twiddle-diddles

The painful tug makes for a fine reminder — he cannot sink down onto his heels without pulling further on his suffering stones, bound by rope running between his legs up to the brass door-hook. But the muscles of his legs have begun to tremble and he knows he must surrender to fatigue sooner or later. It would be easier to bear with poise if his captain were not so dedicated to teasing him — and it is his captain who has put him in such a position to begin with, devised through sheer perversity of mind.

Jopson wants very badly to be touched — though his prick is bound as well, it is hard in spite of it, flushed and straining against the ropes — but to move or to shift his weight would be highly unwise. He can scarcely speak, except to gasp the kind of gutter imprecations that would get him disrated if let fly in the wardroom. Crozier seems to find them amusing, from the twinkle in his eye and the rasp of laughter in his voice — he inquires after Tom’s comfort, tugging at his hair. Trembling, Jopson straightens up higher on the balls of his feet.

“Quite comfortable, sir.”