Gently, with almost a loving caress, my master undoes the shackles and the bonds that meld my arms to the ceiling’s pipes. The release is a moment of pure transformation. I breathe out, a great whoosh of air, almost involuntarily, as I lower my arms. They tingle with the pinprick of a thousand needles. It’s a pain that I welcome because it’s evidence, once again, of my master’s devotion. But with the tingle, there is numbness and I wonder if I can move my arms the way I did before they were bound to the ceiling pipes. Sensing this, my master rubs my arms up and down with his own strong and calloused hands.
“On your knees,” he commands. His voice is deep, rough, scarred with smoke.
Grateful, I drop to my knees, sensing him in front of me, his animal heat close enough to sear me. I can see
