Page 94 of Kotori
There's no hesitation anymore. No internal war about what this makes me or whether I should want it. The contract I signed last night settled something fundamental inside me, and I slip from the warm sheets onto the hardwood floor between his legs with fluid grace.
"Good girl," he murmurs, his hand finding my hair with possessive gentleness. "My perfect little doll, always ready to serve."
The praise sends warmth through my chest. This is who I am now—his ningyo, his willing captive, his devoted companion. The simplicity of it brings peace instead of conflict.
I reach for him. I take in every detail of the intricate ink work decorating his skin. Wind bars flow down his arms between chrysanthemums, muscles shifting beneath traditional artistry that speaks of violence and beauty combined.
His cock stands thick and ready. He's magnificent naked like this: all controlled power and deadly grace, silver threading through black hair that makes him look like some ancient war god.
"Slowly," he commands, voice gentle but absolute. "I want to watch my doll work."
I place a soft kiss on the thick head. The taste of him floods my senses: clean from his shower but purely masculine in a way that makes my mouth water. His dark eyes track my every movement with something deeper than lust. Satisfaction. Pride. The look of a man who has everything he's ever wanted.
"Ii ko," he murmurs as I begin working him with my tongue. "Such a good little doll, learning exactly how to serve her master."
I take him deeper, watching the way his jaw clenches with control, how his free hand grips the silk sheets.
"Motto," he commands in rough Japanese. "More.I want to feel your throat."
I comply eagerly, relaxing my muscles to take him fully while he tangles his fingers in my hair. The grip is possessive but careful, controlling my rhythm while I worship his length with complete devotion.
"Kore da yo," he growls, watching me with hungry eyes. "This is what you were made for, ningyo. Perfect submission."
The mix of Japanese and praise makes me moan around his length, the vibration drawing a sharp curse from his lips. Hiscontrol starts to fracture, abs contracting as pleasure builds, the koi across his chest seeming to swim upstream as his breathing becomes labored.
"Swallow it all," he demands, grip tightening in my hair. "Every drop belongs inside my perfect little doll."
When his release floods my mouth, I drink him down greedily, watching those magnificent abs clench and release as he empties himself down my throat. The sight of his powerful body shuddering with satisfaction fills me with quiet pride.
"Kanpeki," he breathes afterward, Japanese rolling off his tongue like honey.Perfect.
But instead of dismissing me to dress alone, he rises and moves to our shared wardrobe. Our wardrobe. Everything about this room, this life, is ours now.
"Arms up," he says softly, and I obey automatically.
He dresses me himself—sliding a soft sweater over my head, smoothing the fabric down my torso with careful attention. When he kneels to help me into my skirt, his movements are gentle, like I'm something delicate that requires tender handling.
"There," he murmurs, brushing my hair back from my face with both hands. "Beautiful. My perfect companion."
The care in his touch, the way he takes responsibility for even this simple task, settles something warm in my chest. This gentleness mixed with absolute control. Why did I ever think fighting this would bring me anything but misery? This is what I was made for. What I've always craved without knowing it.
"Ready for breakfast?" he asks, thumb tracing my lower lip with possessive tenderness.
"Always," I whisper.
Inthediningroom,Aya launches herself at me like a small tornado.
"Paige-mama!"
Everyone freezes.
Kohana drops her book with a soft thud, eyes going wide. Mizuki's chopsticks clatter against her bowl. Even Hayashi, arranging tea service, goes completely still.
"Aya-chan," Kohana whispers, voice strained. "You can't... you shouldn't..."
But Aya's already wrapping her arms around my waist, pressing her face against my stomach with six-year-old certainty. "I drew you a picture, Paige-mama!"
My throat closes completely.Mama.She called me mama.
