But hey. My tanto sang that day. Shefuckingsang. I cleaned house with her, and sliced through flesh like I was born in a warzone. By the time I limped out of there, my jacket was soaked in blood—most of itnotmine—and my blade was humming in my hand. She was happy, I could feel it.
Nao-san wasn’t.
He didn’t say much when I showed up looking like a massacre in human form. Just gave me that look—tight-lipped, like swallowing a lecture—then he patched me up in silence. His hands were careful but clipped, like he didn’t trust himself to speak without setting the room on fire. And once the last bandage was taped down, he tied me the fuck up like a fucking mummy, arms and legs pinioned for hours. Not a punish-hurt tie, just a full lockdown.
I was hard the whole time.
And heleftme like that, and didn’t even touch me. He sat nearby, reading something, eyes flicking over now and then like he was making sure I didn’t explode.
Anyway.
That was almost a month ago. We’ve been doing this for two, since that one time he fucked me for the first time. Two months of rules and rope and lectures. Of learning how to kneel properly and ask for permission. Of accepting that calling someone “master” doesn’t always mean you’re weak. I learned to wait. To breathe. To stay still even when my skin’s crawling and every nerve’s screaming for friction. Learned that submission isn’t about just giving up, not just about sex, and that trust isn’t surrendering your strength, it’s offering it to someone worthy.
Also learned there’s a whole fuckingtaxonomyof subs. Who knew?
There are service subs, pain sluts, good boys, dolls, slaves, pets, rope bunnies—yeah, that one got a laugh out of me too. But then there’s brats. And turns out,that’swhat I am (mixed with rope bunny, which I refuse to acknowledge). Mouthy. Defiant. Always testing and pushing. Nao-sanlikesit. And not just likes it, but I think that’s his favorite kind of sub. So I call himNao-saninstead ofTakahashi-sanall the time just to see his mouth twitch.
So, two weeks ago, he looked at me and said I was ready for something else. Said he wanted me to model for a Kinbaku presentation. Apublicone.
I said yes before he even finished asking.
And now here I am. Sitting in my car, parked outside the place he told me to go. Some art studio in a discreet-looking building with white exterior and minimal signage. Looks like the kind of place people go to paint nude models or meditate or whatever the fuck vanilla people do for fun.
I grip the wheel, then exhale slowly.
Since I agreed to it, the sessions have gotten more intense. More complicated positions. Suspensions. He hangs me now, sometimes, my body off the ground, swaying from the ceiling. He touches me, too—to get me off with his fingers inside me or with his incredibly smart hand around my cock, stroking me until I think I’m going insane. But sometimes it’s for no reason at all—he’ll just sit there, playing with my hole after fucking me. He just likes to touch me when I’m open and sloppy, I guess. And when he’s satisfied, he tends to the rope marks. Runs ointment into my wrists, kisses the red tracks down my ribs, and holds me until I stop shaking.
I don’t say that to him, but I think I like the feeling of his arms around me more than any rope.
* * *
The studio’s bigger than I expected. High ceilings, polished floors, warm paper lanterns casting a mellow amber over the people inside—most of them standing around with that same placid, contemplative expression that makes me want to shake them by the shoulders. There are mats on the ground, woodplatforms. It’s like walking into a fucking yoga retreat. Or a gallery curated by a monk.
A guy’s being tied in one corner. His rigger—a woman with a sharp bob and a full-sleeve tattoo—is moving like she’s doing a fucking tea ceremony. The crowd around them watches in near silence, as if he’s not got his balls bound in an elaborate pattern but is instead posing for some holy painting.
Not what I imagined.
Naoya-san glances at me like he can read my thoughts.
“It’s about restraint, Kaito. Not sex.”
“Boring,” I mutter, arms crossed, though I don’t really mean it. I just don’t get it. I can see the artistry, sure. But nobody’s even moaning.
A woman in a red kimono walks by and stops mid-stride when she sees Naoya.
“Takahashi-san?” she says, blinking like she’s seen a ghost. “You’re performing again?”
Naoya-san bows politely.
“It’s been a while.”
“Too long,” she smiles, and there’s something oddly tender in her voice. “You never found a good model, did you?”
“I have one now.” He turns to me, and his hand presses low against my back. “This is Kaito.”
Another man joins us, dressed in wide black hakama and a tight-fitting dark vest that shows his lean build. He looks Naoya-san up and down with something just shy of nostalgia.
“So you’re doing the special piece again?” the man asks. “You’ll come back for that one too?”
