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He looks so mortified that, for a second, I almost relent. But I don’t. I can’t. I step closer, feeling him tense, but he doesn’t flinch. Not even when I reach past his hip and unbutton his jeans with one hand. A rattling breath escapes him.

“This isn’t… a violation,” I murmur, careful not to let any condescension touch my tone. “I just don’t trust you out of these, and you can’t do it yourself.”

He nods, jaw clenched. I unzip his jeans, tug them down over his hips, and pull his underwear down just far enough. His cock is soft but already lengthening from the exposure; I ignore it, focus on the task. I angle his hips closer to the toilet rim.

I curl the fingers of my left hand around him, thinking the lack of warmth and the glove covering the prosthetic would make it feel less intimate than my flesh hand, and guide him over the bowl. He shudders, his stomach muscles fluttering.

“You’re okay,” I murmur.

He stands frozen, staring at the white tile, at the mottled light from the tiny bathroom window. His breathing is shallow, erratic.

I gently brush my knuckles against his hipbone. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Just go.”

He whimpers and tries at first, but nothing happens. “I can’t—I—” He bites his lip, breathing through his nose.

I nod. “Take your time. Just pretend I’m not even here. Maybe closing your eyes might help,” I offer.

His eyelids flutter shut, and—fuck, why did I think this was a good idea? My cock has grown rock hard. There’s a sick, ugly part of me that likes how helpless he is, how he has to let me do this, and it calls for me to do more, take more.

Nope, nope, nope. John’s kid.

My mind unhelpfully reminds me that he is my captive. I can do whatever I want with him. I can make him mine. He’s such a pretty, soft little thing. I’m saving his life, so is it really so wrong to indulge?

A minute passes, tension radiating off both of us. I stroke his side with my free hand, gentle and reassuring while fighting fucking lust demons in my head.

God, what if this is the first time someone’s touched his cock?

My thoughts are interrupted as he lets out a strangled noise, and then finally, his dick pulses with warmth, and a stream hits the water. Relief runs through every line of his body, but humiliation follows close behind.

He finishes, and for a moment there’s a strange, suspended silence where neither of us wants to move. I help him shake off, then grab a wad of toilet paper and gently dab the tip. He flinches, but not in a way that says ‘stop.’

I take one last look at his cute cock, and why is he hairless? Does he shave? Has he been keeping it bare for someone? I’ll fucking kill them.

I grit my teeth and tuck him back into his boxers, yank up his pants, and get him rebuttoned. His face is pink and clouded with shame, but he doesn’t look away.

“That wasn’t so bad,” I say, a little rougher than I mean to. “Right?”

He sniffs, then shrugs, and I lead him back to the bedroom. I reattach the cuff to the headboard and pause, reluctant to leave him again as he curls into the comforter and reaches for his stuffed animal.

“You did a good job,” I tell him, watching him still at the words. “More of that, and less trying to attack me. If you keep being good for me, we can get you out of those cuffs sooner rather than later, yeah?”

He pulls the blanket higher until only the top half of his face remains visible. His blue eyes swirl with what seems like hundreds of emotions. Mortification, exhaustion, overwhelm, pleasure, anxiety, fear, longing, confusion, and many, many more.

I know what I’m seeing. He’s realizing he likes being good for me. Which, in this situation, would understandably be disconcerting for him.

I’m about to ask if he’d like me to leave the room when he quietly says, “You can’t tell anyone about that.”

I blink. “About the bathroom? Who exactly do you think I’m going to tell?”

“I don’t know. Your murderer friends.”

That gets a laugh out of me before I can stop it.

His eyes narrow. “It’s not funny.”

“Firstly,” I start, smothering a smile, “my ‘murderer friends’ don’t know you’re alive right now. And secondly, I would never.”

His eyes remain narrowed above the edge of the comforter. “Promise?” The question is so quiet that it takes me a second to realize he’s serious. Not simply embarrassed, but worried.