Bobchain's room is a symphony of clinking chains and gasping moans as he explores his limits. He's laid out on his bed, chains crisscrossing his body, the metal links digging into his skin, leaving red welts. He's rock hard, his cock throbbing with need. He strokes himself, the pain from the chains intensifying his pleasure. But it's not enough. He reaches for a small saw, running it along his thighs, the cold metal promising a delicious pain. He's a man possessed, his masturbation now a desperate race to the finish, his body coated in sweat and the faintest trickle of blood.