Page 46 of Kotori

Kaito

I stand before the mirror in my private chambers. The reflection shows a man in complete control: composed features, steady hands, the satisfied expression of a predator who has successfully broken his prey.

But beneath the surface, dark anticipation courses through my veins.

She will come to me willingly. Not dragged, not coerced, but walking through my doors with the complete surrender I've spent months engineering. The thought sends brutal satisfaction through every nerve ending.

The dojo floor still bears the scent of our claiming—her arousal, my dominance, the unmistakable musk of absolute possession. By tomorrow, the staff will have cleaned away the physical evidence, but the psychological scarring will remain forever.

She is mine now. Utterly, completely, irrevocably mine. The careful conditioning has paid off perfectly. She will kneel before me tonight not because I'm forcing her, but because she genuinely believes this is what she wants. What she was meant for.

The masterpiece is complete. Now I get to enjoy it.

I move to the low table where Hayashi has arranged tea service. Two cups, though only one will be used. She has moved beyond the privilege of sharing refreshments as an equal, and accepts this hierarchy as natural now.

Perfect conditioning.

My phone displays the security feed from the corridor leading to my chambers.

Empty still, but she will appear soon. The commands I gave her after claiming her final surrender were clear: clean yourself, then come serve me properly.

No timeline specified, but she understands that keeping me waiting would displease me.

And displeasing me is something she can no longer bear. Exactly as I designed.

The memory of her complete surrender in the training grounds makes my blood heat despite having taken my satisfaction barely an hour ago.

The way she'd crawled to me on hands and knees, all pretense of independence finally stripped away.

How she'd begged with broken pleas that revealed exactly what I'd successfully made her become.

Watashi wa Kaito-sama no mono desu.

Her voice speaking those words in careful Japanese pronunciation echoes in my mind like a victory cry. Perfect submission wrapped in foreign tongue that I taught her to speak. Every syllable an acknowledgment that her body, her pleasure, her very existence now serves my will.

Movement on the security monitor catches my attention. A flash of white fabric at the far end of the corridor. She's chosen to wear the cotton yukata I left for her, the simple garment that marks her transition from independent woman to my willing concubine.

Excellent. She's learning without instruction that symbols matter, that every choice must now reflect her new position in my household. Soon, every choice will be made for her entirely.

I watch her approach through the camera feed with the patience of a man who has already won every battle that matters.

Her steps are slower than usual, evidence of how thoroughly I claimed her on the hard dojo floor.

The slight catch in her movement speaks of intimate soreness, physical reminders of what belonging to me means.

But there's no hesitation in her approach.

No pause at decision points where she might flee.

She walks toward my chambers with the steady determination of someone who has finally accepted their true nature.

Or believes she has. What she's accepted tonight is nothing compared to what I have planned.

Kotori. My beautiful little bird, flying willingly into the cage I've constructed around her entire existence.

The security feed shows her stopping outside my door, one pale hand rising to check her appearance in the hallway mirror.

Even through the electronic surveillance, I can see her hands trembling.

Anticipation. Need. The desperate craving of someone who has discovered exactly what their body was designed for and can no longer imagine existing without it.

She has no idea what her body will be designed for next.

Her hand hovers over the door for exactly three heartbeats before she finds the courage to knock.

A soft sound echoes through my chambers, perfectly timed and appropriately respectful.

"Enter."

The door slides open with the whisper of well-oiled wood, and she steps into my private domain.

Her blonde hair falls loose around her shoulders, catching the lamplight like gold, and her blue eyes find mine immediately with a mixture of submission and desperate need that sends dark satisfaction coursing through my chest.

Perfect. She's exactly where I want her—physically, psychologically, emotionally dependent on my approval for everything from her next breath to her next orgasm.

But it's the marks that truly please me. The careful way she moves speaks of intimate soreness from our claiming. Most beautiful of all is the flush that spreads down her throat—evidence of arousal that hasn't faded despite what we shared in the training grounds.

She wants more. Her body craves what I gave her, what only I can provide. What only I will ever be allowed to provide.

"Close the door behind you," I command quietly, not rising from my position.

She complies immediately, sealing us into the intimate space where no rules exist except those I create. The soft sound of wood meeting frame seems to echo with finality, and I watch her shoulders tense as she realizes we're completely alone.

Alone with the man who owns her completely, though she still believes ownership has limits.

"Come here, kotori."

She approaches with careful steps, and I can see how the simple movement affects her—thighs pressed together slightly, breathing careful and controlled. Her body remembers every moment of being filled, claimed, marked from the inside out.

Soon, it will remember being marked permanently.

When she stops before me, just out of arm's reach, I let the silence stretch while I study my prize.

"Closer," I murmur, and she takes another step forward, now within touching distance.

I don't touch her yet. Instead, I let my eyes travel slowly over her form, cataloging every detail with the attention of a man planning renovations.

The way the cotton clings to curves still flushed from our earlier encounter.

How her hands tremble slightly at her sides.

The rapid rise and fall of her chest that speaks of arousal barely contained.

Perfect breeding stock, once properly prepared.

"How do you feel, kotori?" I ask, genuine curiosity coloring my tone.

"Different," she admits. "I'm finally who I was supposed to be."

Perfect answer. Not shame or regret or the protests I might have expected from the defiant American woman who first walked through my gates. Instead, recognition. Acceptance. The peace that comes with surrendering to natural order.

The natural order I've spent months teaching her to crave.

"And what are you supposed to be?"

Her cheeks flush crimson, but she doesn't look away. "Yours. Completely yours."

"Good." I gesture to the space directly in front of me. "Kneel here."

She settles onto the hardwood floor with the grace I've taught her, the yukata pooling around her in elegant folds. This close, I can smell jasmine soap and the intoxicating scent of a woman who has been thoroughly claimed and is ready to be claimed again. And again.

For years to come.

Now I reach out, my fingers sliding beneath the loose neckline of her yukata without warning. She gasps at the contact, her body immediately responding to my touch as I trace patterns on her collarbone.

"Still sensitive," I murmur with satisfaction, feeling how she trembles under my fingers. "Your body remembers exactly who it belongs to."

"Yes," she breathes, leaning unconsciously into my touch despite any discomfort.

"Show me your wrists."

She extends her hands without hesitation, and I examine the faint marks from our encounter. They're healing but still visible—beautiful evidence of her surrender that will fade in days but remain in her memory forever.

Unlike what comes next.

I bring one wrist to my lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the skin. She shivers at the contact, a soft moan escaping her throat.

"You wear my claim beautifully," I tell her, setting her hands back in her lap. "But these are temporary marks. Tonight, we make permanent arrangements."

Her breathing quickens with something between anticipation and nervousness. "What kind of arrangements?"

Instead of answering immediately, I move to the traditional desk, my movements deliberate and unhurried. She watches every step, her eyes following me with the focused attention of prey tracking a predator.

From the desk's locked drawer, I withdraw a leather portfolio I've had prepared.

The contract inside represents careful legal planning, every clause designed to ensure her complete dependence while maintaining the illusion of choice.

But this document is only the beginning of her permanent arrangements.

I return to my position before her, settling the portfolio between us. The leather is expensive. Everything about its appearance speaks of serious business conducted through proper channels. Business that will reshape her entire existence.

"Your employment contract expires next week," I begin, opening the portfolio with ceremonial precision. "Your visa status tied to that arrangement. Without proper sponsorship, you have no legal right to remain in Japan."

Understanding begins to dawn in her eyes. The devastating realization of how completely trapped she's become. How completely I've engineered her dependence.

"I could renew your teaching contract," I continue conversationally. "Simple paperwork, same terms, same professional distance."

Hope flickers across her features for exactly one heartbeat before I crush it with surgical precision.