A silent nod. He steps up to the stallkeeper, his hand dropping between Dean's shoulderblades.

"Could I make use of your demonstration area?" he asks.

No more than a minute of perusing the items on offer, and Thrawn selects three things. There are others where his eyes linger, but first thing's first.

He selects a collar, a slim and plain one, and buckles it on Dean's throat himself. "Your shirt, off." Then a carabiner through the ring at the front, and a chain, attached to it, wrapped around Thrawn's hand.

He gives a yank on the chain, transforming from mild preparation to authority in the blink of an eye. "On the bench," he commands, maneuvering Dean to lie back on a leather bench with places to cuff hand and foot. He doesn't bind him, yet.

Once Dean is down, he wraps a blindfold around his eyes. Let him be watched; let him be aware that eyes are on him, and he cannot look in return. After all, the act of seeing is power itself, and Thrawn can see this play is devoted to power first, and then pleasure.

His fingers press on the underside of Dean's chin, tilting his head back, exposing his neck. And then his touch trails down, pausing at his breastbone.

"If you tell me to stop, I will," says Thrawn. "There will be no safeword beyond that. Do you understand?"