Feeding My Dog the Chocolates He Needs

The floorboards are cold. I know they are, because its winter and I have kept the window open near him, but he hasn’t moved from his spot on the rug for the last hour. He doesn’t shiver. He knows better than to break his posture for something as trivial as temperature.

I sit in the armchair, the leather creaking softly as I settle in, unwrapping the foil from the box on my lap. The sound is sharp in the silent room—a crinkle of gold paper that makes his breath hitch. He knows the sound.

"Head up," I say. My voice is quiet, barely above a whisper.

He lifts his head instantly. His eyes are wide, glassy with that peculiar mix of exhaustion and adoration that only comes after a long session of deprivation. He looks wrecked, stripped of all the armor he wears in the outside world. Out there, he is a man of opinions, of status. In here, he is just a hunger with a name.

I hold the piece of chocolate between my thumb and forefinger. It’s 90% dark—bitter, earthy, nearly astringent. It isn't a sweet treat. It is intense, requiring endurance to enjoy, much like the dynamic we’ve carved out of the scar tissue of our lives.

"You want it?" I ask.

He doesn't speak. He knows he isn't allowed to use words yet. He just nods, a frantic, jerky motion.

"Why?"

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He struggles, fighting the urge to speak, then remembers the hand signal. He taps his chest, then points to the floor. Submission. He needs the surrender. The chocolate is just the physical manifestation of the control I hold over his senses.

"Open."

He opens his mouth. I don't give it to him immediately. I let him wait, let him smell the rich cocoa butter on my fingertips. I trace the line of his lower lip with the square. He is trembling now, a fine vibration running through his shoulders. hlHe hates how much he needs this. He hates that his peace of mind is entirely dependent on my permission. And yet, he would starve before he took it without my leave.

I place the chocolate on his tongue.

"Don't chew," I command. "Let it melt."

It is a cruel instruction. The bitterness will coat his mouth, thick and cloying. He has to sit there, immobile, tasting the darkness of it, unable to swallow until it dissolves completely. It forces him to be present. It forces him to feel the passage of time, second by agonizing second, while I watch him.

A single tear tracks down his cheek. It’s not from sadness. It’s the release. The sheer relief of being told what to do, of having his sensory experience dictated so completely that he doesn't have to think.

"Good boy," I murmur, leaning back.

He closes his eyes, the chocolate melting, the bitterness turning into a heavy, dark sweetness at the back of his throat. He doesn't need the sugar. He needs to know that he belongs to me. He needs the bitterness to know he's alive.

And as long as he stays on the rug, I will keep feeding him.