by Julia Kent
Behind her arrived a man in a black kimono, very ceremonial, much like the people Syria had met at the bondage exhibition. He bowed to them, set down a canvas back full of rope coils, and pulled the girl to him, her back to his belly, and caressed her face and neck. The girl closed her eyes, dreamy, and he slid a vivid blue rope across her ribs with a sensual leisurely pace.
Syria already felt the heat rushing through her body, swifter now and with more force after already being moved by the gypsy. She glanced at the spiked drink again. She wanted all the clutter in her brain to go away, to focus on this moment, this incredible experience she had been invited to share. She glanced at Erik, who was looking at her with his soft dark eyes. He reached for her hand and squeezed, which should have been simple and friendly, but instead Syria felt desire and need rush through her so hard that she actually sucked in a breath.
The girl moaned and drew their attention. The man had already bound her breasts in a chest harness and was sliding the rope between her legs, separating her folds. He tied a knot in the rope and pulled it deep between her legs and the girl cried out. Syria felt the need herself to feel that knot and wondered how she could get tied up by the man as well. The answer seemed simple. Drink from the other glass and let herself go.
She looked at the other stem and Erik caught her. He lifted it from the table and held it out to her. Syria set down the Cosmopolitan and accepted the other drink. It looked similar, with a slightly darker pink that edged on purple, and frothy, but when she brought it to her lips, she immediately recognized the difference. It had an edge to it, a touch of bitter, a hint of grain, like an aspirin had been dissolved in it. Her heart rate sped up instantly. Did she trust this man at all?
She leaned in to him. “I do not wish to have sex with anyone. Is that acceptable?”
“I will make sure that does not happen.” Erik squeezed her arm and gave her an earnest gaze. “Would you like to only admire? Or are there some things you might like to participate in?”
Syria watched the man bind the girl’s hands behind her head, her pert breasts lifted, her breathing rapid as the knot against her clit moved with each shift of the ropes. “I don’t know.”
“Good enough.” He patted her hand. “His ties are well done, are they not?”
The man turned the girl around and revealed his handwork. A beautiful corded braid ran from her hands, through the binding across her back, and crisscrossed in an intricate pattern along her spine.
“It’s beautiful,” Syria breathed. She took another sip of the drink, bigger this time, and set the drink next to the other. “Can I try to tie it?”
The man nodded. “Shall I untie her?”
The girl still had her eyes closed. Syria turned around. “Can I try it on Erik?”
Erik’s eyebrows lifted. “Are you propositioning me?”
Syria felt a laugh building within her. She already felt more loose. “You don’t have to get naked. Turn around.”
Erik shifted to the end of the chaise where he could present his back to her. She took one arm, then the other, and lifted them behind his head. “May I borrow a rope?” she asked the man.
He reached into a canvas bag on the floor and produced a long length of black.
“So first around the chest, right?” Syria wrapped her arms around Erik, feeling the muscles across his chest and torso as she pulled the rope around.
“Yes, my mistress.”
Huh. His mistress. Interesting. Syria brought the rope back around in a standard double column. “Then around the wrists.” She formed another double column, then leaned around to Erik’s face, closer than she’d dared get other than when they’d danced. “I’m skipping the clit knot, if that’s okay.”
He laughed in a low rumble. “Probably for the best.”
“So what now?” Syria asked. “How do you make the braid? Her fingers were getting increasingly fumbly, but her proximity to Erik, and her ability to touch him freely was starting to make her tingle as much as the clit knot had on the girl.
“Like this,” the man said, showing her the pattern.
But her hand got more and more disconnected with her brain, and instead, she laid her head on Erik’s shoulder. “I like having you at my mercy.”
“I enjoy it too,” he said.
“Let him go,” Syria said. “I think I’m no longer in top tying form.”
The man swiftly released Erik from the bonds.
“Did you want to be tied?” Erik asked. “It seems to be one of your interests.”
The image of bondage on her body made her think of Tyson, so she picked up the loaded drink and took another gulp. “I would.”
Erik stood next to her. “Such a lovely dress. It would be a shame to damage it with the rope.” He reached around her. “May I just unzip it?”
Syria’s throat was thick, her heartbeat thumping between her legs. She nodded.
The dress loosened. Beside her, the man worked on the pale girl, gripping the ropes on her back, and making the knot move against her clit. The girl’s head fell back and she moaned again, unable to move, but standing freely, legs wide. The man reached for a breast, tweaking her nipple, and the sounds of the girl’s pleasure made Syria thrum with need.
The dress slid down her body like cool sheets. She closed her eyes, feeling Erik’s light touch on her skin. “You are so beautiful, Syria,” he said.
She knew the man was in the room, and the ghostly girl, but she didn’t care. Outside the curtain, others were in varying states of undress and passion. She wanted to be one of those people. She wanted not to care about anything but the pleasure of the moment.
Erik lifted her knee so she could step out of the dress, one, then the other. His hands lingered on her calf, her inner thigh. “May I see the rest of you?” he asked.
Syria opened her eyes. The pale girl was breathing fast, and her cries grew louder. Syria watched her, fascinated, as her body bloomed pink with the blood flow to her belly, thighs and breasts. The man worked her carefully, with precision, and then the girl was over the top, shuddering, crying out. The man gathered her in his arms, letting her subside, and began to unbind her.
Syria shifted back to Erik, who waited patiently for her answer. One hand rested on her hip, the other lightly on her back. He had such perfect control. She wanted to drive him mad, to make him want her, but to be forced to hold to his promise. If he could test her, she could test him also.
“Yes, please.”
He reached for the hook of her bra, and she was released, the scrap of lace falling on the chaise with her dress. “May I touch you?” he asked.
She nodded, the burn so fierce that she could not possibly say no. His thumb grazed her nipple, and she moaned out loud, so caught by the moment, their private space, the pale girl coming out of her bindings. Erik bent then to press soft kisses into her neck, then down across her collar bone. Syria agonized, waiting for him to arrive at his destination, but then, he was there, drawing her breast into his mouth, and now she rushed with so much wetness that her panties were damp.
His finger slipped inside that lace and now a new need replaced the old. Syria realized her mistake. She was going to want to have sex with him, would be desperate for it, and she would be bound to her own restriction.
The panties eased down her thighs, then fell to her ankles. Erik lifted her knee as before to step her out of them. Syria needed touching so badly she wanted to do it herself, but Erik understood. “Is this okay?” he asked, his hand curling around her thigh.
“Yes,” she managed to get out, and then his fingers were where she needed them to be, pressing into her folds, expertly fluttering against her clit.
Syria clutched at his shoulders, relaxing into his touch, feeling the shift of power as he stood over her in the suit, fully dressed, while she clung to him, naked save her delicate black heels.
She looked over his shoulder at the entwined couple of the man and the bondage girl. Erik released her, and she felt less out of c
ontrol as he accepted a pure white rope from the man and slipped it around her waist.
Syria wanted to ask him about his experience with bondage but he so expertly wrapped her breasts with the rope that he answered her. He seemed to know she wanted the knot and tied one, pressing it into her clit with a practiced hand.
He passed the rope to the other man, who began the process of making the elaborate braid across Syria’s body. She was swiftly immobilized, her elbows high, her hands behind her head. The ropes slid across her back, both tight and soft, and each jerk of the rope sent the knot deeper against the sensitive bud.
The man stepped away and gave the end of the rope to Erik. “Surely,” Erik said, pulling Syria close to him slowly, inch by inch, until she was up against him and his hand cupping her breast, “we should not deny the others the beauty of this work.”
Syria’s eyes went wide as she realized he meant to take her into the main room. She first thought to plant her feet and refuse to walk, but then he pulled on the rope, driving the knot against her, and his mouth returned to her breast. He jerked on the ties, rhythmically and with force, until Syria let go of everything, her worries, her fear, her inhibition. The man held the curtain as Erik walked her out into the hall, and the room hushed to hear her cries, as he led her, pulling on the rope, getting her so close to peaking, then pausing so that she writhed against the ropes.
The music swelled around her, seeming almost tangible against her skin. It followed her across the room, to the dance floor, and the beat matched up to the tug of the rope, the press of the knot, and her spiral into the next level of pleasure.
Erik circled behind her, running one hand along her body as the other worked the rope. Now that they were still, Syria found she could not hold back, and the shattering of orgasm spread up from the knot and through her body. The music matched, growing louder as as she screamed, then the cymbals crashed and it all came down together in a shower of emotion, sound, and pulsing pleasure than lingered on her body even after the orgasm subsided.
She had kept her eyes closed but now she took in the scene. Men and women, standing, sitting, some riding each other, but watching her, loving her, using her to intensify their own experiences. Erik walked around and scooped her into his arms to take her back to their chaise. She laid her head on his shoulder, sleepy now, and she trusted him to take care of her.
11: Recovery
Syria felt the car bank to the left, her body shifting without a seat belt on a leather seat. Her head was lying on someone’s lap.
She popped up. Erik looked down at her. “Feeling better?”
Syria pushed her hair out of her face. It had come down from her updo. They were back in the Mercedes, and driver Bill sat in front, eyes on the road.
“What time is it?” She felt very groggy and odd, like she’d been sleeping for hours.
“Six a.m.”
“What?” Syria peered out the tinted windows, but the streets were quiet and dark. “When did we leave the restaurant?”
“About midnight.”
She turned back to Erik, the headlights flashing across his face as a lone car passed them. “Have we been driving the whole time?”
“It’s been my pleasure to spend the night with you,” Erik said.
“You didn’t want to take me home?”
He smiled in the dark, and she could see his teeth. “I did not want the night to end.”
She wondered if anyone had missed him, or if they had the right to. She stared out the window again, trying to figure out where they were.
“I’ve already narrowed down the search for your father,” he said.
She whipped her head around at that. “What?”
“There are over a thousand men named Arnav Sharma in India. But my associate was able to narrow the field down to just a few dozen possibilities in the right age range—”
Syria held up her hand. “Wait. How did you know about my father? Are you doing a background check on me?”
“Oh no. You told me all about him, and the Santa doll, and the letters.”
Syria fell back against the seat. “When did I do that?”
“While I untied you. You practiced bondage on your doll, you said. It was what precipitated the conversation.”
Syria’s face burned. She wanted away, out of the car. Home, under her covers. “Are we on our way back to my house now?”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “I don’t have to continue the search, if you would like me to stop.”
“What else did I say? Why don’t I remember?”
“The drug can have a mild amnesia effect.”
“So I don’t know what all happened?”
“I think you do. The conversations are probably blurred, but you remember being tied, right?”
Syria nodded.
“And do you remember when I redressed you?”
Syria paused, thinking. Gradually, it came back into focus, stepping into the dress, stumbling, and laughing as Erik caught her. “Yes, I almost fell.”
He squeezed her arm. “There. The conversation was between those things. I think you will remember it all eventually. Do not worry, Syria. You were delightful and charming, a lovely picture.”
She recognized the neighborhood now. “This was quite an evening.”
“It was, Syria.” They pulled up in front of her house, but he closed his hand over her arm. “Before you go, please tell me you will consider my offer. I am prepared to accept as many concessions as you like, including a new perfect photo studio for you, everything you’ve ever wanted. You do not have to give up your passion for me.”
Her thoughts turned to Tyson. He was her passion. Or had been. “I have some unfinished business.”
“Understood. May I call you tomorrow, to see how you are feeling?”
“Yes. That’s fine. I still have your images to do anyway.”
“Take your time.” He passed her the leather case with the contract papers. “I hope you’ll look them over.”
He nodded at the window and Bill opened the door for her. “Good morning, Miss Syria,” he said.
The sun was just coming up over the horizon. “Good morning. Thank you.”
He closed the door and walked her to the front porch. “I hope to see you again.”
Syria smiled at him, and he turned and strode back to the car. She unlocked the door and closed it behind her, leaning against the cool metal, the leather portfolio hugged to her chest. Her life was increasingly complicated lately, opportunities rising and falling like tides.
*
Syria lay in bed another hour, but the sun was rising, and she no longer felt sleepy. She had mild burn marks on her wrists from the evening, and a bit of soreness from the knot, but otherwise, she seemed none the worse for her experience.
She’d avoided her phone, but figured it was time to see if Tyson was contacting her still. Yesterday he seemed to have had no idea some drunk bimbo had called her with video chat.
Her phone was in her purse in the other room. She padded down the hall, wrapping a ponytail holder around her wild hair. When she picked up her phone, she saw a missed call from Tyson, plus a handful of text messages.
Syria, I’ve missed you.
Did you go out tonight? I’ll call you after work.
Easy gig, just a Christmas present for this lady from her quilting group. She was hilarious and fun, at least seventy.
That made me smile, picturing a group of old ladies whooping it up for Tyson.
I’m guessing you’re having a great time somewhere. Miss you.
Heading to bed. I’ll call again tomorrow.
Syria held the phone to her chest. Whatever had happened at that party, he didn’t feel it was anything to worry about. There was no note of concern in any of his messages. Had he not checked his outgoing calls?
He couldn’t know. Even Mia must not have told him. Or any of the other women they called. I remembered the girl exclaiming, “He has SO MANY girls in his contact list!”
And if she talked to him, what should she say about the phone call?
Or for that matter, what to tell him about Erik?
Maybe a boyfriend wasn’t a good idea, especially a long-distance one.
It was too early to call, and she couldn’t sleep, some weird hangover-ish headache like a dull thud in her temples.
So she stood in her studio, looking over the secondhand lights, the inexpensive drops, other than the fancy one she’d just bought. Her camera was good, but not the best, and while she did well with what she had, Syria could only imagine what magnificent equipment Erik could provide. His offer didn’t have a lot of holes, other than maybe the title. He was courteous, generous, and considerate. She didn’t doubt he would treat her very well. And it wasn’t exactly the rest of her life.
She remembered the contract that Erik had passed her in the car. No harm in looking it over. It sat on the corner of her desk. She slid in to her chair and pushed aside the keyboard and drawing tablet. The small desk lamp illuminated the rich leather, hand tooled along the spine with an intricate design.
The cover fell open to reveal a stark white summary page.
Part 1: Nondisclosure Agreement
Part 2: Term and Compensation
Part 3: Assets
Part 4: Behavior
Part 5: Expectations
Part 6: Medical and Legal
Part 7: Termination of this Agreement
Addendums: Power of Attorney, Fingerprinting, Physician Forms, Financial Documents, Risk Assessment
Whoa.
Syria rested her chin in her hand, elbow braced on the desk over the document. She flipped through. It ran for dozens of pages.