NINETH KNOT #2
The ceilings are dark like a cavern, crisscrossed with steel beams and hooks and suspension rigs.
Rope is everywhere: threaded through eyelets in the walls; wrapped around people, holding them, forcing them spread open.
But it’s not just rope. Chains clink from everywhere, too, and scary looking objects and toys I’ve only seen in videos and some I’ve never even fucking dreamed of.
I catch the scent of hot wax, and just a few feet away, a thick candle drips down the belly of a tied-up man who’s whimpering like he’s begging for it.
Most of the lights are low and colored, deep red and bruised purple, green, gold, pink, but there are white spotlights too.
In one, a woman with long dreadlocks and a face full of piercings is riding a bound man’s face like it’s her fucking throne.
He’s strapped down, arms and legs spread wide, and she’s grinding so hard I think she might suffocate him.
Another spotlight shows a trio. One sub on all fours, two Doms—one with a flogger, the other with a crop.
They alternate strikes, hitting him with rhythm, and he shudders under every blow, drool slicking the floor under his face.
His back looks like a fucking painting, all red streaks, purple bruises, swollen skin. Gorgeous.
Everywhere I look, someone’s being used. Stretched. Fucked. Tied. Choked. Worshiped.
This is what I always thought this kinky shit was supposed to be. And Naoya-san really pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about.
My dick’s already hard in my pants and I don’t even give a shit. No one here does.
Naoya-san is watching me, a small smile playing on his lips.
“Looks like you liked the place.”
“Fuck, yeah! This is more like it.”
He pulls something from his pocket. A slim, elegant black collar with a single D-ring in front. From it hangs a thin chain leash, matte metal. He holds it up.
“Is this your way of telling everyone I’m off limits?” I ask, licking my lip.
He fastens the collar around my neck like it was made to be there, the leather hugging my throat. Then the leash clicks into place and something in my gut snaps into place with it.
He glances at me.
“It’s how I tell them you’re mine.”
My cock fucking aches.
I want to fight him. I want to kneel. I want to be used in front of all these people. But I stay still. Barely. My body’s vibrating like I’m full of hornets.
Naoya-san gives the leash a tug and I move.
“Tonight’s Bondage Day,” he says, walking forward. “Every second Friday. Everyone’s expected to participate.”
I laugh, breathless.
“I think I found religion.”
“We’ll see if you still think that when it’s your turn.”
We walk through the dungeon—his pace slow, like he’s parading me, which he fucking is.
I can tell he’s some known figure in this place, just like he was in the kinbaku studio above.
He’s showing me off to those people and they are looking.
Some linger too long. Some look me up and down like they’re picking out cuts of meat at the butcher.
It’s fucking hot.
One Dom walks past, guiding a girl on a chain leash like mine. She’s on all fours, mouth held open by a ring gag, tits bound tight with hemp that makes her skin bulge obscenely.
“Aren’t you going to ask me to crawl like dog?”
He laughs and looks over his shoulder at me.
“I’m not interested in pet play. But let me know if you are.”
Yeah, maybe that one’s not for me. It pisses me off when people call me “mad dog”, even though I know I’m one.
Naoya-san cuts through the haze and heat of the place and people nod to him, glance at me like I’m a fucking prize pig being led to market.
He brings us to one of the raised platforms—smaller than some of the stages we passed, but more intimate, like a private altar built for worship and sin.
A brass plaque hangs crooked on the front: RESERVED.
There are ropes already set, deep red and already hanging from metal rings.
Naoya-san stops in front of it and looks at me.
“Is this space too much for you? We can always go back upstairs. The performance rooms above are gentler. No touching. Just the art.”
I look around.
There’s a girl tied up nearby, chest bare, her nipples clamped and connected to a battery someone’s pulsing slowly. She’s moaning loud. A man kneels beneath her, licking her pussy while another woman draws lines down her stomach with a crop. The light above their space glows soft red.
I snort.
“Why the fuck would I want that when I can have this?”
His lips twitch.
“Then we’ll stay.”
He steps onto the platform, tugs me along, and stops beneath the rig.
“There’s a system here,” he says, as he checks the rope, pulling it through his fingers with this fucking reverent care that makes me throb.
“The lights above each space control access. Green means you’re just putting on a show.
People can watch, nothing more. Yellow is for mild interaction. Touching. Some teasing. Red…”
He looks at me.
“Red means free use. No limits, unless I say so. You will become a public toy. Some guests get creative with it.”
I swallow.
“Which one do you like?”
“I’m letting you choose, Kaito.”
“Red, then.”
He hums in approval and nods. Flicks the switch.
The light above us shifts. One slow pulse of red.
“I like to share my subs, but I have rules,” Naoya-san says. His hand goes to my chest, slides down to the waistband of my pants. “Most people here know them. First, no fucking without condoms. Ever. Second, no one comes inside you. Not anywhere. Mouth, ass, doesn’t matter. That’s mine to fill.”
He pauses. Presses his palm just above my cock.
“And third, you won’t come unless I’m the one using you. Your cock will be tied tight.You understand?”
I nod once. Breathing hard.
“No. Say it.”
“I understand, sensei.” My voice is raw. Hoarse. “You own my orgasm. No one else gets it.”
“If you are good, I will reward you.”
I moan. Fuck. My knees shake a little and I want him to ruin me in front of everyone. I want to be made an example of. I want to be used until I don’t know where my body ends and the rope begins.
“Take off your clothes.”
I kick my boots off, take my shirt off, pull my pants down rough, shove my boxers down with them. My cock is hard and leaking so fucking much it’s ridiculous.
Naoya-san kneels before me and takes out the thinnest rope I’ve ever seen him use, and starts at the base of my cock, wrapping it slow and tight. Each twist makes my skin strain, my balls drawing tight as he binds them along with my shaft, the whole fucking thing restrained in a web of red.
When he’s done, I’m flushed, bound from balls to tip, cock caught in a bright, painful cage. It aches and fucking burns. The tip is dark and I moan with the weird feeling of it being ten times more sensitive.
He stands, takes my wrists, and starts working me into the suspension rig.
He’s finishing the knots in my arms when I speak again.
“Why do you like watching people fuck your subs? You’re not worried I’ll end up too loose for your fancy cock, sensei?”
He checks a knot, then tugs it harder to test the tension. I hiss.
“I like watching people have limited access to what’s mine,” he says, simply. “They can see, touch and use you. But they’ll never get everything. That’s only for me. Only I get to take it all.”
My mouth twitches. My dick, too.
“The guests will fuck your mouth and your ass. But in the end, after they use you, I can show them, and show you, that I’m the owner of your body.”
I grin and I swear to every deity to exist that I’ve never been so turned on in my fucking life.
“Knew you were a freak the second I saw you.”
The rope jerks hard. It lashes up against my thigh, biting into the skin with a raw burn that makes me hiss through my teeth. My leg trembles, wide open now, as he ties it down and out, making me vulnerable and displayed.
But he’s smiling.
“Always the quiet ones,” I mutter. “You fuckers are the worst.”
He pulls a rope and my body drops into a horizontal position—suspended perfectly parallel to the floor, like a puppet held mid-air. My face is tilted slightly down. My ass raised, centered at the perfect height for someone to step in behind and fuck me. I feel the air kiss my hole.
Naoya-san circles me, then stops in front of my face.
“Open.”
I do. Mouth slack, tongue flat, and let him push the ring gag in. It stretches my jaw, makes my eyes sting for a second with how much it fucking hurts. My lips strain around the metal, spit already dripping out the corner of my mouth.
Then he takes out two little bells, delicate and silver, and loops them around my wrists. I hear the soft tinkle as he fastens them. He wraps my hand closed around them.
“These are your safeword now. You can’t speak, so if you want it to stop, open your fist. Make the bells ring.”
He steps away and I don’t know where he goes at first, if things will already start or if he will stay close.
But then he’s back in my periphery, holding long, shimmering strips of condoms—maybe five, maybe six of them, each lined with a dozen small silver packets. A fucking ammo belt made for fucking.
He starts tucking the strips into the rope web spread over my thighs.
One hangs against the outside of my leg, another he slips under a tight band running close to my groin.
My heart kicks hard, the same way it does when I fight, when I kill, when I’m on the edge of going too far.
But this isn’t a knife in my hand. It’s me being handed over, dressed up in rope and shame and the sound of bells that will never come.
“No excuses,” he says to me.
He touches my face once, gently, thumb caressing my cheek, and then he steps back, sitting on the chair in the corner of our platform, one leg crossed over the other like he’s watching a fucking opera or some shit.
That’s when I feel the hands.
Everywhere.