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Charity Week came and went every year without much interest. But this time, they moved the bring-and-buy stall into the main hall instead of hiding it in a dusty side room like usual. It was still the same mix of tat — old books, odd mugs, cheap scarves, some PE kit someone’s kid had grown out of. Nothing anyone really wanted. Nothing special.
Until she walked in.
Miss Clarke.
It was just after second break. I was standing behind the table, sorting donation piles and sticking handwritten price labels on things, when the doors creaked open and in she came — calm, composed, completely unaware of what she was about to do to me.
She wore her usual clothes: slim trousers, a white blouse tucked in neatly, hair tied up in that strict, effortless way. And on her feet — the same shoes I’d seen on her every day for what felt like years.
Those flats.
Those cheap, black, over-worn, collapsing ballet flats.
No socks. No tights. Just bare skin inside black fabric. Her feet had lived in those shoes. They’d grown into them. Her soles had shaped them. There wasn’t a single pair of shoes in the school — or the world — I obsessed over more.
She walked across the polished floor, the flats making a soft, squashed sort of whisper. The heels barely clung to her feet now, so loose that her soles flexed freely as she stepped. The backs had folded inward from being crushed every time she slipped them on. The toes sagged like old fruit. And yet they were still perfect.
She was carrying a plain canvas tote.
She reached the table, looked up at me with a faint smile and said, “Dropping a few things off for the stall. Not much — just a bit of end-of-year clearing out.”
My eyes flicked to the bag, even as I tried to stay calm.
Books. Some pens. An old scarf.
And then — at the bottom — a glimpse of black fabric.
She pulled them out herself.
Her flats.
She held them casually, one in each hand, thumb and fingers pinching them at the heel like they were nothing but junk. I watched as they drooped in her grasp, soft, crushed, helpless. The insides were dark — darker than I’d ever seen up close — the heel area almost black with what I knew was years of barefoot sweat. The toe beds had indentations, almost like bowls carved into the lining, shaped exactly by the press of her feet. The ball of the foot was shiny with wear, the fabric frayed, the edge of the arch marked by a faint white curve of salt or dust. The back rim of one had a little tear in it, probably from being kicked off too many times under her desk.
She placed them down on the table in front of me.
“They’re no use to me anymore,” she said lightly. “Might be a miracle if anyone actually buys them, but who knows. Fifty pence?”
I was already shaking.
She looked down at the shoes, then gave a soft little laugh.
“To bursa escortlar be honest,” she added, “they probably reek. I’ve worn them barefoot all year.”
She turned to go.
“Put a pound on them if you want,” she called over her shoulder, “but don’t be surprised if people run the other way.”
And then she was gone.
Leaving me.
With them.
I stood completely still.
The hall felt silent. Like the world had faded to a blur and only one thing was in focus.
Her flats.
They looked done for. Not dirty — just used. Lived in. Soaked. The fabric at the toe tips was thinning. There were light stains near the edges, subtle salt rings where dried sweat had bloomed and set. The inside was a study in wear: five toe indents. One ball. One heel. A perfect anatomical map of Miss Clarke’s foot.
I lifted one gently.
It was soft. It had no structure left at all. The body of the shoe sagged in my hand, the material folding and collapsing like paper. I turned it over. The sole was bald, scuffed down to a smooth, light grey rubber. The arch dipped visibly, worn thin where her body weight had pressed into it over and over again.
And the smell…
It hit me before I even brought it close.
That familiar, sharp scent. Not overpowering — not filthy. Just ripe. Like aged skin, warm cloth, dried sweat. The tang of her bare foot, distilled through years of slow cooking inside a sealed space.
I brought it closer under the excuse of checking the size for the price tag.
The insole was… perfect. I could see the exact press of her toes. There were little lines where her skin must have wrinkled. A deeper groove near the ball. Tiny specs of grime and dust clung to the edge of the heel cup.
And in the centre — right where the arch would have been — the fabric was shiny from pressure, darkened from moisture, and slightly sticky-looking with old sweat.
I placed it back down, gently, like I was handling something sacred.
Then — as casually as I could — I picked up a label.
“Black Flats — £1.”
My hand was trembling as I wrote it.
I waited a full ten minutes.
Then I opened my wallet, pulled out a coin, and dropped it into the tin with a clink.
No one noticed.
No one cared.
I slipped the shoes into my bag, tucked beneath my books, zipped it shut. A perfect transaction.
Miss Clarke’s worn-out, stinking flats… were mine.
The school felt quieter that day. Warm air hung heavy in the halls, and by lunchtime the sun was bleeding through the tall windows of the science corridor, casting soft gold patterns across the tiled floor.
I’d managed to slip into the old IT storeroom on the second floor, the one next to the printer room nobody used anymore. That was where I kept the bag. My bag. The one with bursa escort them inside.
Her flats.
Miss Clarke’s flats.
They had come from the charity drive–donated casually, carelessly, like they meant nothing. She had tossed them on the pile between paperbacks and used tea towels, barefoot right there in front of me, her feet flushed pink with heat, her toes wiggling in relief as she laughed to another teacher about how they “probably reeked.”
She wasn’t wrong. That’s what made them perfect.
Now, here I was. Door locked. Blinds down. Alone. I opened my bag with trembling hands and pulled one of the flats free.
It was everything I remembered. Even more. In the soft light, the flattened sole looked nearly black with wear. The faint lines from where her toes bent and flexed were pressed into the fabric, creating little ridges I traced with my thumb. It was damp in some places, dry and crusted in others. It didn’t just smell used. It looked ruined. And that ruined look made me so painfully hard I had to shift.
I lifted the shoe to my face and inhaled deeply. It hit instantly–warm, stale, thick. That dark cheesy tang that clung to the fabric, probably soaked in through a thousand school days. I pressed it harder to my nose, buried myself in it, mouthing the inside like I could kiss the footprint she left behind.
My tongue flicked out. The taste was bitter, earthy, almost tangy. I licked slow and deep, dragging my tongue along the arch, the fabric scratchy and soaked with her. I reached the toe, where the scent was strongest, and buried my mouth inside it like I could suck the memory of her feet out of the seams.
I didn’t notice the door.
Not right away.
A faint click–too soft to register.
But something made me stop.
The light shifted. The silhouette of someone behind the frosted glass window. Then–gone.
My heart seized. I lunged forward, yanking the bag shut, stuffing the shoe back inside. I crept to the door, listening. Nothing. No footsteps. No laughter. But someone had been there.
Had they seen?
Had she?
—
The rest of the day was a blur. Heat prickled my neck every time I thought of it. My cock refused to settle. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t sit still.
Then came Biology. Last period.
I walked in late. My bag heavier than usual. My mind louder.
Miss Clarke stood behind her desk, already writing something on the board. Her new flats hugged her feet too tight. The way she rolled her ankle, I could tell they pinched. Her feet didn’t move the same way in them. They didn’t breathe. Her old ones–they belonged to her. These just tolerated her.
She turned slightly when I entered. Her eyes met mine. A second longer than normal. Then back to the board.
The lesson began.
Halfway through, she slipped off one shoe.
The bare foot stretched, toes flexing against the carpet. Her heel made a faint smudge on the floor.
“So warm today,” she murmured to herself, dragging her foot across the carpet. “Should’ve kept my old pair.”
My chest tightened.
“They were beyond saving, really. But sometimes comfort matters more than appearances.”
Someone near the front laughed. She smiled.
“Someone took them already. Very quickly. Gone in the blink of an eye.”
She glanced at me.
“But I suppose if something fits you that well–” she said, pausing just long enough for it to sting “–you’re meant to hang on to it.”
—
After the bell, I stayed behind. Everyone else filtered out.
I lingered near my desk, pretending to pack up.
Miss Clarke was seated again, both feet bare now. The newer flats were kicked to the side. She looked relaxed. Confident.
“You’re always here at the end,” she said without looking up.
“I like the quiet.”
She nodded. “I do too.”
Her toes curled gently into the carpet.
“I’ve been thinking about that sale,” she said, brushing imaginary dust from her knee. “My shoes went fast. Faster than expected.”
She tilted her head, watching me now.
“You didn’t happen to see who bought them, did you?”
I shook my head. “No. Sorry.”
She smiled. “No? Shame. I was curious.”
She walked to the sink at the back of the room. As she passed me, she stopped.
Her eyes drifted to my bag.
“You always carry that one?” she asked lightly.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Looks full.”
I swallowed.
She moved behind me, toward the sink.
“You know, funny thing. Earlier, I saw someone go into the storeroom.”
My blood went cold.
“I think they had a shoe in their hand. Strange, right?”
I didn’t answer.
She turned back to me. “You’d never do something like that, would you?”
“No,” I said. Too quickly.
Her eyes flicked to my bag again.
“Mind if I borrow a pen?”
“Sure,” I mumbled.
She walked over, leaned close, and unzipped the top of my bag without asking.
My heart stopped.
The shoe was inside. Buried, but not well. The soft fabric had shifted, its curved opening just barely visible under my hoodie.
She paused.
Her hand reached inside.
But she didn’t pull it out.
Instead, she withdrew the pen, smiled, and said, “Thanks.”
Then she walked back to her desk, slowly, like nothing had happened.
I stood frozen.
She knew. She had to know.
But she never said a word.
—
Just before I left, she spoke again.
“I think I’ll donate another pair next term,” she said, casually. “Maybe sandals next time. Worn without socks too. You think someone might want those?”
I didn’t reply.
She tilted her head.
“Or maybe I should auction them instead. Some things are worth more than a pound.”
She looked up. Locked eyes with me.
Then smiled.
“Have a good weekend.”
And just like that, she turned back to her papers.
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