Page 7 of Kotori

I nod, not trusting my voice. His hands are still on me, still guiding my position, and every second of contact is making it harder to remember why this is supposed to be professional.

All I can focus on is the heat of his hands, the strength in his fingers, the way his presence seems to fill the entire room.

"Better," he says, but doesn't step away. "Though you're still fighting the position. Submission should feel natural, not forced."

The word "submission" makes my core clench with want. But the way he says it, the way his breath ghosts across my neck, makes it clear we're not just discussing cultural etiquette.

"I'm trying," I whisper.

"Are you?" His hand moves to the back of my neck, fingers resting against skin that's suddenly hot. "Because trying implies struggle. Natural submission requires acceptance."

My breath hitches. The touch is innocent enough, just his fingers against my nape, but it feels possessive in a way that makes my entire body respond.

"Now bowing," he says, stepping back just enough that I can think clearly again. "Traditional greeting shows respect for hierarchy."

He demonstrates with perfect form, and I try to copy his movement from my kneeling position. Immediately, I recognize how awkward I must look.

"Again," he says when I straighten. "Lower this time."

I try to follow his instruction, but the deeper bow puts me off balance. My hands slip on the smooth floor, and I have to catch myself before I topple over completely.

"Your form needs significant work." He kneels in front of me. His face is even more devastating up close—perfectly symmetrical features, a mouth that manages to look both cruel and sensual, skin that makes me want to reach out and touch. "Watch carefully."

He demonstrates again, this time near enough that I can study every detail—the controlled power in his movement, the way his muscles shift beneath his suit, the absolute confidence of someone who's never questioned his place in the world.

Even in such a simple motion, there's something mesmerizing about how he moves—fluid, precise, with the grace of a predator.

"Now you. And Paige-san?" He reaches out to cup my chin, tilting my face up to his. His thumb rests at the corner of my mouth, close enough that I can almost taste his skin. "This time, mean it."

The touch is electric. His thumb traces along my jawline with deliberate pressure, and I have to fight not to lean into the contact like a cat seeking more petting.

"I don't understand."

"Bowing isn't just physical movement. It's acknowledgment of authority, acceptance of your place in the structure." His fingers tighten slightly on my chin. "Do you accept your place here?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. He's asking if I'll submit to his authority, follow his rules, let him shape me into whatever he wants me to become.

I should say no. Should maintain professional boundaries, remind him that I'm his employee, not his property.

Instead, I hear myself whisper, "Yes, Matsumoto-sama."

Something dark and satisfied flickers in his eyes. "Then show me."

I bow again, this time putting my whole body into the gesture. Lower than before, holding the position until my muscles shake, letting him see my submission even if I don't fully understand what I'm submitting to.

"Perfect." His voice holds approval that makes warmth bloom through my chest. "Practice will make it natural."

When I straighten, he's watching me with an expression that makes my mouth go dry. Hunger, satisfaction, possession—all carefully controlled but unmistakably present.

" Ii ko ," he murmurs, the Japanese phrase soft yet somehow more intimate than if he'd touched me. The words roll off his tongue with natural grace.

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"Good girl." His eyes darken as he says it in English, the translation somehow more potent. "You're learning faster than I expected."

"Is there anything else?" I ask, hoping he can't hear how affected I sound.

"Several things." He settles back into his perfect seiza position while I struggle with numb legs and racing pulse. "Household protocols require adjustment. You'll take all your meals with the family, participate in evening activities, maintain constant availability for the children's needs."

Constant availability. Like I'm being absorbed into their lives whether I agreed to it or not.

"Communication protocols," he continues before I can respond. "All contact with outside parties must be coordinated through household management. Internet access is monitored for security purposes. Transportation requires advance authorization."

My analytical mind recognizes these for what they are—isolation tactics designed to cut me off from the outside world, make me dependent on their resources for basic needs.

I should object, should point out that these restrictions go far beyond reasonable employment terms. But my traitorous body is still humming from his touch, still craving the approval in his voice when I submitted properly.

The thought of arguing with him makes my chest tight.

"That seems quite comprehensive," I say carefully.

"This family has enemies, Paige-san. People who would exploit any vulnerability, including those who work in our home.

" He moves to the traditional desk and withdraws two items—the envelope of money and a sleek black iPhone still in its packaging.

"Your safety is my responsibility while you're under our protection. "

Protection. Such a nice word for control.

"Your first week's salary," he says, sliding both items across the table. "With performance bonus for exceeding expectations. And a practical necessity—an iPhone that will function properly on Japanese networks."

I stare at the new phone. "I already have a phone."

"An American device that won't work here. This will ensure clear communication with the household, proper connectivity for your work." He watches my reaction carefully. "Of course, the new device comes with enhanced security features to protect family privacy."

Enhanced security features. Meaning monitored, controlled, filtered through his approval.

"And the performance bonus?" I ask, focusing on the envelope.

"My daughters' enthusiasm for their new teacher merits additional compensation.

" His tone is perfectly reasonable, but there's something underneath that makes me think this isn't just about teaching excellence.

"Of course, future bonuses will depend on continued compliance with all household requirements. "

Compliance. Not excellence, not competence. Compliance.

I reach for the envelope and phone, and he covers my hand with his before I can pull away. The contact is warm, firm, possessive in a way that makes my breath catch.

"Kimi wa..." he begins in Japanese, his voice dropping to a register that sends shivers down my spine. Then he switches back to English. "Do you understand what you've walked into, Paige-san?"

His thumb traces across my knuckles while he speaks, the gentle touch at odds with the intensity in his voice. I'm trapped between his hand and the table, kneeling at his feet while he holds me in place with nothing more than his fingers and his will.

"I think so," I whisper.

"I don't think you do. Not yet." He leans closer, close enough that I can feel his breath against my lips. "But you will."

The promise in his voice makes my core clench with need I don't want to acknowledge. This is my employer. This is supposed to be professional. I shouldn't want him to close the last few inches between us, shouldn't be imagining what his mouth would feel like against mine.

But, I do.

He releases my hand and settles back with that satisfied expression that makes my stomach flutter. "Your old device, please."

The request sounds polite, but something defensive rises in my chest. This is my phone. My connection to the world I know, to the life I left behind. My photos of home, my contacts, my independence.

"Actually, I'd prefer to keep it." The words come out stronger than I expected. "For photos, my personal contacts. There are things on there that can't be replaced."

"Paige-san." His voice doesn't change volume, but something shifts in his tone that makes my spine straighten involuntarily. "I wasn't asking."

The words hit me like cold water. Not a request. A command delivered with the calm certainty of someone who's never been refused.

I meet his eyes, seeing something there that makes my mouth go dry. Patient authority that expects obedience, quiet power that doesn't need to raise its voice to be heard. The kind of controlled dominance that could crush resistance without breaking a sweat.

"I just think—" I start, but he cuts me off with a slight tilt of his head.

"You think." The words sound almost amused, but there's steel underneath. "How refreshing. Tell me, what exactly do you think gives you the right to refuse?"

The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications that make my chest tight. He's not asking about the phone anymore. He's asking about authority, about who makes decisions in this house, about what happens when someone tells him no.

"I'm not refusing," I say carefully. "I'm just asking if I could—"

"You're negotiating." His tone remains perfectly calm. "With me. In my home. About my instructions."

The way he says it makes my protest die in my throat. Because he's right. I am trying to negotiate, trying to maintain some small piece of control in a situation where I'm clearly not the one with power.

"Your phone, Paige-san." He extends his hand with the casual confidence of someone who's never doubted he'll get what he wants. "Now."

My fingers shake as I fumble in my purse, every instinct screaming that I'm making a mistake. But the alternative, defying him directly, seeing that patient expression turn into something else—makes my stomach clench with fear I don't want to examine.

What would happen if I said no? Really, truly refused?

The thought makes my hands tremble harder as I pull out my phone. I don't want to find out. Something about the way he sits there, completely still, completely certain, tells me that testing his authority would be a very bad idea.

"Ii ko," he says softly when I place the phone in his palm. "Good girl." The praise in his voice shouldn't affect me the way it does. I've never reacted like this.

I place the phone in his outstretched palm, watching as his fingers close around it with casual possession. Just like that, my last connection to the outside world disappears into his control.

"Was that so difficult?" he asks, slipping my phone into his jacket pocket like it's always belonged to him.

"No, Matsumoto-sama."

After his dismisses me, I escape his study on unsteady legs, sliding the door closed behind me with hands that won't stop shaking. In the hallway, I lean against the wall and press my palms to my flushed cheeks.

My pulse pounds in my ears. My skin feels too tight. The new iPhone sits heavy in my pocket next to the envelope of money—gifts that feel more like shackles.

I push off the wall and walk toward the lesson room. Three bright girls wait for their English practice, and I need to pull myself together before I face them.

But I can't stop thinking about the moment when his hand covered mine and every rational thought evaporated.

I slip into the lesson room, where Aya's laughter already echoes through the corridors.

Outside the window, early summer sunlight glints off distant mountains, highlighting the isolation of this place.

The compound sits like an island in time, disconnected from the modern world beyond.

Standing in this room, with eager young faces turning toward me, I feel something shifting inside me—like the first loose stone in a landslide.

Part of me recognizes I should be terrified by how easily I yielded that phone, by how quickly I said "Yes, Matsumoto- sama" without questioning.

But a deeper, darker part whispers that maybe there's freedom in surrender, safety in belonging to someone powerful enough to protect what's his.

And beneath that rational thought is something more primitive—the memory of his hands on my shoulders, the way his voice dropped when he said "good girl," the intensity in his eyes when I submitted to him.

My body's reaction to him terrifies me more than any of his rules or demands.

Because against all logic, against everything I thought I knew about myself, part of me wants to kneel before him again, wants to feel that rush of heat when he touches me, wants to surrender to whatever this is becoming.