Keep eyes down. Sat passively. Head cocked gently down. Put there. Like bag of shopping. Put on the seat across from him. Like other shoppers around us in the supermarket cafe. What's the difference? Parked his car. Saturday morning supermarket. Now in cafe afterwards.
Am sitting quietly with his bags of groceries. He wants the eyes down.
Below him. Demurred.
He's enjoying his coffee.
Am Still. Stopped for him. Patient. Like the grocery bags. Objects in his world. Unknowing, unspeaking. Useful to a point. Waiting for his hand to come for you. Pick you up. Grip you. Move you as he wills. Takes you as he wants. Back to the car. Back to the room.
Am in tracksuit pants and t-shirt now. After the run on the canal towpath. Went back to his car. Was naked. More or less. Apart from the trainers. And the skimp shorts. Barely enough. Not enough to cover all the cock and balls. Chucked these at me. Tracksuit pants. t-shirt.
"Gooin shoppin."
Put them on fast. Wait patiently in the passenger seat. Breathe deeply as he tears his way through roads. Nuisance traffic. Them fuckers in the way.
On arrival at supermarket. He doesn't say a word. He darts straight for the cafe. He's gonna enjoy himself with a coffee. Chill out after the run.
Has drilled into me. The weekly shopping list.
Up and down the aisles. Collecting all the items exactly as he wants them. The brands exactly as he wants them. Quantities exactly as he wants them. Sometimes out of stock for something that he wants. Have to risk a substitute. If he finds it in the kitchen cupboard later and he don't like it, he'll fucking show his displeasure.
Thankful to him. For the tracksuit pants and t-shirt. Walking up and down the aisles. Saturday morning shop. Superstore off the motorway junction. Sea of cars in car park. Trolleys. Tracksuits. Prams. Trainers. Cigarettes. Squabbling couples. Idling gossip. Obstructing centre of aisles. Pass it all. In service for him. In the tracksuit and t-shirt he chucked earlier. He dressed his drone. Cock pushing out underneath from skimp shorts through skintight tracksuit bottoms. Tent pole tracksuit pants. A bit. Not likely to be noticed. Not likely. Thankful to him for this.
Finish the shop. Carry bags back to cafe.
Must carry the bags, he says. Not use a trolley. Wants to see some muscle, he says. More muscle, he says. Get some tone, he says.
He's got a table by the window. He's sitting in the sunshine. Squinting a bit as he scrolls on his phone.
Approach quietly, respectfully. Place the bags gently so as not to disturb him. Stand and wait. Very subtly.
He nudges his head down, nods, towards the seat, which means sit down. That's where he puts me. Amongst the shopping bags. Sit down, eyes down, silent. Passive. Compliant.
He will have had a piss when he got here. Haven't had a piss since the run. Need to piss badly. Daren't ask him. Speaking without being spoken to. He don't like it. Enjoying himself. Saturday morning coffee. Cafe at the supermarket. Don't wanna disturb him. Don't wanna interrupt his rhythm. Don't want his scowl. Don't want that from him. Don't want that for him.
Fucken hell. Need to piss.
Some video on his phone, he's laughing at it now. Pushes his now empty coffee cup towards me. Without looking away from his phone. That's signal to get him another coffee. Take the cup. Begin to move away towards the cashier.
"And a bacon bap."
He wants a bacon sandwich as well. Nothing for me of course. Of course. Fetch it for him. Place it as he wants it on the table. In the way that he wants it. Never looks up from his phone. Resume my compliant spot. Eyes down. Not a sound.
Really need to piss. Breathe deep. It'll pass. Hopefully. It's all in the mind. Hopefully.
Eating his bacon sandwich. Smells good. He's relaxed. That's good. He's having a stretch. Looking out the window, taking in the sunshine. Stretches himself in his seat. Feel his foot. He's moved his foot under the table. To stretch out and rest in my groin. In the groin. Just the weight of his trainer. One foot. Nudged in the corner of groin. Resting on the ball sack. Nudging the cock. He pushes it in just so that it's snug.
Snug.
Must remain still and quiet. Eyes down. His little one. Meek beside him. Content. To be in his world. To be his. To be his footstool.
Really need to piss.
Must not break.
This is what it's all about. Serving him. Serving this thing we do. Being present. "Proper". As he says. Don't matter then, the need to piss. 'Cause right now, he has what he wants, in the way that he wants it. "Proper".
As he says.
"Proper."
When he's ready he's up on his feet, phone in his pocket, scratches his belly lazy under his t-shirt as he takes in a bit more sunshine. Stand as he stands. See a chance. Bend one knee down slightly and pinch tracksuit bottoms near groin. He cops it. thankfully. Am his little one squirming for a piss beside him but not saying a word. Eyes down.
"Fucking hell. Couldn't av gone before? Fucken hold it."
He moves away towards car park. Carry his bags for him. Pack the boot. Sit quietly as his passenger. Hold piss.
No detours. He pulls car into the drive.
Sun's out on a Saturday morning, neighbour plays music loud. Can hear it up and down the street. He had out with the neighbour a couple weekends ago. But now the neighbours at it again.
Turned the engine off. The thump coming through the car from the music. Feel him freeze stiff. Holding his breath. His teeth tight and grind. Watch his fists tighten on the steering wheel. Gonna rip the steering wheel out. Bangs the steering wheel with his fists. Twice. Grunts. Car door flies. In a furious rush, he moves onto the street. In the rear-view mirror, see that he's stopped still.
He does this. Gathers himself. Has a discipline. Has had to learn it. For the consequences. So as a matter of fact, he's good at this. Pools his anger. Harnesses it. Focuses it. Breathes. Now he's moving again. The neighbour's in his front yard, washing his car.
It starts low. Seems to be going okay, like the other weekend. But now, the neighbour's hands are flying around. Neighbour's finger pointing - fuck me - neighbour pointing finger in his face. Fucken hell. It's going off the rails. Voices have raised.
Gonna get the shopping in. Gonna get inside.
Am packing groceries away. Can hear him outside. On the street. Row with the neighbour now louder than the music.
Almost finished putting the groceries away.
Hear the door slam as he comes back.
He ain't calm.
Can hear his breath's fast. Fluster in his movement, his body.
He's muttering as he thumps up the hall. About the fucker across the way.
Now he's in the kitchen. Hurling himself about. Gets glass of water. Turns tap too hard. Splashes himself with water. Slams the faucet. Shoves me aside as he goes for paper towel. Trying to keep mind on the task. Get the groceries packed away, like he wants.
This is not like him. He's thrown. He's out of focus. He's slamming doors. Cupboard doors. Looking for something. Then I hear it.
"What the fuck's this?"
Turn around. He's holding the box of rice from the food shop. Am silent. Still. Don't say nothing.
He slaps me. Hard across the face. Fuck that hurt.
"Are you deaf? Well, I'll tell you what it is. It's fucking wrong."
Don't know what he means. It's the rice, the healthy rice he wants. He shoves the box in my face.
"What does that say?"
"Healthy, long grain-"
But I don't get it out. After I say the word "healthy", he slaps me again.
"What does it say?"
"Long grain."
"And what are you meant to get?"
The penny drops. It aint whole grain. He wants whole grain rice.
To be fair, I don't really understand the difference. But that don't matter do it. Do it? The understanding. What matters is doing what he wants. Getting what he wants. Giving him what he wants.
"You like this shit? You want this shit?"
He's still hurling from the anger from the street. He reaches down to a lower cupboard, pulls out the dog bowl, puts it on the floor. Rips open the rice, empties it into the dog bowl.
"Go on then. Fucken eat up."
On my knees. Face at the dog bowl. Start eating the rice.
It's dry. Dry. Dry. In the mouth. Hard to swallow. Cough when I try to swallow it. He kicks my ass.
"You ay enjoying it? Fucken go at it."
More mouthfuls. But it's too much. Dry retch. Cough some of it up.
"Well, fuck me. Bit dry ay it?"
Next thing there's piss coming over my head and into the bowl. He's pissing into the bowl, filling it up with his piss.
"Better ay it? Go on then. That's your dinner. And your tea. Tuck in."
Can't hold it any longer. The piss that he's had me holding since the run on the towpath hours earlier comes gushing out into the tracksuit pants he put on me earlier. Then onto the kitchen floor. He clocks it.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? Pissed yerself again?"
He steps over the puddle of my piss and grabs beer from the fridge.
"Lap it up. All of it. Dig in. Lap it up. Gonna enjoy meself this beer and you're gonna make this kitchen floor fucken shine. Get it down yer."
Parks himself leaning on kitchen bench. Hear the beer can ring come off. Hear him sipping his beer.
With tongue and mouth consume piss and rice from dog bowl and around bowl.
After a bit he leans down, grabs neck, turns me down other end of kitchen, above puddle of my own piss.
"You missed a spot."
Then he pushes my face into puddle of piss, then feel his foot in back of my neck hold the head, nose, mouth down into the piss.
Struggle to lick it up with pressure of his foot pushing head, face, mouth flat to floor in piss.
But make do.
For him.