He unties my arms the rest of the way and pulls me up to sit, steadying me without asking. I barely have the strength to do it, let alone hold myself up, so he sits behind me, legs open, my back against his chest. His hands move to my thighs, unlooping the knots from my left leg.
“I only tie my clients,” he says, voice low in my ear. “And my submissives.”
I look down at his hands moving slowly over the knot.
“I could be your sub.”
He presses against my back so I lean forward, leaning into the space between my legs. He gives the rope a soft tug as he pulls it away from under my thigh. My left leg goes slack.
“You don’t know what that means.”
“I know enough,” I mutter. “It’s that thing where you use leather and whips on me and get off on beating the crap outta me.”
That gets a soft laugh from him, one of those breathy, amused sounds. He pulls me upright again and starts working on the other leg.
“You’re confusing D/s with S/M. They’re not the same.”
“They can’t be?”
“They can coexist,” he says, gentle. “One’s about control and trust. The other’s about pain and pleasure. You mix them if both people want to. But don’t mistake one for the other.”
“I don’t care. I could do it. Especially if it’s got that maso shit in it. Pain turns me on a bit, I think. Whatever.”
He hums low in his throat and doesn’t argue. I watch his fingers undo the last knot, my muscles feeling like overcooked noodles, useless and twitchy. He sets the rope aside and lifts one of my arms, thumb brushing over the deep pink marks carved into my wrist.
“If we were to start anything like that... first step would be treating me properly.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Properly?”
“Formally. I’m obviously older than you.”
“Yeah? How old?”
“Thirty-seven.”
I sit up straighter, twist to look at him over my shoulder.
“The fuck? You arenot!”
Naoya just smiles again, a little broader this time.
“Try calling meTakahashi-san.”
“Fuck off, I can do the formal shit if you want. Whatever.” I pause, lips quirking. “Nao-san.”
That gets him. His expression cracks open into a full, real smile—quiet and warm. He lifts his hand again, brushes a few strands of damp hair from my face. His thumb lingers at the corner of my mouth.
“You’re lucky I like brats.”
EIGHTH KNOT
Naoya-san works every fucking day. Eight to five, Monday to Saturday, rain or shine. I know because I followed him—obviously. A pretty boy like that can’t walk around unmonitored. Not in this city, not looking likethat.
And yeah, he’s thirty-seven, fuck that. He’s pretty, and he’s thin too. I bet a strong wind could take him out, toss him straight into traffic or some shit like that.
Every day, he gets out with a clean, pressed look that pisses me off—black suit, black tie, like he was born inside a funeral. Walks out of that studio at the same time, head down, keys in hand, same routine like a fucking clock.
