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With a sense of ritual, he arranges the ropes, each knot a testament to his trust in the process. The first loop around his wrist, the tug that secures it, the second, the third, until he is spread wide, at the mercy of his own design. His skin prickles, his heart races, as he awaits the sweet torment of his self-imposed restraint, his body aching for the touch it cannot reach.