Bound by Tradition

by Roxy Harte

  I sat on the grass and grabbed my phone from the backpack. I opened a search window and typed in Shiro Miura. I don’t know what I expected, maybe nothing, but I knew I wanted something to pop up. I got more than I bargained for when it opened to the home page of his Web site detailing his shibari classes and schedule. There was even a blog.

  I should not go to his blog. Not really taking my own advice today, I ended up staring at a picture of him. Just as gorgeous as I remembered. You have a very wicked smile, Mr. Miura. And God, those eyes.

  I read from his page: Through photography and artwork, my students and I explore the taboo subject of shibari, a Japanese style of rope bondage. The heart and soul of my shibari school lies in self-discovery. While we explore our own creative interests, we also wish to spread appreciation for this previously secret art form.

  His hours were listed. And his phone number. Without thinking I pressed Dial, and when he answered, I skipped formalities. “I just found myself with a free hour. Think you could come to the campus?”

  * * * *

  I was shaking by the time I saw Shiro’s Jeep turn into the campus parking lot. I’ve never purposely skipped a class, especially not for a secret rendezvous. I stepped closer to the curb, so he would be certain to see me. My heart was racing, and my palms sweating. No competition had ever made me this insane. What am I thinking? Why did I call him?

  He pulled up directly in front of me and spoke to me through the open passenger window. “Hiya, beautiful.”

  He seemed so cheesy, all the time, but then he flashed his brilliant thousand-watt smile at me and his beautiful dark eyes squinted with joy, leaving me to float for a moment on his happiness, and I didn’t care how clichéd his expressions seemed, because he gave me something I was in no position to give myself: a reprieve from the stress that was my life.

  I opened the door and slid into the seat beside him. His hair wasn’t tied back and hung straight down, slightly longer than shoulder length. He seemed even more perfect. He was wearing a tank top and khaki shorts. He obviously hadn’t made any special effort… But God, even dressed down for a casual day, he was sexy as hell. “I probably shouldn’t have called. I just hated the way we left things last night. I’m glad you didn’t mind coming here, so we could talk.”

  His smile widened. “I’m just glad you chose to spend the free hour in your schedule with me.”

  “Do you do that with every girl you meet? Make them feel like they’re the most important person in the world?”

  He met my gaze. “You are the most important person in the world—for me, in this moment—because you’re here with me.”

  I wanted to challenge what he was saying, ask him if he meant that in the next moment he’d feel that way about whichever girl he had in his rope, but I didn’t because I knew I wouldn’t like his answer. His focus was pure and moment driven. Wasn’t that the true heart of Zen?

  “I actually have the entire night free, if you end up with more than an hour.”

  I looked at him with longing, not because he was so damn hot, although he was, smolderingly so, but because he had an entire evening free. “What’s that like?”

  He looked at me, still smiling, but as our gazes connected his smile faded. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  I shook my head. “I’m only sitting here with you now because I ditched class. After this I have one more class, and then I work for four hours. After that I’ll be at the dojo from six to ten, or midnight, knowing my dad and because of my poor showing over the weekend.”

  “When do you study?”

  “Sometimes I have to choose. Sleep? Study?”

  His eyes filled with sadness as he stroked my cheek, but then he shuttered away the dark look and forced a smile, and strangely, even though I barely knew him, I was beginning to know the difference in his smiles, and the one he was giving me in that moment was forced, a little overexuberant. “What do you want to do with your free hour?”

  I took in a deep breath. I hadn’t really thought beyond the moment where I actually got to see him again. “Apologizing for being a jerk would be a good start.”

  He shook his head. “No apology required.”

  “In that case, I don’t care what we do as long as it involves being with you.”

  He nodded and looked through the windshield, maybe for inspiration. The only options close by were fast-food venues and a mall, and neither seemed appealing.

  I touched his arm, drawing his attention back to me. “And kissing. You are required to kiss me.”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “Can I do more than kissing?”

  I looked skeptical. “It’s broad daylight, but if you can manage more than kissing without an audience…go for it.”

  He laughed and revved his engine before pulling out onto the road. He said confidently, “No problem.”

  We drove around the block, and he parked behind one of the fast-food joints. He pivoted to look at me. “How brave are you?”

  I looked around the parking lot and realized we weren’t completely alone. Turning back to him, I was sure he wasn’t serious, at least until I got caught in his smoldering gaze. I whispered, “I’m not very brave. If we get caught—”

  He leaned forward, kissing me softly, whispering against my lips, “We won’t get caught,” as he slid his hand under my T-shirt to tweak my nipple through the fabric of my bra.

  His lips teased mine, and he pinched a little harder, making me squirm in my seat and moan.

  He pulled away only enough to meet my gaze. “The secret is to stay very quiet and pretend nothing is happening.”

  His hand was still under my shirt, his fingers still rolling my nipple. My hips rocked against the seat cushion. He might only be playing with my nipples, but I felt it all the way through my vagina. His other hand slid up my thigh. “You wore a skirt. That’s lucky.”

  I hadn’t really thought about it, other than knowing I’d never see him again and thinking, if I ever did, I’d want him to see me in a skirt. I wanted him to see my legs, and I’d worn the white cotton skirt because it made my tan legs look fabulous.

  His hand disappeared under the edge of flimsy cotton, and his fingers played with the lacy edge of my panties, teasing under, coming back out. In, out, in, out. He wasn’t even touching my genitals, but still I moaned and bit my lip.

  Embarrassed, I hid my face against his shoulder.

  “Keep your eyes on mine. Don’t look away,” he commanded, and all hint of humor was gone from his voice. I looked up and the expression of raw need in his face was discomfiting. Maybe it was the sunlight, exposing us to anyone who would glance our way, but I think it was more—that if I could see what he was feeling so clearly, he might see what I was feeling too.

  His fingers twirled my nipple, pinching, pulling, making me want more. Need. More.

  The fingers playing with the edge of my panties finally slid under and stayed under the fabric, finding my wet slit. He pushed into the wetness, separating my lips. I tried to look away, feeling myself flush with embarrassment, but his face ducked with mine so that our gazes stayed locked. “Why don’t you want me to see you?”

  “It’s scary.”

  “New territory?” he asked softly. “I’ve crossed the line from stranger you’ll never see again to something more, something yet undefined?”

  “Something like that.” I swallowed hard, gasping when his fingers pinched my clit, making my need rise.

  “You like this?”

  “Yes,” I hissed.

  His fingers slid deeper, sinking into my vagina—in, out, in, out—curling inward, stroking my G-spot. “Which part? The naughty part? We might be seen? Might be caught? Or the part where you’re dallying with daddy’s archenemy’s son?”

  Ahhhh. The pleasure was so intense it almost drowned the pain in his voice, but I heard it.

  “The part where I feel your soul trying to find mine and knowing there’s no soul there for you to find.” My orgasm crashed over me, dragg
ing me under for a moment, stealing all thought of whether I was making too much noise, or if anyone was watching our indiscretion. In that moment I didn’t care about any of it, because I could almost believe he’d found I did have a soul.

  * * * *

  He drove me back to the campus. “I wish you had longer than an hour.”

  “God, me too.” I’d ridden with my eyes closed, trying to hold on to the bliss I’d found with him for as long as I could. When I felt the Jeep come to a stop, I opened my eyes. “What would we do if I had more than an hour?”

  “I’d take you to the shibari center and tie you in a suspension.”

  “A suspension? Like hanging in the air?” The thought made me crazed. Scared. And fear was unacceptable. I’d have to face it, tame it. “Maybe. Someday.”

  He leaned toward me to kiss me when I opened the door. “Don’t wait too long for someday, beautiful. While you’re not paying attention, your life might pass you by.”

  Chapter Seven

  Why does everything Shiro say to me have to keep wrapping through my brain on a slow rewind wheel, like a really bad pop song stuck in my head? Five hours later, I wanted to shout, “My life isn’t passing me by!” but the truth was, even if it wasn’t passing me by, I was too busy to enjoy it. I raced from campus to work and then from work, home. Rushed to change, promised I’d eat after, and ran across the yard to the dojo. Of course, class had already started.

  I released a long-held breath as I bowed onto the deck, and every eye turned toward me. Nothing like living under a microscope.

  “Nice for you to join us, Miss Ricci,” my father announced from in front of the class. He didn’t meet my gaze.

  “Sorry I’m late, sensei. Permission to join the class.”

  “Fifty push-ups.”

  I dropped and pumped out fifty, then hurried to my place. The class stood at attention. Announcements would be read as to how our class had performed at the competition. There would be no end to the ribbing I would take for two second-place medals.

  After all the names and places were read, I realized he wasn’t going to read my scores, and I knew it wasn’t an oversight on his part. It was as if I hadn’t even competed.

  By the end of four grueling hours, made worse by forced push-ups every time I turned around for doing something incorrectly—I lost count at three hundred—I was ready to never step foot on a karate deck again. I even vowed it, silently of course. Sad thing was, it wasn’t the first time I’d made such a vow. I must have loved the punishment, because I always went back.

  * * * *

  Back in my room, after my shower, and after staring at a bowl of brown rice and stir-fried veggies I hadn’t touched, I called Shiro. I shouldn’t have. I knew I shouldn’t, and not because it was after midnight, but because I was seeking a partner in crime, not a true crime, just a little rebellion, and I knew he’d be more than willing to accommodate.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No, I was reading. What’s up?”

  “I have classes and work today, but what if I skipped the dojo tonight? Could we do it then?”

  “Hell yeah! You’ll skip karate to get tied up in my rope?”

  I thought about that. I’d never skipped a karate class, let alone an entire night’s responsibilities. “You said I was responsible for my own happiness, right?”

  He murmured affirmatively.

  “And the way I look at it, if I go to the dojo, I’m going to be miserable, but if I go with you…I might find that mindless bliss like I found in the desert the other day. That seems like the wiser choice.”

  “Wisdom is it, grasshopper?”

  I made a face he couldn’t see. “Do not ever call me grasshopper again.”

  He laughed out loud. “Never again, if you promise not to renege on me. Should I pick you up at the campus again?”

  “Please. That would be awesome.”

  “No, awesome is knowing I get to set you free from your gilded cage.”

  “I’m not in a gilded cage. I love my father and respect him, but I’m not a prisoner.”

  “Tell me that after you tell him you won’t be at the dojo, and he’s really pissed off.”

  * * * *

  If Shiro had guessed my father wasn’t going to take the news well when I told him I wouldn’t be at the dojo at all, he would have only gotten it half right. If he’d have said livid, or furious, he might have been closer, but the part about feeling like a prisoner, he was 100 percent on target; but then, how else could I feel when my father screamed, “If you aren’t going to be at the dojo, don’t come home at all.”

  Really? It was only one night, and he had to pull out the big threat?

  Shiro sensed my mood as soon as I climbed into his Jeep, but didn’t push for details. He just let me simmer in silence beside him. By the time we arrived at the center, I was still irritated, still trapped by my own thoughts, but for the life of me couldn’t have identified who I was mad at. Myself, for failing my father. Or my father, for failing me.

  * * * *

  “Ready, Stephanie?” he asked, and I nodded, not willing to acknowledge I was shaking, or terrified, or self-conscious. I hadn’t realized there would be a crowd—technically students, but still. I never considered he might use me as one of the subjects. I should have been clued in when he handed me a spaghetti-strapped black unitard and said, “This one should fit,” and didn’t seem at all sexually or romantically interested in helping me out of my clothes and into the leotard.

  I went into the main salon with him and only then realized. Seeing how many people had shown up for the night’s demonstration, I balked. Oh shit. I turned into his chest and whispered, “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “You’ll be fine,” he said, kissing me on top of my head. I met his gaze, and he did that thing he was so able to do: making me feel like I was the only one in the room, the only woman in the world.

  My hair was in a long ponytail, and he drew his hand down the length of it, stretching it out, pulling it to make me look up at him. “Think of this as your opportunity to allow yourself to see that the cage door has always been open, and you just needed to be brave enough to fly through it. The life ahead of you is full of opportunity. Maybe that future includes karate; maybe it includes shibari. Both are sacred journeys; both are honorable paths. There is always room in your life for both if you take both in moderation—”

  I pushed my fingertips to his lips. “Do not call me grasshopper.”

  Chuckling, he took my hand and led me to the center of a platform. This seemed so impossible. I’d come to think of the rope itself as erotic, and I saw no way of him binding me without touching me intimately—in front of a roomful of strangers. He promised he wouldn’t make me orgasm on purpose. What does that mean?

  I stood before him, panting, not sure what to expect, only knowing that one of the couples in the front row were old enough to be my grandparents: her hair snow-white, his hair still brown, but his face wizened with deep wrinkles. That made me feel strange, almost undone with embarrassment. Did they suspect Shiro and I had already done this? In the privacy of our own space? That he tied me and fucked me, and that I screamed like a cat in heat?

  Another couple stood near the first, younger, but not by much, probably my dad’s age. Okay, this isn’t helping. I do not need to think about my dad right now.

  Shiro winked.

  Had he guessed my thoughts? Does he know I’m scared shitless?

  Of course not. I had my game face on. If eighteen years of perfect katas, perfect kumite matches hadn’t prepared me to face this crowd, nothing would have. I hid myself deeper in my mind. I stopped looking at the faces in front of the small stage. I lifted my chin a little higher and pretended I was wearing my hoodie and shades. I wished for my iPod and earbuds.

  I would not let anyone see my vulnerability. No one gets to see that, not even my father ever has. That’s a lie. Shiro has seen me vulnerable. He has seen me open. I worry he will bring that o
ut of me tonight. Is that what he meant by opening the door of the gilded cage?

  With a look he asked if I was okay? Ready? Can anyone ever be ready for this? I think of the girls in his portfolio. They stood here. Some of them stood in this same spot completely naked.

  I’m no less brave than they were.

  I nodded, giving him permission to begin. He uncoiled the rope, letting it fall with a hiss. He started wrapping with a loop over my neck that knotted between my breasts. The rope seemed as textured as before, but different. I realized it was heavier, and then the thought came: to support my weight. My brain stalled on the thought. I knew he planned to suspend me, but somehow I hadn’t really thought it through. That seemed to be happening to me around Shiro a lot.

  “The harness I’m creating on my beautiful model, Stephanie, is called a diamond harness. I’m using an eight-millimeter rope, though you may be more comfortable using a six millimeter. Your partner will definitely be more comfortable if you avoid a four-millimeter rope.”

  He explained as he tied, “I’m going to start by tying a series of overhand knots directly between her breasts. This is a more time-consuming pattern than others I’ve shown you in the past. In the interest of time, and if you are very sure of your partner’s size, you could tie these first knots in advance.”

  He created a web around my torso that separated my breasts and would provide the main support structure for the suspension. He drew the rope between my legs, and when it pulled snug with a knot behind me, trapped my clit between bone and rope. This is such a bad idea and thank God for the unitard. I couldn’t imagine the rough rope against my naked flesh. But the minute I thought about not imagining it, that’s exactly what I was doing. I suddenly wanted the fiber against my flesh. It would hurt some. It would feel amazing. In that moment my need shot through the roof.

  Holy mother of God, how can I be turned on in front of a roomful of strangers?

  I imagined the rope indentations left around my wrists the day before everywhere rope had crossed bare skin. Crisscrossing my breasts. Around my waist. Over my shaved mons.