[The binding pulls taut, rope affixed to his wrist and neatly hitched around his waist impossible to escape from — a fact that establishes itself when he struggles, a yank against restraints with the dawning awareness of a person who has come to find themselves trapped. If there was hope of freedom, it dwindles to those last feeble embers, leashed instead to the whim of someone else, that dark voice hollowing out every thought in his head.

He imagines the scenario Cy paints in words. Perhaps it might have truly been like him, in another life, to stand on the fringes with a longing unrealized. Slut scorches a fresh path through him, and he bites the inside of a cheek when he feels the knife threatening his lower body.

There's a choice to make here.]

I didn't— [a hiss of breath, waistband tugged away from his skin] I didn't know that anyone saw me. It's not what you think.

[Denial less about his own masochistic interest than the conclusion drawn: that he is above anything. Yet it will take only seconds for this man to realize his cock is hard, filled out in the flimsy material of sweatpants, wearing no underwear, a plug pushed into his ass.]

I would never be aroused by something like this.

[So he chooses.]