Objectively, she could acknowledge it was...well...creepy.
After a drink or two, she could acknowledge that anyone looking in from the outside would view it as horrifying.
But somehow, when Jack's hands were clutching the spindles of her headboard (sometimes there was duct tape), and the muscles in his thighs were straining, but unmoving, towards her mouth, or pussy, or her cleavage, it felt right, not scary.
She didn't know what it said about her that this limited power over Jack made her feel more secure, safer, but at the end of the day she didn't give a fuck.