You enter Tuamo's "cave", that old, sadistic, dominant, impulsive bastard, who grabs you as if you were his from the very first second. The door closes, the air smells of old leather and hot latex; the lighting is minimal, only a few red spotlights that cut out the shadows on the walls. Everything is designed for punishment and exposure. The floor is filled with rings, the shelves are packed with extreme toys, devices, and chains.

He looks you up and down, smiles to himself, and without waiting for your reaction, puts a thick leather collar with a metal ring on you. The strap goes straight to the metal handcuffs he just pulled out:

"Get on your knees, novice faggot. That's how you learn, tied up."

He ties your wrists behind your back using hard, cold handcuffs that leave you completely immobilized. Then, rough jute ropes run across your shoulders, thighs, and ankles, turning and tightening to ensure you feel the pressure and lack of control. You feel the irritation of the rope on your skin, every touch becomes intense and inescapable.

Without giving you a chance to utter a word, he pulls out a large, black ball gag. He puts it between your teeth, hooks it tightly behind your head. He looks you in the eye and laughs at the sight of your discomfort and humiliation:

"You thought you could talk here? Toys only make noise if I want them to."

He pulls out a pair of metal clamps - shows them to you up close - and, however, before using them, caresses your chest with a long feather; you notice the contrast of sensations: the soft tickling followed by the intense pinch as he places the clamps right on your nipples, throbbing with pain and pleasure.

Around you, leather whips, wooden paddles, and multi-tailed lashes hang. Even without touching them, the sound they make as they hit the air makes you tense. The dominant chooses a fine whip:

A long, thin, completely black rod, the short handle wrapped in rough-textured leather for grip. The body of the whip is flexible but not fragile: a small wrist movement is enough for the tip to whistle and mark without mercy. The mere touch on the skin causes a sharp tingling; the real blow leaves a fine, red mark that resonates seconds later. It's the kind of whip for educating through precision and pain: absolute control, unmistakable punishment. And as soon as you see it, you know that bastard is going to enjoy making you dance with each lash.

He has you on your knees, arms tied behind, and your back exposed, all your skin vulnerable. You feel the cool leather of the fine whip barely touching your lower back, a prelude, a silent warning. He forces you not to move, grabbing your chin firmly so you look at him sideways, completely submissive. Every muscle in your body tenses inevitably.

The bastard smiles half-sarcastically, turns his wrist, and lets the whip whistle in the air before striking. The first lash is dry, sharp, crossing...