Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Just slightly.
At first, it was a soft pivot of her hips.
A micro-shift.
Her body rotated an inch or two.
Then more.
And more.
She delicately twirled like a ballerina.
And God, it was mesmerizing.
My eyes locked on the curve of her back, the line of rope that bisected the moon tattoos running down her spine. The silk of her skin. The shimmer of sweat on her thighs. The glint of red cords hugging every curve.
It all blurred slightly with the motion, not in chaos, but in hypnotic grace.
I felt it in my body, the pull in my gut. The shift in my balance. As if some invisible part of me had been tied to her and now I was spinning too.
The world tilted.
Something about this moment was waking up muscles I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in tension.
A deep warmth unfurled low in my belly.
God help me but I kind of. . .wanted to know what that felt like.
The cello wept behind her. One long note stretched through the air.
The rope creaked faintly above as her spin slowed and the man reached out—not to stop her but to guide her once again.
His fingers brushed the rope near her thigh, shifting the angle, adjusting her direction.
She moved again, slowly twirling again like a ballerina hung from the stars.
Spinning.
Suspended.
Surrendered.
It was so intimate.
Exposed.
Tender.
Dangerous.
Beautiful.
I could see her blood rushing down from her ankles, flushing her skin from foot to thigh. Her face had taken on a warm, pinkish tone, a flush that mirrored the emotions blooming in my chest.
She wasn’t struggling.
She was glowing.
My pulse throbbed behind my knees, inside my wrists. I shifted slightly in my seat, thighs tightening, again, of their own accord.
I couldn’t look away.
I didn’t want to.
And when she made a full rotation—back to facing me again—her eyes opened.
Only for a moment.
But they locked on mine.
And in that single second, it felt like she saw everything.
My desire.
My envy.
My awe.
She smiled—just faintly.
Then she turned away again, spinning once more into the night.
The rope creaked softly.
The cello sang low.
I sat there, anchored in my body, yet drifting.
Caught between wonder and want.
Between safety and surrender.
Between watching her and wanting to become her.
Kenji’s deep voice filled the air, “what do you think of this performance?”
“It’s hard to even. . .think or truly try to. . .explain what I’m seeing. But it’s enchanting.”
He nodded, sipping his own sake as he watched the woman spin gently in the moonlight. “This is Shibari. It's an ancient Japanese art form that combines bondage, performance, and spirituality.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Shibari is about connection and trust. The rope is the medium of communication between the nawashi—the rope artist—and his muse. This performance is a conversation about dominance and submission.”
His words sank into me.
My heart throbbed in rhythm with the strings of the cello.
The woman was still spinning slowly, her body swaying gently with every turn. I could see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed deeply.
Her face was a picture of pure bliss.
The man in black—the nawashi—stepped in again, reaching for another coil of rope and began to weave more around her body.
I took a sip of my sake. “I would think she was in pain with all the rope but she looks like. . .she’s really enjoying this.”
Kenji smiled slightly. “Pain is subjective. Some might find it painful others might find it pleasurable, even liberating.”
She exhaled as the nawashi tied another knot at the small of her back.
The waitress appeared at our side like a wisp of fog. She poured the sake delicately, bowing slightly, then vanished.
When she left, Kenji picked his cup back up. “In Shibari, the rope doesn’t just restrain—it reveals. It brings you into your body. Into the present. Some people fear that kind of closeness. . .”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because closeness requires a vulnerability that everyone is not ready to face. The rope doesn’t bind. It reveals. It demands presence. Surrender. Control.”
I stared at him, completely transfixed by his words.
I took a sip of my sake.
Warm.
Silken.
Slightly sweet.
The heat of it slid down my throat.
He watched me the whole time. “When you’re ready, Tora. . .I would love to show you what the rope can really do.”
I swallowed and set the cup down.
Me tied up by a dangerous man that happened to have a group of killers that he called fangs.
Honestly, the idea of my being tied up by anyone didn’t sound correct in any situation, but with a Yakuza mafia boss named the Dragon?
Well. . .that just sounded suicidal.
Then there was the other part. . .
I leaned back in my chair. “There’s this fear that comes from my imagining this.”
“That is understandable.”
“But there’s also this odd guilt or. . .I don’t know, warning from my ancestors,” I let out a nervous chuckle. “I don’t know if I’m even making sense. I’ve had a good bit of sake.”