There is a man who likes feet...

He could be your neighbor, your boss, your professor. You might have already passed him on the street, or engaged in small talk with him as you bought your coffee.

He leads an ordinary life, has a decent job, no family. Every night he comes home from the office, and one thing is on his mind. It has been burning within his girded loins all day like a UTI itching at the borders of a supple genitalia.

For he did not have a normal, vanilla foot fetish...

No, no, no.

He turns off the lights. He shivers as he removes his clothing, and, trembling, inserts the precious DVD into his laptop.

He wraps himself in the children's vehicle-themed blanket he bought on sale at Walmart and settles onto the couch, quivering in anticipation, hand on his unsheathed katana of a member.

Disney's Cars begins to play. A breath escapes his lips. He did not realise he was even holding it.

For he did not have any old plain foot fetish. He craved only rubber feet, car feet, hot sweaty engine oil-slickened toes on the hottest of rides.

Lightning McQueen.

How he longed to suckle at the teat that was McQueen's rubber tired toe knuckles, and to deepthroat Mater's musky hillbilly soles.

Cars...

But with feet.

A single tear rolled down his cheek as he blasted his manly cream to completion over the mere sight of Lightning McQueen scorching rubber on the racetrack, his mouth watering at the thought of tasting his own semen mixed with toasted tire.

Some fantasies were never meant to be reality, but he could always dream...

He closes the laptop, and goes to bed.