NINETH KNOT
I check my face in the rearview mirror while I’m parked outside some weird art studio, and I’m kind of relieved that I don’t look like I crawled out of a fucking dumpster for once.
The swelling from the last job is down. No bruises on my cheekbone, no split lip, nothing swollen or fucked up for once.
The little scar under my eye is still there, yeah, but it gives me flavor, doesn’t it?
Makes me look like the kind of guy who knows how to throw a punch and take one.
Things in the gang aren’t working out the way they should. Last three jobs were supposed to be easy. Clean. Point A to Point B. In and out. No drama. But someone up the chain must be on shabu or some shit because nothing’s gone as planned.
Even Ryo thought I was having weird fucking luck.
He came to me once during the bosses’ meeting, grinning like he always does when he’s about to say something that’ll piss me off.
Called me “Kai-chan” in front of half the room, like he’s been doing lately.
I was sitting there, fantasizing about snapping his neck, when he leaned in and said, “You didn’t notice anything weird lately? ”
“No. Why the fuck?”
“You almost died three days ago, right?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“That job in Shinjuku. The casino clean-up with Tetsukaminari’s dog. You went with him, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. So?”
“You almost died because that idiot fucked up.”
“The fucking point?”
“How many times have you seen that guy fucking up during a job?” Ryo smirked. “Weird kind of luck you’ve been having, huh?”
He was right about that one, but that wasn’t the only thing that went off lately.
First job, ambushed. Second, the target had four more guys than expected, all armed with metal bats. Third one, the latest, was the worst.
I was supposed to “send a message” to some asshole poking around our territory.
Kobayashi-sama himself gave me the green light, and Intel said the guy would be alone.
Said I could get in, cut a few things that bleed, and bounce before anyone noticed.
Yeah, well. Intel can suck my dick. Because when I rolled in, I was greeted by a dozen armed rat bastards, not one lonely mark.
I really thought I was going to die at that time.
And that pissed me off more than scared me—because I haven’t mastered sucking Naoya-san’s cock yet.
But hey. My tanto sang that day. She fucking sang. 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 it not mine—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 he left me 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 fucking taxonomy of 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’s what I am (mixed with rope bunny, which I refuse to acknowledge).
Mouthy. Defiant. Always testing and pushing.
Nao-san likes it. And not just likes it, but I think that’s his favorite kind of sub.
So I call him Nao-san instead of Takahashi-san all 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. A public one.
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, wood platforms. 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?”
Naoya-san nods.
“Tonight.”
That man’s gaze slides to me, then. Makes my shoulders twitch. He steps closer, circles me once.
“Doesn’t look like your usual type,” he says, and I tense. “But he’s got some wild energy. Mouthy, I bet. Did you tame him?”
I’m about to say fuck you, but Naoya-san’s hand tightens just enough around my waist to make the message clear. Behave.
“That’s not the goal.”
The man hums.
“Will you share?”
There’s a pause.
Naoya-san’s expression doesn’t change, but his hand tightens subtly at the small of my back.
“I’m still considering it.”
What the fuck does that mean?
The guy chuckles and disappears into the room again, leaving me stiff as hell and staring at Naoya.
“Share me?” I hiss under my breath. “What the fucking—”
“Not here,” he says, low. “Come.”
We slip past the edge of the tatami space, down a narrow hall to a door I hadn’t noticed before. He opens it, and a dark stairwell yawns below.
“Where the hell are we going?” I ask, even as I follow.
He doesn’t answer.
The stairs spiral down, lit only by soft red sconces.
The deeper we go, the thicker the air gets, and I can hear music now, like it’s being muffled by many soundproof walls.
He opens a door and the sound gets a little more persistent.
We walk through a neon lit corridor and then there’s another heavy door.
And I realize I followed him down into another world.
The moment the fucking door swings open, it’s like Tokyo just flipped inside-out and showed me her dripping, throbbing, depraved heart.
We step into the heat first. Thick, humid, sex-laced air that hits my skin and surrounds me with smells like leather and latex and sweat and cum, all wrapped up in the sweet burn of alcohol and something that might be blood. Or maybe I just hope it’s blood.
It’s not one big open room—it’s like walking into a maze. Velvet curtains hang from the ceiling to section off spaces, but none of them are really closed. Some are cages. Some are platforms. Some are glass cubicles. Some are fucking stages. And every one of them is dripping in filth.