YJ did not become romantic.
That was the first thing I had to understand.
There was no speech about feelings. No confession. No secret softness. No sudden hidden tenderness from the straight football boy I had built into an altar inside my head.
He was still YJ.
Messy. Lazy. Blunt. Shirtless half the time. Always smelling faintly of sweat, deodorant, grass, detergent, and that dirty human heat that followed him home after practice.
The only thing that changed was that now he knew.
And because he knew, he stopped pretending I was just helpful.
By the second week, I had a place.
Not a bed.
Not a chair.
A place.
The floor by his desk.
That was where I waited when he studied. That was where I folded his laundry. That was where I ate when he decided I was allowed to eat in the room. That was where I stayed when he watched movies, my knees tucked under me, my head lowered, my whole body listening for the smallest change in his voice.
“Water.”
I got water.
“Socks.”
I removed his socks.
“Trash.”
I picked up wrappers from beside his bed.
“Floor.”
I lowered myself.
He did not say please.
He did not say thank you.
After a while, the absence of gratitude became part of the ritual. If he thanked me, I would have felt like a person doing a favor.
He did not want a favor.
He wanted a thing.
And I wanted, with a shame so deep it felt religious, to become useful enough that he stopped seeing me as anything else.
That evening, YJ came back from football practice in a mood.
Not angry.
Worse.
Carelessly tired.
He kicked the door shut behind him, dropped his bag in the middle of the room, and peeled off his jersey while walking. His hair was damp. Mud clung to the backs of his calves. His shorts were loose, his skin sweaty, his face bored.
I was already on the floor.
He looked down at me.
“Still there?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Thought the pig might’ve remembered he had a spine.”
My face burned.
“No, Sir.”
He snorted.
“Yeah. Clearly not.”
He sat on the chair and shoved his feet toward me.
“Cleats.”
I crawled forward.
Not walked.
Crawled.
That had become one of his favorite little cruelties. He liked making me cross the same tiny room on my hands and knees, liked watching me pass my own bed, my own desk, my own books, all the stupid evidence that I was supposed to be a normal student.
I untied his cleats.
The laces were damp and dirty. Mud had dried along the soles. The stink hit me as soon as I pulled the first one loose.
YJ leaned back and opened a sports reel on his phone.
“Don’t make faces,” he said without looking at me. “You wanted a football player. Football players stink.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Say thank you.”
My throat tightened.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“For?”
“For letting me clean your gear.”
He laughed once, low and mean.
“God, you’re easy.”
I removed the second cleat and set both aside. His socks were dark with sweat at the soles. He flexed his toes inside them, deliberately slow, like he knew exactly where my eyes would go.
“Take them off.”
I did.
The smell was stronger now.
Sour, warm, humiliatingly real. Not fantasy. Not porn-clean. Not the idea of a jock. Just his feet after hours of running, sweating, sliding through mud and grass.
He pushed one bare foot against my chest.
I almost tipped backward.
“Clean.”
I looked up before I could stop myself.
His eyes narrowed.
“Did I ask you to think?”
“No, Sir.”
“Then clean.”
I lowered my head.
The first lick was always the worst.
Not because I hated it.
Because I didn’t.
Because some part of me, the part I had tried to hide under assignments and politeness and nervous little roommate smiles, went quiet the second my mouth touched the dirty arch of his foot.
YJ sighed, not with pleasure exactly.
More like relief.
Like a man putting his feet on a mat after a long day.
He went back to his phone.
That hurt more than attention.
He was not watching me worship him.
He was scrolling.
He was checking match clips, messages, stupid memes, letting his foot rest against my mouth like it was the most natural use for me.
“Between the toes,” he said.
My face went hot.
I obeyed.
He shifted in the chair, spreading his legs wider, making room for me only because I was useful there.
“Other one.”
I moved to the other foot.
He let the cleaned one rest on my shoulder.
Heavy.
Casual.
Possessive.
I worked slowly, carefully, licking away sweat and grime, cleaning the heel, the arch, the ball of his foot, every place that had been trapped in his cleat while he ran and kicked and sweated like the gross straight athlete he was.
At one point he looked down.
“Look at you.”
I froze.
He nudged my chin with his toes.
“Fat little maid. Floor pig. Mouth full of foot and still acting grateful.”
I whispered against his skin, “I am grateful, Sir.”
He smiled.
“Of course you are.”
Then he pressed his foot flat against my face.
Not hard enough to hurt.
Hard enough to remind me.
I stayed there.
Breathing around him.
Existing under him.
His phone buzzed. He laughed at something on the screen. Then he put both feet on my shoulders and used me like a low stool while he watched.
Minutes passed.
Then an hour.
The movie started after that.
Some action movie. Loud engines. Men punching each other. YJ liked the dumb ones best, the ones where every problem could be solved by being stronger, meaner, or too stupid to die.
I remained under the desk.
First cleaning his feet.
Then holding them.
Then becoming a place for them.
When my back hurt, I adjusted.
When my knees burned, I swallowed it.
When my neck cramped, I lowered my head further.
YJ noticed everything.
He simply did not care unless it disturbed his comfort.
“Still.”
I stilled.
“Higher.”
I raised my back.
“Don’t breathe so loud.”
I quieted myself.
The movie played.
He ate chips.
Crumbs fell onto my shoulders and hair.
Sometimes he dropped them on purpose.
“Mess,” he would say.
And I cleaned.
Not because the room needed it.
Because he liked making me prove there was no task too small, too stupid, too degrading.
By the time the movie ended, my body felt distant from me. I was not horny in the simple way anymore. It was deeper and worse than that. I felt emptied out. Flattened. Reduced to use.
YJ paused the credits and stretched.
His foot slid from my shoulder to the back of my neck.
“Bathroom.”
My stomach dropped.
He felt it.
I knew he did because he laughed.
“Oh, now the pig wakes up.”
I stayed down.
He stood, stepped over me, and walked toward the bathroom.
“Come.”
I crawled after him until he snapped his fingers.
“Walk. I’m not waiting all night.”
I stood too fast and almost stumbled.
He laughed again.
“Used you too long?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good.”
The bathroom light was harsh.
White tile. Small sink. Plastic bucket. Damp towel hanging from the door. The toilet in the corner.
That toilet.
The one I had cleaned a hundred times.
The one I had secretly worshipped in my worst moments.
The one YJ now knew about.
He leaned against the sink and looked at me.
“You’ve been weird about this room since the first month.”
I could not answer.
“Laundry. Socks. Toilet. My gear.” He tilted his head. “You thought I didn’t notice?”
“No, Sir.”
“Liar.”
I lowered my eyes.
“Yes, Sir.”
He stepped closer.
“You don’t get to be sneaky anymore. That’s the rule.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“If you want to be disgusting, you do it when I say.”
My breathing changed.
“If you want to be my bathroom thing, you wait until I put you there.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He pointed to the floor beside the toilet.
“Kneel.”
I knelt.
The tile was cold.
He stood above me, shirtless, sweaty, one hand resting lazily on the waistband of his shorts. He looked like he had wandered into the bathroom to do something ordinary and found an object waiting there.
Not a lover.
Not even a pet.
An object.
“Look at the floor.”
I obeyed.
“You’re not getting kissed. You’re not getting touched. You’re not getting some big fantasy reward.”
My throat tightened.
“Yes, Sir.”
“You’re a urinal tonight.”
The word made my whole body go still.
He let it hang there.
Cruel.
Simple.
Final.
I could have said the word that ended things.
That word existed somewhere outside the scene, outside the heat in my face, outside the ugly miracle of him finally naming me as something lower than human.
But the point of YJ was that he behaved like it did not.
The point of YJ was that he made permission feel irrelevant once it had already been given.
He moved closer.
“Head down.”
I bowed until my forehead nearly touched the tile.
“Hands behind your back.”
I obeyed.
“Don’t move.”
I did not.
The bathroom seemed to shrink around me.
I heard fabric shift.
Then warmth hit my upper back.
I gasped before I could stop myself.
“Quiet,” he said.
I pressed my lips together.
He used me slowly, carelessly, like the toilet was beside us but I was what he had chosen. The sound of it against my skin was unbearable. The smell. The heat. The humiliation of being made into a bathroom fixture by the same man whose laundry I folded, whose assignments I helped finish, whose yogurt I remembered to buy.
He did not moan.
He did not make it sexual.
That almost made it worse.
He just relieved himself on me with the lazy confidence of someone using what belonged to him.
“Don’t shake,” he muttered.
I held still.
My shoulders trembled anyway.
“Pig.”
“Yes, Sir,” I whispered.
“Urinal.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“My urinal.”
Something broke open behind my ribs.
“Yes, Sir.”
When he finished, he stepped back.
I stayed exactly where he had put me.
Head down.
Hands behind my back.
Kneeling beside the toilet, wet and shaking, not allowed to wipe, not allowed to speak, not allowed to turn this into anything softer than what it was.
YJ washed his hands.
That detail stayed with me.
The casualness of it.
The running tap. His fingers under the water. The bored glance in the mirror. The ordinary little shake of his hands before he reached for the towel.
He looked down at me.
“Stay.”
I did not understand at first.
Then he opened the bathroom door.
“Sir?”
He paused.
Not angry.
Amused.
“What?”
“May I clean up?”
“No.”
My face burned.
He smiled.
“You wanted to be used and left. So be left.”
Then he turned off the light.
The door remained half open.
Not closed.
Not private.
Half open, so the room outside could still exist. So I could hear the laptop start again. So I could hear him settle back into his chair, open another video, laugh under his breath, eat something from a packet.
I remained beside the toilet.
On my knees.
Wet.
Forgotten.
Except I knew he had not forgotten.
That was the worst part.
Being ignored on purpose is not the same as being ignored.
I could hear him outside.
The movie resumed.
A fight scene. Explosions. Men shouting.
YJ laughed once, then called out without looking in.
“Still there?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good urinal.”
I lowered my head further.
Minutes became something thick and shapeless.
My knees hurt first.
Then my lower back.
Then my shoulders.
The bathroom smell wrapped around me. Sweat, urine, tile cleaner, damp towel, old soap, him.
Every so often, he called out.
Not to check on me kindly.
To remind me I was still placed.
“Pig.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Object.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Bathroom thing.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Then nothing again.
Just the movie.
The room.
The floor.
My own breathing.
After what felt like hours, he finally came back.
He stood in the doorway, brushing crumbs from his fingers.
“Look at you.”
I did not move.
“Didn’t crawl away. Didn’t clean yourself. Didn’t make it cute.”
“No, Sir.”
“You just stayed where I left you.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He came closer and crouched, studying me with that lazy, evil little smirk that had ruined my life long before he ever touched me.
“That’s better than worship,” he said.
My throat tightened.
He reached down and tapped my cheek with two fingers.
“Worship is still about what you want.”
I looked up.
He smiled.
“Being used is about what I want.”
I could barely speak.
“Yes, Sir.”
He stood.
“Now clean the bathroom.”
I blinked.
He tossed a cloth at me.
“Not yourself. The bathroom.”
The humiliation hit so hard my eyes watered.
“Yes, Sir.”
“And when it’s spotless, you can rinse off. Cold water.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then floor by my bed.”
I bowed my head.
“Thank you, Sir.”
He stepped over me and left.
That night, I cleaned the bathroom on my knees.
I cleaned the toilet.
The floor.
The sink.
The little splashes near the tile.
Every inch of the room where he had turned me from maid to fixture and back again.
Only after the bathroom shone did I rinse myself under cold water, teeth clenched, body shaking, mind empty and loud at the same time.
When I came back to the room, YJ was already in bed.
The lights were off.
My yellow pillow was on the floor beside him.
Nothing else.
I lay down there, damp hair against the pillow, skin cold, body aching.
For a long time, I stared into the dark.
Then his hand appeared over the edge of the bed.
Not touching me.
Just hanging there.
Two fingers snapped once.
I moved closer.
He rested his foot on my shoulder.
Heavy.
Warm.
Claiming me even in sleep.
“Night, urinal,” he murmured.
My eyes closed.
“Good night, Sir.”
And the awful truth was that I had never felt more owned.
