cataclysmic levels of parasocial tension

bold of you to assume he wouldn't get turned on by dirty talk in languages he doesn't speak

oh... that's a marvellous consideration. the idea of him becoming aroused even by sentences he doesn't fully understand can definitely be used for domming him, as it's a way to indicate that he does not have the same amount of power or control as you do.

he cannot quite decipher what you're saying. but he grasps that you want to fuck him. he desperately wishes to know what words you've uttered, and feels shame that he is stuck with his single tongue, forced to tomprehend you on the mere basest of levels, made to imagine the concrete details himself. that is a dynamic i would certainly explore with him.

if i could dirty talk in any language besides english, that is. despite being able to speak czech fluently and russian natively, i have not read enough horny fics in either of them to do it good. yet.

i also wonder if he would have a preference or dislike for any particular languages. would he find french as sexy as the stereotypes say? or would he only recoil from it? (probably the latter, imo.)

however, if any language is effective at turning him on, this has several beautiful implications:

anyone in the world can dirty talk to him, no matter how well they understand his videos

you can dirty talk to him in languages that don't even have any native speakers (like most ancient languages and conlangs)

and depending on how his brain works, either:

he responds to you based on your tone, meaning you can say whatever you want in not-english and he will get hard. you can make his cock throb from hearing instructions to operate a washing machine, a translation of a rickroll, or even complete gibberish

or,

red. as close to #c02c38 as possible. it is his theme color; the hue that paints his cheeks when i bring out the harness, the color it imprints into his skin as i tie the knots, the hue that imbues his cock as my ropes forbid him from stroking it; it is the hue of flesh and tomatoes and my most cravèd soup; the color of heat and ardor and arousal, the color of salacious pain and agonizing pleasure, the color of the block button, the color of the very determination that drives him to seek out thrill after thrill, strife after strife, and which threw him here, right into my hands, that are now weaving my intricate web of control around his body.