The shirt comes off easily enough, and his torso is left uncovered but for the skintight impenetrable fortress of mesh and sweat and pain clinging to his skin as tightly as he clings to the most remote hint of affection.
You reach down to the bottom edges, ragged with wear, and try to get a hold on it. You manage to slip a few fingers in, but they they’re trapped at an angle fingers aren’t supposed to bend, and you try to move them but, like the finger traps you forced anxious peers into as a much younger master prankster, attempts to pull away only pull you in.
He tries to help, but the binder was tight before, and now suddenly your entire hands are pinned against his torso, and you feel like maybe your combined sweat will dissolve the skin between you and you’ll be some kind of hideous gay boyfriend hybrid. But then you really commit yourself and free your hands, and part of the binder snaps back against his skin and it sounds like it hurts.
He rolls it up further, past his ribs, up over his nipples, until it’s a tightly wound log of black mesh, like a cock ring, maybe, but bigger and less satisfying. He pulls one arm through, and then the binder snaps up around his neck and that sounds like it hurts, and you try to reach over to ease it up, but then you’re caught again.
“Fuck!” he yells, and you’re both dancing around, sweaty and half naked, and then it’s off, and the force of release sends you sprawling backwards and him sprawling sideways.
And you land on your ass, he lands on his, and the binder flies up, hits the ceiling, and then falls back around his neck, like an impossible plastic ring over the neck of a bottle.