by Christa Wick
About THC-Kinbaku
Kinbaku isn't a club. It doesn't exist on a map. But, for me, it becomes a state of mind after I agree to an unusual fee set by the photographer I absolutely had to have for the launch of my fashion line. Somewhere between saying "yes" and arriving at the studio for my session, the deal shifts ever-so-slightly to include my body tied in silken ropes by unfamiliar hands.
Did I mention the blindfold? Or how intimately the ropes are tied, the unseen male manipulating my flesh, his body warming my skin as his scent and touch intoxicate my mind. My rope master pushes me beyond the limits of self-control until, bound and helpless, I surrender in a quivering mess.
When the blindfold is finally removed, he's gone.
********************
This is the fifth installment in the Training Her Curves series (follows Dallas) and is the first installment focusing on Riona Kehoe.
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Training Her Curves - Kinbaku
Rough weather put me down in New York ninety minutes after the plane's estimated arrival time. My body shaking from the last side roll on our descent, I waited in my first-class seat for the aircraft to empty and tried not to think about how it was a bad day to be running late.
My first appointment was with the photographer I had hired to shoot the premier catalog for the Wicked Threads line of luxury lingerie and fetish wear. While I had paid an astonishingly large fee to get him, Rick's time behind the camera was never about money. Now I had to make good on the other half of my deal with him. He expected me in his studio in less than twenty minutes while he took reference photographs for the oil painting he would make of me.
When I didn't arrive as scheduled, he would probably think I had lost my nerve.
Unhooking the lap belt, I fished into my back pocket and pulled out my cell phone. With no reception showing, I browsed through my schedule for the three days I would be in the city. My first appointment after Rick's was dinner at seven at Le Bernardin with a fashion journalist to discuss the upcoming launch of the clothing line. How long the interview lasted would depend on whether the journalist stuck to the agreed upon subject or decided to dig for confirmation on all the gossip about my brother Jake and Alexa Hunt, the company's spokesmodel.
I had lost count of all the ridiculous rumors circulating in the press and online. One trashy magazine had Jake, Alexa and Dylan in a threesome. Another claimed Alexa was pregnant. The stories devolved from there into even uglier lies.
Stopping by my seat, the stewardess smiled at me and did one of those game show hostess gestures toward the exit door. "All clear, Miss. Do you have a bag in one of the overheads?"
"No." Realizing my answer sounded more curt than brief, I mumbled my way through an apology. "Sorry. Could have used a smoother landing."
Her head bobbed, but her eyebrows lifted at the same time, letting me know she thought I was a wimp if that spot of turbulence had bothered me. Shouldering my bag, I brushed past her and into the terminal.
The luggage carousels were chaos, the flight boards changing so fast I thought I was looking at the display on a slot machine while everyone screamed for triple sevens. Mine wasn't the only plane arriving late. Air control had stacked us up on the runway like dominoes, another thing that had scraped my nerves raw.
Or so I wanted to believe. Certainly I wasn't nervous about my trip to Rick's studio. I'd already been on the other end of his camera lens half a dozen times over the last month.
Except for the naked and alone part...
My cheeks heating, I re-focused my attention on the flight board with the hope that my carousel number would soon appear. After five more minutes, it did. Another ten minutes passed before the conveyor belt spit my bag onto the carousel's tracks. I shouldered my way through the other passengers and extended my arm.
Someone stepped on my foot. Another genius grabbed my ass. I didn't bother looking around for the culprit. The contact had been brief, so I would give him or her the benefit of the doubt that the grope had been nothing more than accidental. A second grab and I'd find a face to punch.
Snagging my bag, I squeezed and pushed through the labyrinth of tightly packed human flesh until I found clear space a few feet from the exit. Pulling my cell phone out, I saw that I had gained two and a half bars since checking it on the plane. Knowing I didn't have a chance of hearing or being heard at the airport's noise level, I thumbed through my texts until I reached the last one from Rick.
I typed out a message.
His reply popped up and my phone almost fell from my hand as I read.
Mystery guest?
No problem, my ass!
Gripping the phone harder, I thumbed a reply.
I didn't add an "LMAO" or "LOL" because I wasn't laughing. I wasn't even smiling. I had agreed to an extended photo session from which Rick would produce a painting for his private collection and then destroy any film and digital files. Knowing Rick seldom used assistants, I hadn't expected an audience of any sort, let alone a "mystery guest."
The three dots signaling he was typing a reply appeared. I waited, my foot tapping impatiently against the worn carpet in the baggage claim area.
I stabbed the power button on my phone and shoved it in my jeans pocket. Not only was Rick yanking my chain about having someone present at the shoot, he also knew I hated being called "Princess." My name meant "queen." Not that I wanted anyone to call me "Queen" or, worse yet, "Queenie." Any idiot that daring could expect to get junk punched -- as could long-legged photographers who invited unnamed individuals to see me naked and vulnerably posed.
Growling, I popped the handle extender on my suitcase and headed for the taxi stand.
********************
Dressed in a plain black t-shirt and slate gray jeans, Rick opened the door to his studio after my second burst of knocking. He had his camera up and ready, the black body and lens of a Nikon F4 obscuring his face.
The click-whirr-click of the twenty-year-old film camera was my only invitation to enter.
"Going old school today?" Still hoping he had been joking about a mystery guest, I scanned the room as I sidestepped him.
"Old and new." Rick's hand landed between my shoulder blades to guide me the rest of the way into his studio. He walked me over to a table weighed down with a few more cameras and three times as many lenses.
I moved around the table, stopping when a waft of hunger inducing cologne tickled my nose. Definitively masculine, it started as fresh cut oranges punctuated with walnuts before mellowing to oakwood. I turned, ready to follow the scent because it smelled recent. But all I had behind me was a floor to ceiling panel of opaque glass that worked as some kind of light diffuser, its controls built into the wall next to it.
"You have ten minutes to freshen up, but don't put on any makeup." Rick caught my elbow and jerked his chin in the direction of an open door. "There's a kimono on the back of the door, but you'll only need it for all of five seconds, so I don't mind if you come out naked, Princess."
With an eye roll, I shrugged his touch off and disappeared into the bathroom. Tension far worse than I experienced on the rough landing at the airport slammed against me once I was
alone. My hands shook as I drew the sweatshirt over my head. I kicked off my shoes then shimmied out of my jeans and underwear, leaving me in just the bra. Thankfully, I had selected one with a front-clasp that morning because my fingers were bouncing around like spiders on crack.
Naked in front of the mirror, I looked first at my hair. I ran my nails through it to correct the minor damage from the gust of wind that had hit me between the taxi cab and the entrance to Rick's building. My gaze landed next on my face. I hadn't put a single stroke of makeup on that morning, but Rick apparently wanted me fresh-faced anyway. Bad idea in my opinion because the stewardess had carded me on the flight when I asked for some vodka with my orange juice. She had even taken the ID to another member of the flight to inspect for evidence of fraud.
But it was Rick's shoot and it wasn't as if any images would be published. I was just there to pose and pay my debt.
I rinsed my face then patted it dry before taking a washcloth and running it under hot water. My cheeks, already burning, flamed redder as I wiped between and beneath my breasts and then lower. I had showered thoroughly that morning but sweated my way through the turbulence during the flight and harrowing landing. The taxi ride to the studio hadn't been any drier as I imagined being naked in front of both Rick and this guest I hadn't yet seen, someone that might be a stranger to me or very familiar.
The moisture that built on the drive, however, wasn't sweat. Thick, translucent cream glistened against the washcloth before I shoved it under the faucet and rinsed away the evidence of my arousal.
I dried my hands then shrugged the robe on, leaving my clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor. Opening the door, I scanned the room again, but it was just me and Rick. My heart thumped in my chest as he led me to a padded bench with lights set up around it.
His hands skimmed the kimono's silken lapels and then the material was around my ankles.
"Take a seat, Ree."
I sank down, marginally relieved that he had at least switched from "Princess" to the only nickname I could tolerate with good humor.
"While this isn't a scene," he said, pulling the sash from the robe, "We'll still use scene protocol. You picked a safe word?"
"Yes." I watched apprehensively as he walked behind me, the sash still in his hands. "I want to use sakura for my safe word."
"Cherry blossom, huh?" He chuckled softly when I nodded. "Appropriate in so many ways."
I wanted to scowl but kept my expression smooth. If Rick thought I was a virgin, he was ridiculously wrong. I had been with men, more than I cared to admit but not for the reason most people would assume. Instead of being promiscuous, I had spent the last four years trying to find a man that could make me climax. I'd faked it with the first two partners. With the second two, I had gently hinted that nothing had happened for me. One of them redoubled his efforts before declaring me frigid -- on the Boston University student chat board. The other guy figured from the start the problem was totally with me. I'd taken two more lovers in an effort to prove him wrong.
After that, I had found it impossible to even rub one out on my own -- which had totally been possible before. Half a year passed like that and then I discovered my brothers' secret, which also, apparently, had been my parents' secret, too. The men in my family were dominants and my mother had been deeply submissive.
That knowledge explained a lot about her -- but very little about me.
I mean, I didn't consider myself submissive, not in the least. I stood up to the men around me, including the big, stubborn lunkheads that had the same father as I did. Thinking I might be dominant, I gave lucky lover number seven a try. Judging by the copious quantities of fluids he spilled over my leather corset and boots, he enjoyed my first (and only) attempt at being a dominatrix. I, on the other hand, had taken a cab home feeling cold and nauseated.
Revisiting the videos I had watched preparing for that unfortunate tryst, I stopped imagining myself as the male actor and focused on the female. When she arched, I arched. When she flinched in anticipation of the flogger touching her thighs, I flinched. When she moaned with her mouth full of her dominant's cock, I moaned around the knuckle clenched between my teeth.
When she finally came, I exploded with her. After that, all my girlie bits worked when I was alone and imagining the dom in that video. But I couldn't find one in real life. My brothers were part of the problem. Dylan didn't want me to step foot in the clubs and both he and Jake presented the ultimate image of alpha males. I was "Riona -- don't call me Princess -- Kehoe" and I would be damned if I submitted to some run of the mill, wanna-be dominant.
"You can't be in subspace already," Rick mused softly, drawing me away from my thoughts as he smoothed a strand of hair behind my ear.
"I'm not," I snapped and turned my head, instantly wishing I hadn't. Rick had replaced the robe's black sash with a thicker, wider cut of silk. The dimensions were the same as the new blindfolds I had designed for the catalog, but the color was the most perfect example of cerise -- cherry red -- that I had ever seen.
If my still conflicted sexuality hadn't been ready to bolt for the studio door, the fashionista in me would have been demanding the identity of the textile mill responsible for the fabric and its hue.
"Good," Rick said, giving me a pass on my bitchy reply. "Because the ropes aren't even on you."
For a second, I felt lightheaded. I shook the sensation away. Rick was handsome and talented. I had even nurtured a small crush on him during my junior year of college, but that had faded over time and I didn't think it could be re-kindled, even with the reputation he had as a dominant. My body had only been responding to the threat, or promise, of being tied up while I couldn't see.
"Don't worry, Ree." Planting a knee on the bench, he brought the silk square around to the front of my face. "I'm only blindfolding and photographing you. My knots are clumsy at best. I brought in a rope master."
"I won't be able to see him?" My fingers wrapped around the cushion I sat on to quell the sudden urge of stopping his hands. I had agreed to sit for the photo session in whatever pose he desired. I had stupidly assumed that Rick and I would be the only people in the studio -- but I hadn't demanded it as a condition.
Since the fault with the contract was purely my own, I would comply with as much grace as I could muster.
"Correct," Rick answered. "Those were his terms and he's the best."
"He's been here the whole time, hasn't he? That cologne with the nutty oakwood and oranges." The calm in my voice masked the sudden flare of anxiety that twisted through my stomach.
He tugged the material once to test that it was secure and then he moved away from me before answering. "Yes, here and observing."
Fresh dread snaked through my intestines.
"The smoked glass?" I asked, recalling the floor to ceiling panel secured to the wall opposite the bathroom.
Rick's only answer was the click and whirr of his camera.
My fingers itched with the need to pull the mask down. "But how do I know he doesn't have a mini-video camera or something?"
"The same way he knows you don't have one." Rick's voice dripped with amusement. Nothing cruel, more like he was explaining a very obvious point to someone with a mind no more advanced than a child's.
Maybe Rick was right about my mental faculties because it took me several strained seconds of thought before I understood. I was naked. Unless I had a camera up my va-jay-jay, which wouldn't provide a very good view of things, then it was a safe assumption I wasn't carrying a camera. This man, my rope master for the afternoon, would be every bit as nude.
Faulty contract indeed!
Flesh bumps crawled up my spine then fanned across my shoulders. My nipples, which had been relaxed despite my nudity and the placement of the blindfold, turned hard. I shifted against the cushion, uncomfortable with my body's quick reaction to the new arrangement.
I knew nothing about the man who had been watching me beyond his scent and second hand reputation. I rummaged
through my memories for the snippets of gossip I had heard about club members. No one stood out as an expert in rope bondage.
He might not be a club member, of course. The fees were high for most prospective candidates. Celebrities received a significant break, of course, because they attracted those who could pay the exorbitant costs. The quietly famous, like Rick with his cameras and paints, also were admitted under different rules.
I heard a click, like a latch releasing, and then cold air rushed over me, carrying with it the same delicate scent that had attracted my attention upon first entering the studio. The fragrance conjured up the image of dark earth and tanned skin.
Fingers brushed gently against the back of my neck, their surface cold to the touch. From somewhere in front of me, Rick told me to repeat my safe word.
"Sakura," I whispered then cleared my throat and said it again, without the mouselike volume or tone. "Sakura."
The man's hands captured my shoulders. The flesh was callused and I wondered if it was from the ropes he used or because of his profession. His fingertips trailed down my arms until he reached my elbows. He cupped me there and lifted. I had the sense of being measured, like getting fit by a seamstress.
His weight settled on the cushion behind me. I didn't know at first whether he had taken a seat or was kneeling until the front of his thighs pressed against my back. I swallowed roughly at the contact, my imagination thick in my throat. And then something pressed straight along my spine, something smooth and hard and...
Big...
I took another nervous gulp, this time for air.
The rope master ran his rough palms on the underside of my arms. When he reached the pit area on each side, his touch slid forward to cover my chest. He tested the weight and give of my breasts, flexing and squeezing until I squeaked from all the tension coiling inside of me.
His head dipped so that his lips brushed against my ear. Harsh pants blew against the side of my throat and then I realized he was only mimicking -- perhaps even mocking -- my winded panting. I forced myself to take slower, deeper breaths and he stopped.