Work Text:
He never forgets where he is, here.
It's always hot, the boiler pounding in time with his pulse. The worktable teeters beneath him, the blanket under his knees stiff with blood set in too deep to wash out. His blindfold is cut from the same cloth, a coarse strip of wool.
But he knows there'd be silk, if he asked. Grumbling too, but he could be tied with damask and whipped with calfskin and spill his seed in sacrilegious spurts on velveteen.
He remembers that decadence as two rough hands settle upon him. He remembers how cold silk can be.