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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.”
I flinch away from the tray, fingers curling back in my lap to hide that they’re shaking. “I don’t know-” I stop myself. I don't know what you want from me.
“Eat with the spoon.”
He offers me the spoon. I take it with a trembling hand, heart in my throat. My stomach quivers and churns with fear. Things only get worse when I try to scoop the oatmeal. I don’t know if I’m out of practice or just shaking too hard, but my first attempt fails, a dollop of oatmeal dropping onto the tray before it can reach my mouth. Fuck.
I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing it wouldn’t be smart to apologize. Not until I’ve been given permission.
Or maybe not knowing that. This master is clearly different, after all.
“I’m sorry, Master."
“Don’t be. It’s - you’re fine. Here, let me.” He takes the spoon from my hand and fills it with another scoop of oatmeal. His lips purse as he blows on it before he leans forward, the spoon coming toward me. My stomach turns for a whole flurry of new reasons as he feeds me the first bite.
Tears burn my eyes as the taste explodes on my tongue. It’s fucking good. Even without any extras on top, it’s so fucking good.
Is that brown sugar?
My god.
I practically dive forward for the second bite. And the third. The fourth. It isn’t until the fifth that Master chuckles. “Slow down, little one. You’ll hurt your stomach.”
“S-sorry, Master.”
“No, no, you’re fine. Just slow down a bit.”
I nod before accepting the next bite. We go on in silence for a while before he's scooping up the last of it and saying, “There’s a party tomorrow.”
I nearly miss the spoon. My eyes flick to his nervously, but his expression gives nothing away. Since I don’t have permission to talk or a reason to apologize, I stay quiet.
“I’ll be busy the rest of today and all day tomorrow. My friend is going to check on you. He’s done so a few times now, but you’ve always been asleep or out of it. Do you remember him?”
The oatmeal in my stomach suddenly feels like a rock. “I - yes. I think so, Master.”
“His name is Nathan. He’s my best friend and I trust him completely. He will not touch you sexually or hurt you in any way. I promise.”
Yeah, right.
I press my hand to the center of my stomach, fighting the urge to throw up.
“Will I-" I stop myself, my heart racing as I realize I just spoke out of turn. I bring a trembling hand up to my lips. Don’t throw up. He won’t ever feed you again if you throw up.
"Finish your question," Master orders.
