Anew: Book Three: Entwined (16 page)

Ian

I
don’t want to be here. And I do. The contradiction
sets my teeth on edge, all the more so because the cause of it is sitting right
next to me.

Amelia.

I couldn’t refuse her. And not just
because she so obviously wants to learn more about kinbaku. The fact that she
does stirs the deep, dark part of myself that has awakened since she came into
my life. It scares the shit out of me even as I’m finding it harder and harder
to resist for reasons that have nothing to do with my having been dosed with
Jekyll/Hyde. Much as I’d like to blame Davos, what’s happening feels like it’s
coming from inside me rather than from any outside cause.

We’re seated in a smaller room off
the main part of the dojo. Benches are set up along one wall. About three dozen
couples occupy them. I recognize everyone although truth be told, a few of the
pairings had eluded my notice until now. Everyone looks serious and sober
minded, aware that what they are about to see is a rare privilege.

Amelia stirs beside me. She puts
her hand over mine and smiles. “Thank you for doing this.”

I don’t make the mistake of thinking
that she’s referring to my willingness to come to the exhibition. As hard as
it’s been for me to wrap my head around, she truly wants me to face the darkest
part of my nature.

After Carnival, and truth be told
even before then, she must know what that could mean. The miracle to me is that
she isn’t afraid but maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. This is the woman who
survived an existence that would have destroyed most people and did it with her
sanity, her strength, and her essential goodness all intact.

The main lights dim. Spotlights come
on, illuminating a stage that is bare apart from the lengths of rope dangling
from pulleys attached to the ceiling. Takashi walks out onto it.

With a smile, he says, “Thank you
all for coming this evening. Before we begin, I would like to offer a few thoughts
on the nature of what you are about to see. The term kinbaku means ‘tight
binding’ but the true purpose of what we do here is release. The kinbaku master
and his model engage in an exchange of
chi
, life force, in a manner
intended to be both aesthetically and sensually pleasing. For each of them, and
often for those watching, the result creates a sense of liberation and
fulfillment. It is my hope that you will share both with us.”

He bows and steps back, the motion
drawing attention to Hamako who joins him on the stage. She is wearing a pure
white kimono secured around her by the obi at her waist. In contrast to how she
usually arranges it, her ebony hair is down but tightly braided. She, too,
bows.

I become aware of the soft notes of
a flute--low and unobtrusive--playing in the background but my attention is
focused on the stage. Hamako kneels, her buttocks resting on her heels, her
head bowed submissively, her hands stretched out before her and resting on her
thighs.

Takashi approaches, not touching
her but bending close enough that she must be able to feel his breath. He takes
hold of her braid, angling it to expose more of her neck, and rest his head in
the crook of her shoulder for a long moment.

I understand exactly what he’s
doing, establishing his claim, just as she is accepting it. Having done so, he
moves away to the edge of the stage, returning with a bundle of dark red rope.
Deliberately, he drops it so that it strikes the bamboo flooring with a thud.

Many in the audience startle but
Hamako does not. She remains as she is--serene and accepting.

I can smell that rope, the
combination of cotton and hemp flooding my nostrils. The color resonates behind
my eyes. I should look away but I can’t.

Takashi uses the first length of
rope to secure Hamako’s arms, binding them tightly behind her back in a
crisscrossed pattern. The second is wrapped below and above her breasts so that
their shape becomes more evident beneath the layers of the kimono.

Drawn up on her knees, Hamako’s
expression does not change even as her breathing becomes more shallow. No one
watching her could doubt that she has committed herself fully to Takashi’s
will.

The upper ropes are attached to one
of those hanging from the bamboo beam above and the tying continues. Over the
next few minutes, an intricate pattern of ropes and knots emerges over her
body. The knots are positioned to apply pressure to the base of her neck,
between her breasts, and other points that I know are associated with the
release of
chi
.

Amelia has been raptly attentive
but now she stirs. Her body leans against mine. I feel her warmth and her
strength as though they are becoming part of me.

My eyes close for a moment. When I
open them again, I see Hamako rising off the ground. The shape of her body
molded by the ropes is no longer entirely human. She appears more birdlike, as
though about to spread her wings. Suspended in the design of Takashi’s
creation, she is ensnared yet she appears to float free of all restraints.

The music of the flute increases. I
breathe in the scent of Amelia--jasmine body wash, sun-kissed skin and beneath
it all, the nectar of salt and musk that I’ve sipped from her sweet, hot cunt.

In front of us, Hamako’s body
turns, the white kimono fluttering around her except where it is held in check
by the ropes. Her helplessness is complete but her expression is entranced, as
though in surrendering she has been transported to a higher level of being.

Takashi’s is different--powerful,
riveted, completely focused on her to the exclusion of everything else
including himself. They are two contrasting but complementary pieces of a
single whole.

They stand together, man and woman,
yin and yang, artist and model, collaborators in the creation of something rare
and precious that hints at the power inside all of us to overcome our deepest
fears and limitations through one another.

And then it is over.

With great care, Takashi lowers
Hamako. He supports her until she recovers enough to hold herself upright.
Swiftly, he undoes the ropes and discards them.

Subdued but sincere applause
ripples through the audience. I suspect that we are all too struck by what we
have witnessed to want to break the mood.

As we are leaving a short time
later, Amelia pauses to have a quiet word with Hamako. I can’t hear what the
two are saying but I see the older woman’s encouraging smile.

Outside, I pause for a moment in
the cool night air and try to come to terms with what I’ve experienced. Perhaps
because of my friendship with Hamako and Takashi, and my respect for both, I’m
not hard. But under different circumstances, I’m sure that I would be.

The exchange of power, the
interplay of submission and dominance, and the utter trust required for both
strike a deep chord inside me. For the first time, I’m willing to admit that it
possesses its own kind of beauty.

It has nothing to do with what I
experienced years ago at my father’s club or what I witnessed most recently
when Davos revived that loathsome place. This is entirely separate, above and
untouched by any effort to debase what makes us essentially human.

Recognizing that makes me feel
suddenly lighter, as though I’ve thrown off a burden that I accepted as simply
mine to carry forever. To my amazement, it lifts away, replaced by tentative
but still unmistakable hopefulness.

Amelia is silent as we walk back to
the boat but her hand rests willingly in mine. The night is star strewn, the
atoll shrouded in quiet. Luminescent comb jellies, a species of jelly fish,
swim by, trailing their long cilia behind them. They follow us almost until we
reach the dock.

We’ve climbed the stairs to the
house before I ask Amelia, “What did you think of it?”

She turns, her face illuminated by
the full moon rising over the lagoon. With a smile, she says, “I thought it was
beautiful.”

Relief wells up in me but with it
comes a measure of concern. How often have I said that she has no sense of
self-preservation?

Before I can think about that, Amelia
takes my hand. She leads me toward the bedroom but she doesn’t stop there.
Instead she continues through to the adjacent space furnished with a raised
platform beside the large moon window.

Objectively, I understand that the
space is intended to be a transition between the outer world of nature and the
inner world of the house itself. But I’ve always been drawn to it because of
the paradox it represents. Confining the view to the shape of the window makes
it at once more possible for the mind to grasp and at the same time virtually
infinite.

But something has changed here and
it takes me a moment to realize what that is.

Coiled on the platform are several
lengths of rope.

Amelia

A
s Ian stares at the ropes, I hold my breath. I can
feel the tension radiating from him. His hands are fisted at his sides and his
eyes have narrowed to gleaming shards. In the pale light of the moon framed by
the window, he looks closed off, aloof, and untouchable.

 Did I go too far by asking Hamako to
leave the ropes here? What if he’s repelled or angered by my presumption? The
fear that I have made a huge mistake is growing in me when Ian turns to me.

His gaze holds mine as he says,
“This is a surprise.”

To my great relief, he doesn’t
sound angry. In fact, I think I detect a note of wry amusement.

As though to confirm that, he says,
“From the very beginning, I’ve underestimated you. You’ve tried to tell me a
dozen different ways but I’ve gone on thinking of you as somehow fragile.” He
shrugs. “Maybe that made you safer, I don’t know. But it’s not who you are at
all, is it?”

Silently, I shake my head. In the
tunnel, I told him who I was or more particularly, who I wasn’t. Not Susannah.
Not spun glass. My own self. But now I understand that it wasn’t enough for me
to tell him, not with words or actions. He has to figure it out for himself.
Just as he has to figure out who he is and how we fit together.

If we do.

I can hardly bear to think that.
The pain of it is so great that I stifle a gasp.

“Last night,” he says, “in the
furo
,
I’ve never seen anything more courageous than what you did, confronting the
wounds left by an experience that most people would never have survived. At least
not with their minds and spirits intact. And now this…”

He shakes his head. “You just won’t
give up, will you? You’re so damn certain that you can cope with anything
that’s in me. You’re determined to keep pushing until you know it all.”

He takes a step closer. The light
in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine, evoking as it does arousal heightened
by a seductive tinge of fear. I’m not sure exactly what I’m seeing but I know
it’s different from any aspect of him that I’ve glimpsed before. The man in the
hotel suite at Carnival was passionate, demanding, unbridled in his sensuality.
This man is all that and…more.

For the first time, it occurs to me
that the decision he made at eighteen to join the military instead of going to
an elite university was not the most crucial moment in his life. That happened
three years earlier, when he was still fifteen, alone without anyone to advise
or help him but still with the strength to escape his father’s brutally perverse
world. If his will was that great when he was little more than a child, how
much stronger is it now?

I’m past the point of regretting
that I don’t bring out the noblest and best aspects of his nature, or at least
not solely. I accept that I awaken the darkness in him because the truth is my
own nature craves it.

But this--

“You can leave right now,” he says
with lethal softness. “Or tell me to, whichever you prefer. But if we both stay,
you have to understand that what happens won’t be what you just saw. I
understand the concepts behind kinbaku and I respect them but I have no
training in their execution. Although--” His mouth curves in a wry smile. “I do
have some expertise with ropes and knots.”

My stomach falls at the sudden
thought that there could have been other women in his life with whom he has
shared this side of himself.

“No,” he says perceptively. “Never
that. I just happen to enjoy sailing.”

Relief fills me as I remember his
friend, Hayden telling me that Ian was interested in acquiring a new racing
catamaran.

“As for the rest,” he shrugs. “You
know I can handle a whip--”

I have a sudden, very unpleasant
flashback to the club and just barely manage to nod.

“But it’s never appealed to me.”

“What does?” I ask, aware that my
voice is unnaturally high and thin.

“I think you know,” he says and
comes a step closer. His gaze is intense, smoldering, carnality captured in
amber light. “The first time we were together, I bound your hands. Did you
wonder why?”

“You didn’t want me to touch you?”

“That’s right, because I knew I’d
lose control if you did and that mattered to me, a great deal.”

I can understand this. A man who
was deprived of control when he was so young might very well need it more than
most.

 “That wasn’t the only time I
restrained you, was it?” he reminds me.

I nod, thinking of the night of
erotic excess that we shared in the golden bedroom at the palazzo before Ian
sent me into the city and into a new life. And then there was Carnival…

“You want to bind me, don’t you?” I’ve
surmised as much but I want to hear him say it--finally.

He nods. “I want complete control.
That means that I want you completely helpless, mine to do with as I choose. If
we do this, I will push both our limits.”

A shadow moves behind his eyes. For
a moment, I see the full extent of his concern tinged with self-loathing. Softly,
so that I have to strain to hear him, he says, “I could hurt you.”

Without hesitation, I say, “You
won’t.”

He shakes his head, chiding me. “You
can’t know that, Amelia.”

“Perhaps not but I still believe
it. I believe in you.”

Without waiting for him to reply, I
turn away and walk to the edge of the platform facing the moon window. Before I
can allow myself to think about what I’m doing, I remove the shirt and slacks I
wore to the demonstration.
The garments drop, one by one, onto the floor
below. Cool night air caresses my heated skin.

Naked, I force myself to hold my
arms at my sides and turn again to face Ian. The look in his eyes is almost enough
to make me quail. I’ve seen him in the throes of incandescent passion but this--

Slowly, he stalks toward me. I
realize that he’s still giving me time to retreat. Instead, I tilt my chin up
and say, “I’m not afraid of you, Ian. The only thing that frightens me is the
thought of losing you.”

Before he can reply, I bend and
pick up the ropes. Holding his gaze, I offer them to him silently.

His arm twitches but he doesn’t
reach for them. Instead, he says, “You need a safe word.”

I frown, trying to remember what I
know about that sort of thing. It isn’t much but I think I understand what he
means. “All right…”

“Pick one.”

I grapple for a word, any word just
to pacify him. Inspiration strikes as I remember serving Ian dinner by
moonlight after we inaugurated our new bed.

 “Sushi.”

His eyebrows rise. “You’re
kidding?”

“Not at all. It’s a perfectly good
word, just not the sort that I’m likely to cry out in the throes of passion.
That’s what a safe word is supposed to be, isn’t it?”

An unwilling grin catches the
corners of his sculpted mouth. “I suppose…all right, ‘sushi’ it is.”

All hint of humor fades but he
still doesn’t make a move toward me. I have to close the remaining distance
between us and put the ropes in his hands. As I do, he gives me one more
searching look.

Whatever he sees must reassure him because
he says, “Turn around and put your arms behind your back, bent at the elbows,
and clasp your hands together.”

His voice is low and gruff. It
resonates deep inside me. I don’t hesitate to do as he says.

At the first touch of the rope
against my skin, I stiffen for an instant before forcing myself to relax. This
is Ian, the man I love. Everything in me yearns to give him all that he
desires. Even so, I’m unprepared for the sensations that sweep over me as he
proceeds. Every movement of the rope, every brush of his hand is an extended
caress rippling through me.

When my arms are secured from my wrists
to my elbows, he moves closer. I feel the warm exhalation of his breath in the
hollow between my throat and shoulder, and the rough brush of his jeans against
my thighs. My nipples are hard, aching and they become even more so when he
drapes the rope around my neck and slowly loops one side around the base of
each of my breasts several times, constricting them enough so that I become aware
of their growing sensitivity, before he secures the rope in a knot at the base
of my throat.

“Kneel,” he says softly when he has
finished, and presses lightly on my shoulders. I obey and he positions me in
front of the window, looking out at the full moon that appears to be rising out
the sea. A ribbon of silver connects us, rippling across the surface of the
ocean to come to rest at the edge of the beach below where waves pound
remorselessly.

Ian steps away. I feel his absence
along every inch of my skin, as though the temperature has suddenly plummeted.
But that’s absurd. The night is warm, there’s a soft tropical breeze…

Where has he gone? I start to turn
around and stop myself. I agreed to this, I accepted it. Struggling in any
sense isn’t just pointless, it will directly undo what I hope to accomplish.

The moment I make that decision, I
begin to relax. Doing so enables me to turn my attention to the view framed by
the moon window. The blue black sky shows only a faint scattering of stars, the
rest eclipsed by the brilliance of the moon. I take a breath and let it out slowly.

Muscles I hadn’t realized were tense
begin to let go. As they do, I become all the more aware of the sensitivity of
my breasts. Bound as they are, the natural flow of blood restricted somewhat,
they are becoming engorged. Within minutes, the mere brush of air over my
nipples wrings a gasp from me. I press my lips together to suppress it but a
faint sound emerges all the same. I wonder how much louder my cries will become
before Ian is satisfied.

Although the position of my arms
isn’t uncomfortable, I test the ropes, discovering that there’s no give in
them. The pressure between my thighs begins to build. I squirm a little before
I force myself to be still.

Where is Ian?

I strain to hear any sound that
could indicate his return but there is only the rush of waves breaking against
the beach below and the whisper of the breeze in the palm trees.

He wouldn’t leave me like this,
would he?

He might if only to prove a point,
namely that he can.

I know how important control is to
him. What if this is how he has chosen to show both of us that his remains
intact?

A thin edge of panic is just
beginning to flicker deep inside me when I suddenly know that I’m no longer
alone. No sound alerts me but I feel him all the same, as though the air itself
is charged with his presence.

“Ian?”

“Sorry,” he says and I hear a smile
rather than repentance in his voice. “Took me a little longer than I expected
to decide.”

“Decide what?”

“What you’d enjoy most.”

I look down to see what he is
holding in the open palm of his hand. At once, my breath catches.

“What is that?”

“What does it look like?” he asks,
clearly amused.

“Well…to be honest, it looks as
though someone took a lovely piece of jade and carved it into a--” I break off,
unable to continue. Too late, I’m remembering the case with the collection of
jade pieces that I meant to take a closer look at. I definitely should have!

“A cock?” Ian offers helpfully.
“That’s exactly what it’s supposed to be.” He holds the length of jade up,
turning it this way and that in the moonlight. “It’s late eighteenth century,
from the Edo period. But the idea itself comes from the Chinese, who have long
referred to the penis as the jade stalk.”

“Fascinating,” I mutter. Struggling
to refocus my heated senses on the cool beauty of the moon, I still glance at
him from the corner of my eye. “You have a collection of dildos?”

He laughs. “Of course not. But I’ve
always been drawn to jade.” Clearly amused, he adds, “I can hardly be held
responsible for the uses it’s been put to.”

“No, just the use to which you’re
planning to put it.” I stare at the object, trying to imagine it inside me. The
prospect isn’t actually that daunting. It’s certainly smaller than Ian himself,
to the extent that I find myself wondering how much pleasure I would actually
derive from it.

“There’s some dispute about this
piece,” he says.

“Is there?” I ask absently, still
staring at the erotic toy.

“Centering on how--or
where--exactly it was intended to be used.”

My gaze shoots up, meeting his.
“Really…where?” Belatedly, I realize that the jade dildo isn’t the only object
he’s returned with. He’s also carrying a small bottle of lubricant.

He sets both on the mat beside us and
appears to promptly forget them. Picking up another length of rope, he says,
“Lie down on your back.”

I do so but I’m skittish and my
body tenses at the first touch of the rope around my upper thigh.