Well, that certainly distracted him from the haphazard quality of the knots. The Master gripped the ropes, and it was more than enough (under the circumstances) to give the impression of being securely bound. He shivered gleefully at the Doctor's words and even moreso at his touch, at the promise of more. "You'll never be rid of me," he whispered, squirming, hips rocking up greedily. "I'll always find my way to you, though hell should bar the way." Well, if poetry worked once, why not give it another go?