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Rye crosses the threshold blindfolded, the door closing behind him. From the moment they left the car in the parking lot until they stepped out of the elevator—twenty-eighth floor, said the robotic voice—no one saw them. At least, that's what Rye deduced. He heard no one, not a sound of footsteps, not a cough.
When Gin gives him his sight back, Rye is surprised to find himself in a luxury apartment, lined on one side with huge bay windows that open onto the Tokyo night. The decor is minimal, tastefully chosen but impersonal. Everything is in shades of gray, black, and white. Abstract paintings hang on the walls, and sleek, elegant sculptures rest on dressers and pedestal tables. When Gin asked him to blindfold himself after getting into his car, Rye was certain he was taking him to a filthy warehouse to interrogate him, beat him up, or put a bullet in the back of his head. He was sure he had failed the test.
It all started a few weeks earlier, when he had been working with Gin for a few weeks. He thought he had gained his trust, but quickly noticed all the little hints he was dropping. Rye knew the type: even before infiltrating the Organization, he had studied him inside and out. He had memorized the little crumbs the FBI had managed to gather about him. He knew from the start that this was no slip-up. As soon as Gin offered him a clumsy remark, an ambiguous sentence, a file left lying around on a corner of his desk, Rye had to be careful to give the right answer. He couldn't try to dig deeper or feign suspicious indifference. He had to give the impression of being on his side, while not missing a single piece of information Gin was willing to give up to test the waters. It was a real balancing act. One he thought he had succeeded at. Then he thought he had failed.
He stands there, not knowing where to put himself in the middle of this overly clean, overly cold living room. He feels like he’s standing in a real estate ad. “Make yourself at home,” Gin says, opening a cupboard and taking out two whiskey glasses. Rye takes off his jacket and hangs it on the rack alongside Gin's coat and hat. He places it gently, as if everything in this place could explode in his face. Since Gin hasn't taken off his shoes, Rye keeps his on too. It's as much mimicry as it is survival instinct. It will be more convenient for making a getaway. He reflects that he has never seen Gin take off his shoes since he began investigating him. Is it, like him, a way of staying on guard at all times, or does he come from a country where this is not customary? Rye notes this question in the back of his mind and promises himself he will answer it later.
“What are you drinking?” asks Gin.
He already has a bottle of rye whiskey in his hand.
“Whatever you're having.”
Gin chuckles, which Rye takes as a good sign. He has to be careful to appear just nervous enough: too much and he risks giving himself away, too little and it would be even worse. Gin approaches with the two glasses. He has taken off his sweater, thrown it over the back of the sofa, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his forearms. No tattoos. Lots of scars. Too many for one man.
Akai takes the glass Gin hands him. They are close enough for Rye to realize what is really happening, what Gin wants from him. He doesn't dislike the idea. He would be lying if he claimed he had never thought about it. He raises his glass and takes a sip to compose himself. The alcohol burns his mouth, then his throat, but he doesn't let it show. He takes a step back, to break free from the pull of this bad, this terribly bad idea, and walks around the living room as if strolling through an art gallery. With his chin, he points to a painting, a small square covered in blocks of black and red.
“Soulages?”
He prays that Gin will answer in the affirmative. Works at that price don't sell every day, nor to the first comer; it would be child's play to trace them. An address, bank details, a real name, perhaps. A godsend.
But Gin shrugs.
“No idea. The interior designer chose it.”
“Is there at least one thing in this apartment that you chose yourself?”
The jab makes Gin laugh, that wicked laugh that Rye still can't interpret.
“Not many, it's true. But there are some.”
His gaze shifts for a split second to a cupboard left ajar. It doesn't take Rye long to realize that what's inside is the real reason for his presence and that Gin has just given him permission to snoop around. On tiptoe, as if approaching an unexploded shell, he walks over to the cupboard and opens it.
Hanging from hooks is a whole array of black leather and chrome buckles, glistening in the light from the ceiling lamp. Rye first notices the whip, the bamboo cane, the spreader bars, the leash, the plugs, the nipple clamps, the gag, and the blindfold. Then he sees the handcuffs, the harnesses, the straitjacket, and panic replaces amusement. Fucking or getting fucked is one thing, a mistake he can hide or justify to his superiors, a breach of protocol that he wouldn't be the first to commit. Submitting is another matter. Finding himself entirely at the mercy of the enemy, vulnerable and humiliated, is a risk he is not prepared to take. He still has to find a way to escape without ending up in the morgue.
He drinks again to calm his nerves. This time, the powerful taste at least has the merit of anchoring him in reality. The more he focuses on the aromas of wood and vanilla that follow the bite of ethanol, the less he thinks about what will happen if he mishandles the situation. He decides to play it cool and casual. It fits his character. With his fingertips, he lifts the harness. The leather is soft against his skin; it's not new, it's been used until it's smooth.
“So, who's the unfortunate woman you're forcing to wear this?”
“Me.”
Rye almost chokes. The whiskey goes down his windpipe, but he barely feels it. Gin, who had been watching from a distance, has come closer. He's not joking—Rye isn't even sure he's capable of it. He watches Rye, as if searching his micro-expressions for the answer to his silent question. Rye, on the other hand, wants to laugh. First out of relief, then at the absurdity of the situation. Then he imagines Gin kneeling in front of him, naked, harnessed and helpless, and he doesn't feel like laughing anymore. The idea makes him so hard so quickly that it hurts.
He has to stay in character.
He drinks again. He feels nauseous, but manages to ignore it. He pinches Gin's neck between his thumb and forefinger. It's hard to appear dominant and in control when he's a head shorter than him. Their eyes meet. Rye's heart pounds against his ribs, and he doesn't know if it's from terror or excitement.
“So you're that kind of guy? Always in control, always on guard, and needs to get his ass whipped by a latex-clad mistress to relax a little?”
“You got it.”
“And you want me to be that latex-clad mistress?”
“Yes.”
“Why me? Do you trust me that much?”
“I trust you 90%.”
Rye lets out a nervous laugh. If only he knew...
“What about the remaining 10%?”
“That's what's going to make the game fun.”
They stand close together, closer than they have ever been, even in the sardine can that serves as Gin's car. Their breath mingles; they would barely need to move their heads to kiss. Gin doesn't wear perfume. Rye noticed that when they first met. He smells of cold tobacco and sweat.
Rye continues to rub Gin's shirt collar. He slides his other hand down to his waist, bringing them even closer together.
“This isn't really my thing. What do you expect from me?”
“Two-hour sessions, whenever I feel like it. I'll bring you here blindfolded, like today. As soon as
I put on the harness, you're in control. I'll give you carte blanche. I like it humiliating.”
Rye twitches. Carte blanche... It couldn't be that simple. It’s another perverse game, another test where he will have to guess the right answer. He already knows he doesn't have the luxury of refusing, nor does he want to. He is already thinking about the lie he would invent in his next report to keep this evening quiet. But as much as he's dying to, he has no idea what he's gotten himself into. He's had girlfriends who liked spankings and fur handcuffs before; he's about to play in a whole different league.
“Aren't we supposed to sit down, set our limits, that kind of thing?”
“Don't kill me. Is that okay with you?”
Gin sighs. The situation annoys him, and Rye is all too aware of it. He still has a million questions running through his head, but oh well, he's used up his quota of talking for the evening. He'll think about it later. First, he wants to kiss that mouth that has been calling to him ever since Gin moved closer to him. But as their lips brush against each other, a hand slaps against his face, pushing him away.
“Not that.”
“What, the whip is okay, but a kiss is a no-no?”
“Exactly.”
Rye doesn't try to argue. Gin grabs the harness from the closet and shoves it into his hands. “Two hours. Let yourself go. No kissing.”
At first, Rye is clumsy and feels ridiculous. But then he slips into the skin of this character within the character and does what Gin expects of him. It's not difficult to rough him up when he hates him, at least at first, before the machine gets out of control and things escalate. The monthly session quickly becomes weekly. Rye eventually recognizes the signs: tension in Gin's hand, in his jaw, in his movements, a malicious spark in his eyes, a crack in his control that tells him it's time to let go a little. The next day, he seems calmer, but it never lasts. So Gin blindfolds Rye and takes him away in his car. Once they're done, they do it all over again, but in the opposite direction. They act as if nothing happened. No one in the Organization seems to be aware of it, no one at the FBI questions Rye's incomplete reports. Soon, Gin no longer bothers with confidentiality. He dismisses Rye at the end of their sessions and lets him go home alone, as if he doesn't care about revealing his address. He doesn't seem to suspect the true nature of the snake he knowingly lets into his home.
Rye does his best to become the ideal torturer. Once he gets past his initial awkwardness, he gives free rein to his impulses. He experiments with the whip, abandons the whip, imposes contortions, the kind that border on the limit, which with a few more degrees would dislocate a shoulder or a knee. He learns to love holding the leash. He starts by insulting him before realizing that it's much more entertaining to ask him to insult himself—and that Gin has more imagination for that than he will ever have. He pokes, slaps, hits, pinches. He decorates this scarred skin with hickeys, bites, and bruises of all kinds. He thrusts himself into this body at his disposal without mercy, listening for the groans of pain that accompany a job well done. He makes him kneel, hold the pose for long minutes, lick his soles, threatens to shave his head but never does so, not wanting to deprive himself of the pleasure of pulling his hair.
He may rush to extract all the cruelty he is capable of, but once the timer rings at the end of two hours, Gin congratulates him and pushes him to go even further.
As if he had no limits.
The only boundary Rye never crosses is the one he got imposed on the first night: no kissing. And it ends up obsessing him to the point of madness. He thinks of nothing but these lips, this mouth. To avoid sticking his tongue in, he sticks his fingers in, he sticks his cock in. Sometimes he spits in it and asks Gin to tell him how much he loves drinking from his mouth. He forces the gag or bit on him, causing torrents of saliva to run down his chin, which he hastens to lick, at least to know what it tastes like, but it's never enough. He wants more. Often, he fights against the urge to rip off that stupid harness, drag him to the bedroom, and fuck him, missionary style, forehead to forehead, to see in his eyes a devotion that would last more than 120 minutes. He wants to call the shots, on his terms, for real. The more time passes, the more the charade suffocates him. He comes out of these sessions feeling like a whore. Yet he keeps coming back, like you come back to cigarettes that sting your eyes, like you come back to coke that burns the back of your nose, like you come back to shots you drink until you puke.
Today, they hid for hours. Once the job was done, Gin asked Rye if he had plans for the evening. Even though it wasn't true, Rye said yes.
“Then cancel it.”
They already had a session earlier this week. This detail strikes Rye. Gin has never asked so much of him. Sometimes he calls for a special, unplanned session, which almost always coincides with his summons to Rum's office. This time is no exception. During the stakeout, Gin received a call from Rum which, although brief, ruined his mood. Rye would pay all the money in the world to hear what’s said during these conversations. Still, being tossed around at Gin's whim without having a say in the matter annoys him.
He spends the entire trip planning his revenge.
When they return, Gin does not obediently stand next to the closet as they usually do, but heads for the bathroom. It must be said that they have been sitting motionless in the car for hours. Rye has known FBI agents who peed in bottles during stakeouts. Gin is a little too distinguished for that.
Perfect.
Rye grabs him by the wrist and pulls him toward the closet. Gin glares at him and is about to retort when his eyes light up. He doesn't protest. Better yet, he obeys. With his arms crossed behind his back, he waits for his tormentor to choose the punishment of the day.
Tonight, it will be the straitjacket, a black leather contraption that Gin slips on like a bodysuit over his clothes. Positioned correctly, with his legs tied in a frog position, it presses against his crotch and quickly causes constant, unpleasant stimulation that cannot be avoided. Rye places Gin at the foot of the Barcelona chair in the middle of the living room.
All the lights in the apartment are on, the curtains wide open. Someone smoking at their window in the tower opposite could see them if they wanted to. Not that Rye has ever noticed any voyeurs, but what does it matter if they're really there when the important thing is that they could be there? He takes his time taking out equipment he won't use half of and places it prominently on the coffee table. He stalls, pretends to think, puts one toy away, takes out another. Gin waits, head down, without a word. Rye knows he's not missing a thing.
Finally, when he's had enough of this little game, he blindfolds him. He doesn't want to face that gaze that chills him to the bone. For two hours, he deprives him of that power.
The gag he had planned to use remains on the table. Rye wants to hear him beg. He sits down in the chair, searching for inspiration. With one hand, he scratches Gin's head as one would a pet. He could just leave him waiting there, doing nothing, letting him fight his bladder on his own. That would teach him to treat Rye as if he were at his beck and call. But seeing him kneeling like that turns him on enough to want to play along.
He gets up, fills a glass with water from the kitchen tap, and sits back down in the armchair. When the rim of the glass touches his lips, Gin turns his head away. This upsets Rye as much as it pleases him. It's rare for Gin not to be docile, so he takes it as a sign that he's reaching his limit.
“Drink.”
A calm command, but one that brooks no contradiction. Gin opens his lips, Rye tilts the glass. He spills it everywhere, soaking the straitjacket and both their pants, but Gin swallows two or three times, and that's all that matters. Rye grabs a strand of white hair and uses it to wipe his mouth.
Back to square one. The clock ticks away the seconds, which quickly turn into minutes. At his feet, Gin squirms in his bonds. He seems uncomfortable for the first time since they began their sessions. Rye is delighted. He thinks of all the things he could do to him, the punishments he could invent, but none of them tempt him. None of them really live up to his expectations.
As he gets up again to take the glass back to the sink, Rye's gaze falls on the holster hanging on the coat hook. Gin's Beretta is still there. Now that's a good idea... Without a sound, he removes the magazine, then checks that there is no bullet stuck in the chamber. He's still missing something. A quick glance around the kitchen allows him to find what he was looking for: a plastic supermarket bag, which he fills with air and ties shut. He returns to the living room with all his gear and a plan in mind.
Gin lets out a groan when Rye, sitting back in the armchair, presses his foot against his crotch. With his toes, he traces the contours of an extremely erect cock, moving down, then up, deliberately pressing against the bladder. Gin bites his lip. A pitiful moan escapes him nonetheless.
“Is there a problem?”
“None,” Gin articulates.
Gently, Rye caresses Gin's cheek with the tip of the barrel. Gin freezes, breathless, mouth half open. Rye gloats: he has never been so close to his limit. Finally, he will have the upper hand.
“You understand what this is, right?”
“You’re playing with dangerous toys here, Rye.”
He smiles, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. Gin isn't enjoying himself as much anymore. Perfect. Rye will only stop when he won't be enjoying himself at all.
“Don't worry, I took all the bullets out.”
“And I'm supposed to take your word for it?”
“You trust me 90%, right? Maybe I removed nine out of ten bullets, who knows...”
He grazes the contours of Gin's jaw, pausing at his chin, moving up to his lips. Suddenly, doubt overwhelms him. Did he check the chamber properly? One wrong move and Gin's brains would be splattered all over his beautiful gray furniture. The idea doesn't displease Rye as much as he'd like it to. He shoves the barrel into Gin's mouth.
“Come on, suck on it.”
Gin protests, unable to speak because of the metal pressing against his tongue. However, it only takes him a few seconds to comply. He slides his tongue along the weapon, licks Rye's fingers when he reaches the trigger. He rubs himself against Rye's foot like a beast in heat.
Rye plays along, less because he has to than because it always ends this way. He lets himself be contaminated, he becomes what Gin want him to be, and he likes it.
“You disgust me so much, if only you knew...”
He pulls the gun dripping with saliva from Gin’s mouth and presses it under his chin. What he is about to say to him is crazy, completely insane, but if he plays his cards right, he will get away with it unscathed. It's a risky gamble, but he needs this bluff to succeed. It’ll be so much fun.
“It's a shame we have to say goodbye so soon.”
He leans over and whispers in Gin's ear.
“I'm not who you think I am. I was sent to infiltrate your group by the Russian government, who would like to understand exactly what this mysterious Organization is. My mission was to get close to you.”
This half-truth, so close to the full truth, both excites and terrifies him. He grabs Gin's hair with his whole hand and pulls his head back.
“In the end, we realized you weren't worth much, so we're going to move on to a much more interesting target. You're no longer of any use to us.”
Later, he will be able to claim that this was all just a role-playing game. It wouldn't be the first time they've done it. The member of a rival organization, the sadistic prison guard, he can become either one, depending on his mood that day. The one Gin prefers to see him embody is the bad cop who would do anything to get a confession, even if it means getting his hands dirty with cruel and unusual punishments. The FSB agent is just one variation on this arsenal of authority figures. Easy to explain, easy to excuse.
His tongue traces the outline of Gin's ear as he presses the barrel a little harder. He hopes to leave a mark.
"Они сказать мне убить тебя сегодня ночь."*
He knows his Russian lessons are long behind him, but it doesn’t matter. In any case, there's little chance Gin will understand what he's saying.
With his hand, he searches for the plastic bag he inflated earlier. He mustn't make it rustle, or he'll ruin the effect. Finally, when he feels the moment is right, he slams his palm down on the bag and bursts it.
A loud bang fills the air.
Not loud enough to give the illusion of a gunshot, but enough to surprise, to make people believe, to deceive them for a quarter of a second. A quarter of a second is all he needs.
“No...”
The moan that escapes Gin's lips is tremulous, pitiful, as a puddle spreads beneath him. He tries to squeeze his legs together, but it's no use; the ropes binding him prevent him from doing so. The smell of urine fills the apartment. It reaches Rye's nose, and he laughs. Under the blindfold covering Gin's eyes, tears flow. They roll down his cheeks to his chin, where they fall onto his already soaked pants.
Rye's jubilation doesn't last. He thought he had won, but then he realizes, from the sound of those distinctive gasps he has come to know so well, that Gin has come. This nutcase had an orgasm at the thought of getting shot in the head.
In a fit of rage, he stands up and unzips his pants just enough to pull out his cock. He walks through the piss, his socks soaking wet, but he doesn't care. With one hand, he grabs Gin's hair to hold his head in place, and with the other, he jerks off. Gin smiles, snickering like an idiot. He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, like a baby bird begging for food. Rye stays at a distance. He doesn't give him what he wants, even though the idea of thrusting into his throat is tempting. He stands just far enough away to frustrate him, but close enough to feel his body heat and the moisture of his breath. He hates himself, but only vaguely, as he always does. He'll exorcise himself later, like last time, by visiting Akemi. Sweet, pretty, kind Akemi, who blushes at the idea of being seen in her bra, who would never allow him to jerk off on her face, let alone piss herself.
The orgasm feels like a punch in the stomach. Sperm drips heavily onto Gin's face, who catches some with the tip of his tongue.
They have five minutes left of their two hours.
Rye stands motionless, paralyzed by this sudden return to reality. Now that lust no longer clouds his brain, he realizes what he has just done. His wet socks disgust him; he wants to cut off his feet and burn them. It wasn't him who did that, it wasn't him who got off on seeing his enemy defiled, it wasn't him who enjoyed waving a gun in his face, disregarding the risks. Someone else possessed him, momentarily replaced him; there is no other possible explanation. He's not evil enough to take pleasure in such horrors.
Gin presses himself against him. He rubs his cheek against Rye's pants, trying to get closer despite the restraints. He wants to continue the game.
Without thinking, Rye pushes him away as hard as he can. “Get away, don't touch me.”
Gin tips over and falls to the side, unable to get up. His hair is soaked in the puddle of piss. Rye steps over him and rushes to the bathroom. He hasn't eaten much, just nibbled on a sandwich during their stakeout. What he vomits is clear and acrid.
He rinses his mouth, staring at himself in the mirror above the sink. He has to keep up the act. Gin can't see him in a position of weakness. He'd rather die than let him win.
Rye takes a deep breath, gathering all the horror that tortures him deep inside. He'll deal with it later, when he's finally alone. For now, he has to be what Gin expects him to be. He has to become Rye again, the insensitive, nonchalant guy who laughs at everything.
He returns to the living room. The small alarm clock on the dresser signals the end of the two hours. Gin is still lying on his side, not moving. Rye nudges him with his toe.
“Oi, are you dead?”
“Shh, let me float for a bit.”
Rye could leave him, but that would only prolong his own torment. He helps Gin sit up, unties his bonds, removes the straitjacket and the blindfold. He leaves him to figure out the rest for himself. When Gin stands up, he wobbles on his legs, having been restrained for too long. Nearly falling at least three times, he takes off his clothes, which he throws in a corner of the bathroom. He paces the apartment naked. In the harsh light of the ceiling lamp, all his scars stand out, telling an inaccessible story. Rye watches. He lights a cigarette and hands it to him. Gin takes a drag and gives it back. Rye puts it to his mouth.
His hand trembles, but he can't stop it. To cover it up, he turns on his heel and goes to the kitchen. He opens the fridge.
“Want a beer?”
“Why not?” Gin replies from the other room.
Rye stands in front of the open fridge for a long time, fighting back the tears welling up in his eyes. He tries his best to push everything away, to compartmentalize as he has learned to do since going undercover, but he has reached his limit and he knows it. He has to get out of there as soon as possible, escape before he explodes in mid-flight.
When Rye returns to the living room, Gin is sitting in the Barcelona chair, still naked. He has thrown a few mops on the puddle, but doesn't seem to care much about it. Rye hands him a can of beer and opens his own. They drink in silence. They pass the cigarette from hand to hand. They don't exchange a word. Gin examines his gun, which Rye has left on the dresser. He looks into the chamber, sees that it's empty, and raises an inscrutable eyebrow. Rye doesn't look at him. He doesn't look at anything, trying to become blind and deaf. In vain.
More than ever, he wants a kiss. He finds himself hoping that Gin will get up, take him in his arms, congratulate him, comfort him. “Look, I'm fine, everything's fine,” he says. “You did all this for me, to make me happy, because you love me. Not because you're a monster.” He kisses him on the cheeks, on the hands, on the forehead. He kisses him on the mouth. He gently pulls him into the shower, and they forget everything under the hot water. They end the night entwined in the sheets.
They laugh because it was all fake, it was just a game, but now everything is fine.
They drink their beer in silence.
“By the way,” Gin finally says, blowing a ring of smoke. “We're going to set a new limit.”
Rye pricks up his ears, listening intently.
“Stick to Japanese from now on. Your Russian is so pathetic I almost burst out laughing.”
He chuckles, repeating the phrase Rye said to him earlier, with impeccable accent, too fluid to be schooled. Rye can't bring himself to care. He takes the cigarette Gin offers him.
“Noted.”
He takes a drag. The paper under his lips is wet. He'll have to settle for that indirect contact. He is vaguely aware that Gin is scrutinizing him. That he has understood that something is wrong and is trying to figure him out. But Gin will never be able to give Rye what he needs.
“Is there a problem?" asks Gin.
“Nothing.”
“Good. Then get the hell out of my house.”
Rye doesn't need to be asked twice. He puts on his shoes, doing his best to ignore the damp, repulsive coldness of his socks. He slams the door behind him. He gets in the elevator.
He goes down just two floors before the tears start flowing.
He slides down the wall, curling up as the floors flash by on the screen.