But I fucking love it.
My muscles twitch, not in protest yet, but because they don’t know what to do since there’s nothing to fight. My body’s humming, nerves lit under the rope. My brain’s snarling, calling this bullshit, telling me to move, to shout, to rip the ropes and the man and the whole fucking room apart. But my body’s still and hard and aching and tuned to the pull of the rope in a way I don’t know how to explain.
I want to scream. I want to come. I want to punch a wall and fuck a stranger and fight a cop and shatter a bottle to make someone sing.
But all I do is sit here, arms wrenched back, cock hard and brain fried. I hate this. I want more. I want out. I want to see how far he’ll take me.
And Naoya hasn’t even said a word.
FIFTH KNOT
That night—five weeks ago now—I lost my shit.
I told Naoya to take that shit off, barked like a fucking mad dog. Because I hated that I liked it. Hated the heat crawling down my spine and pooling in my stomach. Hated the way my arms felt stuck and helpless and the way that made everything harder to breathe through.
I stood up, still tied, pacing like a damn caged animal, trying to make it look like rage instead of panic. I tried to shake it off, kick it out of me. Tried to kick Naoya even though he didn’t fucking flinch. I knocked some things over instead—a wood frame, something on the wall that I don’t even remember what it was.
I fell on my side. I tried to get up and failed. Tried again, failed again. I tried to twist out of the rope, tried to use brute strength on something that didn’t care how many people I’ve killed or how many knives I’ve held. I growled, thrashed, swore at the walls, and somewhere in all that, I was fucking humping the floor like some desperate freak, not even thinking, not even aware of it until I came in my pants so hard it made me bite my tongue.
I didn’t say the safe word at all.
Saying it would’ve meant surrender,begging out.Naoya didn’t untie me until I stopped moving, until I was breathing so loud it was the only thing I could hear. When he untied me, it was slow, no judgment, no gloating. It was just hands on rope, then hands gone, and me lying there, sticky, furious, and ashamed of what my dick had done.
I hated myself that night.
Hated how good it felt. Hated that he hadn’t mocked me.
And hated that I wanted himto.
I showed up the next day because I had to. I’d broken shit and I don’t leavethiskind of mess behind. So I went back, handed over the money for the damages and for the session, and stood there like an idiot waiting to be told to fuck off. But he just nodded and asked if I wanted to book again. And that’s how I made an appointment like some regular asshole.
Next day, I went back. Then the next week. Then the week after that. Now it’s been five weeks, five fucking sessions, and every single one leaves me worse off than the last. He never pushes too far, but it still sets my nerves on fire and leaves my limbs aching for more. Never a full bind, never suspension, nothing extreme. But always something new. Always some precise configuration that makes my body remember the burn of the rope for days.
And always, without fail, it makes my cock hard before we’re even halfway through it. And every single time, he acts like my hard-on doesn’t exist. He adjusts rope, checks circulation, keeps things smooth and distant. Always with that calm, deep voice asking if it’s too tight, if anything’s going numb. I want to scream at him and tell him to shut the fuck up and do it already, do the real shit, stop dancing around it.
Last session, he pulled my arms behind my back again, but added a chest harness that spread my shoulders wide, curved my spine forward until I couldn’t breathe right. Rope pressed against my ribs, each inhale rubbing against the knots, every movement a reminder of how little control I had. He stayed quiet most of the time, eyes focused, mouth tight, until he finished, stepped back, and said that I would look beautiful fully tied.
That word punched right through me.
Beautiful. Not hot. Not fucked up.
Beautiful.
Fuck. I’m not someone who blushes.I don’t fucking blush.But I did that day. My whole face burning, ears hot, and I didn’t say shit because Ididn’t knowwhat to say to that. It hit somewhere wrong and deep, and I couldn’t dig it out even after the ropes were gone.
So I tried to fuck it out.
After his voice slipped into my head and stayed there, I went to every whorehouse I knew that offered rope, underground kink joints where they tie you up and beat the shit out of you if you ask. Let women wrap rope around me, pulling it tight with their soft hands brushing over my skin. I got my dick sucked, got ridden until my balls were empty, even let one of them use some weird leather whip on me.
It felt good and my body liked it. But afterward I sat in the corner, sweaty, sore, trying not to bite my tongue in half because itwasn’t enough. The ropes didn’t hold the same weight. The voices were too high, too eager and too sweet. I wanted that deep voice telling me to breathe, asking if I felt the pressure, adjusting the line like it was a matter of art instead of play.
So I kept going back to Naoya’s studio. Didn’t matter how many people I fucked or how many ropes burned into my skin—nothing felt as close to real as sitting on that tatami, waiting for his smart fingers to bind me.
* * *
My dick stayed half-hard the whole day. Not because I was thinking about anything specific, but because my body knows. It remembers what day it is. Rope time. Session six. Every cell in me was tuned to it from the moment I woke up.
But tonight’s fucked before it even starts, and I hate that I can’t do shit about it.
