They pushed through the door and immediately stopped. The room didn’t match the rest of the warehouse at all, plush carpeting on the floor, a massage chair, gold fabric draped on the walls, a bright makeup table. And people. Several people.
A woman in a red kimono, hair piled high above a bright friendly face, reached for Mia’s hand. “You are just as the Madam described.” Her movements were fluid and graceful, leading Mia to the makeup table with gentle firmness even though she was petite.
Syria hung back at the door. Two women began removing Mia’s coat and brushing her hair. Red Kimono turned to her. “You must be Mia’s friend, the photographer.” She glanced down at the oversized bag, and Syria felt unmasked. “I am sure she is so glad you are here. The first time can be unnerving.”
She gestured to a chaise lounge. “Rest here. I am Kana, the Madam’s assistant. You may remain with us until the time of the exhibition.”
Syria sank onto the plush chaise, carefully setting her bag beside her. The women were intricately braiding Mia’s long black hair. A third woman began powdering her face.
“Shall I take your coat?” Kana asked.
Syria’s face flushed, remembering the sheer halter. “No, no. I’m a bit chilled.” The room, actually, was quite warm, but she couldn’t bear to wear such a slinky outfit among their gorgeous Japanese formality. All the women were in ceremonial dress, glimmering kimonos with the funny socks that allowed their sandals to go between the toes. Syria tucked her knees tightly together, glad for sensible boots and not the tramp heels Mia wore.
But the women quickly removed her shoes, setting them carefully on a cart. Mia faced a mirror in her sweater and boy shorts. The makeup girl stepped back and with a nod, the other women pulled the sweater over Mia’s head. Her black bra stood out sharply in the soft room, like a blight. With a quick snap, it fell away.
Mia caught Syria’s eye in the mirror, and Syria attempted a smile. The women pulled Mia to standing and tugged down the shorts. Now she was naked, but only a moment before Kana covered her in a shimmery gold robe.
The makeup girl returned to her position and Mia was given an artful look, dark lashes and deep color on her lids. Her lips were brushed plum and her cheekbones stood out. She looked beautiful, exactly right for her hair and skin, like a goddess with the braids.
A side door opened and a larger bustling woman in a plain white kimono entered with a tray of bottles. She waved the others aside and untied Mia’s robe, pressing her hands against her thighs and arms and waist. Mia caught Syria’s expression yet again, amused.
The women pulled Mia up and the robe came off and now the woman rubbed something along Mia’s rib cage, her upper arms, and then along her thighs and ankles.
Pressure points, Syria realized, and probably something to assist with the places the ropes might chafe her. She bumped her bag in just the right spot. She couldn’t hear the click but sensed the camera had taken the shot. She had no idea if she was getting anything, but the image was amazing, Mia, surrounded by the women in their resplendent costume, anxious and bemused.
The woman stood, satisfied and the gold robe went back on.
Kana waved to Syria. “It is time. You will go with me to sit with the audience. Because you are a woman, you will have to sit in the back. I understand if this does not fit with your idea of how you would be treated, but this group, while not strictly Japanese, likes to abide by certain rules. We hope you will obey them so that you might come again.”
She smiled, and Syria was reminded of a butterfly, her face was so open and kind, the color from her kimono reflecting on her face.
“Okay.” Syria didn’t know what else to say but picked up her bag and followed Kana out through the door. The other women led Mia another way. “See you soon!” she called out.
The corridor continued another several yards then opened into a large space bordered by a stage lit with soft white towers of light. Three rows of chairs were filled with men of many ethnicities, all in suits, laughing and talking amongst themselves.
When she entered, they quieted, turning to look as though they had smelled a woman. Kana held her tightly and announced, “Madam has brought a new submissive, and this is her escort. She will watch the proceedings from the back.”
The men nodded and were turning back to their conversations when Kana, trying to be helpful, slid the bag off Syria’s arm and tugged the jacket off.
The light lit the white halter and the sudden cooling off made her nipples tighten painfully. Syria wanted to grab the coat back, but she was stuck, and Kana was handing her things to an attendant. She didn’t know which to panic more about — her camera going away or the attention her outfit had drawn.
She pulled at the hem of the skirt as the men silently appraised her, twisted in their seats. Why had she and Mia thought this was a good idea?
Kana, thankfully, made no mention of her clothing and led her to a cushioned chair in the corner. A boy dressed all in black came onstage, leading a metal hook on several ropes along a metal bar until it rested in the center. The men turned their attention to this, and Syria relaxed. Hopefully they would forget about her now. She crossed her arms over her chest.
A man in silky black pants and a ceremonial jacket came on stage and bowed to the audience. Music began, full of flutes and strange instruments Syria didn’t recognize, flighty and light.
The girl they’d met at the door came out in a sky blue kimono, her makeup slightly altered, the white face accented with silvery blue shadow and kissed pink lips. The man took her by the hand and led her to the center of the stage, turning her in a circle for everyone to admire.
She kept her eyes downcast, demure, so small as to almost appear to be a girl, although Syria knew she had to be plenty old enough. Her glossy hair was swept up with two crossing bamboo spears.
The man came behind her and embraced her, one hand on her belly, another cupping her chin, bringing her face up to his. He smiled at her, rapt and loving, and ran his fingers along her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, and just inside the fold of the kimono.
Syria stirred and could not pull her eyes away, but became aware that his hand was loosening the girl’s robe. Then he spun her, hand tight on the blue fabric, and as the little wisp whirled, she broke free of the kimono, pale and naked, turning more and more slowly across the stage.
Her body had been rouged at the thighs and breasts. She was trimmed but not shaven, the dark hair a deep triangle below the white belly. The man tossed the kimono away and reached for the hook, pulling it lower. Only then did Syria realize he had a coil of white rope in his hand. The girl turned back to him in slow circles, and he quickly twisted the first tie, pressing her arms lightly so that she lifted them. And he caught her again, running a hand along her body, across the tiny breasts, and wrapped the rope around her waist, cinching it tight.
Syria’s brain whirled as he whipped through the steps of creating a cinch on her waist, another above and below her breasts, smashing them tightly between, and then one on her thigh. He attached her to the hook, letting one leg dangle, lifting the other straight up and lashing it into place.
Now she hung, one ankle near her ear, arms tied together over her head. He bent the free leg and tied her ankle to her thigh. Then he stepped away, observing her with admiration and something akin to love. He grasped her knee to spin her, and now the work was complete. The girl whirled, a blur of rope, breast, white skin and rosy spots, her lightly furred mound the center point of attention, open and ready.
After a moment, the man released her, pulling her down with the loving care of a parent, stroking the red whelps from the ropes as the girl curled into him.
Syria was blown away by the sheer emotion of the experience. The men in the audience were silent, appreciative. She imagined the same scene with other people, hooting and clapping. But here, only the lyrical cascade of the music filled the room in the aftermath of what felt and looked sexual, but had actually had almost no contact you would no
rmally consider to be sex.
Her body throbbed in several places, and she knew she was slick. Maybe Mia would be the same way afterward and they could go home together.
Tyson had introduced her to video chat, and a whole new set of possibilities had opened up. She wished she had her phone and could show him where she was, but judging by the silent deference of the audiences, pulling out an electronic gizmo to shoot video probably wouldn’t go over too well. Once more, Syria wished they had a real relationship and lived in the same town.
Another man came on stage, this one dressed more normally in jeans and a white turtleneck. His submissive strutted on stage, completely different from the childlike deference of the first girl.
She was deeply tan with long blond hair falling over the thin straps of a form-fitting black dress. She cocked a hip, elbow out, and tossed her hair over one shoulder. The man laughed, chin high, then rubbed the stubble on his jaw as if trying to decide how to manage his charge.
The audience had visibly relaxed, and the tone of this pair was completely different from the first. The girl walked in a tight circle around him, as if appraising his appeal. He grabbed her and twisted her in front of him, but still held her in the same pose as the first man had held the first girl, hand on the belly and holding her chin. Maybe it was some element of the ritual. The first girl was innocent and had to be taught. This one was to be tamed.
He kissed her deeply, his hand moving to clamp a breast. When the woman relaxed, he moved to a tender stroke of the back of his hand along her arm, just grazing a nipple with his thumb.
The tension in the room grew and Syria felt it within herself. He was about to strike, like a lion coiled before his prey.
They stayed in that position another moment, then the man grabbed the straps of her dress and jerked it down in one swift movement.
Syria inhaled so sharply that a few of the men turned around. She covered her mouth. She couldn’t get thrown out before Mia’s turn.
Like the first man, this one worked swiftly, but the differences were monumental. He blindfolded his girl and used a spreader bar to make her knees go wide. His touch was much more sexual, lingering on her popped-out breasts and sliding through her folds. His touch on his submissive made Syria writhe in her seat, much hotter and wondering if she touched herself, if anyone would notice. She longed for her coat to place in her lap.
The men were impassive, smoking or sipping drinks, but otherwise seemingly unmoved. Syria didn’t know how they weren’t going crazy. Maybe they saw this all the time.
The girl spun slowly in a lying position, anchor ropes at her head, shoulders, waist, and thighs. The spreader bar made it easy to see the glistening sex as it passed by.
The man lit red candles and reached out to still her spinning. He heated the soles of her feet until she flinched. He dripped red wax along her legs, across her belly, and dribbled it on her breasts. The room grew more tense, the men shifting in their seats, and Syria saw they were not as unaffected as they had first appeared.
The man bowed and then his part was over. The woman was not released, but shifted to the side of the stage on her hook, still in her suspension. Two boys tugged additional hooks along the pipe. Apparently there would be more than one girl bound now.
A third man came out on stage, bowed, and led a figure encased completely in black onto the stage. She had no face or hands or any visible feature, but the shiny fabric clung to her like an outer layer of skin. This man did not caress or comfort his submissive, but quickly bound her body in neon yellow ropes. As he worked on her, the Madam came out on stage. Syria held her breath as the woman bowed in her brilliant blue kimono, then stepped aside as Kana led Mia onto the stage in the gold robe.
She seemed so small and vulnerable up there. The man with the black figure finished his work, suspending the girl high above the stage and setting her into a slow rotation.
Mia glanced at the bound woman, then turned back to the Madam, who nodded at her. Mia slowly bent backward, the slippery robe cascading along her form as her hands reached the floor behind her. Madam knelt, tying a quick bind around one ankle.
Mia walked her hands closer to her feet with a contortionist’s practiced ease until she was tight in a circle, the robe flowing along her body. Madam tied the bound ankle to Mia’s wrist and tugged on the fabric until it covered Mia’s face to form a loop. She was no longer a woman, but a circle of gold.
Then men straightened in their chairs, leaning in as they watched. Syria surged with pride for her friend, creating something so beautiful and challenging.
Now Madam untied the gold robe and jerked it free, letting the shimmering fabric flutter the ground. The tension grew again as the men took in Mia’s body in its tight circle, her breasts floating near the floor, her hips high. Madam swiftly created a sturdy corselet around Mia’s waist, distributing her weight across several loops. With only two simple areas of binding, she attached the ropes to the metal loop and raised Mia up.
The men pressed forward in their seats. Now that Mia was aloft in her tight ring, Madam pushed her further, taking the untied leg and tying it straight up. Syria slid to the edge of her chair, anxious, worried that Mia might be in pain.
Mia’s face showed only calmness, but a small tremor in her arm did not go unnoticed by Madam. She adjusted a cinch and pressed her hands along Mia’s body, much like she had during their lesson. Mia relaxed into her position, a near perfect ring of skin, one leg gracefully outstretched. Madam took the free arm and stretched it out to balance the form.
Oh, to have her camera. Syria glanced back at the attendant’s stand, where a line of coats were hanging. Her bag was lying on the counter. The boy who had taken it from Kana was not there.
Syria stood slowly, back against the wall, easing toward the stand. The bag was in a good position. All she needed was to press the proper spot, and she could capture this amazing scene, three women in suspension, Mia in the middle.
She’d reached the counter when Madam herself glanced out and saw her. Something in her expression made the men turn around. Syria tried to lean nonchalantly on the counter, but it was not fixed to the floor and shifted backward with a squeal.
Everyone was watching. A coil of rope sat on the end of the counter, and not knowing anything else to try, she picked it up and began tying a coin knot. The men turned back around, and Madam bowed to show her work was complete. The men began to stand and approach the women, keeping a respectful distance to admire the displays.
Syria set the coin knot down, still considering bumping the bag to take a shot. But one of the men walked back to her rather than to the stage. “Are you studying the art?”
He wore a black suit, no tie. His dark hair was impeccably trimmed above a classically handsome face.
Syria remembered the instruction not to speak and simply nodded.
The man fingered the coin knot. “Will you make another?”
Syria untied the rope and began again. The knot was both intricate and simple. Only four steps, but every loop had to be in place and each movement needed its specific order, angle and tension, or the two overlapping coins would not appear. She held up the finished work and he nodded appreciatively.
Syria’s anxiety increased as they stood together. She had no way to explain her position there without speaking, and no telling what he might be assuming about her. She was painfully aware of the sheer top and her nipples poking against the fabric.
“I can only assume you came with Madam’s new submissive,” he continued. “Forgive me for not introducing myself. I am Erik Andrada. I am visiting from the Philippines.”
He turned to her with a bent elbow cocked away from his body. “Might I escort you to the stage to admire the art?”
She nodded and took his arm. From the corner of her eye, she saw Kana rush into the back of the room, see her, and stop. Whatever Syria was doing, it was probably the wrong thing.
The Madam bowed as they approached but her lips were a thin line o
f displeasure. Mia hung only a few feet away. Syria wanted to ask her if she was comfortable, but didn’t want to make matters worse by speaking. Several of the men had returned to their chairs and now spoke amiably to each other, smoking and drinking.
Syria longed to touch Mia, make some small contact to reassure her. But Mia’s eyes were closed, perhaps in concentration, maybe to manage her position.
Erik pressed lightly on Mia’s thigh, continuing the slow turn. Mia flinched lightly, but Syria knew that movement, not of pain, but a state of high sensitivity, the one that makes every touch feel like a jolt.
Syria throbbed again. She’d never felt so much like an arrow in a bow, stretched taut and ready to spring. Tyson had encouraged her to be Mia’s lover too, and seeing her vulnerable like this was more stirring than anything they had done together.
The man who had tied the blond woman brought over a lit candle, running it along Mia’s calf. Now Mia moaned and the sexual tension in the room ratcheted up a notch.
The girls from the makeup room came out, wearing sheer gauze that hid little of their tight, lithe bodies. A few of the men tapped on their tables and the girls scattered among them. The music bled through it all, lyrical and melancholy, beautiful and haunting. The candle man dripped the scarlet wax along Mia’s leg and now Syria could barely stand it so she reached out to touch her, smoothing the still-soft color along her skin.
A gong sounded from somewhere, and the man with the candle walked back to his own submissive. All three girls were lowered, and Erik returned to the audience.
Syria stayed near, not caring anymore if she was breaking tradition, wanting to be close to her friend. Madam removed the rope carefully, letting Mia down slowly. All the submissives groaned in their exhales, feeling relief from the bindings.
The room gradually grew in sound as the girls sat among the men in the audience, and the music swelled. Syria rubbed her hands along the red marks on Mia, who shuddered again and again, but still kept her eyes closed.
Syria remembered how limp and groggy Mia had been after Madam had come to her house, and wondered how to handle her here on the hard stage. The gold robe still lay on the floor and Syria snatched at it, prepared to cover her friend. But Mia opened her eyes, piercing Syria with need, and this brought Syria over the edge, forgetting she was on a stage, that strange men sat only a few feet away, and that the Madam presided over them like a statue, disapproving and stern.
Shades of Submission: Fifty by Fifty #1: Billionaire Romance Boxed Set Page 21