“Beautiful,” he whispered, his eyes drinking in every inch of exposed flesh. He ran his hand down Little T’s back, stopping at his buttocks, ignoring the encrusted residue there. “You’re one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.” He took Little T’s wrists in his own and said softly, “We can’t be too sure, now can we?” Before Little T had a chance to respond, Dwight stooped over and reached under the bed. A pair of handcuffs glinted in the dim light, rattled.
Little T felt himself getting sicker and sicker. The handcuffs, he knew, would hurt, digging into his wrists. But their pain had a subtler edge: they represented, in the slim shape of the metal and its little chain, imprisonment. Even though he was now completely imprisoned, this symbol brought it all down on him in concrete terms. Th
