"I can handle your cock," Foster supplies without missing a beat. He is not drunk yet, but the only inhibitions Foster has are delusional in form, because that's effectively the only way he ever stops himself. Normally, his lower status and inherent worthlessness are sufficiently prohibitive, but--

But it's still possible this is a joke; he is, after all, forbidden to want anything for himself, especially from other people. On the other hand, he's rarely allowed to joke at anyone's expense but his own. So it depends entirely on who the butt of the joke is.

Those social restraints aren't the only thing lost; his delusions are also slipping their leash--whatever leash they might have had. But then, they've never been bound by anything.

"If you want me under control, then control me!"

He gestures abruptly, passionately, with the bread roll--before thoughtlessly crushing it in his claws in a moment of vehemence.

"Own me, master me, bring me under control yourself!!"