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Summary
The rhythmic sound of typing slowly driving him insane. The cold feeling of the metal zipper juxtaposed by the warm, rough woven material of his master’s pants keeping him barely tethered to reality. It had been hours of this. Scaramouche didn’t know how many, but he knew it was morning when he lowered himself down, and now, the large floor-to-ceiling window in front of him showed nothing but a soft moonlight. The light of Dottore’s office creating a bright and clear backdrop for any soul that should be so lucky as to walk by.