I don't think this is what she expected when I said I'd teach her nawajutsu. In fact, from the stormy look on her face, I'm positive it isn't what she expected. I give her an indulgent smile, patting the top of her head; she glares at me, but doesn't pull away.

Few are aware that the various sashes, straps, and head-coverings of the ninja serve as more than mere garments. Nawajutsu is the ancient art of binding an opponent for capture or execution, and it's to be found in tandem with many traditional Japanese martial arts; in fact, it's the purpose behind the cord wrapped around a katana's sheath and hilt. Of course, in this day and age, it's been adapted to less violent purposes; like all arts, it loans itself nicely to the pleasures of the flesh.

I'd held her wrists with the utmost gentleness, my mouth close to her ear, warning her not to struggle. The cold glint of the scalpel, every detail of the beyond-razor-sharp edge tallied under dozen fluorescent lights, convinced her. Though she consented to our game, her fear was palpable in the pounding of her heart that was audible as I sliced her t-shirt and bra away. It was amusing to watch her quail, and then the slump in her shoulders when she realized that, despite my seemingly unwieldy three-fingered hands, I am capable of literally surgical precision. I think she was surprised, too, by how securely yet comfortably I could bind her arms with just shreds of her clothing.

Her tights have always held a special allure for me, and as I cut away her shorts and my hand rubs against their slight roughness, I'm seized by a nearly uncontrollable urge. Tenting my fingers in the delicate fabric, I easily rip it away from her thighs, leaving crude stockings and garters, plus her sweet little mound still covered. Two more equally judicious applications of the scalpel leave her panties free in my hands. I toss them aside, fascinated instead with the black nylon barely preserving her modesty. I press with one fingertip, molding the fabric to the contours of her inner and outer lips. My mouth waters. I reach beneath to cradle her perfectly round bottom in both hands as my tongue wets the ragged fabric against her. From above I hear a whimpering moan, and she's begun to swell against my lips and tongue, her clit suddenly erect and prodding me for more individual attention. Instead, I grasp the nylon in my teeth and rip it away, leaving her fully exposed to me. The denim of her discarded shorts makes fine rope as I bend both her legs at the knee, tenderly binding one slim ankle at a time to each end of the massive chest.

She's perched atop a 300-pound tool chest, in fact, right at eye height for my viewing pleasure. What remains of her clothing, tattered into rags despite my masterful work, binds her arms behind her and her legs wide open, straining just beyond the comfortable range of motion. I lean back in my chair, gazing appreciatively at the beautiful sight before me. Her bottom is quite red from the icy cold metal beneath; she persists in squirming, and that sweet nest of coppery curls is half-auburn with her arousal. She's so close I can almost taste her. She whimpers, a pearl of her nectar running down the lush curve of her mound even as I watch. But with her bound and ready in my soundproof workshop and the others out scavenging scrap metal for my many projects, there's plenty of time for that.

A long strip from her abused tights remains; I bind it around her head three times, gently but firmly knotting it in back the same way I do my own mask. At three passes it's opaque, and with her eyesight disabled, her expression is now sweetly consternated by disorientation. I can't resist leaning down to kiss that look away, at least partially, reassuring her with the gentle pressure of my lips. It's a pity she won't see the gifts I made for her, only feel them. This time.

Bound as she is, the perfect morsels of her breasts are on showcase, straining outward and given a life of their own by her heaving breaths. I turned on the space heater before I lured my princess here, keeping the workshop just warm enough that the velvety rosebuds my mouth knows as her nipples are still soft and tender. Their blushing innocence before my eyes sends a frisson of wickedness through me for what I'm about to do to her.

Moving stealthily to silence the clink of metal on metal, I let the thin-gauge, almost imperceptibly light silver chain slide teasingly down over her skin. She frowns, obviously confused. At the each end of the chain is a small alligator clamp, the threads inside filed to mere gentle ridges to prevent injury to her lovely skin. She makes a little sound of surprise and discomfort as the first clamp closes around a nipple. I stop immediately, watching her face for any sign of real pain.

"Do you want me to stop?" Bounded and blinded, I know she's isolated in her own tiny universe of nothing but my voice and these tenderly cruel sensations. She shakes her head.

The second clip goes on a little more easily. She's obviously in discomfort but, as a glance between her thighs confirms, enjoyment as well. I turn then to the bells.

They're what are colloquially known as "jingle bells," crafted by my own hands from a nickel-aluminum alloy that's just heavy enough for my little game with her. The steel balls within are each of slightly different size and shape, producing varying notes on the musical scale. Holding them tightly between second and third finger pad to silence them for now, I clip the first two bells, one on each side, to the chain arcing heavily between her breasts. As I release it, there's a soft chiming and a gentle weight pulling against the clamp. With her senses heightened by deprivation of her eyesight, she seems to feel the tiny tug most clearly; her expression now is a blend of discomfort and pleasure that gives me a hot, rather heavy feeling of butterflies in my stomach. I add two more; the bells' sweet tinkling song makes a perfect accompaniment to her little whimpers of confliction as the increased weight forces her nipples into aroused turgidity.

I stop at six on each side, when her face is just beginning to look twisted with a throbbing sensation near pain. Working for nights, I had lovingly coated each bell in a thin layer of niobium, and the diffuse, glowing rainbow is beautiful against the rapidly flushing milkiness of her bosom and belly. I tweak each one with a slight flick of my thumb, testing its sound and her response; she shudders every time, as even the tiniest motion is electrically charged for her in this state.

The third chain attaches to the other two in a "y" shape; as I lift it, I notice a look of tentative relief on her face as it takes some of the strain off her now fully-budded, almost hot pink, nipples. She feels my breath whispering over her most private place, then cries out at the sudden, unexpected feeling of my thick and leathery tongue probing between her outer lips, quickly turning to hitching asps as her own motions cause an aching tug on her swollen and abused nipples. The tip of my tongue dips into her entrance, laving lemon meringue-flavored cream from around the tight opening before tracing a slow upward line. Bound spread-eagle and tormented by her pretty little jesses, she can do nothing but sob in pleasurable frustration as my tongue slides over her clit, drowning each bundled nerve in ecstasy. I suckle it noisily, making a wet pop as I release it. She looks confused for a moment, then tenses up as she realizes what comes next.

"Ah, Donnie, I don't know if-"

"Shhhhhh. Just trust me, April." She nods gingerly, hesitantly, then cries out again as the third tiny alligator clamp closes around her engorged center of pleasure; though the inside of the metal is polished entirely smooth, the pressure, and accompanying pain, are intense for a long moment in which she whimpers, her head turning restlessly from side to side as she seeks a relief that doesn't exist in her personal cocoon of feeling. Standing between her spread thighs, I kiss her; it's soothing and perhaps a tiny bit distracting, but firm. Though she trembles and pauses to catch herself between new waves of pain, she returns my kiss eagerly.

Hovering over her with an engineer's attention to detail, I attach more of the little rainbow bells to the final chain; the lightest touch makes each one sing and her twitch involuntarily. I grasp her thighs, one in each hand; I love the slivers of nearly-white flesh appearing between my fingers as I gently pull her to the very edge of the tool chest, leaving her rear dangling tenuously over open air and setting off a symphony of jingling; the impromptu bonds bite into her skin a bit more, but I know she barely feels a thing over the intense sensations along the chains.

Her outer lips are parted without bidding now, weeping her arousal all over her rosy-pink skin, her new toys, and my fingertip as it slips in gently, shallowly, testing her readiness. Though my touch is light, her nerves are on fire with the complex interplay of agony and ecstasy she causes herself with even the slightest motion.

"Please, Donnie, please, I need you to-"

I loom over her, and though she can't see me, I know she can sense the shadow falling across her face as I move to kiss her neck.

"You need me to what, April? Untie you?"

She shakes her head, then cringes at the twinges even that motion causes. I laugh quietly in her ear, a low sound that comes out half-purr. My lips find the sweet spot behind the curving rim of her ear, close to where her neck begins, and I bite down with calculated roughness. My voice rumbles against her neck.

"Do you want me to take off the clamps?" Emphasizing my words, I give one of the bells nearest her clit a tweak. She cries out, but still shakes her head. I lean on my elbows so I can watch her face, my breath warm on her on her moist skin.

"I need you to...I need you to..." She keeps swallowing the last words, and speaks as roughly as though her throat were turned to sandpaper.

"Say it, April." It's a quiet growl, but a growl nonetheless, and even now she looks a little startled at my air of command. Her darts out to slick over her lips.

"D-do me." Once she gets those two words out, it seemingly becomes easier, and though I've tied her legs as wide as they can open, the hesitant need in her voice is much more of an invitation. "Do me...like one of your machines, Donnie."

My mouth dips to her neck once more, murmuring into the tender hollow of her throat. "Anything for you, my sweet." I released myself long ago without noticing, my arousal far too painful pressing against the rigid flesh of the cloaca to stay restrained, and my breath comes out in a hiss of sudden sensory overload as the head rubs over her silky wetness, even just barely. She seems to pull me in even as I press forward; she's so wet that I have to brace my elbows on the now rather heated metal to keep from penetrating her fully in one smooth motion. It's beautiful to study her face as I enter her: She bites into her lower lip at the stretching sensation as her body slowly accommodates my length and girth even as it begs for me to push on; from under the blindfold, I can see tiny creases around her eyes forming and disappearing as the bells and clamps tug at her most sensitive spots with even the slightest motion of our bodies. I look down and see myself sheathed nearly to the hilt, her flushed and welcoming petals furled so tightly around me that I see only a sliver of green beneath us. I groan, letting my weight rest just a tiny bit on her playfully tortured breasts as my mouth devours hers, thickly muttering her name against the back of her throat.

"April...April..." It's a musical sound to me even in this humid reverie of conflicting sensation. I've lost control of my hips, and possibly my mind. Even three hundred pounds of steel creaks slightly as I pound a frenzied but loving rhythm into her pleading body; every one of eighteen little bells cries out as frantically as she does with each thrust, but she's the one screaming my name even as I'm grunting hers, over and over. Tightly-wound from hours of sensory torment, she comes almost too easily and powerfully the first time; though the shimmering of her tight sheath around me threatens to finish me too, I've found a focus within myself I didn't even know I had.

Reaching low between our bodies, I play almost idly with the noisy trinkets adorning her body, slim but now toned from kunoichi training. As I pluck lightly at them, they make a pleasing melody in tune with my thrusts; I'm playing not only the bells, but every nerve in her body, now utterly drowned in sensation. Her face is an ever-shifting mask of uncertain pleasure and discomfort from the tsunami of feeling. As I watch with a not-quite-detached scientist's self-assurance, though, I can see the pleasure gradually winning, building up over a crest into sheer ecstasy and bliss as she hollers my name again.


My lips find hers purely instinctively, open-mouthed though I can barely speak.

"Good girl...yes, oh yes, oh god, April..." The sound the bells make is a harsh and discordant clamor as I thrust a final time, losing myself utterly inside her. Every thought I've ever had melts uselessly at the periphery of my mind as I fill her, feeling my liquid warmth mingling with her own. Though she still jerks and spasms with her second orgasm, trying to drain my body of my very life essence, something in my heart nags me that she can't hold the volume of what I've poured into her; not my love, not my semen, not the awkward, isolated half-man half-turtle who she found purely by accident. Though the pleasure is still compressing my spine and making me push deeper into her, the thought gives me equal pain, and I start to pull away. I'm already formulating my apology, wondering if this journey into just the shallow end of my deviance will steal her from me forever.

Glancing down at her face, she looks confused, lost, a little hurt. My whole body cringes. The bells tinkle uncaringly at the movement.

"Where are you going?" It's a threadbare whisper. She's straining against the scraps of yellow cotton tying her wrists, and I reach behind her to work them loose and free her hands. If she minds that my plastron presses against her now exceedingly tender nipples, she shows no sign of it. Instead, her arms grace my neck in that way that's become so endearingly familiar, as though I'm only home when she's holding me this way. Her fingers brush over my cheek and the rounded tip of my beak, the pad of her thumb sliding along my lips. "Don't leave me."