No matter how much your feelings swell, bound so tightly that you can’t even move your limbs, the only way you can direct those emotions at me is through your gaze.
Even without words, you seemed to tremble greatly with anticipation and tension.
I’ve found myself drawn again to the act of carefully stripping away and sealing off a masochist’s limbs and senses, one by one.
That expression they make when they’ve gradually been reduced to a position without rights—something they could never show anyone else.
We were speaking normally just moments before, and yet I can’t help but want to make you confess at which point your libido started to react.
Maybe it’s because it’s a place like this—those desires and feelings you’ve been holding onto come spilling out all at once.
I want to make you answer while covered in shame, looking straight into my eyes.
But I also love deliberately placing restraints on that overflowing desire—making you “wait.”
It’s cruel.
But I like doing things like that.
I want to shape the way a masochist’s thinking gradually stops functioning, as they revert back into something more animalistic.
You want that too, don’t you?
Also, I find it cruel—and I like it—to leave a margin of physical freedom, only to add more restraints to a masochist whose mind is already being broken.
Because when I crush that bit of freedom that was right there beside them, right in front of their heightened, feverish state, their reaction is always filled with either joy or desperation.
It feels as though I am managing every part of them within my own domain—
or rather, in that moment, it’s like I’ve become a kidnapper.
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