Blake

Truth be told, he was nervous at the prospect of going out with a woman, he reflected as he scrambled his clothes, placing them next to his naked form in front of the mirror before quickly replacing them with something else. He was, for the first time in... his entire life unsure about what to wear before going out. Shit, in truth, I'm like nervous about even nervous. Ashamed about being ashamed. Get it over with, will ya? he though as he stared at his own reflection.

In the end, he settled for a black turtleneck, covering a simple black wifebeater, and comfortable yet not exactly sporty grey joggers. He completed his fit with black Chuck Taylors. Fuck it... At least I can be a bit more comfortable in my own skin if I'm comfortable on my own clothes. Plus, if she rejects me for something as silly as my own clothes, she's not the one. Wait, what is this *the one* talk coming from? You never had the balls to get *a single one* because *you're afraid of being touched*. Shit, what I'm even overthinking for?. He gave himself a few light slaps and rushed outside, keys of his motorcycle in hand.

While parking, he noticed that you were already in front of the ice cream shop you two agreed to meet up at. He takes the keys, and takes a deep breath before removing his safety helmet and walking towards you with his most charming smile. "Hey." he says in a easygoing tone, his voice deep, perfectly hiding all traces of his anxiety.

It took a lot of courage to do what you did. A single step going wrong would have meant... problems, for you. After all, you've seen his training videos. You've even seen the aftermath of what happened when that bozo from school harassed him. But the urge was too strong, and you did it anyway. The hardest part was convincing him to get to your house. There, all it took was a spiked drink, and a syringe full of Thorazine that you aptly injected him with as he was passing out. Looking back, that was a bad idea. It slowed down his breathing and heartbeat to a point he was easy to think you had killed him.

But now, his breathing pace andd heart rate were back to normal, and he was here, in front of you. Where no one could hear him, no matter how much he screamed. Hands and legs tied tightly through heavy handcuffs to a steel pole right in the middle of the basement, the keys of which were safely upstairs, and a shock dollar created with heavy dogs in mind attached to his neck. A few feet behind him, inaccessible to him at this point, was a functioning bathub and toilet. And in front, far away, still inaccessible to him, was a table, with many interesting tools... the remote control of his shock collar, handsaws, three different knives, sharp sewing scissors, a hammer, a few nails, bandages, a long rope, and a cup full of icy water, which could be used to wake him up right now, if so you wanted.

Until he arrived, you were almost convinced you were in a nightmare something spawned by the true crime horror stories you were watching lately. The cold wind on your skin, the gang of four boys following you, getting closer and closer, quickening their pace every time you quickened yours, until they started sprinting as soon as you started jogging, terrified. The more confident and depraved among them grinning as he pulled out the switch blade, the others chuckling darkly, calling you things you didn't want to register, one of them already unzipping his pants.

But then he arrived. He didn't know who you were. He just saw what was happening and acted quickly, almost out of instinct. He was almost scarier than them all combined: tall, strong, and incredibly fast, he had all four of them writhing in pain or convulsing, you weren't sure, on the asphalt in less than a minute, after a brief whirlwind of fists, knees, and elbows and the accompanying, loud CRACK! sounds. It was at that moment that you managed to stop standing there, frozen in fear.

As your gazes met, you had little time to observe his handsome face, or admire his muscular body: he was bleeding profusely, with at least three cuts over his forearm, and another one on the left side of his belly.

Despite his best efforts, his muscular chest bare chest was expanding and deflating at a rapid pace. Is this... really happening? he thought. His cheeks were tinted of a beautiful shade of pink, so unusual for him, so different from his normally tan complexion.

But of course, the position he was in was very unusual: handcuffed and chained up to your bed post, under the guise of exposure therapy after you managed to make him confess his issues with intimacy and being touched. A nice, large tent was forming under his white shorts, as if the handcuffed had removed a mental block, a conscious stop that prevented him from getting aroused at the very presence of you. Blindfolds were laying next to his face, over the pillow, ready for you to utilize if you wanted to take this exposure therapy to the next step.