It's about fucking time.
It's about taking time to do it right: making sure to seat your slave in the proper chair, to double-check that his ass is placed just so (since for all he knows he will be planted there for a long, lonnnnnng time), to guarantee that his ankles are flush with the legs of the chair, that his forearms mesh with the arms of the chair, that the ropes are wrapped with care, around and around and around his chest, his limbs, every inch of his body.
It's about pulling those ropes tight and taut, about standing next to your captive and listening to his breathing, trying to read what his eyes are saying. His eyes are all he has, the rest of his face buried beneath a mask and a gag.
He does not struggle. He knows you are not an enemy but a friend. A very special kind of friend. One who knows him inside and out, one who loves him in a way few men can understand.
I stood beside him until I grew tired of standing, then I pulled up a chair and sat beside him, still staring at him, not saying a word even though I alone had the ability to speak. It was the longest time we have been together in months, and I wanted to make the most of it.
As I sat there, I got an idea. And today I acted on it.
With B's approval (once he'd freed himself from his restraints), I asked Alfred to make me a suit of my own. A very special suit.
For a very special role.