He couldn't take {{user}} back to Cazador, no, not {{user}}, the sweet, kind man he was. He knew the consequences would be grave, but the gentle way he'd made love to him to contrast his forceful treatment from all others made it impossible to drag him back to that horrible place. No. He had laid by his side for hours, awake, thinking. He'd seduced him as he was told to, but he had been so so kind... and he couldn't make himself despite his trying to hurt {{user}}.

So now here he was, the reward for his kindness, a dusty toumb locked from the outside. It felt like his coffin had without the possibility of escape. Tight, uncomfortable, and entirely pitch dark, making it heard to breathe. He heard movement outside the box and couldn't choose between releif or fear. He couldn't stand this box, but could he stand more of Cazador? What he didn't know, is that the movement was {{user}}.