You thirst because I allow it.
Part 2: The Table as Altar
The clink of wine glasses echoed above. Beneath the table, he remained motionless until a soft knock from her Louboutin toe nudged his thigh.
Permission to drink.
He reached—slowly—with trembling lips and dry mouth until he found the absurd source of mercy: a small, clear hamster bottle strapped to the wooden leg of a dining chair. The nozzle’s tip gleamed with moisture, already beaded, as if mocking his desperation. He took it between his lips and drank greedily, shame flooding his chest in tandem with each childish suckle.
Water. Tepid, faintly metallic. Nothing more. And yet it felt holy.
As he drank, memory crept in like the smell of garlic from the roast above. She used to serve him wine. She used to curl her toes around his shin under the table. They had laughed in this very room once, when it was theirs.
She had loved him.
Hadn’t she?
Before the tennis coach. The tanned, self-satisfied man who now occupied his chair—who carved the roast in tailored linen sleeves and rubbed her shoulder in public like she was his by birthright. A man who never once said please. Never once deferred.
A man who looked like what women wanted.
And the slave? He had been good. Thoughtful. Loyal. Eager to please.
Just not… enough. Not man enough. Not commanding. Not hard. Not even sure he ever wanted to be.
There had always been a softness in him. A quiet willingness to bend. He now saw what she must have seen all along—what had drawn her to the coach’s easy arrogance and away from the husband who asked permission to lick her toes.
And yet she’d brought him back. Not as guest. As furnishing. As example.
As warning.
“Thirsty?” she had whispered earlier, pressing the bottle into his hand. “Good. We want you hydrated for what’s coming.”
Now, they rose from the table. One by one, chairs scraped softly across the floor. Glasses were gathered. Laughter moved like silk into the next room.
He remained under the table.
Surrounded by the discarded shoes.
Each pair carried its own scent, its own residue. But now, his task was no longer just the soles. It was the insides.
He began with hers.
The heel was warm inside, still damp. His tongue met the slick imprint of her arch, the soft ring of heel sweat baked into leather. He licked. Deep. Until the taste of her walk—of her day—filled his throat. His tongue swirled where her skin had rubbed, where her toes had pressed. The tang of dried salt and skin oils clung to his lips.
Then the coach’s Oxfords. The smell hit first—leather mixed with arrogant musk. His tongue met the insole, catching on specks of grit that had been ground deep by strut and swagger. He licked along the stitching, dragging his shame across the very threads that had held up the man who took his place.
Next, the guests’ shoes.
Crushed petals. Cigarette ash. The faint spice of a woman’s foot lotion mingled with grime. He cleaned them all.
One by one.
He licked until his tongue went numb.
He licked until his mouth stung.
He licked until he forgot what he had once been.
From the other room, her voice cut through.
“Darling? We’re ready for you now.”
A pause.
“For foot service.”
And so he crawled.
Even thirst becomes worship when the water is rationed.