Another beat of silence.
“Did he respect the ropes?”
“What?”
He holds his gaze steady. Dead serious.
I laugh.
“There was a lotta shit happening in that room. But ‘respect’ sure as fuck wasn’t one of them.”
Something behind his eyes sharpens, and I feel it in my spine—call it animal instinct or whatever. I’ve felt it many times, but only while fighting, not while a much weaker and soft looking man is standing before me.
“Come downstairs.”
He closes the door and moves past me, and I follow because there’s nothing else Icando other than trail behind him like a leashed dog. Naoya unlocks the entrance to the studio and pushes the door open without a sound. Once we’re both inside, he shuts it. The lock clicks behind us, final and quiet.
Then he speaks.
“Strip,” he says, voice low. Commanding.
And fuck me. Maybe I really became a pussy, because I don’t even think about arguing. He’s never asked that before, and if I’m being completely honest, that’s a little scary.
I pull my shirt over my head, and my pants hit the floor soon after. I think about leaving my briefs on, but fuck it—I’m here for a good time.
He walks around me, slow, cataloging every bruise and every muscle twitch. Then he crouches behind me, fingers brushing down the backs of my thighs, the curve behind my knees, the base of my spine.
“I’m going to bind your legs open,” he says. “You will be exposed and won’t be able to move. Not forward. Not back. Not up. Is that okay?”
I nod. My mouth is dry.
“Sit.”
I obey, and he sits behind me.
He starts at my right leg, folding it up tight, thigh drawn toward my chest, calf pressed close. The rope circles thick around both above and below my knee, locking the bend. I grunt under my breath at the pressure—not pain, but it forces everything in place. When he leans me forward, I follow without protest, and he drags the rope behind my back, pulling across my spine. I feel him move, reposition behind my left side, and then he does the same there—bending the leg, binding it shut. And when he pulls me upright again, my legs are forced apart. The rope behind my back holds the position open, and it fucks with my balance instantly. I wobble. My core tightens. No way to close myself. No way to hide.
Naoya shifts in behind me again, the press of his chest settling right against my back. One arm wraps around my waist to steady me, while his other hand slides down the inside of my thigh, fingers trailing light and slow and unhurried over the rope-bent curve. My breath stutters out. The fucker doesn’t even pretend to be clinical now.
He strokes lower—under the thigh, near the edge where skin gets sensitive. His palm presses in, kneading deliberately, dragging heat straight up toward the crease where everything’s already tight and buzzing. I twitch, but there’s nowhere to go. My legs are frozen open, and I can’t even flinch away. I feel it when my head tips all the way, shoulder blades flush to his chest, back resting fully against him now, helpless in that unnatural pose.
He slides his arm from my waist and shifts behind me as he leans me down, and the second I’m down, I know I’mfucked. My legs are pulled up and out, bent and bound and it’s impossible to get up without help. I look like a flipped fucking bug. The position forces everything open, and all I can do is lie there, breathing too hard.
Naoya kneels beside me now, his hands ghosting over my arms like he’s mapping the next step. Then he binds my wrists to my ankles—right to right, left to left—ropes looping tight and steady. Then he moves to my elbows, bends them in, and fastens them to the curve of my knees.
“Try to move,” he says.
And I do.
Every muscle fires, all at once, my body jerking in the ropes like an animal trying to break from a trap. But nothing gives. My shoulders can’t lift. My hips can’t roll. My thighs burn, flexing against the restraints. My arms are dead weight, locked to my legs. My head thuds back to the floor with a choked breath, frustration bubbling up hot.
I can’t fucking move.
And fuck if that doesn’t make me harder.
“I fucking knew you were a kinky bastard.”
“People get tied how they need to be tied.”
