Sure, Homme considers himself a bit kinky. Considers himself a bit daring. So he doesn't automatically shut this new girl down when she sidles up and tells him how good he'd look in a corset.
How good he'd look, in a corset, hands tied behind his back with the ends of the strings, tight metal around the base of his cock, in slick, shiny black heels of impossible height.
And he's got to admit, when she pushes his head forward and kisses the nape of his neck, spreads his legs and displays him to himself in the mirror, he doesn't look half bad. Ok, he looks downright fucking hot, and he's not going to pussyfoot around it.
But what he really remembers is how the corset gripped his torso, how it caught his breath a few seconds before he was ready for it, always denying him that last gasp of air in his lungs.
Of course, if didn't work out for long, and it wasn't exactly a bad parting ... but he finds himself looking for that breathless pause, over and over and over again.