Page 20 of Kotori
The second monitor displays her return to the lesson room—the way she smoothed her skirt, checked her appearance, and forced professional composure before facing my daughters. But I can see the tremor in her hands, the way she keeps touching her neck where my fingers traced her pulse.
My body tenses at the memory. The feel of her skin, warm and soft under my touch. The way her breath hitched when I cupped her chin, forcing her to look up at me from her knees. The sight of her blonde hair cascading down her back as she bowed, submitting to my authority with that perfect combination of reluctance and desire.
I want to see her in that position again. I want to see how much lower she'll bow when I command it, how long she'll hold the pose while I study every curve of her body offered up for my approval.
The thought sends blood rushing south, makes my dress pants uncomfortably tight as I imagine all the ways I could use customs to put her exactly where I want her.
On her knees. Looking up at me with those blue eyes.
The third screen shows today's footage—she's with my daughters in the main lesson room, going through English pronunciation drills. Natural family scene, but I'm not watching the educational value.
I'm watching the way she moves. The unconscious grace in her gestures, the gentle curve of her neck when she leans down to help Aya with difficult sounds, the way her blouse pulls slightly when she reaches for lesson materials.
Yesterday morning I touched that neck, and felt her pulse race under my fingers. Yesterday morning she knelt at my feet and called me Matsumoto-sama with breathless abandon that made my cock throb against my zipper.
The memory has me adjusting myself in the chair, hand moving to ease the pressure building behind expensive fabric. She's barely been here two days and already I'm losing control, thinking about her body instead of focusing on business.
When was the last time a woman affected me this strongly? When did I last find myself hard just from remembering the sound of someone's voice saying my name?
Never.That's when.
I rewind the footage to our morning encounter yesterday, watching her enter my study with nervous confidence that I systematically dismantled over the course of thirty minutes. The way her eyes widened when I rose to tower over her kneeling form. How her breathing changed when I moved behind her, close enough that she could feel my body heat.
The moment when I touched her shoulders to adjust her posture, innocent enough contact that she couldn't object to, intimate enough to make her whole body go tense with awareness. My hands on her, guiding her, showing her exactly how I wanted her positioned.
The footage burns with the raw heat of what I felt in the flesh—her body yielding to my touch, despite her futile attempt to cling to professional restraint. A soft, desperate gasp slipped from her lips as my fingers grazed the delicate curve of her neck, her pulse hammering beneath my touch. When I forced her to bow, low and proper, her trembling form screamed submission, acknowledging the weight of my dominance in a way that set my blood on fire.
My hand moves to my belt, tearing it open with a rough jerk, the leather snapping as the pressure in me surges, primal and uncontained. She knelt before me, her flushed cheeks and parted lips a fucking vision—her skirt stretched taut over her thighs, begging to be ripped away. Her pale neck, exposed and fragile,tilted back as her eyes locked with mine, wide with a mix of fear and something darker, hungrier.
She craved my approval, every inch of her body screaming it—her spine arched just so, her voice quivering with a soft, "Yes, Matsumoto-sama," that hit me like a shot of whiskey, searing and addictive.
I free my cock with a low, guttural groan, already rock-hard and throbbing in my grip. This is what she reduces me to: the ruthless oyabun of Kyoto, jerking off to security footage like a man possessed, consumed by the need to own her. Her submission was a fucking masterpiece, the moment her defiance shattered under the weight of my will, giving me everything I demanded without a fight.
I flick the second screen to the bathroom feed from this morning, my eyes devouring her shower routine with the predatory focus of a man staking his claim. Water cascades over her curves, her movements fluid and unguarded, oblivious to my gaze. Every inch of her skin is mine to map—mine to touch, to taste, to fucking ruin.
My grip tightens, my mind shoving her against the tiled wall of that shower, hot water slicing over us as I pin her there, showing her what happens when a good girl surrenders to a beast like me. I'd make her scream my name, her body trembling under the relentless force of my desire.
The phone exchange footage makes my breath ragged, jagged. Her brief flare of rebellion—those defiant eyes flashing before I crushed it with nothing but my voice, low and unyielding. Her hand shook as she handed over her device, the exact moment she realized resistance was fucking futile, her will bending to mine like soft steel.
That's what I need—her independence fracturing against my unyielding dominance, her body betraying her mind's weak protests with every shudder, every gasp.
I stroke faster, the sight of her toweling off, unaware of all my secret cameras, fueling the fire in my veins. She doesn't know her privacy is a myth, that from the moment she stepped through my gates, every breath, every movement, belonged to me.
I want her wholly, utterly mine. I want her kneeling, perfect in traditional posture, while I take everything—her body, her will, her fucking soul. The thought of her crying my name as I claim her, her voice breaking with need, shoves me past the point of no return.
My vision blurs, a raw, animalistic roar tearing from my chest as I come undone, my release hitting like a fucking tidal wave, hot and violent, spilling over my hand and onto the desk. My body shakes with the force of it, every muscle taut, my breath heaving as I ride the brutal, shuddering high, consumed by her, white-hot pleasure crashing through me like a storm, leaving me wrecked and ravenous for the real thing.
Mine. She just doesn't know it yet.
"Aniki,wehaveaproblem."
Takeshi enters my study with evening reports, but his expression carries weight beyond routine business updates. He settles across from me with practiced efficiency, though tension radiates from his shoulders.
"The bureaucrat?"
"Resolved permanently. Found in Osaka Bay this morning. Apparent suicide. Financial troubles, gambling debts, family shame." His tone remains neutral despite the subjectmatter. "The replacement will be more... understanding of documentation flexibility."
I nod approval. Immigration officials who ask inconvenient questions about foreign employees require decisive solutions. Tanaka's curiosity about American teachers in traditional households had escalated beyond manageable levels.
