The skin is pulled tight, the cock crowned in clamps like a bouquet of pain. There’s no sign of struggle—only offering. This is not a moment of play, but a ritual of devotion. The kind of submission that asks nothing in return but to be seen.

The title echoes in silence: The Things I Do for Love. Not lust. Not attention. Love. And yet, love here is sharp-edged, bruising, meticulous. It leaves marks. It demands stillness. It dares to ask: how far will you let someone in?