Page 33 of Kotori

Kaito

"Tomorrow will be memorable."

I turn away from her door, savoring the rapid intake of breath behind me, the delicate flush spreading across her throat, the slight tremble in her hands as she grips the doorframe for support. Three weeks is indeed a long time, but the wait has been worth it.

The rope did its work beautifully that night, teaching her body lessons her stubborn mind would have rejected. And my abrupt departure the next morning, leaving her desperate, unfulfilled, and processing the remnants of what I'd done to her, was calculated to maximize impact.

My security chief meets me at the end of the corridor, bowing slightly. "Welcome back, Matsumoto-sama. Everything is prepared as requested."

"Excellent." I continue toward my private chambers, not bothering to look back. I don't need to see her to know exactly what she's doing—standing frozen in her doorway, watching me leave, her body remembering the feel of my rope even as her mind struggles against the memory.

My daughters await in the family dining room, but they can wait a moment longer. First, I need to verify other preparations.

The security hub sits in the west wing, a climate-controlled room filled with monitors displaying every corner of my compound. Not that I need to physically be here because the system connects directly to my private devices, but I prefer to see the full array when conducting certain evaluations.

"Leave us," I tell the technicians, who bow and exit immediately.

When the door closes behind them, I settle into the ergonomic chair and bring up the feed from her room.

On screen, she paces her room like a caged animal, one hand pressed against her throat where I know her pulse races. She pauses at the window, then at the mirror, then finally sinks onto the edge of her bed, hands gripping the mattress so tightly her knuckles turn white.

I turn on the audio.

"Bastard," she whispers, but there's no conviction in it. Just frustration and something darker, more desperate. "Absolute bastard."

I smile as I watch her struggle with herself. With the need I carefully cultivated before my departure. With the understanding that only I can satisfy what I deliberately created.

She stands abruptly, moving to the bathroom where she splashes cold water on her face. The camera angle shifts automatically to follow her. When she looks in the mirror, I can see the war in her eyes—anger versus need, pride versus surrender.

Need is winning. As I knew it would.

Back in the bedroom, she tries to distract herself with a book, but her focus is clearly elsewhere. She shifts restlessly on the bed, crossing and uncrossing her legs, one hand absently tracing patterns on her thigh that mirror where the rope had pressed three weeks ago.

"Just go to sleep," she mutters to herself. "Just forget about it."

But she can't. That's the beauty of what I've done. The rope's physical presence may be gone, but the psychological imprint remains. I've rewired her nervous system to respond to memories, to phantom sensations, to the mere anticipation of what might come next.

My phone buzzes with a message from Hayashi. Dinner is ready. My daughters are waiting.

"Soon," I tell her, though she can't hear me through the monitor. "Soon you'll understand exactly how thoroughly I own you."

I switch the feed to my private tablet and head to join my family, outwardly the devoted father returning from business abroad, inwardly counting the minutes until nightfall.

Dinner with my daughters is a pleasant distraction—Aya's excited chatter about the Tanabata Festival, Kohana's shy smiles, even Mizuki's careful politeness. They've missed me. The realization is warming, even to someone like me.

The American teacher sends her regrets—a headache, apparently. We all know it's a lie, but I allow it. Let her think she's buying time, creating distance. The anticipation will only heighten tomorrow's inevitable surrender.

Throughout the meal, I check my tablet discreetly, keeping one eye on her movements. She's growing more restless by the hour, pacing her room, attempting to read, trying and failing to distract herself from the need I planted in her before leaving.

By the time I've tucked Aya into bed and bid goodnight to my older daughters, it's nearly midnight. I return to my chambers, lock the door, and bring up the feed on the larger screen built into my bedroom wall.

The sight that greets me sends heat coursing through my veins.

She's given up pretending. Lying on her bed in nothing but a thin camisole, one hand between her thighs, the other covering her mouth to muffle the sounds she can't contain.

Her back arches as she chases the release I denied her three weeks ago, her body responding to memories of rope and control and helplessness.

I turn up the volume, listening to her desperate attempts to stay quiet. Fascinating. Even in private, she fights against full surrender. Her fingers move faster, her breathing grows ragged, her free hand grips the sheets with white-knuckled intensity.

She's close. So close. But something's wrong. She slows, changes rhythm, tries again with increasing frustration. Close, but not quite there. Again and again she approaches the edge, only to fall short.

"Fuck," she gasps, the word filled with frustration. "Why can't I just—"

Because I've ensured she can't. Because the rope lesson taught her body that release comes only through my permission, my control, my generosity. And I deliberately withheld that permission, leaving her body in a state of perpetual, unsatisfied need that only I can resolve.

"Matsumoto-sama," she whispers, so quietly I almost miss it. The honorific slipping from her lips in this private moment tells me everything I need to know about how thoroughly the lesson has taken hold.

It's time.

I move silently through the compound's corridors, dismissing the night guards with a gesture. No one will disturb us. No one will hear what happens next.

The spare key to her room slides into the lock without a sound. When I open her door, she's still lost in desperate attempts at self-pleasure, too focused on her frustration to notice my entrance until I'm standing at the foot of her bed.

"Having trouble, kotori?"

Her eyes fly open, a strangled gasp escaping her throat as she scrambles to cover herself. Too late, of course. I've seen everything—her desperation, her need, her inability to satisfy what only I can fulfill.

"Get out," she hisses, but her body betrays her. The flush spreading across her skin, the hardened nipples visible through thin cotton, the trembling in her thighs—all tell a different story than her words.

"Is that really what you want?" I ask, already knowing the answer. "For me to leave you like this, unfulfilled and desperate? Again?"

Her breath catches, pupils dilating at the threat. "You—you can't just walk in here!"

"I can do exactly as I please in my own house." I move closer, watching how she presses herself against the headboard, not fleeing but not quite surrendering. "Including helping my employees with... difficulties they can't resolve themselves."

"I don't need your help," she says, but her voice shakes with the lie.

"No?" I raise an eyebrow, deliberately letting my gaze drop to where her hand had been moments before. "Your body disagrees rather emphatically."

I reach into the pocket of my yukata and withdraw what I've brought with me. Red silk rope—not as much as before, just enough for what I have in mind. Her eyes widen at the sight, a visible shudder running through her.

"No," she whispers, but it's weak, unconvincing.

"Tell me to leave, then." I hold her gaze as I slowly uncoil the first length of rope. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you haven't been dreaming about it for three weeks."

She opens her mouth, closes it, swallows hard. No denial comes.

"That's what I thought." I move to the side of the bed with deliberate slowness. "Hands, kotori."

For a moment, I think she might refuse. Might cling to the last shreds of defiance and deny us both what we want. Then, with visible reluctance that does nothing to hide her arousal, she extends her wrists toward me.

"Good girl." The praise makes her flush deeper, her breath catching. "Now, there are rules to tonight's lesson."

"I didn't agree to another lesson," she protests weakly.

"Your body did." I begin winding the rope around her wrists, creating a pattern both decorative and functional. "Three weeks ago, your body learned that pleasure comes through my control. Tonight, it will learn that satisfaction only comes through my permission."

The first binding is complete—wrists secured together in front of her, the red silk stark against her pale skin. Not the elaborate pattern from before, just enough to remind her body of that night, to trigger the same helpless surrender.

"Lie back."

She complies with surprising eagerness, settling against the pillows as I secure her bound wrists to the headboard. Not tight enough to hurt, just enough to render her helpless. To put her pleasure entirely in my hands.

"Kaito-sama," she whispers, the formal address slipping out unbidden. She catches herself immediately, embarrassment flashing across her features.

"Yes, kotori?" I trace one finger down her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath my touch. "Something you want to ask?"

She bites her lip, pride warring with desperate need. "Please—"

"Please what?" I move my hand lower, tracing the outline of her breast through the thin cotton, watching her arch into the touch despite herself. Tell me exactly what you've been trying and failing to give yourself for the past hour."

Her cheeks burn with humiliation, but need overwhelms pride. "Please touch me. Make me come. I can't—I haven't been able to—not since you—"