Page 62 of Kotori
"Did you? Or did you want to prove that your values are superior to our ways? That your feminism could rescue my daughter from her cultural obligations?"
My hands slide down her arms, feeling smooth skin that will soon be marked with rope, testing her responses as her breathing becomes more labored.
"Stand," I command quietly.
She rises and I move around to face her again. The thin yukata does nothing to hide her body's response. Her nipples are visible through cotton, the flush spreading down her throat, and I don't miss the way she unconsciously shifts her thighs seeking friction.
"You will learn tonight what happens when someone forgets their place in this household," I tell her, reaching for the tie of her yukata. "You will understand why certain boundaries exist and what crossing them costs."
The cotton whispers to the floor, leaving her completely naked and vulnerable. She makes a small sound—not quite protest, not quite plea—but doesn't try to cover herself. Already learning.
"Beautiful," I murmur, letting my eyes travel over every inch of exposed skin. "But beauty without proper discipline is merely decoration. Tonight, you become something more useful."
I move to the bed where Hayashi has arranged everything I requested. The red silk rope coiled like sleeping serpents. Traditional oil that will make her skin gleam under lamplight. Soft restraints that will hold her exactly where I want her without causing damage.
"Come here, kotori."
She approaches with careful steps, and when she's close enough, I turn her around to face away from me. Her spine isstraight, shoulders squared with the last remnants of defiance, but I can see goosebumps rising on her skin as anticipation builds.
"Hands behind your back."
A pause—brief hesitation—then compliance. Her wrists cross at the small of her back, and I begin the first binding. The rope slides across her skin like liquid fire, each loop carefully positioned for maximum effect. Traditional shibari isn't just restraint—it's art, meditation, the physical manifestation of control so complete it becomes spiritual.
"The rope will hold you," I explain as I work, my voice taking on the cadence of instruction. "Fighting it only creates pain. Accepting it brings... different sensations."
The first binding secures her wrists, then extends up her spine in a pattern that forces her shoulders back, chest forward, completely exposed. Each knot is placed with deliberate precision, creating pressure points that will remind her of her helplessness with every breath.
"How does that feel, kotori?"
"Tight," she whispers.
"Good. It should feel inescapable. Because it is."
The next binding goes around her waist, then between her thighs, creating intimate pressure that makes her gasp and stumble forward. I catch her easily, supporting her weight while the rope settles into position.
"This particular pattern," I continue conversationally, as if we're discussing flower arrangement rather than bondage, "is designed to create constant... awareness. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat will remind you exactly what you've surrendered."
When I step back to admire my work, she's a masterpiece of rope and flesh. The red silk creates an intricate web across her pale skin—geometric patterns that frame her breasts, accentuatethe curve of her waist, and hold her thighs spread in shameless display. Each knot is perfectly placed, creating focal points that draw the eye to what I want seen while the rope's pressure creates constant sensation.
The shibari transforms her from a defiant American woman into living art—bound, helpless, every curve enhanced by the rope's embrace. The contrast between crimson silk and fair skin is breathtaking, the way the bindings force her body into poses of complete submission even more so.
"Beautiful," I murmur, letting my eyes travel over every knot, every loop, every place where rope meets skin. "This is how you were meant to be displayed, kotori. Bound and offered, every inch of you claimed and controlled."
The rope work is flawless—tight enough to hold her completely helpless, positioned to create maximum psychological impact, artistic enough that she looks like a gift wrapped in crimson silk. The intimate binding between her thighs ensures she feels claimed even there, the most private part of her held open and accessible at my discretion.
"Kneel."
The position is different now—rope forcing her thighs apart, back arched, completely open and displayed. She settles onto her knees with a soft moan as the bindings shift, creating new pressures, new sensations that make her eyes flutter closed.
"Beautiful," I breathe, settling onto the cushion in front of her. "This is how you should look, kotori. Bound, helpless, accepting your proper place."
I reach out to trace the line of rope across her collarbone, feeling how her pulse races under my touch. "Do you understand now why I chose you? Why I brought you here?"
"No," she gasps, though her body arches into my touch despite the word.
"You were made for this. For submission, for surrender, for learning to find pleasure in complete helplessness." My fingers follow the rope down to where it frames her breasts, making her nipples stand out like offerings. "Your Western independence was never real, kotori. It was just armor hiding what you really are underneath."
"What am I?" The question comes out broken, desperate.
