Page 135 of The Dragon 2
Once the doors opened, light spilled out and I followed Hiroko.
We stepped deeper inside, and to my shock, the sound of jazz rode the air—lazy, sultry brass weaving through the space like smoke.
Okay. Very interesting.
I hadn’t been expecting that music at all.
Surely, this wasn’t what they usually played here.
With Hiroko’s geisha roots—the way she carried herself with such traditional grace—I assumed I’d be greeted by the melancholic strings of a shamisen or the slow ceremonial rhythm of taiko drums.
But this was a saxophone dripping honey. An upright bass rumbling foreplay. The kind of sounds that didn’t bow.
Very American.
This had my Tiger’s fingerprints all over it.
Did Nyomi pick the music?
The jazz was so intimate and the melody was unfamiliar, but it stirred desire within me.
Why had she chosen this music?
I didn’t have time to dwell as the hallway unfurled into a large room, and it was like stepping into an altar built for power and pleasure.
Tora. . .
It was intimate—but not small. The walls felt close, but the ceiling soared. Like being inside a cathedral of sin, drenched in desire.
The lighting was low and poured like honey.
Candle flames shimmered inside crystal sconces.
The air was fragrant and rich. Leather and wine, yet the smell of yummy cooking lingered beneath—warm, rich, and soulful.
Fuck. I’m about. . .99% sure she cooked for me.
Everywhere I turned, the room exhaled dark, feminine power.
On my left, various whips stood in tall, cut-crystal vases like fucking blooming roses.Their handles were braided in thick Japanese leather, some tipped with gold, others with sapphires.
And I knew without a doubt that they were not props.
They were weapons of worship.
Further in, red, black, and white ropes descended from the ceiling in elaborate shibari configurations—knots so precise, they looked like silken calligraphy. Some hung loose. Others spiraled around ivory statues.
I turned to the right and froze as my eyes landed on the Saint Andrew’s Cross. Carved from cherry wood so dark, it musthave been soaked in centuries. Its iron bolts gleamed in the candlelight. A black leather cuff still dangled from one arm.
It wasn’t placed against a wall.
It stood centered like a monument.
My cock jumped in my pants.
Now. . .Tora. . .I thought you wanted to go slow?
My heartbeat picked up.
