Page 91 of Kotori
"Closer," I murmur, and she takes another step forward, now within touching distance.
I don't touch her yet. Instead, I let my eyes travel slowly over her form, cataloging every detail with the attention of aman planning renovations. The way the cotton clings to curves still flushed from our earlier encounter. How her hands tremble slightly at her sides. The rapid rise and fall of her chest that speaks of arousal barely contained.
Perfect breeding stock, once properly prepared.
"How do you feel, kotori?" I ask, genuine curiosity coloring my tone.
"Different," she admits. "I'm finally who I was supposed to be."
Perfect answer. Not shame or regret or the protests I might have expected from the defiant American woman who first walked through my gates. Instead, recognition. Acceptance. The peace that comes with surrendering to natural order.
The natural order I've spent months teaching her to crave.
"And what are you supposed to be?"
Her cheeks flush crimson, but she doesn't look away. "Yours. Completely yours."
"Good." I gesture to the space directly in front of me. "Kneel here."
She settles onto the hardwood floor with the grace I've taught her, the yukata pooling around her in elegant folds. This close, I can smell jasmine soap and the intoxicating scent of a woman who has been thoroughly claimed and is ready to be claimed again. And again.
For years to come.
Now I reach out, my fingers sliding beneath the loose neckline of her yukata without warning. She gasps at the contact, her body immediately responding to my touch as I trace patterns on her collarbone.
"Still sensitive," I murmur with satisfaction, feeling how she trembles under my fingers. "Your body remembers exactly who it belongs to."
"Yes," she breathes, leaning unconsciously into my touch despite any discomfort.
"Show me your wrists."
She extends her hands without hesitation, and I examine the faint marks from our encounter. They're healing but still visible—beautiful evidence of her surrender that will fade in days but remain in her memory forever.
Unlike what comes next.
I bring one wrist to my lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the skin. She shivers at the contact, a soft moan escaping her throat.
"You wear my claim beautifully," I tell her, setting her hands back in her lap. "But these are temporary marks. Tonight, we make permanent arrangements."
Her breathing quickens with something between anticipation and nervousness. "What kind of arrangements?"
Instead of answering immediately, I move to the traditional desk, my movements deliberate and unhurried. She watches every step, her eyes following me with the focused attention of prey tracking a predator.
From the desk's locked drawer, I withdraw a leather portfolio I've had prepared. The contract inside represents careful legal planning, every clause designed to ensure her complete dependence while maintaining the illusion of choice. But this document is only the beginning of her permanent arrangements.
I return to my position before her, settling the portfolio between us. The leather is expensive. Everything about its appearance speaks of serious business conducted through proper channels. Business that will reshape her entire existence.
"Your employment contract expires next week," I begin, opening the portfolio with ceremonial precision. "Your visa status tied to that arrangement. Without proper sponsorship, you have no legal right to remain in Japan."
Understanding begins to dawn in her eyes. The devastating realization of how completely trapped she's become. How completely I've engineered her dependence.
"I could renew your teaching contract," I continue conversationally. "Simple paperwork, same terms, same professional distance."
Hope flickers across her features for exactly one heartbeat before I crush it with surgical precision.
"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.
