Agnes Obel played softly, her voice brushing against the walls like a ghost. He was silent, arms straining in the strapado, shoulders pulled tight, latex ropes digging in, marking him. His underwear stretched high, tied to the hook above, every small shift tugging at him, making him shudder.
His face was wrapped, mummified except for his mouth, where that wonderful silly mustache sat, twitching with every sharp breath. His lips parted slightly, letting out quiet gasps, a mix of submission and joy. The metal chain around his neck gleamed under the dim light, heavy, unyielding, reminding him he was mine.
The cane struck again, hard and deliberate. He didn’t flinch. He groaned, low and guttural, the sound raw as it spilled from his uncovered mouth. He couldn’t see me. He didn’t need to. His world had shrunk to sensation—the bite of the ropes, the sting of the cane, the weight of the collar, the warmth spreading through his skin.
His mustache twitched again, a small, ridiculous rebellion against the stillness of his body. I smiled. He was lost now, floating somewhere deep, making me proud.
Then we had tea.
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