You’re naked, kind of. Wrapped around your body — and, bien sur, your junk — is a black cord. It’s holding your arms in the air and your legs to the ground. Come to think of it, it’s kind of tight. There’s probably going to be a mark there in the morning. A masked man emerges out of the darkness in front of you. He’s got a whip in one hand, and he’s smacking it into the other. He smiles as he comes closer.