What’s left of you is finally mine.
Part 9: The Table as Altar
They retreated like gods—upstairs, into bedrooms he once cleaned, into beds where once he’d made love, whispered promises, laid his head beside hers. Doors closed behind them like vaults. And then the sounds began.
Muffled moans. Sighs, sharper ones. Rhythmic, rising. Beds creaking under pleasure he’d never be part of again.
He remained.
On the floor. Beneath the fading scent of perfume, sweat, and wine. Masked. Plugged. Collared. Forgotten.
Except not forgotten. Left.
The leash was still attached. But no one held it.
He turned slowly onto his side, then to his knees. A small gasp escaped him as his joints protested. His belly was sore. His ribs ached with the memory of weight. His face felt pressed into his own skull. But it was the inside of his mouth that carried the worst punishment.
Filth. Still there.
A full palate of grime—ash, oil, the sweat of strangers, the faint ghost of heel rubber and sole glue and perhaps even blood. No water waited for him. No reward.
Only cleaning.
And so he began.
Hands still cuffed to his thighs, he shuffled like some broken crustacean across the floor. The wine glasses had left rings on the end tables. The ottomans bore faint sole prints. A napkin had dropped and been trampled. There were smears on the tile from where the women had laughed and danced over him.
He collected each napkin with his mouth. Carried each to the waste bin. Nudged chairs back into place with his shoulders. Licked the soles of the ottomans until they gleamed.
All while upstairs, they came.
The sounds were impossible to ignore. His ex-wife was loud—she always had been. She laughed when she came, a kind of animal giggle that used to bring him pride.
Now it pierced.
She was being loved by a man who didn’t flinch when she raised her voice. A man who didn’t ask if she needed anything. A man who didn’t kneel.
And the others? They too, moaned and praised and claimed. The sister-in-law giggled, then barked a sharp command. One woman begged. Another cursed. All alive in ways he no longer was.
And he scrubbed. And he licked. And he remembered.
The night it had changed.
Months ago. She had poured him a drink—not wine, not anymore. Just water. Cold. Crisp. The way her voice had been.
"You can go," she said. "Or you can stay."
He blinked.
"Stay as what?"
She smiled. Not unkindly.
"As what you are. The only thing you've ever really been. Mine."
He'd argued. Whispered, pleaded. Called it a phase. A game. But she’d leaned forward and said something that stole the breath from him.
"I’m special. And you know it. You’ll never find someone else who will understand what you crave. Not like I do."
And she was right.
He had cravings. Deep ones. Dark. Shameful. He wanted to serve. To be seen. To be stepped on.
But serving men? Men’s feet? That he hadn’t imagined.
He gagged now just remembering the taste—the acidic residue on his tongue, the cold curl of his own breath inside the mask as he swallowed down the filth of his superiors. The worst, oddly, hadn’t been the coach. Nor the rich booted brute.
It had been the young man. The last one. With feet too soft, too perfect—his skin tasting like victory and gym powder. So casual. So unaware of what he was giving and what the gimp was forced to receive.
He cleaned for an hour.
And then she returned.
Still flushed. Still damp. She wore a silk robe that clung to her curves in ways he used to adore. She said nothing at first.
Just walked to the sofa.
Sat.
Watched him crawl.
And then:
“Done?”
He nodded once.
She smiled, leaned forward, and wiped her damp sole on his mask.
“Good. Then lie flat. I want my footrest back.”
And he did.
As her moans still echoed in his memory. As the taste of feet curdled in his throat.
He lay there.
Her thing.
Her furniture.
Her floor.
Forever.
He wanted to serve. To be seen. To be stepped on.