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.

Moving off the cushion, the man walked around the room. I heard drawers open and close and then he returned to the bench, this time in front of me. A narrow width of fabric touch my outer left knee. I jerked then silently cursed my over-reaction.

He was quickly getting the better of me, this rope master of mine.

My rope master...

No, I was only calling him that in my thoughts because I had no name for him, hadn't even seen his face or heard his voice. That unknown factor gave him too much power. I had to name him so I could claw back some power of my own.

My first thought was to call him "Bakushi," which was just another way to call him a rope master but in another language. It was also a mouthful and the only thing I wanted my mouth full of at that second was the rock hard cock he had pressed against my spine.

So not "Bakushi," something shorter but similar.

Baku!

Some of my vulnerability slipped away as I settled on the name. "Baku" was light, pleasant, almost comical. I didn't need to worry about a man named Baku, even if he only called himself that in my head. Baku was a little monkey with a piece of rope, not a man with muscular thighs and rough hands.

More of the material slid across the top of my knees, bringing my thoughts to a screeching halt. I could feel the twists that braided through the silky fabric. Silk was strong. Once braided, it was even stronger. If I used my safe word and he didn't stop, I wouldn't be able to wiggle out of it. The fabric would only tighten the more I struggled, especially once I began to sweat from the effort.

Baku stepped closer, his legs brushing against mine as he draped the rope over my shoulders. Sensing the man circling the bench, I moved my head to track him.

"Face forward," Rick ordered.

Reluctantly, I turned back to my original position. From behind, the rope drew closer until it rested against my throat in a soft threat. Hands threaded through my hair, gathering all the loose, dark strands, twisting the thick mass and winding it into a bun that Baku secured with a long pin through the middle.

Warmth spread through me. As utilitarian as the act might have been for Baku, it had been a long time since a male had done anything so domestically intimate as to fashion my hair. My stylists were all women, which meant the last male to do so would have been Jake or Dylan making me presentable when my father's maids were all off preparing the house for guests.

Taking up the rope, Baku -- big cock and all -- pressed against my back as he leaned forward and lifted my breasts. He tucked the first length of the material beneath their fold. Together, our bodies bobbed backward, separated, together again and then forward as the rope circled my torso another time at the fold and then several circles across the top swell. Each time the rope went around me, he paused to make small adjustments so that my breasts were squeezed more mercilessly by the fabric.

My nipples, already erect and responsive, became exquisitely sensitive from the mounting pressure. That sensitivity shot like an arrow from my nipples to my clit, where my flesh was every bit as swollen -- swollen like the sea in a rough storm, moisture beading the air and slickening every surface.

I squared my shoulders to keep my ass from squirming along the cushion. I was getting very, very wet between my legs. If I wiggled even a little, my fluids would darken the fabric beneath me.

Oblivious to my arousal, Baku looped one end of the rope over and under the top three strands, then a straight line between my breasts to run the end under the bottom strands. Kneeling next to me on the cushion, he wrapped one arm around my side then pushed me in that direction with his other hand. With both of my arms bound by the same rope squeezing my breasts, I couldn't do anything other than fall on my side.

His firm hold kept me from hitting hard or bouncing. His body moved with mine. From our first contact, I had the sense that he was muscular. Not hulking, but tall and packed with lean muscle. The way his body slid against mine as he placed me on my side confirmed those impressions. A thick thigh pressed against one of my plump, soft ass cheeks. The other leg crowded the underside of my bottom and upper thighs.

Bracing his torso over mine, his lips paused against my ear to mock me with another pant, pant, pant.

My breathing froze. My bottom lip and chin quivered as I refused to take another breath until I brought my body under control. My ego felt bruised even as another push of warm cream escaped my pussy and seeped between the folds of my tightly pressed labia.

Why would he do that -- mimic the uncontrolled rush of air in and out of my body? If he wanted me to stop so I didn't risk passing out, he could have just told me. Or maybe he didn't speak English...or he was mute.

A hand slid down my body. Its thumb brushed along my bottom then parted the seal of my labia. In the tip went, slick and fat, my juices accumulating in the callused ridges. He brought the hand up to my face, the thumb smearing my cream against my lips.

Tensing, I moaned, the sound unrecognizable as coming from my throat.

He groaned with me then nipped my earlobe. The quiver left my lip to overtake my body. Another small bite from him, this time against my throat, and I almost came on the spot. I dug my nails into my flesh to stop the surge of pleasure.

A hand smacked my ass, the sensation pushing me another inch closer to release.

"You always have your safe word, Riona," Rick reminded me, his voice raw and sensual in a way I had never heard it. I had all but forgotten about the photographer, his presence reduced to the click-whirr-click of his camera.

I said nothing. I hadn't bargained for this, but I wouldn't back out. I had never been so awake down there. The rope master knew it because he chuckled at my tight lipped silence.

Baku chuckled...

Right -- a little monkey, not a big, strong hairless ape that smelled good enough to eat.

Standing alongside the bench once more, he bent my top leg. Placing his palm against the side of my calf, he measured down about seven inches from my knee and wrapped the rope thrice round so that thigh and calf were bound together. He worked the end between my firmly pressed flesh so that the circle of rope wouldn't slide off my knee.

The room went quiet and then I heard the snik-snik of Rick changing lenses. My heart, already pounding hard and fast against the back of my ribcage, kicked like a jack hammer as Baku secured the rope somewhere above my body and pulled on the end. My bound leg went up and up until my pussy was splayed open.

Hearing Rick with his camera and certain the lens was directed at the moist pulse of my cunt, I lifted my lower leg to block the view. The position lasted all of two seconds. Baku tied off part of the rope above me then pushed down on my bottom leg.

Finding the other end of the rope, he looped it through the top five strands squeezing just below my shoulder blades. Then he bound my bottom leg just as he had the top, my calf pressing against the back of my thigh, three loops around and then two between.

I no longer tried to control my breathing and he no longer mocked it. He brought the loose end behind me, made another loop then ran the rope between the cheeks of my ass. He stopped, tied a thick knot then slid the rope across my perineum, over my gaping cunt and atop my clit. He paused again, tying two more knots with only an inch and a half or so of distance between them. From there, he ran the end up and looped it beneath and then over just one of the circles beneath the fold of my breast.

I was thoroughly trussed up -- arms bound against my sides, legs folded and splayed, breasts squeezed mercilessly top and bottom and the rope tight against my clit and the quivering pucker of my ass.

Baku touched my fingers, pinched each tip one at a time on each hand to check their circulation. He tested my nipples after that, harder pinches that had me squirming with greater need. My restless movements caused the knots that pressed against my genitals to rub up and down.

A rough moan gripped my vocal chords until I had to cry out, my shoulder and hips jerking.

He pinched my toes next and then I heard and felt him crouch behind me. One hand took the loose end of rope and the other wrapped around the back of my head to control me. He see-sawed the rope between my legs. The way he had it looped, it lifted and pulled at the knots between my legs in a fast, relentless rhythm.

Trembling with need, I bit at my lips. He had me close, at the limits of my control, but each time I found myself perched at the edge, he eased off.

"Now," Rick said.

I didn't know what "now" meant. I thought it might be the end of the teasing, that Baku would tug at the rope faster and faster until my climax overtook me. That didn't happen, at least not at the photographer's raspy command.

Baku unknotted the blindfold and brushed the fabric from my face. Before I could look over my shoulder at him, his hand seized the back of my skull and forced me to face forward.

The rope tugging renewed. He had a way of twisting it as he pulled that caused the knot over my ass to burrow against me. The two knots at my clit pressed and pinched, the alternating waves of pain and pleasure causing my eyes to roll back in my head. With the blindfold removed, I could see, but I could barely keep my eyes open and not once could I focus.

My body squeezed, my face contorted, I moved with the rope master so that the harder pinches and rubs came from my own uncontrollable need. I gasped, groaned, murmured my pleas for just a little more something, that last thing that would make me pop.

Insensible to the camera, I started to cry my frustration, fat salty tears falling onto the bench's surface.

The rope went slack. Baku's hand replaced it against my clit. His thumb ran a soft, stroking line until I crumbled in release.

His lips glossed over my shoulder before resting against the curve of my neck, his hand slowly bringing me back down to earth with a sweet rubbing. After the last quiver left me, the hand at my pussy moved up to pull the blindfold across my eyes and secure it.

From there, Baku proceeded to unbind my legs, his strong hands massaging the flesh to encourage the blood to flow into my lower limbs. He loosened the rest of the rope enough that I could bring my arms around front but not reach up for the blindfold.

The last touch from him was a gentle thumbing of my nipples that made the ravenous burn of need return to my cunt.

Less than five minutes later, my rope master was gone. Rick removed the blindfold and enough of the remaining binding that I could free myself. I ducked into the bathroom, quickly washed up and fumbled my clothes back onto my body. Reaching into my pocket for my cell phone to check the time, I felt the brush of a small piece of folded paper.

I pulled the note out and read the typewritten text.

Next time, no limits.

#####THE END#####



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Pesky Legal Junk



Copyright content © 2014 by Christa Wick

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. All persons and entities are fictional or fictitiously used. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the express written permission from the author/publisher.





Table of Contents

About THC-Kinbaku

Training Her Curves - Kinbaku

Pesky Legal Junk