Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
We go out for breakfast every fucking Saturday morning without fail.
It's our date. The one ritual I guard more fiercely than any doctrine Giovanni ever wrote. The one morning of the week I won't bend for anyone—not business, not family emergencies, not the whole fucking world burning down around us. Saturday breakfast belongs to us. Period.
Then we hit up the thrift stores. Sometimes she finds a book and her whole face lights up like she's discovered lost scripture.
But the real treasure hunt is vintage clothes. She'll spend an hour sifting through racks of moth-eaten cardigans and polyester disasters, emerging triumphant with some flowered blouse from the seventies or a velvet jacket with questionable stains.
I'm not sure what she does with these clothes. Inside Giovanni's house she's always naked, and the few pieces she keeps in my carriage house are practical—sweats, t-shirts, nothing with pearl buttons or lace collars. Maybe she just likes the hunt itself, the possibility of transformation hidden in other people's discarded lives. Maybe it's the only shopping she can do on her own terms, choosing things for herself instead of having her wardrobe color-coded by someone else's control.
But it brings her joy to buy them, so I don't mind standing in dusty aisles smelling of mothballs and old perfume.
"I tell you what," I say, circling back to her original question. "You show me what you actually know—technique, breathing, awareness of your own limitations—and then I'll decide if we can move forward or not."
I hold up one finger, cutting off whatever protest is already forming on her lips. "And if I determine you're not ready, then that's the end of this discussion. We do things my way. Slow and steady. No shortcuts."
"Jino, there's more of a chance that you'll actually kill me with some slow, controlled throat fuck than a good old-fashioned full-on face-humping session. It's just physics." She crosses her arms, looking entirely too pleased with this declaration.
I tap her on the nose with a fingertip. "I disagree. And you need my dick to learn this, so I make the rules. And if you keep arguing, I'll put clothes on you, throw you in my car, take you out for breakfast, and you will not learn anything new today. "
She makes a face at me. "Fine. But no recap. Let me just… show you." And with that, she reaches up, pulls my sweats down, and my cock springs out—fully erect, ready for action.
Her hands wrap around the base, not waiting for instructions, or permission, or thinking about rules that don't apply here—and the next thing I know, the tip of my cock is inside her mouth.
Fuck.
Her tongue swirls around the head, and I feel my knees actually weaken slightly. She takes me deeper, her eyes locked on mine the entire time, watching my reaction. There's no hesitation, no performance anxiety. Just pure confidence as she demonstrates what she's learned.
She takes me halfway down, then pulls back slowly, her cheeks hollowing as she creates suction. Then deeper. Then back again. Her breathing is controlled through her nose, exactly like I taught her. No gagging, no panic, just steady rhythm.
I watch her work, cataloging every technique. She's good. Better than last week. Her jaw is more relaxed, her throat more open. She's remembering to breathe, to pace herself, to use her tongue.
But Giovanni doesn't want good.
He wants unreasonable.
"Stop," I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
She pulls off immediately, a string of saliva connecting her lips to my cock. "What? Was that not—"
"That was perfect," I interrupt. "Which is exactly the problem."
Her eyebrows furrow in confusion.
I grip her hair again, gentle but firm. "You're in complete control right now. You're setting the pace, the depth, the rhythm. Everything is on your terms." I tilt her head back slightly. "But when Giovanni fucks your throat, you won't have any control. None. He'll use your mouth like it belongs to him, because in his mind, it does."
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed immediately by arousal. Her pupils dilate.
"So what we need to practice," I continue, "is you maintaining your breathing, your composure, your awareness of your own limits—while I control everything else. While I take away your ability to set the pace or pull off when you want to."
I watch her process this, see the moment she realizes what I'm actually offering her.
"You're finally gonna do it," she says. Not a question.
"I'm going to teach you how to survive being throat-fucked," I correct. "There's a difference. Because Giovanni won't care if you're ready or not. Won't care if you need to breathe. Won't care if you're scared or overwhelmed or reaching your limit. He'll just take what he wants and expect you to handle it."
Her breathing has changed. Faster, shallower. But she's not pulling away.
"The only reason Giovanni hasn't let you do this yet is because he knows he'll hurt you if you're not prepared." I lean down slightly, making sure she hears every word. "So I'm going to push you. Hard. And you're going to learn where your actual limits are versus where you just think they are."