The produce section is always colder than it needs to be. Every time I come in here—always Monday, always 7:00 AM sharp—I’m caught off guard by how the fluorescent lights bounce off the waxed apples and bananas and hit me straight in the face, waking me up better than the stale coffee in my cupholder. I steer the cart like I’m driving a stolen car: cautious, mechanical, desperate not to draw attention.
No one looks at me. I keep my head down, let the hood of my ratty sweatshirt shade my face, and try to imagine that I’m another body moving through this bright, sanitized world, rather than the kind of man who chooses a red jockstrap under thin gym shorts as a form of self-administered dare. The strap is a harness. The color is the point.
I made the decision in my kitchen, before sunrise, with the bathroom door half-closed and steam rising from the shower. I watched my reflection bend and blur in the warped mirror above the sink. The jock was laid out on the closed toilet lid, folded with the care of ritual. Slipping it on was like tucking a secret under my skin, the way a liar rehearses a story until the lie feels like truth. For the rest of the day, it would exist for me alone—except I knew that wasn’t true.
I round the endcap of boxed cereals and scan for the most remote aisle, as if privacy is possible in a 24-hour grocery. There’s a woman comparing off-brand oatmeal. A bearded man with earbuds and an empty cart. But in the fifth aisle, where the condensation runs down the glass doors of the dairy fridge, I see Carter.
He’s not even trying to blend. He leans against the case, phone in one hand, eyes fixed on some point a million miles past the digital coupon flyer. He wears the kind of black T-shirt that says I work out but not for fun, and basketball shorts that hit just above the knee. His posture is casual—maybe even bored—but I recognize the way he’s taking in the room: the micro-pause before he glances at the register line, the subtle shift as a kid sprints past with a box of Lucky Charms. Everything about him is designed to control the environment.
I clench the cart handle and keep moving. If he notices me, he doesn’t show it. If he cares, it’s buried under six layers of disinterest.
The jock rides higher on my hips than I expected. It’s impossible not to think about the way the red band frames my lower back, about the way he once hooked his finger under the elastic and dragged me toward him, low and deliberate, like I was the only thing he wanted to ruin that night. That memory—last week—flares up under my skin until I can’t decide if I want to sprint down the aisle or dissolve into the dairy case. Instead, I stop in front of the yogurt section, pick up the first Greek carton I see, and pretend to study the label.
The hum of the fridge becomes a white noise that blocks out everything but the thump in my chest. My hands are steady; it’s my breath that betrays me. I hold the yogurt up like a shield and try to ignore the way Carter’s eyes slide past me, once, then again, on the reflection in the glass. I force myself to read the nutritional info—“Live and active cultures,” like that means something—until my vision blurs and I have to blink hard.
The store’s PA system announces a price check for “customer assistance in aisle nine.” The woman with oatmeal moves on. The bearded man is gone. I realize I’m standing in Carter’s line of sight and have been for nearly a minute, unmoving, like a deer in the world’s most awkward headlights.
He pushes off the fridge and walks down the aisle, steps even and silent on the linoleum. There’s nothing in his hands. When he passes me, he doesn’t even look, but the chemical tang of his deodorant cuts through the yogurt and bleach and hits my brain with the force of a thrown switchblade. That’s when the memory lands:
Him, pinning my wrists to the bed, cold sweat and aftershave stinging my eyes, voice low and even: “You can get up when I say.” Me, breathless and wanting and more alive than I’ve ever been, aching with the knowledge that I would stay there forever if he asked. That moment lives in my body, a phantom pressure that surfaces whenever I let myself believe I’m free of it. Which I’m not.
Carter turns the corner. I can’t help it; I follow. I move with a careful speed, like I’m retracing someone else’s footsteps, like the red band is a magnetic field dragging me closer. He stops at the end of the aisle and stands with his arms folded, waiting for nothing. The sight of him—profile sharp, forearms tight, jaw flexed—makes something clench in my stomach, hard. He still owns me. I hate how much I want him to.
I stall at the “Manager’s Specials” shelf and pretend to browse. I don’t want to seem eager, but I need him to look at me. Just once. The PA squawks again—background noise to the silent conversation happening in the four feet between us.
He taps his phone, glances up, and catches my reflection in the convex mirror mounted above the exit. I hold the gaze, one heartbeat, two. He looks away, but there’s a fractional smile, just for a second, like he’s letting me know: I see you. I see what you’re doing.
We make it to the snacks section without incident, knees half-melted by anticipation. I force myself to reach for the bottom shelf—something I don’t need, gluten-free pretzels—and as I squat down, the waistband creeps up over the top of my shorts. I can feel the air hit the sweat-damp fabric, can imagine the slice of color visible to anyone standing behind me.
I hold the pose longer than I should, feeling ridiculous and hyper-aware, but also more alive than at any point since last week. I pull the bag free, stand up, and then—
He’s right there. Silent as a cat. I catch his reflection in the glass freezer door: arms crossed, jaw set, eyes fixed on the place where my spine meets the red band. My heart tries to escape through my throat.
He moves in close—too close for a normal store interaction, but there’s no one else in this aisle. His voice is quiet, smooth as a razor: “That’s not regulation dress code.”
I can’t bring myself to look at him, so I keep my gaze on the label in my hands, fingers trembling. “I’ll file a complaint with HR.”
He laughs, barely, just enough to let me know he’s amused. He plants a palm flat on the steel shelving and leans over my shoulder. His breath is coffee-dark, not unpleasant, and it ghosts against my ear when he says, “You’re going to leave it like that?”
I flush so hard I can feel it down my neck. “Thought you liked red.”
“Not as much as I like obedience.” He straightens, but he doesn’t move away. “Fix it, Evan.”
The name hits harder than I expect. It was his joke, the first time—his way of making it clear I was whatever he needed, not the other way around. The false name as a leash. Now, in the empty snack aisle, it’s a switch flipped inside my chest.
I set the bag down and tug my hoodie lower, covering the evidence. He watches, eyes blank as ice, then tilts his head toward the back of the store. “Five minutes. Back bathroom. Big stall.” He says it like he’s reciting a grocery list.
I hesitate for a second, but I know what happens if I don’t follow. I know exactly what happens.
“If you’re not there,” he says, voice soft but final, “we’re done.”
He turns on his heel and disappears around the endcap. The gap he leaves in the air is colder than the freezer section. I sag against the shelf for a breath, then pretend to scan the rest of the aisle like nothing happened. If anyone’s watching, I must look hungover, or sick. Maybe I am.
I grip the cart handle tighter, try to slow my breathing. Each inhale fills my lungs with artificial lemon from the floor wax and the sour-milk chill of the open dairy cases. I force myself to reach for a random bag of frozen peas, just to keep my hands busy, but the plastic crackles way too loud in the hush of the aisle and I freeze, convinced for a split second that everyone in the store can hear it, that everyone knows what just happened.
They don’t, of course. The few early-morning shoppers are deep in their own misery—navigating coupons, fending off toddlers, fantasizing about going back to bed. No one’s looking for a story. No one cares about the twitchy guy in mesh shorts who can’t decide between broccoli or peas. The knowledge calms me just enough to keep going, but every step is a recalibration. My body hums with conflicting instructions: Run. Stay. Hide. Show.
My phone is slick in my hand when I check it, the screen lighting up with the time: 7:12. Two minutes since the command.
I keep pushing the cart, aimlessly, like if I just keep moving I won’t have to choose. I loop the perimeter of the store, not taking anything in, eyes darting to every convex mirror and security camera like I’m casing the place for a robbery. I can’t help but imagine him on the other side of every aisle, every mirror. Watching. Waiting.
Near the bakery, I snag a pack of bagels and force myself to read the ingredients. The words swim, meaningless. I try to focus on the simple, physical act of shopping: Scan. Grab. Place. Repeat. The normalcy almost works, for about thirty seconds. But then I catch a flash of reflection—my own face, the waistband of the red jock peeking again above my shorts, a thin stripe of color that marks me out, that was put there for him.
My breath goes shallow. I can feel my heart beating in my wrists, my temples, the backs of my knees. I abandon the bagels in the cart and roll down the cleaning supplies aisle, where the lights are harshest, thinking that maybe if I stand in the blinding white long enough I’ll bleach myself back to some previous, safer state.
But even here, in the chemical glare, my body remembers. It remembers his hand in my hair, the pressure at the base of my skull, the voice that calls me Evan only when he wants to remind me that the names we wear are just another part of the game. It remembers the slow slide of his fingers over the jockstrap band, the way he can make obedience feel like an exorcism.
I check the time again: 7:14. My stomach knots. I have one minute left.
Everything telescopes down to the next sixty seconds. I grip the handle and go. I leave the cart by the side of the aisle, abandoned, like a dropped weapon at a crime scene. My sneakers squeak on the polished floor and for once I don’t care if the whole world can hear. This is what I was made for: the walking toward, the never-back-away, the surrender that tastes like steel and citrus.
I pace the back wall, past the meat coolers and the empty employee break room, and stand outside the bathroom door. My hands are shaking. My mind is white-hot with what could happen, what will happen, what I want to beg for and what I’ll do if I’m told.
Five minutes, he’d said. I am right on time.
I don’t hesitate. I palm the door, step inside, and the sound of the outside world cuts off in an instant. It’s just me and the silent, humming air. For the first time in hours, I feel a perfect, crystalline calm.
I breathe in. I exhale.
I walk to the big stall and knock, once, sharp and sure, and wait to be let in.
The stall is enormous for a public bathroom, but when I step inside it’s suddenly too small for oxygen, and for one split second I’m caught in a geometry problem: how much space remains between two men who pretend they’ve never met, pressed together in the rectangle of a grocery store toilet? The answer is: less than none.
Carter stands dead center, arms folded like an exhibit, face half-lit by the blue flicker from the ceiling fixture. He doesn’t bother to hide the way he’s looking at me. Not with hunger, not with approval—just a cool, forensic interest that makes me want to flinch and step forward at the same time.
“Lock it,” he says, before I can even process the air.
I thumb the rusted slider, fumble because my hands are sweat-slick, and the noise it makes is impossibly loud. It echoes. A shiver goes straight down my back, finds the tail of the red elastic and yanks. He sees the motion, of course. He catalogues everything.
“Look at me.”
I do. I always do. He’s close enough that I can see the micro-cuts on his knuckles, the bead of old scar tissue at the base of his throat, the ghost of a smile that means nothing good.
“You’re shaking.” He steps forward, not even half a pace. “I like that.”
I don’t say anything. Words don’t belong here. I’m counting heartbeats instead, bracing myself for the first move. When it comes, it’s so small I almost miss it: his index finger taps the underside of my jaw, a single pulse, then drops.
“Down,” he says, and I obey before I know I’ve made the choice.
The tile is cold through the knees of my gym shorts. The smell of bleach is an electric shock to the sinuses, but underneath it there’s the animal tang of Carter—antiperspirant and something sharp, like the memory of an argument that ends in blood. I stare at his shoes, then higher, up the column of his calf to the tented front of his shorts, then force my eyes back down because I’m not allowed to look until I’m told.
Silence in the stall is not really silence. There’s the far-off squeal of a shopping cart, a child demanding candy in the next aisle, the wet exhale of the auto-flush urinal behind the partition. I think of all the people drifting through their morning, oblivious to what’s happening in this tiny, buzzing universe.
He waits until I look up, then unlaces the drawstring of his shorts—slow, practiced, and with the clinical detachment of a guy who’s done this a hundred times and knows exactly how it’ll end. The fabric falls away. No underwear, just him, hard already and angled up like a dare.
He doesn’t offer me his cock. He just stands, arms still folded, looking down at me from a distance that is both infinite and intimate. The message is clear: This is for you to want. This is for you to beg.
“Hands behind your back,” he says. It’s not a suggestion.
I cross my wrists, locking them in the small of my back. The act is both a performance and a surrender; he never needs to restrain me, and we both know it.
“Open your mouth,” he says, and the words cut through me, clean and surgical.
I do. I don’t even think about it. My mouth is dry, tongue stuck to my teeth, but I open anyway and wait, because this is the choreography he wants. This is how I show I remember the rules.
He steps in, nudging the head of his cock against my lower lip. The heat of it
