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His eyes flash. "What? What is it? What hurts?"
"Just - just have to pee." I shake my head, realizing my mistake. "I don't have to. Just - I - I could pee, Master. If you wanted me to."
"You haven't even used the bathroom? It’s been - no, it’s okay, forget it. Come on, little one.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble as he marches me into the bathroom, his hands still gripping my arms. “I’m really sorry, Master…”
“You’re fine. It's okay. Let's just get you to the toilet before your damn bladder bursts, okay? I pumped you with way too many fluids yesterday, and I know for a fact you didn’t get up at all last night to piss. You must be in pain.”
“I’m ok-”
“Don’t lie to me, little one.” He settles us in front of the toilet, using his foot to open the lid and seat. Then he - well, he fucking grabs my cock in one hand and points it straight at the toilet bowl. I shiver, something… strange unfurling in my chest as I feel his scruffy chin hook over my bare shoulder and his lips brush my ear. “Let go. Be good and let go for me.”
I have to force it, the pain getting worse for a second. I fight a moan as my bladder quickly releases and relief blooms. His free hand rubs my lower belly, soothing the lingering ache. “Good. That’s so good. Feel better, little one?”
“Yes, Master," I breathe, deflating back against him.
“Whenever you find yourself needing to use the bathroom, I want you to use it. Do not wait until you’re in pain. Do not wait for permission. Do. Not. Wait. Do you understand, little one?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Promise me. Promise me that you’ll be good for me and use the bathroom whenever you need it. Not even need. Need is too urgent. Whenever you want. Whenever you feel even a little bit like you could relieve yourself, relieve yourself. Promise?”
I nod slowly, feeling a little bit like he's tilting my world upside down. I don't… hate it. As long as he's genuine. “I promise, Master.”
“Good. Now, come. You must be starving.”
He flushes the toilet and leads me back to the bedroom, helping me sit on the edge of the bed. His hand gently runs through my hair before he reaches over to the bedside table.
He ignores everything but the pain meds, grabbing them before leaving the bed to pick up a tray he’d left on the floor when he first walked in. It has a bowl of something that’s steaming as well as a bottle of juice that’s dripping with condensation. “When you wake up, you will use the bathroom, wash your hands and brush your teeth with the blue toothbrush, and then come in here and eat whatever I’ve left you on this table. If there’s a note, you’ll read it. And you’ll follow whatever extra instructions it may have. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
"You have to take care of yourself for me. I'm so fucking busy. I can't be here all the time. And I'm sure as fuck not taking you with me anywhere. So, I need you to be good and take care of yourself, okay? Can you please do that?"
I nod. "Yes, Master. I'll - I'll take care of myself."
Looking relieved, he sits back on the bed, putting the tray between us. He hands me the pills before uncapping the bottle of juice and handing that over too. “Take those. They’re not too strong. Shouldn’t fuck your head up or anything. They might make you a little sleepy though, which is okay. Rest is good for you.”
I nod slowly before taking the pills in a single swallow.
“I noticed you made the bed. That was very nice, little one. Thank you for taking care of that for me.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I bite down on my bottom lip before I say something stupid. My cheeks feel hot. My chest is warm from the praise.
“Eat your oatmeal. There are fresh berries. Sliced bananas. Chocolate chips, though don’t eat too many of those, your stomach might not handle them well yet.”
I stare at the tray, taking in the little cups holding each of the ingredients he just mentioned, then the bowl of oatmeal. My mouth waters. It’s… a trick, right? It must be a trick. This is - I mean, slaves don’t - I can’t possibly - no. No way.
I tangle my fingers together in my lap and wait for him to say something else. Anything else. After a few terrible seconds, he sighs. “Plain oatmeal it is, then. Go ahead. Careful, it’s probably hot.”
The spoon beside the bowl is practically glowing with warning signs. I haven’t touched a utensil since before my kidnapping. Probably the morning of, when I’d eaten my last real meal - blueberry pancakes with extra whipped cream because my roommate was trying to butter me up. He wanted me to help him write his final essay for his history class because if it wasn’t great, he was going to fail. I wonder if he failed.
“Please eat," Master begs.
He sounds upset, so I don’t waste my time any longer. I know how a slave eats from a bowl. I even know how to do it well, so that I don’t make a mess of myself or my surroundings. It’s all about how you tilt the chin and curl the tongue.
I don’t even manage to get the oatmeal in my mouth before he’s speaking again. “Wait. No. Not - not like that.”
