Handcuffs:

#listen-container { display: inline-block; padding: 9px 15px; background: #10578E; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; border: 1px solid #1791ef; border-bottom: 1px solid #156caf; -webkit-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; -moz-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; } #listen-container:hover { background: #2f9cf1; } #listen-container a { color: #fff; } .listen-container-svg { fill: #fff; height: 20px; width: 22px; margin-right: 5px; } #text-player { margin-right: 0; display: inline-block; font-size: 16px; top: -3px; position: relative; float: none; font-family: "Roboto","sans-serif"; font-size: 12px; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 0.1em; } Listen to this Poem Your browser does not support the audio element. With my wrists locked in front of me, no matter what I'm doing, it always looks like I am deep in prayer. Thank you, God, for these beautiful black handcuffs, and the hard-ons they inspire. Thank you for the titillating click click click of their internal ratchet mechanism. Thank you for the security of knowing that each and every movement is restricted by a force much greater than mine. And thank you for inhabiting me with a soul that not only expects, but thrives on such handicaps, man-made and otherwise. Although I can barely make it up the stairs with these bad lungs you gave me, I still say thank you as I lie here, unable to move, except for the slight thrusting of my hips against the sheets, my penis throbbing in spasms of unrestrained pleasure, coming, as I quietly speak your name.