Coffee Break Erotica BDSM 4: Shibari Prize
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In Shibari Prize, a desperate woman wakes on a cargo ship off the coast of Japan. The Yakuza, her abductors, grill the unfortunate captive on her motives. Is this a test? Is she in too deep? What starts as shibari rope binding turns into something more life-changing. What’s she willing to do to survive?
*Warning: These Erotica BDSM stories average around 1,300 words (10-15 minute reading time).
Print Length: 12 pages
Type: Standalone Story (For Men & Women)
Price: $.99
Table of Contents
Coffee Break Erotica BDSM 4: Shibari Prize (Excerpt)
“One tie for each arm,” an unknown man wearing an Issey Miyake suit says in Japanese-tainted English. Two subordinates hold my arms. Dripping water falls from the ceiling as the cargo ship rocks back and forth. A storm rages above deck.
My initiators have dressed me in a milky-white leotard, but the humidity defeated the sheer material long ago. My hardened nipples burst through light fabric, and because of sweat, my tight midsection has become indistinguishable from my bare legs and arms. One subordinate slashes the hosiery open at my crotch.
I assess the gangster before me. I will call you Miyake. His savage eyes inspect the rope running through his tattooed hands. The gangster glances at me. A knowing moment passes between us. An archfiend smile tugs at his lips. “First, I find the bight,” Miyake says. His expression hints at sexual lunacy. I meet the criminal’s lechery with defiance.
The monster leans close enough for me to smell his Shiseido cologne. He pauses for effect. Loose strands from his ponytail hit my face. His eyes penetrate mine. Miyake adds, “Wrap it twice around the wrist. Cross the rope over the ends opposite the bight.” He does as he narrates. I tremble as the man tightens it. His eyes never leave mine.
“Tuck the bight under. Reach below. Pull instead of push. It keeps the lay. Stays in shape.” I imagine a slithering boa constrictor as tough jute slides over my fragile skin.
“Loop the working end and pull it through.” The mobster pauses again for emphasis and adds, “Create another twist like so.” I glance down, breaking contact with his reptilian gaze. I notice 8-9-3 tattooed across his knuckles. Yes, the worst hand in Oicho-Kabu, a game like Baccarat. The numbers phonetically spell ya-ku-sa.
I finally speak. “You’re them.”
He smiles. “You’re the one who wanted entrance into the Yakuza. Is joining a walk in the park?”
My initiator proceeds with his meticulous undertaking, wraps the rope a few times, and adds, “Bring the bight through one more time. Pull the tangle tight and voila!” His v sounds like a b. The knot tightens. I wince as my left wrist binds to the chair leg.
“Then repeat the process for the other wrist,” he whispers to himself, like he’s completing an obvious step to a recipe.
More words come from me. “Will you rape me?”
To Be Continued…
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