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Fink writhed beneath his captor; his wrists swollen and bloody from where the ropes had cut, throat raw from hours of screaming, dark, sticky trails of eyeliner burned down his cheeks.

He would never admit it, but he loved nights like these more than anything, loved – no, never loved – craved the man above him more than any drug, any partner, anything.

The devil’s fingers clawed at the sheets as the man’s thrusts threatened to split him in two. He gasped, more tears spilling from his puffy eyes.

“Svengali.” The name was lost as he came, biting down on his wrist.