weird sometimes,” he said.

Her lips twitched. “You have no idea.”

He retreated to the kitchen, heart thundering, and pretended to do the dishes until she left. He told himself that was the end of it.

Once again, he was wrong.

A week later, he opened the door to retrieve a package and found Becca waiting on the stoop in a short plaid skirt and a tight black turtleneck, her legs encased in sleek, glossy black boots that ate up her calves and stopped just shy of her knees. He froze.

“Hey, Tommy boy,” she said. Her voice was different, lower, and more controlled. “You miss me?”

He did not answer. Instead, he stared at her boots, at the way the light caught the sheen of the leather.

She noticed and stepped forward, closing the gap between them, and pressed the toe of her left boot against his shin. “You like them?” she whispered.

He tried to look away, but couldn’t. The boots were perfect: smooth, elegant, with just the right amount of give. He could smell the leather, sharp and sweet.

Becca smiled, sensing his discomfort, and trailed the toe up his leg until it nudged the inside of his thigh.

He panicked and tried to step back, but she caught him, pressed harder, and suddenly he was pinned against the door frame, paralyzed.

He should have pushed her away. He should have called for Pamela, or at least said something. But the boots inexplicably short-circuited his brain. He felt a heat rush to his face, followed by a cold, shuddering fear. He opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out.

She smiled and said, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

He nodded, barely aware of himself.

Becca leaned in, close enough that he could smell her shampoo and the faint trace of vanilla lip gloss. “Let me in?” she said, voice honeyed.

Tom stepped aside, and she slipped past him, boots clicking on the hardwood, heading straight for the couch as if she owned the place. He closed the door and followed, mind buzzing with alarm.

Becca sat back, crossed her legs, and patted the cushion next to her. “Sit,” she commanded.

He hesitated, but his knees buckled, and he obeyed.

She draped an arm over the back of the couch and regarded him lazily. “You know, I’ve been waiting for you to notice me. For years.” She stretched her legs, letting the boots catch the light again. “But you never did. Not until now.”

He swallowed, throat dry. “You’re Pamela’s sister,” he managed. “This is...”

“Wrong?” Becca finished, arching an eyebrow. “Is it?”

He nodded.

She shrugged. “Maybe. But you want it.”

He shook his head.

“You do,” she said, and pressed her boot to his thigh again, this time with more force. The sensation was electric, overwhelming. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

Her lips brushed his ear, and she whispered, “If you want me to stop, you just have to say so. Otherwise…” She trailed off, letting the threat hang.

He remained silent. Becca exhaled, satisfied, and withdrew her boot with a flourish. “On second thought… See you around, Tommy boy,” she said and left without another word.
He spent the rest of the night pacing the apartment, heart slamming against his ribs, terrified that Pamela would notice something was off. But she didn’t. She came home late from work, kissed him on the cheek, and fell asleep watching Netflix.

Tom assumed that would be the end of it. He convinced himself that Becca was just testing him, that she’d get bored and move on to another target.

But two days later, he got a text: “Can I come over? Need to talk. –B”

He should have said no. Naturally, he didn’t.

She arrived in the same boots, this time paired with a black leather jacket and nothing underneath. She let herself in, tossed her jacket on the table, and sat cross-legged on the couch.

“Are you going to offer me a drink?” she asked.

He poured her a whiskey, hand trembling.

She took it, sipped, and set the glass aside. Then she smiled and uncrossed her legs.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” she said.

He listened, powerless, each muscle in his body tensed. Her words carried a quiet menace that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The leather chair creaked beneath him as he moved, his palms growing damp against the armrests. Whatever was coming, he knew it would not be pleasant.

Her manicured fingers drummed a slow rhythm against the glass tabletop, each tap punctuating the silence between them. He swallowed, throat suddenly dry, and waited.

She fixed him with a steady gaze. "I know about your little secret," Becca continued. "The boots. How they make you feel. You have a little fetish there, don’t you?"

Tom's stomach dropped. His hands clutched the armrests, knuckles going white. He tried to look away, but couldn't.

"Pamela doesn’t know it yet…" Her laugh was sharp. "She has no idea how desperate you are. How weak. Should I tell her tonight? That would be something."

Each word landed like a precision strike. Tom felt heat crawling up his neck, a toxic mixture of shame and arousal that made him want to sink and disappear.

She leaned forward, boots gleaming under the soft living room light. "I'm going to own you," she said quietly. "And you're going to let me."

Her fingers traced the edge of her right boot. Tom watched, transfixed, unable to breathe. He knew he should stop this. Knew he should stand, walk away, call her sister. But his body was paralyzed, betraying every rational impulse.

Becca shifted her weight atop the couch and uncrossed her legs, an intentional display of power. The snug black skirt rode even higher on her thighs, but Tom’s eyes locked instantly on the boots: their luxurious, pitch-dark sheen; the tight, predatory lacing; the knife-sharp heel that could have punctured bone as easily as it pressed into the plush white rug. The air between them carried a vibration he’d never felt before in his life, one that started behind his heart and radiated down to the trembling tips of his fingers.

She waited, letting silence deepen the tension, then pointed imperiously at the spot before her with a single, sharp finger. “On your knees,” Becca commanded. She was all angles and poise, her confidence so strong it demanded absolute obedience.

The words hit him like a hammer, and for a moment, he was motionless, his knees locked and his breath shallow. Then, as if jerked by a leash, Tom slid from the armchair to the rug, feeling the synthetic fibers bunch and scratch beneath his knees.

At this angle, her boots dominated his entire field of vision, glossy and immaculate save for a faint city dusting that only made them seem more dangerous. His mouth filled with saliva, a reflex that sickened him even as it compelled him forward. Something in his chest wanted to push back, to break the spell with a sarcastic quip or a laugh, but his arms hung uselessly at his sides.

She stretched forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You know what I want,” she murmured. She tilted her head, waiting for him to say it, and Tom’s tongue felt thick, glued to the roof of his mouth. He couldn’t make the words come, didn’t know how to admit, in any language, what she’d always known. That he was obsessed with boots. That he’d been drawn to them for years, always fixated on footfalls and calf lines and the way a heel could turn even the clumsiest walk into theater. He’d hidden it, or thought he had, but Becca was a different breed of observer. She had mapped him out, charted every tell, and now he was done for.

He reached for her ankle, but she met his movement with a quick, elegant flex that caught his wrist in the crook of her boot and pressed it, gently but unmistakably, to the rug.

She didn’t even look at his face. “No hands,” Becca said, the words thick with amusement. “Mouth only.” She let his wrist go, and he let it fall limp, humiliation stinging his cheeks.

Tom hesitated, feeling foolish, waiting for a punchline that didn’t come. Becca said nothing more, only watched him with hooded eyes, her lips curled in a whisper of a smile. He bent to the boot, pressing his lips to the ridged toe. The taste was industrial, slightly bitter, the surface cool and dry beneath his tongue. Becca moved her ankle in a slow, languid arc, guiding his mouth along the seam, and Tom followed, helpless.

He tried to keep his eyes closed, to make it abstract, but curiosity, masochism, or both forced them open. He saw Becca, head tilted, arms draped over the couch in an attitude of total ease. She looked older than nineteen, older than him, even, the lines of her jaw set in a mask of triumph. He hated her in that moment, hated her for knowing him better than Pamela did, better than he knew himself. But the hate collapsed into something else, a shameful gratitude, because someone had finally seen him, and not flinched.

She guided him with the boot, tracing his lips up the instep and over to the zipper, pausing to let him breathe in the scent of her skin mixed with the leather. Tom grew lightheaded, the pressure in his chest mounting with each humiliating pass. Becca’s breathing remained slow, steady, and perfectly calm.

When he faltered, she brought her hand down and pressed the crown of his head until his nose was smashed against the arch of her boot. He could feel the vibration of her leg through the sole, the taunt of her muscles, the heat of her skin just beneath the surface. She held him there for a while, long enough for Tom to lose the sense of time. 

Something inside him broke. He made a sound he didn’t recognize, a whimper, small and animal. Becca laughed, and the dismissive sound hit him with the force of a slap.

“You’re so easy,” Becca said. She circled his jaw with the boot’s tip, forcing his head up so he had to look her in the eye. “You like this. This is what you’ve been wanting all your life.” 

Tom nodded, almost violently, as if he could shake the truth loose from his skull. He did like it. He liked it too much. He wanted to bury himself in the floor, to live at her feet forever.

He resumed kissing the boot, slower now, tongue tracing the fine seam where the patent leather met the skin of her calf. Becca giggled, moving her foot with him as if they were dancing. She leaned back, arms flung out along the couch. Her gaze was on him even when he closed his eyes, a weight heavier than the boot itself.

After a while, Becca grew tired of his reverence. She withdrew her foot abruptly, and Tom nearly toppled forward. He looked up, searching for her approval, but Becca was already reaching for her phone, scrolling absently as if nothing had happened. “You can stop now,” she said, not even glancing his direction.

He stayed kneeling, hands clenched into fists on the carpet. The world seemed smaller, airless, the kind of silence that followed after a gunshot. He waited, unsure what to do, until Becca slid her boot forward and nudged his thigh. “Go on,” she said, “I’m done.”

He stumbled to his feet, dizzy and sick, and retreated to the kitchen. He ran the faucet, splashed water on his face, and studied his own reflection in the glass of the microwave. He looked pale, wild-eyed, like someone who’d emerged from a fever dream. His knees ached, and he realized with horror that he was hard. He buttoned his pants and wiped his face with a dish towel.

He waited for Becca to leave, then slumped into a chair at the kitchen table and stared at his hands for way too long. He told himself it was over, that it was a one-time thing. He rehearsed a dozen ways of telling Pamela the truth, all of them ending with her face frozen in disgust. He deleted every draft from his mind.

But the next time Pamela was on a late shift, Becca texted him again. This time, she didn’t bother with small talk or pretense. She sent a picture of the boots, freshly shined, and a single line: “You know what to do.”

Resistance was but an afterthought as he opened the door. This time, she brought a friend: a willowy blonde named Jenny, who wore a pair of blood-red laced boots. The new girl didn’t bother with conversation. She sat on the couch beside Becca, crossed her legs elegantly, and watched Tom with the cool indifference of a buyer at an auction.

Becca ran the show, instructing Tom to kneel, to crawl, to kiss first her boot, then Jenna’s. The women talked over him, as if he were a footstool or an especially well-trained dog, their laughter floating above his head like confetti. Every command hollowed him out, and he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that there was no escape going forward. He would be a mindless boot bitch for life.

THE END