Manuel Adams leans on the bench, adjusting the strap before sitting down, his dark hair framing a lean, clean-shaven face as he ties the rope tight around his torso. The bench holds him as he spreads his legs, hands gripping his own chest while his closed eyes betray the tension in every movement, until he’s bound, naked, and stretched out on the floor, fingers tracing his thigh. The rope holds him where he’s meant to stay.
