“Do you know why this is food? Because I touched it. Because I stepped in it.”
I didn’t forget to feed him.
I just didn’t care if it was warm.
The croissant had been in the refrigerator for three days. It was stale before it went in. One of those store-bought ones, the kind that looks prettier in the package than it ever tastes. But it wasn’t for taste. It wasn’t for nourishment.
It was for use.
This had become a weekly ritual for my worm and I relish it - he lives for it.
I placed it on the glass tabletop just after sunrise—centered, untouched, slightly wilted. Then I walked away. I wanted it to reach room temperature on its own.
Let it sweat. Let it lose shape. Let it sag under the weight of my intention.
He didn’t ask why I was leaving it there.
He just watched me go. From his spot on the floor.
Later that morning, I returned barefoot.
Not by accident.
My soles had taken me through the garden, across tile and stone, across a moment I didn’t explain. There was dust in the ridges of my arch. Something sweet clung to the pad of my big toe—maybe sap, maybe old skin. I didn’t check. I wanted it unknown.
When I entered the room, he was already lying beneath the table.
Flat. Quiet. Aligned.
I said nothing.
He understood.
I stepped up, onto the table.
Barefoot.
He watched from below, through the thick glass pane—his breath fogging the underside with every exhale. His eyes didn’t meet mine. They locked on the pastry. On my foot.
I stepped on it.
Heel first.
Soft. Slow.
Then rolled my weight through the arch.
The croissant didn’t resist long.
It flattened. Split. The yolk I’d baked into it weeks ago cracked open with a wet little sigh, soaking into the curve of my sole.
I stood still.
Letting him watch.
Letting it soak.
The glass vibrated faintly beneath me—not from my step, but from his breathing.
I dragged my foot across it once more, this time with intent. The crumbs stuck. The filling clung. I turned the ball of my foot in a slow, grinding circle.
I wanted it ruined.
Not accidentally.
Deliberately.
And when I was satisfied, I stepped down. Onto the rug. Onto his chest.
He gasped—not from pressure, but from fragrance.
My foot hovered just inches from his face. The scent of egg, yeast, sweat, and something older—mine—wrapped around him like a verdict.
“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” I asked.
He nodded.
I pressed my sole to his lips.
“Then earn it.”
He opened.
Did he want to? Of course not. That’s the point. Hunger doesn’t negotiate. Submission doesn’t require appetite.
I scraped the flattened pastry from my arch across his tongue. A long stroke. Heel to ball. A smear of filling left behind like war paint across his teeth.
He swallowed.
I didn’t praise him.
Instead, I took the remaining croissant—half-pulverized, sagging in the center—and placed it between my toes. Cradled it. Pressed it in until the heat of my foot made it weep slightly.
Then I lifted it.
Held it over his open mouth.
Watched it tremble.
Watched him tremble.
And then I dropped it.
He caught it without chewing.
Like a pill.
Like penance.
I leaned forward and wiped my toe against his cheek—smearing the leftover yolk across his jaw.
“There’s dirt on that piece,” I said. “From outside. From before.”
He didn’t blink.
He just swallowed.
That is what makes him mine.
I don’t care if he enjoys it.
I care that he can’t refuse it.
I fed him slowly. Slice by slice. Smear by smear. Each bit touched first by my skin, by my sweat, by the places my feet have been.
None of it seasoned.
All of it personal.
His cock twitched in its cage.
I noticed.
I didn’t mention it.
He came anyway. Without permission. Without contact. Just from the weight of being fed what I stepped in. Just from my voice. The smell. The ritual. The moment I pressed that last piece between his lips, his body betrayed him. I heard the cage rattle. Saw the drip land across his stomach—clear, involuntary, pathetic, disgusting.
I didn’t stop. I didn’t slow. I let him finish in silence, the croissant still melting in his mouth. And when it was done, when he lay there panting, cheeks streaked with yolk and heat, I slid my foot through the mess. Not gently. I coated the sole, pressed it into the puddle until it warmed against my skin. Then I lifted it to his lips.
“Last bite.”
And he took it.
Then I crouched down to meet his eyes.
There was shame in them. Gratitude. Hunger still.
“Do you know why this is food?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
So I did.
“Because I touched it.”
I leaned closer.
“Because I stepped in it.”
Then I stood.
Left him on the floor. Mouth full. Heart hollow. Belly worse than empty—owned.