Ryo doesn’t ask if I’m ready. He comes behind me, the ropes in hand, and palms the back of my neck like he’s pushing a dog into place.
“Arms behind your back,” he says.
I obey.
Ryo doesn’t like it. He makes a little noise with his tongue and calls me boring while grabbing both my arms and raising them, my forearms behind my head. The movement pulls instantly at my shoulders. He then forces my elbows tight together behind my skull—elbow to elbow—pressing the bones hard against each other. The angle is awkward and uncomfortable, and strains the sockets in a way that never happened when Naoya did the tying.
The first rope bites in, and it’s not the good kind, like Naoya’s fancy shit. Ryo wraps it tight around my forearms, just below the elbows, cinching them together loop after loop after loop, until the pressure makes my fingers tingle and my biceps scream from the upward strain. He knots it hard, low between my shoulder blades this time. A sharp pull yanks my elbows down and back, arching my spine and cranking my shoulders deeper into the stretch.
I hiss. The burn floods my upper back and shoulders.
Feels good.
Then he circles to my front, touches my chest, dragging the second rope across my collarbones. He loops it around, tight under my pecs, crosses it over and under again, squeezing myribs. My breath stutters when he runs a hand up my throat and the rope follows.
He binds the line from my chest to my neck—not choking, but I damn sure feel it gets tighter when I breathe deep. He ties the knot off to the front, forcing me to feel the pull when I move, when I turn, when I try to look down.
Then he kicks at my ankles.
I spread wider, and he drops the spreader bar between my feet, strapping each cuff tight around my ankles, then kneels to adjust the bar’s length. He forces my stance open. Shoulder-width, then more. My knees protest, but I can’t close my legs. Can’t balance properly. Can’t stand or walk without tipping.
Then he shoves me.
I fall back onto the bed, my bound arms caught under my head, biceps screaming from the sudden stretch—fucker almost dislocated my shoulders. My legs are forced wide, knees bent awkwardly, the muscles in my thighs trembling.
He lifts my head, slides the blindfold into place, and the world disappears.
I hear him stand. Walk. A soft click of a lighter. A slow exhale of smoke.
I lie still. The rope has my ribs compressed tight, suffocating me with every breath. My arms are pinned beneath my weight, useless, and my legs are spread wide. I’m just meat on a block, ready for slaughter, not play.
He says nothing for a long time.
Then his hands come to touch me again, sliding up my leg, sending a shiver down my spine. I feel him leaning over me, the mattress beside my head dipping.
“You’re really fucked up in the head, huh?”
“Yeah, I am. What you gonna do about it?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound more like air leaving a tire, and I can feel his ashtray breath ghosting over my mouth.
“No safe word?”
“No.”
“You know how fucked that is?”
“I don’t care.”
“Yeah. I can tell.” He leans in, his dry lips ghosting over my own with every word. “Guess I’ll just stop if I feel like it.”
I want to know how far he’ll go if I don’t stop him. How much of me he’ll take, not out of affection, obviously, but out of spite. Out of instinct. Out of the pure fucking thrill of having me tied down like this, barely breathing, unable to close my legs, unable to touch back.
This isn’t like Naoya. Naoya checks the rope twice. Naoya listens to my body like it’s a language. Ryo doesn’t listen. Ryo will push me and try to break me.
Well, let him fucking try.
The mattress dips, then stills. For a second, I think he left somehow. Then—slap.
