Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
And that's when my one defense mechanism kicks in—words tumbling out before I can stop them.
"What is this? Who are you—"
"Silence!"
His voice slices through the air—not a shout, but something worse. A command so absolute my vocal cords seize instantly. My spine straightens like it's been electrified, decades of social conditioning responding before my feminist brain can object.
"You do not speak to your Master unless spoken to."
Master? MASTER?
The laughter erupts from somewhere primal, a desperate burst of hysteria that's equal parts terror and disbelief. It's the kind of laugh that bubbles up at funerals and job interviews—inappropriate, uncontrollable, and absolutely the wrong response to a man in a ski mask calling himself "Master" in what is clearly a very expensive, very elaborate sex dungeon.
I can't stop it. The laughter spills out, high-pitched and frantic, bouncing off stone walls as the absurdity crashes over me in waves. Giovanni Bavga, mob boss and murderer, has locked me in a basement with a BDSM Winter Soldier. After I turned down his money. After I came back for more.
This is my punishment. My lesson. My "Week Two."
And I'm laughing because the alternative is screaming until my vocal cords shred.
"Silence!"
His command slices through my hysterical laughter like a guillotine. My vocal cords snap shut instantly, some primal part of my brain responding to the authority in his voice before my conscious mind can object.
The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. My own breathing sounds obscenely loud. One second. Five. Ten. The masked figure just... looms. Watching. Waiting. The riding crop taps against his palm in that maddening rhythm.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
My heartbeat syncs with it against my will. I feel observed, cataloged, measured. Like a specimen pinned to velvet.
Finally, he gestures with the crop toward a shadowed corner I hadn't noticed before. In the flickering candlelight sits the most incongruous object imaginable: a child's school desk. Small. Narrow. The wood worn smooth in patches from years of actual use. The kind of desk you'd find in an elementary school classroom, not a BDSM dungeon.
Something about the juxtaposition makes my stomach turn. Sweet meets sinister. Innocence meets whatever the fuck this is.
My feet move before my brain gives permission. The involuntary compliance makes my jaw clench so tight my molars might crack, but still, I find myself at the desk. Sitting. The chair is too small, forcing my knees up at an awkward angle. My body hunched and compressed. Diminished.
On the desktop sits a leather-bound book, the gilt lettering catching the candlelight. The Doctrine.
Oh for fuck's sake. Of course it has a title. Of course it's leather-bound. Probably written in virgin's blood on vellum made from sacrificed lambs.
The silence suffocates me, pressing against my eardrums. Words bubble up like a defense mechanism.
"So what is this exactly? Fifty Shades of Get-the-Fuck-out-of-My-Way? Because I didn't sign up for Torture Chamber Barbie, and whatever Giovanni thinks—"
"Silence." Not shouted. Just... absolute.
I try again. "Look, Ski Mask Ken, I don't know what Giovanni told you, but—"
"Stillness." The crop taps once against his palm.
"Are you even going to—"
Crack.
"This is ridiculous. I'm not playing whatever sick game—"
Crack. Crack.
It's like fencing with a wall—every thrust meets the same unyielding surface. My words, my only real weapon, bounce off him without leaving a mark. Each time I push, he absorbs the strike with infuriating stillness, with an economical, one-word response.
I've built my entire life around words. They're my armor, my sword, my escape route. Having them rendered useless is like being stripped naked.
"I don't care what Giovanni told you. I don't care about your little cosplay dungeon. I'm not doing this shit."
No response. Just waiting. The empty stare behind that mask, patient and unbending.
"Did you hear me? I said I'm—"
The movement is so swift I don't see it coming. One second the crop is tapping against his palm, the next it's striking the back of my hand with a sharp crack.
Pain flares—bright, hot, electric—racing up my arm. My breath catches. Words die in my throat. For one perfect moment, everything stops: thought, time, resistance.
And then something else rises beneath the shock. Something warm and liquid that pulses through my body, starting at the sting on my hand and spreading outward. Heat pools low in my belly, between my thighs.
No. No no no.
Horror washes over me, shame burning hotter than the sting on my skin. I'm not aroused by this. I can't be. It's just... it's just that stupid conversation with Giovanni. When I joked about spankings. My brain's just making a weird connection, some crossed wire short-circuiting my system.
But the tingle in my hand doesn't fade. The warmth doesn't recede. The shame and desire twist together, impossible to separate, no matter how desperately I try to rationalize it away.
The masked figure doesn't even twitch until I'm completely still. Only when my breathing steadies does he straighten up and gesture toward the book with that goddamn crop. No words. Just a pointed tap against the leather cover.