“Yes, sir,” he chokes out, and Mahiro grins like a shark scenting blood in the water.
Alex quietly ogles Mahiro’s smooth back when he walks over to the cabinet, imagines pressing kisses to the dip in his spine. Mahiro, absolutely unaware of Alex’s scrutiny, pulls out a few things and once again leaves the door open so Alex can very easily see what’s inside: floggers and whips and racks of black cuffs, the gleam of metal chains.
“Stand up and give me your hand, Alex,” Mahiro says, and Alex tries to get up as gracefully as he can, keeping any hint of stiffness to himself. He holds out his hand and waits, wondering. Mahiro takes his finger and attaches what looks like a pair of tweezers with rubber tips, with a small loop that slides up the arms of the tweezers to keep it in place. There ar
