The Knots by Colin O’Sullivan

Rain was coming down like it meant every drop. Wind too in accompaniment, providing the backdrop.  Hiroko especially liked it this way, the wildness fitting, if only it could always be this harsh.  The lights of his room were on as she pulled into the enclosed parking area, he’s in – well, of course he is – waiting.

Masataka slipped down the back stairs and went to the car to greet her. She hugged him hard, her nails digging into the back of his neck.  Friday night.  All right then.

“In the back?” he asked.

“Yep.”

He pulled the man out of the back seat, all tied and gagged as expected, rope chaffing wrists.

“Nice job,” he said to Hiroko, looking at the knots.

Hiroko smiled back at Masataka, enjoying the praise, her tingle beginning.  Before she closed the door of the love hotel behind her, she looked to the bruised, purple sky, in hope of thunder or lightning, but nothing yet.

They lugged him into the room and let him flop there on the carpet.  Some of the rain had gotten on him, his sweater flecked with large wet patches, his baldness shining, dirt on the end of his jeans too, after the drag across the gravel and up the filthy stairs.

“Look at the state of you,” Masataka said, looking down at him.

Hiroko laughed her heartiest, some of the night’s nerves showing in it; she couldn’t wait to get to the bedroom.

They drank shochu first, sitting on the sofa, looking at him all bound up there in the carpet, the thick gag stuck in his mouth, making his smile stretch wide like a demented hyena, and Masataka had just enough of a reach to softly kick him in his paunch, playfully, which made Hiroko tingle even more. They listened to some old pop CDs, Hysteric Blue and Judy and Mary and drank more, eyes locked on each other as they kicked out every so often at the man’s body.

Nothing could go wrong with the night. Hiroko and Masataka were good at this, had been doing it for some time. He had taught her the knots, how to make things tight, and she had learned. They poked and prodded him as he lay before them, her painted toenails digging in his ribs. He wasn’t going anywhere; his eyes stared back at them, wide in pleading, and sweat appeared at the sides of his temples. They spat at him too, letting the shochu drip down their chins, and onto their victim’s face, it looked like piss, which made them all the more excited. Hiroko wanted to piss on him so bad but already Masataka was stretching, limbering up, preparing for the bedroom.

“Ready?”

She didn’t have to be asked twice. She took Masataka’s hand and he led her to the bedroom. Her skirt sashayed, the way she hoped he would like it. It was one she had worn before; a silky thing, smooth to the touch, insanely easy to whisk off.

She couldn’t help but laugh again. No nerves now, sheer excited expectancy.

“Say goodnight to your husband,” he said, even though it would not be a full night at all, a temporary reverie, but she looked to the lounge and whispered:

“Goodnight Naoto, darling.”

And blew him a kiss.

She moaned, softly at first, but with an ever increasing volume. He started in at it too, the groaning, letting Naoto know, letting Naoto know just how much Hiroko enjoyed this. More and more then, louder and louder, him thrusting into her and the bedsprings creaking. Masataka had ordered the bed that way, a specialist company, he didn’t want a new solid, silent bed, he needed Naoto to hear. The hotel complied, anything to make their regulars comfortable, and they knew he’d be coming here and paying for a long, long time. The love hotel had no problem with creaking beds, groans and hollers too, all part of its lexicon. She started to cry out when she was close, when she could picture the ropes cutting more and more into Naoto’s wrists and ankles, as he lay there prostrate, only the wind and rain-lashes at the window for company, and the terrific animal sounds coming from the bedroom. Then she began with the howls, the strident affirmations, and then with savage intent him too, Masataka, joining in on the chorus, and she hoped to make their explosion happen at the same time, so that the wriggling man in ropes had no other choice but to catch every last blast of it.

They returned then, soon after, hand in hand, Masataka still naked, letting his penis hang, used and flaccid, but still long, with a swing to it, and Hiroko took the knife from her handbag.

She was grinning, even wider than her husband, who squirmed around on the ground, his eyes flicking from the gleam of the kitchen knife to Masataka’s member.

She knelt down to him, cut the ropes from him, and cut the gag from his mouth. He gasped.

For a minute he rubbed the sores, his skin raw, and he took deep breaths to restore himself to his usual functions.

Hiroko reached out and fondled Masataka’s penis, but he took her hand away. Enough, Masataka’s eyes said.

Getting to his feet with humphs and groans, Naoto reached round the back of his pants to get his wallet. He opened it and counted out the cash.

“Usual,” he said, but it wasn’t even a question.

“I guess,” said Masataka, taking a blanket from the heart-shaped sofa and wrapping it around himself.

The cash was placed in Masataka’s hand. Backs were turned and the door was opened and they headed on down the back stairs and out to the dark blue car. Naoto stuck the key in and started the engine, the music immediately came to life, Judy and Mary again; he liked their stuff and grinned. There was no thunder and no lightning and even the wind and rain had let up.

Colin O’Sullivan is an Irish writer working in Japan. His collection of short stories, Anhedonia, and Majo, a novella for teenagers, were published by the now defunct Rain Publishing, Canada. He is currenly looking for a new publisher or agent.