Komiko and Katie
Copyright© 2026 by Komiko Yakamura
Chapter 9
It was a Tuesday night, seventeen days before January fifteenth.
They’d been on the phone for forty minutes already — the comfortable kind of call that had no particular agenda, voices in the dark moving through the easy territory of the day. A teacher. Something Daisuke had done that was both exasperating and wonderful. The history paper Katie had finished and Komiko had not yet started, which Komiko was unconcerned about and Katie found baffling.
Komiko was lying on her bed in the dark, phone against her ear, looking at the ceiling.
She had decided, sometime in the last hour, that tonight was the night.
She’d been watching Katie’s state of being with the careful attention she brought to everything that mattered. The way she went still and inward in English now the moment Komiko reached for her hand. The quality of her breathing in those moments, slightly altered, trying to stay even and not quite managing it. The texts that came later and later, longer and more honest, the distance between what Katie meant and what Katie said shrinking day by day until there was almost none left.
Katie was ready. Had been ready, probably, for longer than she knew.
Komiko waited for a lull in the conversation. Then, in exactly the same tone she used for everything — calm, unhurried, as if this were the most natural continuation of what they’d been discussing:
“Tell me what you were thinking about last night.”
A pause.
“What?” Katie said.
“Last night. When you went to sleep.” A beat. “Tell me.”
The silence had a specific texture. Komiko could hear the shift in it — the moment Katie understood what was being asked and felt the floor change slightly under her.
“Komiko.”
“Yes?”
“Are you — “ She stopped. Started again. “What are we doing.”
“I want to hear your voice,” Komiko said simply. “When you tell me things. Not text. Your actual voice.”
Another silence. Longer.
“That’s — “ Katie’s voice had already changed. Lower. The careful neutral tone completely gone. “That’s different.”
“I know.” Komiko paused. “Is that okay?”
The question hung in the dark between them, genuine despite everything. Permission always genuine. Always.
She heard Katie exhale slowly.
“Yeah,” Katie said. “It’s okay.”
“Then tell me.”
A long moment. Komiko waited, patient, the way she was always patient, knowing the shape of what was coming.
When Katie spoke again her voice was quiet and slightly rough and entirely unguarded in the way it only ever got when she’d stopped trying to manage how she came across.
“I was thinking about your hands,” she said. “The way you touch me in class. I kept going back to it. The circles. And then — “ She stopped.
“And then,” Komiko said.
“And then further than that.” A breath. “What it would be like if you touched me somewhere else. The same way. Just — somewhere else.”
Komiko closed her eyes briefly.
“Where,” she said.
“Komiko —”
“Where, Katie.”
The use of her name in that particular tone did something to the air between them that they both felt.
“Everywhere,” Katie said, very quietly. “I think about you touching me everywhere. My pussy.”
Komiko let that sit for a moment. Let Katie feel the weight of having said it out loud, voice to voice, real and irreversible. Let her understand that the ground was still solid. That nothing had shifted except toward something.
“Tell me what that looks like,” Komiko said. “When you imagine it.”
“I — “ A sound that was close to a laugh and had nothing to do with humor. “You’re really going to make me say it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to hear your voice say true things.” Simply, directly. “Because I want to know exactly what you think about. Because — “ a pause, “because I’ve been thinking about the same things and I want to know if we’re thinking about the same things.”
Silence. Then, with something in it that was half surrender and half relief:
“Are you — are you touching yourself right now?”
“Not yet,” Komiko said. “I’m listening to you first.”
The sound Katie made then was quiet and involuntary and completely honest and Komiko filed it carefully, the first of what she intended to be a long and thorough catalog.
“Okay,” Katie said. Her voice had gone to almost a whisper. “Okay. I’ll tell you.”
And she did.
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