SEVENTH KNOT #2
Just like that.
“I’m going to push a finger in,” he says quietly, fingertips circling my rim, the ointment slick and sticky. “Is that alright?”
My instinct is to snap something smart, but my throat closes around the words. Instead, I nod, breathing sharp through my nose.
“Yeah.”
And not just ‘yeah’. It’s ‘fuck yeah!’
The pressure comes slow, easing in with too much gentleness. One finger. Just one. But it burns—a dull ache edged with heat. My stomach jumps. My cock pulses. My hands clench into fists against the backs of my calves, the rope digging into my wrists.
“I’m going to add another. Is that—?”
“Yeah. Shit—yeah, fine.” I grit my teeth while my cock leaks another streak down my stomach.
The second finger stretches me wider, dragging a low sound from my chest. It’s not pain, not with the ointment softening the edges and the way he moves like he knows what he’s looking for.
And when he finds it—when the tips of those fingers press just right—I twitch so hard the rope bites into my arms, and a shock races up my spine so fast it punches the air out of me.
“Fuck,” I rasp.
He pulls back slightly, just a fraction.
“Too much?”
I let out this messy breath, jaw clenched, body twitching.
“Don’t make me laugh.”
And then he pushes back in, slow and fucking deep, and fuck, it hits different this time. His fingers don’t move fast, but they know exactly where to go. He curves them just a little and—shit—there it is again. That spot that makes my legs shake and my cock leak.
It’s not some delicate shit. It’s raw and hot and filthy.
Feels like something’s lighting up behind my navel, this electric pressure building fast. His fingers rub over it again and again, and every time it shoots straight through my spine, makes me grunt and buck uselessly against the rope.
It’s like getting kicked in the balls, but, like, in the best way.
“Fuck, right there—” I choke out, biting down hard on my bottom lip.
“Looks like you enjoy surrender,” he says, looking straight at my face. I close my eyes. “Don’t look away from it. This is what surrender feels like. Nothing hidden, just you letting go.”
I want to yell at him. Tell him to shut up. But there’s nothing left in my mouth except breathless, broken sounds.
And Naoya keeps going, moving just right, pressing just enough. I lose track of everything except the tension building low in my gut, coiling so tight it aches. And I can’t thrust, can’t grind, can’t chase it—only lie here while it builds and builds and builds.
“I’m going to add another one,” he murmurs. “Okay?”
“Yes,” I hiss. “Fuck. Please—yes.”
He shifts his weight. Angles different. And then—
“Ah—!”
I choke on it, back arching as much as the ropes allow. Every part of me is on fire. My cock pulses against my stomach, untouched. I feel full. Stretched. Shaking.
“I’m going to—” I gasp. “Just—fuck—do whatever.”
Silence.
Then his fingers curl in deep, press and hold.
My whole body pulls taut, every bound limb straining against the ropes, and I come hard, untouched, spurting across my stomach, trembling so violently I think something might snap. But he doesn’t let me go. He holds me there—inside, deep, his palm steady on my thigh as I shake apart under him.
The orgasm crashes over me in waves, brutal, exhausting.
And when it’s over, I’m not breathing right.
I’m twitching, drenched in sweat, brain short-circuited like a dying thing.
My cock’s a mess, twitching and drooling onto my stomach, the air thick with sex.
My thighs are fucking numb. I’m floating, barely aware of the ropes cutting into my skin, only that I’m limp and ruined and completely spent.
Naoya withdraws his fingers slowly and stands, and when he’s back, he kneels beside me with a warm, damp cloth.
He wipes me down, dragging the cloth over my stomach first, soaked with come. The heat of it is weirdly nice. Calming, even. I’m basically dead weight, all slack muscles and half-lidded eyes, letting him do whatever.
My head’s still fogged when I catch the tent in his pants—he’s hard. Real fucking hard. The fabric of his dark sweatpants’s pulled tight over it. It makes my lips twitch.
“You’re hard,” I say, voice hoarse as hell.
He doesn’t look up, just keeps cleaning the mess around my dick like it’s nothing new.
“Of course I am. You’re an attractive man.”
“Knew you were into all this shit.”
“I never said I wasn’t.”
“You can stick it in if you want.”
“There’s no need.”
“Fine. Use my mouth then.”
He lifts his gaze just for a second, one eyebrow raised like he’s bored and amused all at once.
“There’s no need,” he repeats. “Tonight was about you.”
I stare at the ceiling, heart still punching slow and heavy.
“Will there be a next time that’s about you?”
He folds the cloth, sets it aside, and then starts undoing the knots, one by one. Each one looser than I remembered.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come back.”
“Why the fuck not?”
He pulls the knot free with a firm tug.
“Because I’m attracted to you,” he says simply. “And I won’t be able to stay professional.”
I scoff, even though my throat’s tight.
“Good. I don’t want you to stay professional.”
He looks at me, and for the first time tonight, he smiles. It curls at the corner of his mouth like he’s trying not to let it happen.
Then, quieter, he says, “I have to stay professional. For this.”
“What the fuck is this supposed to mean?”
“This,” he repeats, gesturing vaguely to the room. “The kinbaku sessions. What you pay for.”
“So I’ll stop paying, then. Easy.”
That earns me a quiet snort, the smile still hanging off the edge of his mouth, a little crooked now.
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 are not!”
Naoya just smiles again, a little broader this time.
“Try calling me Takahashi-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.”