Page 63 of Kotori
"Mine." I lean closer, my breath ghosting across her ear. "Completely, utterly, permanently mine. The rope is just helping you remember."
I settle back to watch her adjust to the restraints, the way her breathing changes as she realizes how thoroughly trapped she is. The rope between her thighs creates friction with every small movement, building arousal she can't escape or relieve.
"Tonight, you'll learn patience," I tell her. "You'll kneel here, bound and helpless, until dawn. You'll think about what you said in my study, about the disrespect you showed, about the consequences of interfering with family matters."
Her eyes widen with understanding. "All night?"
"All night. No sleep, no relief, no escape from the rope's embrace." I rise to my feet, looking down at her bound form with satisfaction. "By morning, you'll understand exactly what your place is in this household."
"I can't," she whispers. "Please, I can't kneel like this for hours—"
"You can. You will. Because you have no choice." I move to the traditional desk, settling behind it to begin reviewing papers while she kneels in my peripheral vision. "This is what happens when naive young women think they can challenge traditions they don't understand."
The hours pass slowly, but I find myself unable to concentrate on correspondence. Instead, I watch her through carefulperipheral vision, cataloging every response as the rope does its methodical work.
At first, she tries to maintain dignity—keeping her back straight, controlling her breathing, pretending the intimate pressure isn't affecting her. But rope doesn't lie, and neither does her body's gradual surrender to sensation.
The first sign is her breathing—deeper, more deliberate, as if she's trying to control responses she doesn't understand. Then comes the subtle shifting, unconscious movements that only increase the friction between her thighs, making her gasp and go still as pleasure spikes unexpectedly.
My cock hardens watching her discover what the rope can do, how every attempt to find comfort only creates new stimulation. The way her eyes flutter closed when she thinks I'm not watching, the soft sounds she tries to suppress, the growing flush that spreads down her chest as arousal builds beyond her control.
"Struggling, kotori?" I ask without looking up from papers I'm no longer reading.
"I'm fine," she lies, voice strained.
"Are you? Because from here, it looks like you're learning exactly what helplessness feels like." I finally turn to study her properly, letting her see the hunger in my eyes. "How does it feel, knowing that every breath, every heartbeat, every tiny movement only makes you more desperate?"
Her face burns crimson, but she can't deny the truth written in her body's responses.
Around two AM, soft sounds begin escaping her lips despite her efforts to stay quiet. Not protests—something far more interesting. The rope between her thighs has been doing its relentless work, creating friction that builds need without allowing satisfaction.
I set down my brush and turn to face her fully, no longer pretending to work while she falls apart so beautifully in front of me.
"Look at you," I murmur, rising to circle her bound form like a predator savoring his trapped prey. "Fighting so hard to maintain dignity while your body betrays every thought you try to hide."
She's trembling constantly now—thighs quivering with strain and something else entirely, breath coming in soft pants that make her chest rise and fall in the most distracting way.
"The rope is teaching you things words never could, isn't it, kotori?" I stop directly in front of her, close enough to see how her pupils have dilated with need. "Teaching you that resistance only makes the lesson more... intense."
When she tries to lean away from my proximity, the movement sends her weight shifting against the rope between her legs, making her cry out softly at the unexpected pleasure-pain.
"That's it," I breathe, satisfaction coursing through me at her helpless response. "Feel what fighting gets you. Understand what surrender offers instead."
My hand traces the air just inches from her skin—not touching, but close enough that she can feel the heat, the promise of contact she can't escape or demand.
"Please," she whispers, and the word holds everything she's trying not to want.
"Please what?" I let my fingers hover near her throat, watching how her pulse hammers against pale skin. "Please touch you? Please release you? Please give you what the rope is making you crave?"
She can't answer because admitting what she wants means acknowledging what she's become.
By three AM, she's completely falling apart. The rope between her thighs has done its relentless work, building arousal to a fever pitch that has her trembling constantly. Her breath comes in desperate pants, and soft whimpers escape her lips despite her efforts to stay quiet.
Sweat gleams on her skin despite the cool night air, her body flushed from throat to thighs with need she can't satisfy. The bindings force her thighs apart, displaying everything while denying her any relief from the constant, maddening friction.
"Please," she gasps, the word torn from her throat. "Matsumoto-sama, please, I can't... I need..."
"What do you need, kotori?" I rise from my desk, moving to circle her bound form with predatory satisfaction. "Tell me exactly what your body is begging for."
