Before he leaves, Trevor locks the end of my armbinder to a ring on the floor, then shackles my legs together, and locks those to the ring too. He walks out wordlessly, leaving me in a puddle of his piss, moaning uncontrollably as I lay on my side in a strict hogtie. And then nobody else comes. I don’t hear anything except a drip of water from somewhere, echoing loudly into the space I’m in.
I think back to my lengthy sleepsack scene with Master Shephard. He told me that he was leaving me plenty of slack so that I could last, but I even thought that was tight. Now I realize that if this is the standard for tight bondage, the amount of wiggle room I had that night was in fact, comparative freedom. I long for it, for even the tiniest amount of purchase, for the ability to flex my arms even slightly, to be able to make any sound at all other than a pathetic, gagging, drooly sob.
As the minutes pass and my eyes continue to adjust to the dim light, I suddenly realize that there’s a mirror on the ceiling above me. I look up at it and see the gimp I’ve been turned into. Even alone, I’m humiliated. Vega was right, I thought I was some kind of a hot-shot, and I got put in my place.