Page 47 of Kotori

"Or," I say, sliding the new document from its folder, "we can acknowledge what you've become and formalize arrangements accordingly."

The contract is beautiful in its complexity—legal language that transforms possession into partnership, ownership into employment. Every clause carefully crafted by the finest lawyers money can acquire, designed to bind her completely while appearing entirely voluntary.

Like everything else I've done to her.

"Personal service agreement," I explain, watching her scan the terms with growing understanding. "Live-in companion. Exclusive availability. Compensation tied directly to performance and satisfaction."

Her hands shake as she reads, and I can see the exact moment she realizes what this document represents.

Not employment but ownership wrapped in legal language sophisticated enough to withstand scrutiny.

But she can't see the clauses that aren't written.

The informal arrangements that will govern her breeding schedule, her medical care, her eventual isolation from anything resembling her former life.

"This says I can't leave the compound without written permission," she whispers, voice barely audible.

"Correct. Your movements, your communications, your activities—all subject to approval for security reasons." I lean closer, close enough that my breath ghosts across her ear. "Complete protection in exchange for complete compliance. But, that's nothing new is it?"

Complete compliance in all things. Including the children she'll bear me.

"And if I refuse to sign?"

The defiant words surprise me. One last flicker of the independence I thought I'd completely extinguished. How delicious. One final ember to crush under my heel.

The question hangs in the air for exactly three seconds before I move. My hand shoots out, gripping her throat with just enough pressure to make breathing deliberate. Not painful—possessive. A reminder of exactly how easily I could hurt her if I chose to.

And how much I enjoy having that choice.

"Refuse?" I let dark amusement color my tone while my thumb traces along her pulse point. "Kotori, hours ago you were sobbing for my cock while crawling across the dojo floor like a bitch in heat."

Her face flames crimson, but I feel her pulse racing under my palm: arousal, not fear. Her body knows what it wants even when her mind tries to pretend otherwise. Soon, her body will want exactly what I train it to crave.

"What exactly," I continue, applying slightly more pressure to her throat, "are you imagining you could refuse? When your cunt is already getting wet just from me holding you like this?"

To prove my point, my free hand slides beneath the loose yukata, fingers finding the evidence of her arousal without resistance. She's already slick, her body betraying every protest her mind might attempt.

Ideal for breeding, though she doesn't know it yet.

"See?" I work one finger inside her, feeling how she clenches around the intrusion despite herself. "Your body knows who it belongs to, even when your brain tries to pretend you have choices."

A broken moan escapes her throat, and she unconsciously spreads her thighs wider, giving me better access to what's already mine. To what will carry my children.

"That's it," I murmur, adding a second finger. "Show me how much you want to belong to me completely."

"Please," she gasps, hips moving against my hand despite her attempts to stay still.

"Please what? Please stop pretending you have options? Please admit you need this more than your next breath?" I increase the pressure at her throat while my fingers work inside her with ruthless precision. "Please sign the contract that makes you mine legally as well as physically?"

"I can't think," she sobs, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. "When you touch me like this, I can't."

"Then don't think. Just feel. Feel how perfectly your body responds to my dominance. Feel how wet you get when I control your breathing." I curl my fingers deeper, finding that spot that makes her cry out. "Feel how much you need me to own you completely."

Her inner walls clench around my fingers as pleasure builds, and I can tell she's approaching the edge. Instead of pushing her over, I withdraw completely, leaving her gasping and desperate.

The same way she'll be desperate for my seed when the time comes.

"No," she whimpers, trying to follow my retreating hand. "Please don't stop."

"Sign the contract," I command, releasing her throat and placing a traditional brush in her trembling hand. "Make it official. Show me you choose this."

She stares at the document through tears, her hand shaking so badly she can barely hold the brush. But she wants this: wants the surrender, wants the certainty of belonging to someone who will make every decision for her.

The characters she writes are shaky but legible—her name in English, binding her to terms that ensure she'll never be anything more than my willing captive. When she sets down the pen, the deed is done. Legal. Permanent. Inescapable.

"Good girl," I murmur, cupping her face with both hands and forcing her to meet my eyes. "Now you're mine in every way that matters. Legally, physically, completely."

"What happens now?" she whispers, and I can hear hope and terror warring in her voice.

Instead of answering with words, I rise and move to my drawers, bringing out silk rope in deep crimson, the same bonds that taught her helplessness so perfectly before.

Her eyes widen when she sees what I'm holding, and I catch the way she unconsciously presses her thighs together, seeking friction that won't be enough.

"Now," I say, returning to kneel before her with the rope in my hands, "you learn what total surrender looks like. What it means to belong to me completely."

"Again?" Her voice holds anticipation rather than protest, and I smile at how quickly she's learned to crave what once terrified her.

"Every night," I confirm, beginning to untie her yukata with deliberate slowness. "Until your body forgets it was ever anything but mine to bind and use."

The cotton drops to the floor, leaving her naked and vulnerable in the lamplight. But this time there's no hesitation, no shame in her exposure. She moves to the position I indicate with the fluid grace of someone who has accepted their nature completely.

Or believes she has.

"Arms behind your back," I command, and she complies immediately.

As I begin the intricate work of shibari, feeling her body yield to each loop of rope, I speak quietly about her new reality. The red silk slides across her pale skin like liquid fire, each binding carefully positioned for maximum psychological impact.

"You'll sleep in my bed from now on. Wake when I wake, eat when I permit it, speak when given permission.

" The rope creates geometric patterns across her skin, transforming her into living art.

"Your days will be spent serving this household's needs—my daughters, domestic affairs, whatever requires attention. "

Each knot reminds her of her helplessness, each loop speaks of my control. But I don't mention the other duties that will be required of her. The monthly medical examinations. The carefully tracked cycles. The eventual pregnancy that will seal her fate permanently.

"Your nights," I continue, adding binding between her thighs that makes her gasp and squirm, "belong entirely to me. My pleasure, my needs, my desires for your body."

My desires that will soon include filling her with my seed until it takes root.

When the binding is complete, she kneels before me as a masterpiece of rope and flesh—geometric patterns in crimson silk that frame every curve, accentuate every vulnerable point, hold her in perfect display of ownership.

Every breath she takes reminds her of my control, every small movement speaks of her complete surrender.

"Beautiful," I murmur, settling before her bound form and reaching between her spread thighs. "This is how you were meant to be displayed, kotori. Bound and offered, every inch of you claimed and controlled."

I work her with skilled fingers while she writhes helplessly in the ropes, building her toward another edge I may or may not allow her to reach. Her moans fill the room, echoing off paper screens and polished wood, the sound of complete feminine surrender.

"Please," she sobs after I've brought her to the brink three times without allowing release. "Please let me come. I'll do anything, be anything you want."

"You already are everything I want," I murmur against her ear, finally allowing my thumb to find that perfect spot. "My willing captive. My beautiful little bird who flew into her cage and discovered she never wants to leave."

She convulses in the ropes, crying out my name as pleasure tears through her bound body with frightening intensity. The climax goes on and on, ripping away every pretense of independence or control, leaving only perfect submission in its wake.

Perfect submission that will accept anything I require of her.

When the shudders finally stop, she looks up at me with eyes that hold nothing but gratitude and acceptance.

"Thank you," she whispers, voice hoarse from crying out. "For showing me what I really am. For not letting me run from what I needed."

The trap is complete. And she helped me build every bar, set every snare, forge every chain.

Soon, she'll help me create the next generation to inherit what I've built.

Whether she understands that yet or not.