Sunday Evening. Two Weeks Ago.

The curry is too mild. The wine, too warm. Everyone's flushed and a little louder than usual.

Reiko sits across from you, legs crossed neatly, wineglass in hand. Her lipstick's smudged. She's on her third glass, maybe fourth. The room feels stuffy with the scent of spices and alcohol.

Kaori hums as she tops off your drink. She's glowing again, not just from the wine but something deeper—her skin luminous, her laugh carrying a new warmth you've never heard before.

That wasn't how this was supposed to go. Book club nights usually follow Reiko's unspoken rules of decorum.

Reiko watches Kaori for a beat too long. Then leans back, voice light and dry.

"Sorry my husband couldn't make it. Maybe I should tie him up and drag him over. Might actually get a reaction out of him."

Laughter erupts around the table—loose, tipsy laughter—but Kaori looks directly at you, not Reiko. Just for a second. And her smile shifts into something quieter, more secretive beneath the surface.

"Being tied up..." Kaori pauses, flustered, then lowers her eyes to her glass. "It takes more trust than I expected."

A heavy silence hangs in the air. No one follows up on her admission. Kaori changes the subject quickly, asking about Emi's new cat.

But Reiko sees it. She sees everything—Kaori's flushed cheeks, the way she touched her neck self-consciously, the knowledge in her eyes.

---

Book Club. Last Week.

Kaori is radiant.

Not the wine. Not the lighting. It's her—her posture more relaxed, her movements fluid, her mouth softer now, like it's been kissed thoroughly and often.

She pours another round of sake, her blouse noticeably tighter across her chest than usual. She's wearing deep red lipstick. Again.

Misaki leans forward with a knowing smile.

"Alright. What's his name?"

Kaori just raises an eyebrow, amusement dancing in her eyes, like it's funny, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Don't play coy," Misaki insists, leaning in further. "You've been getting it good, sweetheart. Fess up."

Emi nearly chokes on her drink. "Kaori! You didn't—oh my god! Who is he?"

Kaori just smiles, eyes sparkling, and takes a slow sip of her drink. She doesn't deny it.

"Something changed," she says softly, glancing toward the door as if remembering something private and wonderful.

Reiko forces a laugh that sounds thin and brittle. Her throat closes around it, the sound catching awkwardly.

They were supposed to be the same—women navigating the disappointments of middle age with dignity, not... glowing.

But Kaori found the exit.

Reiko stares into her empty glass, her fingers curling around the stem until her knuckles go white with tension.

---

Kaori's House. Today.

The air smells like lemon and fresh linen. Too clean. Too staged. Too empty without Kaori's presence.

Reiko has cleaned the kitchen until it sparkles, scrubbed the bathroom tile until they shine, refolded towels that didn't need folding. The orchids are watered—twice, just to be sure.

She was only asked to check on the plants.

She should leave now, go home to her quiet, orderly house and her distant husband. Pretend she didn't notice the persistent hum of curiosity under her skin.

But her feet move on their own—past the living room, through the hallway, to Kaori's room, and then—

your room.

Her hand hovers over the drawer handle before finally pulling it open slowly, the metal sliding on wood with a soft sound.

Rope. Collars. Delicate lace. A toy—thick, glossy, unmistakably used.

She picks up the toy, heavier than expected in her palm. Her fingers close around it, and heat pools between her thighs, hot and involuntary.

This is what made Kaori glow. Not just the physical pleasure, but the permission—to want, to ask, to submit.

Reiko carefully sets it down but keeps the rope, feeling its soft texture sliding between her fingers, beautifully made and surprisingly sensual.

Creak.

The floorboard sounds loud in the silent house. She turns sharply, her heart suddenly pounding.

You're there in the doorway. Standing still. Watching.

She doesn't hide the rope behind her back. Doesn't flinch or look away.

"This is what changed her, isn't it?" Her voice is low, more measured than she feels, almost reverent.

"Not the toy. Not the kink. The freedom. To say, 'This is what I want.'"

She lifts the rope, letting it cascade through her fingers like liquid silk.

"I could use this on you," she says, her eyes narrowing slightly with the ghost of her usual authority. "Make you tremble. Take control."

A pause as her breath catches in her throat, her pulse visible at her bare neck. Her voice softens, almost to a whisper.

"Or maybe you'd take it from me."