I felt like a puppy, waiting at the door for its master. I was anxious and excited, crossing and uncrossing my legs repeatedly. Why wasn't he home already? He always did this, said he would be home soon knowing he would be longer. I was practically panting at his feet when he came home when he did that. I had no patience for this sort of thing but I wasn't given an option. He would take his sweet time, cleaning up, taking the longest route home.
My phone bleeped and I pounced on it from across the room.
'What do you want for dinner', it asked. I didn't bloody well want dinner. This was an excuse of his to take even longer to come home. When I said I wasn't hungry he would childishly insist that if I didn't pick something he would pick for me and then force feed me it. I knew the last time after spicy chillied chicken that he was not making an empty threat. My throat was still practically raw.
I called his number and he didn't answer it. I called it again and it went straight to voicemail. I panicked. I had been bad and now he was punishing me for bothering him. For not trusting him to come home to me. I was in trouble. What had been earlier excitement for him to come home was quickly becoming an interminable fear. My phone bleeped again. It was not him.
Why was I like this with him? I was so strong and deadly, yet with him I melted into a messy pile of former me onto the carpet. When he came home and he was in a good mood, my heart would sing. And when he was in a bad mood, I would shriek and cry as he dragged me across the carpet by my hair but I secretly loved the thrill of it. He could break me, he could crush me, get inside my head and destroy me. But he never did. I liked to think it was because I had him whipped but I realised it was probably deluded to think that way.
I heard the door in the hallway and my muscles seized up in a tingling fear. His footsteps were slow and steady in comparison to my racing heartbeat. I felt like I might pass out when I saw him in the doorway. He stared at me with an icy glare.
"Living room," he said slowly in a monotone. It would have been unwise to disobey so I practically ran there while I heard him in the kitchen. He opened drawers and rattled cutlery before joining me in the front room. I stood by the sofa, unsure of how to react even though I knew the drill by now.
He sat down and set the dish of food on the side table.
"Sit," he said sternly and I curled onto his lap, afraid of hurting him. There was a sly smile across his face and it only made me more afraid of him.
"Open," he ordered, a forkful of chinese food an inch from my mouth. I did and he fed it to me like a small child that couldn't be trusted not to cover themselves with it. He even partially opened his own mouth in demonstration of what he wanted me to do. I tried to say something but he shushed me and held another forkful, alternating between feeding me and feeding himself. Finally the plate was empty and I was relieved he hadn't been cruel to me and picked something horrible like the chilli. Or worse, the cashew nuts I had been allergic to and he watched me as I struggled to breathe on the floor.
I looked at him curiously, trying to anticipate what was coming next. Unceremoniously he stood up, dumping me onto the floor and causing me to whine in pain. I quietened under the dark look he gave me and I moved to follow him when he turned to leave. He gave a dark laugh and closed the bedroom door on me, leaving me knocking at it uselessly.
I stayed there for a while, not thinking of anything else to do but wait in hope. I heard stifled moans and gasps from behind the door as well as a torturous litany of my name from his lips. I had no doubt in my mind what he was doing and it was driving me crazy not to be in there. I practically scratched at the door in lust and desperation for the man that I could picture lazily sprawled out across the bed. Our bed.
"Sebby, please," I begged. "Please."
