Chapter 5: The Unbuttoning
The ship cut through the calm waters of the early morning, a white sliver on an endless blue plain. From his shadowed nook near the forecastle, D watched the daily rhythms of marine life unfold. It was a ballet of discipline and order, and at its center was Tashigi, a study in focused intensity.
She stood on the main deck, hands on her hips, addressing a group of recruits. Her white Marine coat was draped over her shoulders, its crisp lines a symbol of her authority. The sun glinted off her round glasses.
“The proper maintenance of your weapon is not a suggestion,” she was saying, her voice clear and carrying. “It is the difference between life and death. A blade is an extension of your will—”
D flexed his, just a whisper, a subtle nudge aimed not at her mind, but at the physical world around her. It was a delicate application, like using a scalpel instead of a sledgehammer. He focused on the weight of the coat on her shoulders, on the precise drape of the fabric.
As Tashigi gestured emphatically to illustrate a point about sword balance, the heavy coat simply… slid. It wasn’t a dramatic fall. It was a quiet surrender, the fabric slithering from her shoulders to pool in a heap on the deck behind her.
She didn’t notice immediately, too wrapped up in her lecture. “—so if you neglect the oiling of the tang, you invite rust and ultimately, failure.” One of the recruits, a young man with wide eyes, nervously pointed at the ground behind her. “Um, Lieutenant Tashigi? Your coat…”
Tashigi paused, following his gaze. A faint blush touched her cheeks. “Oh. How clumsy of me.” She bent to retrieve it, shaking her head in self-admonishment. Stupid. Can’t even keep my coat on during a basic briefing. She draped it back over her shoulders, a little more firmly this time. “As I was saying…”
D smiled. A good start.
An hour later, he found her in the ship’s library, a small, wood-paneled room smelling of old paper and polish. She was standing before a larger map, tracing a potential route with her finger, explaining the currents to a junior officer. Her coat was folded neatly over a chair now, leaving her in her standard-issue white blouse, buttoned to the throat.
D settled against a bookshelf, unseen. He focused on the small, pearl-like buttons running down her front. He didn’t command her to unbutton them. That was too direct, too crude. Instead, he applied a gentle, persistent pressure to the threads holding them, a microscopic weakening of their integrity.
Tashigi was in the middle of a sentence. “—so we’ll catch the eastern stream here, which should cut our travel time by—” She shifted her weight, one hand moving to emphasize the point on the map.
Pop.
The sound was soft, almost inaudible. But she felt it. A sudden looseness at her sternum. Her eyes flicked down. The top button of her blouse was gone, the fabric falling open to reveal the hollow of her throat and the very top edge of her white standard-issue bra.
Her words faltered. “—by… um…” Her hand instinctively flew to her collar, her fingers finding the empty buttonhole. A hot flush crept up her neck. What in the world? I checked this uniform this morning.
The junior officer, a woman, looked at her with polite confusion. “Lieutenant?”
“Nothing, it’s… nothing,” Tashigi stammered, her face burning. She tried to continue, her voice tighter now. “The eastern stream will…” She moved her arm again, a slight gesture.
Pop.
The second button gave way. This time, the blouse gaped open more significantly, revealing the plain white cup of her bra and the smooth skin of her upper chest. A quiet gasp escaped her lips. This wasn’t clumsiness. This was… bizarre.
“Is everything alright, ma’am?” the junior officer asked, concern etching her features.
“My… my buttons,” Tashigi managed, her voice a mortified whisper. She clutched the fabric together with one hand. “They seem to be… failing.” This is impossible. This is a regulation blouse!
Pop.
A third button leapt from its threads, pinging softly against a bookshelf before skittering under a table. Her blouse fell open to her midriff, the two halves of fabric hanging uselessly, fully exposing the functional, unadorned bra that encased her breasts. The stark white garment contrasted sharply with the deep red of her humiliation. She stood there, frozen, one hand clutching the map table for support, the other pressed futilely against her chest, her lecture completely forgotten in the face of this inexplicable exposure.
“I… I have to… excuse me,” she choked out, turning and fleeing the library, holding the ruined blouse closed as best she could, leaving a very confused subordinate in her wake.
D didn’t follow. He had all the time in the world. He let her retreat, let the embarrassment simmer.
His next opportunity came as he watched her descend a steep flight of stairs from the quarterdeck to the main deck later that afternoon. She had changed into a fresh uniform, her movements cautious, her face still clouded with a confused embarrassment. She held the railing tightly, clearly wary of another inexplicable accident.
D focused. This required a little more finesse. He applied pressure to the metal button of her trousers and the thin zipper beneath it. He didn’t force them open. He simply… encouraged the mechanism to fail.
Tashigi was halfway down the stairs, her mind racing. First the coat, then the blouse… it has to be a problem with the laundry. Or some kind of… fabric moth? But that doesn’t make any sense—
She took another step down. And felt a sudden, drastic loosening around her waist.
Her eyes widened in horror. She froze mid-step, but it was too late. With a quiet, rasping sigh, the trousers, freed from their closure, slid down her legs, pooling around her ankles on the metal step. The cool sea air hit her bare legs, clad only in plain white panties. The fabric was simple, utilitarian, and in this context, devastatingly intimate.
For a moment, there was perfect silence on the deck below. A sailor carrying a coil of rope looked up and froze. Two others polishing the rail stopped their work.
Tashigi stood utterly exposed, her trousers a puddle at her feet, her long legs and white underwear on full display for the crew. A strangled sound, something between a gasp and a sob, caught in her throat. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated horror. This isn't happening. This is a nightmare. I'm a Marine officer!
“My… my trousers…” she whispered, the words utterly inadequate. She bent over in a frantic, clumsy motion, yanking the fabric up with trembling hands, her glasses slipping down her nose. She fumbled with the button and zipper, her fingers shaking so badly she could barely function.
No one laughed. The crew’s silence was worse than any mockery; it was a silence of profound, awkward pity. They looked away, pretending to be intensely interested in their tasks, giving her the fragile dignity of not being stared at while she wrestled with her clothing.
She finally managed to secure the trousers, her entire body trembling with humiliation. Without a word, without looking at anyone, she turned and half-ran, half-stumbled back up the stairs she had just descended, fleeing to the one place that offered any semblance of privacy.
The door to her cabin slammed shut behind her, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet afternoon. She leaned back against the solid wood, her chest heaving, tears of frustration and shame finally welling in her eyes. She was a swordswoman, a soldier. She faced pirates and sea kings without flinching. But this? This relentless, inexplicable stripping of her dignity… it was a enemy she couldn’t fight.
Out on the deck, D finally stood and stretched. The satisfaction was a warm, thrumming energy in his veins. The range was impressive, the control exquisite. He had turned a marine officer into a flustered, half-dressed mess without her ever suspecting his presence. He looked toward her cabin, a predatory gleam in his eyes.
The preliminary tests were over.
The preliminary tests were over. D leaned against the rail, the salt spray cooling his face as he watched Tashigi’s cabin door. He felt a dull throb behind his eyes, a fleeting cost of his exertions, but it was a small price for the exquisite control he’d demonstrated. The game was advancing, and he was hungry for the next move.
Inside her cabin, Tashigi pressed a cool, damp cloth to her burning cheeks. She had changed into a fresh uniform, triple-checking every button and fastening with frantic fingers. “Get a grip,” she whispered to her reflection, adjusting her glasses with a hand that still trembled slightly. This wasn't the time to fall apart; the crew needed their officer, not a jittery mess.
She took a deep, steadying breath and pushed the door open, stepping back into the blinding sunlight of the main deck. The crew’s eyes flicked toward her, then quickly away, a coordinated dance of pretended normality that screamed their awareness. She forced her posture straight, marching toward a group tasked with coiling lines, her voice tighter than usual. “Report on the forward rigging inspection.”
D watched her from the shadows, a smile touching his lips. Her defiance was delicious, a fragile dam against the tide he was about to unleash. He focused his will, not on her, but on the simple metal button of her trousers, applying a gentle, persistent pressure until he felt the internal mechanism shift with a silent click. The fastening was now precariously loose.
As Tashigi bent slightly to examine a frayed section of rope pointed out by a seaman, the waistband of her trousers felt unnaturally slack. She ignored it, attributing the sensation to paranoia. The young sailor beside her, nervously eager to please, took a step forward to get a better look at the rope, his heavy boot coming down squarely on the dangling cuff of her trouser leg.
There was a sharp, fabric-ripping sound as the weight of his step anchored the cloth to the deck. Tashigi straightened up instinctively, and the loose trousers were jerked down to her ankles in one swift, brutal motion. The coarse deck wood was rough against her bare shins, the sea air chillingly intimate on her skin, clad only in plain white panties.
A profound silence crashed over the deck, broken only by the creak of the ship and the cry of a distant gull. The sailor stared, horrified, at his own foot, then up at his lieutenant. Tashigi stood utterly exposed, her hands frozen at her sides, the humiliation so complete it felt like a physical blow. Her face drained of all color, a stark white mask of shock.
D observed the scene with clinical interest, noting the subtle tremor in her legs, the way her knuckles were white where she clenched her fists. This was no longer a test of range; it was a demolition of dignity. The momentum was his, entirely.
The momentum was his, entirely.
Tashigi didn’t move. She stood paralyzed on the deck, the coarse wood rough against her bare ankles. The sea air, once bracing, now felt like a violation against her exposed skin. A hot, sharp shame shot from her stomach to her throat, so potent she thought she might be sick.
“I… Lieutenant, I’m so…” the young sailor stammered, his face a blotchy red as he scrambled back, freeing the fabric from his boot.
Her body broke before her mind did. She didn’t look at him, didn’t look at anyone. With a choked gasp, she hauled the trousers up and fled, the sound of her hurried, stumbling footsteps echoing in the profound silence she left behind. The crew stared at the space where she’d been, the air thick with a shared, awkward pity.
D watched her go, the thrum of power a pleasant buzz in his veins. He flexed his fingers, feeling a dull, satisfying ache behind his eyes. It was a small price, a fleeting tax for the masterpiece of humiliation he’d just composed.
He decided to follow, his steps unhurried. He moved through the ship like a ghost, his will projecting a simple, uninteresting aura that made sailors look through him. He arrived at her cabin door just as a muffled, frustrated sob reached his ears from the other side.
Inside, Tashigi leaned her forehead against the cool metal of her cabin wall, her fists clenched. “Get it together,” she whispered harshly to herself, her glasses misting. “This is… there has to be a logical explanation.” But logic had evaporated the moment her third button had popped in the library. This felt different, more targeted, a malevolent force playing a cruel joke.
A soft, deliberate knock sounded on her door. It wasn’t the hurried rap of a subordinate. It was calm, assertive. Her head snapped up, heart hammering. “Who is it?”
“A concerned party,” a smooth, unfamiliar voice replied. It was young, male, and carried an unnerving calm.
Every instinct screamed at her to tell him to go away. But her sense of duty, frayed as it was, overruled her panic. She was an officer. She couldn’t hide in her room all day. She took a steadying breath, straightened her freshly re-fastened trousers, and opened the door a crack.
He stood there, a young man with an unremarkable face and a disarming smile. He looked like he didn’t belong on a marine vessel at all. “Can I help you?” she asked, her voice tighter than she intended.
“I think I can help you,” D said, his eyes locking with hers. He pushed his will forward, not a command, but a subtle pressure, an invisible hand guiding the door. “May I come in? It’s about your… recent difficulties.”
Tashigi felt a strange compulsion to agree, a wave of irrational trust washing over her. It felt like relief. “I… suppose. But make it quick.” She stepped back, allowing him entry into her small, orderly quarters.
The door clicked shut behind him. The sound was final. He stood between her and the only exit, his casual posture belying the predatory focus in his gaze. He looked around the spartan room, his eyes lingering on the sword resting in its stand. “Shigure. A fine blade. It deserves a master in control of all her faculties.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Tashigi asked, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. A familiar dread began to coil in her stomach.
“It means the buttons weren’t faulty. The stairs weren’t slippery. Your trousers didn’t just fall.” He took a small step forward, and she instinctively took a step back, her calves bumping against her bunk. “You’ve been receiving commands. You just didn’t know it.”
Her blood ran cold. “Commands? From who?”
“From me.” His smile was a flat, cold line. He flexed his will, and the air in the room grew heavy. “Take off your glasses.”
Her hand moved without her permission. Her fingers, trembling violently, rose to her face and plucked the round glasses from her nose. The world immediately softened into a blur. “What… what are you doing?” Her voice was a thin whisper of terror.
“Demonstrating,” he said softly. He took another step, now standing directly in front of her. Her blurred vision made him a menacing silhouette. “Now, unbutton your blouse.”
“No,” she breathed, her body tensing. But her hands were already moving, rising to her collar. She fought it, every muscle straining, a silent scream building in her chest. Her fingers brushed against the first button. “Stop this.”
“I don’t think I will.” His voice was a conversational murmur. “You see, you’re not a person right now. You’re a pet. And pets perform tricks.”
A broken sob escaped her as her fingers undid the first button, then the second. The crisp white fabric fell open. The third button followed, revealing the plain white bra beneath. She was crying freely now, tears blurring her already impaired vision, the humiliation from the deck now a quaint memory compared to this intimate, willing violation.
“Please,” she begged, the word tasting like ash.
“That’s the word they all use,” D mused, watching her hands work. “It never works.” He reached out and traced a line from her collarbone down to the top edge of her bra. Her skin crawled at his touch, but she couldn’t flinch away. She was rooted, a statue obeying its master.
He leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. “Now, let’s see how a Marine officer kneels.”
Her legs buckled. The fight went out of her in a rush, replaced by a devastating, hollow emptiness. She crumpled to the floor, her knees hitting the cold metal with a dull thud. She knelt before him in her unbuttoned blouse, her vision blurred, utterly broken. The world had narrowed to this cabin, to this man, to the unbearable weight of the invisible collar around her neck.
D looked down at her, at the proud swordswoman brought to her knees. He cupped her chin, forcing her blurred gaze upward. A profound, chilling satisfaction settled in his chest. This was only the beginning of her training.
This was only the beginning of her training.
He watched her kneel there, a statue of shame, her blurred eyes staring at nothing. The quiet was broken only by her ragged breathing and the distant creak of the ship. He reached down to touch her hair, to feel the texture of his absolute victory.
Tashigi flinched.
It was a tiny, almost imperceptible spasm of her shoulder, but it was there. A reflex that shouldn't exist. D’s hand paused mid-air. Her breathing hitched, and her fingers, which had been lying limp on her thighs, curled inward, nails digging into the fabric of her trousers.
“No,” she whispered. The word was raw, scraped from a place deep inside he hadn’t reached yet.
“No?” D repeated, a flicker of amusement cutting through his surprise. The collar was supposed to make that word impossible. “You don’t get to say that.”
He pushed his will against her, a firm, mental shove meant to flatten her back into submission. It was the same pressure that had made thirty students strip, that had popped her buttons and dropped her trousers.
Tashigi’s head snapped up. Her tear-streaked face was a mess, but her eyes, even unfocused, held a new, terrifying clarity. The humiliations replayed in her mind—the coat, the library, the stairs, the deck—not as isolated incidents of bizarre luck, but as a pattern. A malicious, intelligent pattern aimed squarely at her. This man. It was always near this man.
“You,” she snarled, the word a venomous accusation.
She launched herself forward.
It wasn't a graceful sword strike, but a desperate, feral lunge born of pure, undiluted rage. She didn’t go for Shigure. She went for him, fingers hooked like claws, aiming for his eyes, his throat. The invisible collar tightened, a searing band of psychic pain around her neck that screamed at her to stop, to obey, to kneel.
She ignored it. She fought through the agony, a guttural cry tearing from her lips as she collided with him.
The impact sent them both stumbling back against the cabin door with a heavy thud. D grunted, more from shock than pain. Her fists pounded against his chest, wild and ineffective, but fueled by a will he had just proven wasn't completely his to command. “Get out of my head!” she screamed, spitting the words into his face.
He grabbed her wrists, his grip iron-strong, forcing her back. She was strong, far stronger than he’d anticipated, her swordsman’s muscles straining against his hold. Her knee came up, aiming for his groin, and he barely twisted aside in time.
“You can’t,” he hissed, his calm facade cracking into bewildered fury. He slammed her back against the door again, driving the air from her lungs. The collar constricted, a psychic vise meant to shatter her resolve. “You belong to me.”
Tashigi stared up at him, her chest heaving, her vision swimming. But she was seeing him clearly for the first time. She saw the surprise in his eyes, the slight, almost imperceptible strain at their corners. He was focusing. He was working to hold her.
It wasn't effortless. The realization was a lightning strike.
With a final, monumental surge of everything she had—every ounce of Marine discipline, every shred of personal pride, every memory of the shame he’d inflicted—she wrenched one arm free. Her hand didn’t go for his face again. It shot downward, not as an attack, but as a statement.
Her fingers hooked into the waistband of her own trousers and yanked them down, baring herself to the waist right there in front of him. The action was so sudden, so utterly defiant and self-destructive that it froze him for a split second.
“You want to see?” she gasped, her voice trembling with a mix of hysteria and triumph. “Then look. But you don’t get to make me do it.”
In that frozen moment, the compulsion broke. The collar didn't vanish, but its hold slipped. She shoved him back, hard, and scrambled away, pulling her trousers up with one hand while the other groped blindly for the one thing that had never failed her.
Her fingers closed around Shigure’s hilt.
The familiar worn leather was an anchor in the dissolving world. She ripped the sword from its stand, the blade ringing as it cleared the scabbard. She couldn’t see him clearly, but she didn’t need to. She pointed the tip in the direction of his blurry form, her stance settling into something solid and deadly.
“Get out,” she said, her voice low and shaking, but absolute. “Or I will run you through.”
D stood panting, his clothes disheveled, staring at the sword pointed at his heart. The pet had bitten back. And for the first time since eating the fruit, he felt a cold sliver of genuine fear. The game had just changed entirely.