Page 30 of Kotori

Kaito

She thinks she can challenge my authority over my own daughter and simply walk away.

I watch her flee my study through the security monitors, her arrogance finally cracking under the weight of reality. The way she moves—quick, panicked steps that speak of prey finally recognizing the predator—sends satisfaction coursing through my veins like expensive sake.

But satisfaction isn't enough. Not tonight.

She crossed a line that can't be uncrossed, questioned decisions that aren't hers to question, and interfered with family matters using the naive belief that American idealism trumps centuries of established order. The kind of disrespect that demands immediate correction.

I finish reviewing the evening's business correspondence, letting anticipation build while she paces her room and tries to convince herself that tomorrow's consequences might be survivable.

The security feed shows her checking her door multiple times, testing the handle like she's finally understood the nature of her beautiful cage.

Smart girl. Too late, but smart.

At exactly midnight, I make the call. Tomorrow, technically.

"Hayashi. Bring Williams-san to my private quarters. She requires immediate instruction."

"Matsumoto-sama?" There's uncertainty in her voice—this isn't a request she's heard before. "What type of preparation should I—"

"She'll need to be bathed. Hair brushed. The white cotton yukata, nothing else." I pause, considering how much to reveal. "And Hayashi... she may resist. Ensure she understands that cooperation is not optional."

The silence stretches longer this time. When Hayashi speaks again, her voice carries the careful neutrality of someone navigating unfamiliar territory. "Hai, Matsumoto-sama. I will ensure her compliance."

"Good. She's to be brought to me within the hour."

I end the call and move to my closet, switching from business attire to a simple black yukata that hangs loose around my frame.

The antique armoire yields what I need—silk rope in deep red, shibari technique passed down through generations of men who understood that some lessons require complete helplessness to truly penetrate.

The rope feels perfect in my hands, smooth and strong, capable of holding struggling bodies without causing permanent damage.

Though I doubt she'll be struggling by the end of tonight's education.

My phone buzzes. A message from Hayashi: "Subject prepared. Awaiting instruction."

Perfect timing.

She kneels in the center of the room exactly as instructed, wearing nothing but a thin white cotton yukata that barely reaches mid-thigh.

Her blonde hair has been brushed until it gleams like gold silk, falling in waves around her shoulders.

Her hands rest palm-up on her thighs in perfect seiza position, but I can see the tremor in her fingers, the way her breathing comes in shallow gasps.

Fear. Arousal. Anticipation. The perfect combination for what comes next.

"Paige-san." I close the door behind me with deliberate finality. "Thank you for joining me."

Her blue eyes find mine, and I see the exact moment she understands that tonight's lesson won't involve discussion or negotiation. Only demonstration.

"Matsumoto-sama," she whispers, and the formal address carries the weight of someone who's finally grasped the hierarchy she's been fighting.

"Tell me," I say, moving to circle her kneeling form like a predator studying prey, "what did you hope to accomplish by questioning my decisions about Mizuki-chan?"

"I," She swallows hard, trying to find words that might save her. "I was trying to help. She was crying, and I thought—"

"You thought." I stop directly behind her, close enough that she can feel my body heat.

"You thought your perspective was more valuable than sixteen generations of family wisdom.

You thought your few weeks in this country qualified you to counsel my daughter about duties you couldn't possibly comprehend. "

My hands settle on her shoulders, feeling the tension in her muscles, the way she fights not to lean back against me despite her body's obvious craving for contact.

"You thought," I continue, letting my voice drop to something intimate and dangerous, "that challenging my authority would somehow benefit my child rather than undermining everything this family represents."

"I just wanted her to be happy," she breathes.

"Did you? Or did you want to prove that your values are superior to our ways? That your feminism could rescue my daughter from her cultural obligations?"

My hands slide down her arms, feeling smooth skin that will soon be marked with rope, testing her responses as her breathing becomes more labored.

"Stand," I command quietly.

She rises and I move around to face her again. The thin yukata does nothing to hide her body's response. Her nipples are visible through cotton, the flush spreading down her throat, and I don't miss the way she unconsciously shifts her thighs seeking friction.

"You will learn tonight what happens when someone forgets their place in this household," I tell her, reaching for the tie of her yukata. "You will understand why certain boundaries exist and what crossing them costs."

The cotton whispers to the floor, leaving her completely naked and vulnerable. She makes a small sound—not quite protest, not quite plea—but doesn't try to cover herself. Already learning.

"Beautiful," I murmur, letting my eyes travel over every inch of exposed skin. "But beauty without proper discipline is merely decoration. Tonight, you become something more useful."

I move to the bed where Hayashi has arranged everything I requested. The red silk rope coiled like sleeping serpents. Traditional oil that will make her skin gleam under lamplight. Soft restraints that will hold her exactly where I want her without causing damage.

"Come here, kotori."

She approaches with careful steps, and when she's close enough, I turn her around to face away from me. Her spine is straight, shoulders squared with the last remnants of defiance, but I can see goosebumps rising on her skin as anticipation builds.

"Hands behind your back."

A pause—brief hesitation—then compliance.

Her wrists cross at the small of her back, and I begin the first binding.

The rope slides across her skin like liquid fire, each loop carefully positioned for maximum effect.

Traditional shibari isn't just restraint—it's art, meditation, the physical manifestation of control so complete it becomes spiritual.

"The rope will hold you," I explain as I work, my voice taking on the cadence of instruction. "Fighting it only creates pain. Accepting it brings... different sensations."

The first binding secures her wrists, then extends up her spine in a pattern that forces her shoulders back, chest forward, completely exposed. Each knot is placed with deliberate precision, creating pressure points that will remind her of her helplessness with every breath.

"How does that feel, kotori?"

"Tight," she whispers.

"Good. It should feel inescapable. Because it is."

The next binding goes around her waist, then between her thighs, creating intimate pressure that makes her gasp and stumble forward. I catch her easily, supporting her weight while the rope settles into position.

"This particular pattern," I continue conversationally, as if we're discussing flower arrangement rather than bondage, "is designed to create constant... awareness. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat will remind you exactly what you've surrendered."

When I step back to admire my work, she's a masterpiece of rope and flesh.

The red silk creates an intricate web across her pale skin—geometric patterns that frame her breasts, accentuate the curve of her waist, and hold her thighs spread in shameless display.

Each knot is perfectly placed, creating focal points that draw the eye to what I want seen while the rope's pressure creates constant sensation.

The shibari transforms her from a defiant American woman into living art—bound, helpless, every curve enhanced by the rope's embrace. The contrast between crimson silk and fair skin is breathtaking, the way the bindings force her body into poses of complete submission even more so.

"Beautiful," I murmur, letting my eyes travel over every knot, every loop, every place where rope meets skin. "This is how you were meant to be displayed, kotori. Bound and offered, every inch of you claimed and controlled."

The rope work is flawless—tight enough to hold her completely helpless, positioned to create maximum psychological impact, artistic enough that she looks like a gift wrapped in crimson silk.

The intimate binding between her thighs ensures she feels claimed even there, the most private part of her held open and accessible at my discretion.

"Kneel."

The position is different now—rope forcing her thighs apart, back arched, completely open and displayed. She settles onto her knees with a soft moan as the bindings shift, creating new pressures, new sensations that make her eyes flutter closed.

"Beautiful," I breathe, settling onto the cushion in front of her. "This is how you should look, kotori. Bound, helpless, accepting your proper place."

I reach out to trace the line of rope across her collarbone, feeling how her pulse races under my touch. "Do you understand now why I chose you? Why I brought you here?"

"No," she gasps, though her body arches into my touch despite the word.

"You were made for this. For submission, for surrender, for learning to find pleasure in complete helplessness.

" My fingers follow the rope down to where it frames her breasts, making her nipples stand out like offerings.

"Your Western independence was never real, kotori.

It was just armor hiding what you really are underneath. "

"What am I?" The question comes out broken, desperate.