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)
Within my mind while kneeling. When his knees
Pressed firm against my back to arch me more,
I felt the heat of shame begin to seize
My breath. I wanted it to be you who—
Then… nothing. The stream of words breaks off mid-breath, my own need hardening with it. Control demands I close the journal. Desire whispers that I beg her to finish the line.
I want to hear what comes next. Not her clinical plans to subvert my own. But her poetic longing for me, her King, in the place of Jino—who, in her mind, is a nameless, faceless stand in.
That last unfinished stanza is a weapon sharper than any blade I own. I’d raze kingdoms to know what word she meant to write after “you who—”.
What comes next?
Your demise, Giovanni, my mind screams.
Her death. That's what comes next.
I must resist!
But how? How can I throw her away when she makes me absolutely crazy with longing like this? These words. Stupid words. Not her tits, not her wet pussy, her fucking words.
They're killing me.
They're gonna get us killed.
I snap the journal shut. The sound is louder than it should be, final as a judge’s gavel. Her breath still warms my thigh, pleading without words.
I can’t stay here. Not another second.
“Eat. Bathe. Dress. Sleep.”
The commands leave my throat ragged with fury I can’t explain. I don’t wait for her reaction. I rise, pushing her out of the way with such force, she goes reeling off the dais.
I throw the notebook down, ignoring her cries of pain, and walk out.
The echo of the steel door slamming shut behind me, reverberating through the concrete like a gunshot.
Distance is survival.
For her. For me.
But every step feels like a punishment—and not for her.
For me.
10
The concrete floor bites into my knees where I land, sharp pain radiating up through my shins. My palms sting from catching myself, and there's a metallic taste in my mouth—either blood from biting my tongue or just the general flavor of humiliation.
He's gone. Giovanni Bavga just shoved me off a platform like I'm debris cluttering his perfect dungeon aesthetic, then threw the notebook down on the ground and stormed out.
The door slam echoes through the stone chamber, bouncing off walls designed to amplify suffering. Even the architecture here is dramatic. Of course it is.
I sit still for a moment, letting the ache in my knees settle into something manageable. The silence feels different now—not oppressive like when Master was circling me with his crop, but... empty. Like the room is holding its breath, waiting for the next act of this psychological opera.
Well. The poem certainly did the job.
Eat, bathe, dress, sleep.
Those were his last commands, delivered with all the warmth of a prison warden announcing lights-out. No explanation of how or where these miraculous activities might occur in a basement that appears designed exclusively for the breaking of human spirits.
I push myself up from the floor, wincing as my knees protest. Standing here naked in a dungeon, contemplating how to follow orders that seem logistically impossible, I have what can only be described as an epiphany.
How has one single day of submission training turned me into a helpless nitwit?
This morning I was Emmaleen Rourke, former academic overachiever, survivor of actual domestic violence, woman who once organized her entire life around research and critical thinking. Now I'm standing here like some Victorian maiden who can't figure out how to pour her own tea without a gentleman's guidance.
Fuck that noise.
I start exploring the dungeon properly, taking inventory like I'm conducting an anthropological study of Power Exchange Architecture 101. The space reveals itself differently when I'm not being terrorized by masked men or glared at by crime lords with anger management issues.
The kneeling mat sits in the center, innocent as a yoga prop if you ignore the way it's positioned for maximum visibility from every angle. I'm intimately familiar with its leather texture now—my knees could probably identify it in a lineup.
The mirror catches my attention next. Seven feet of gilt-framed honesty, reflecting every flaw and fear back at whoever kneels before it. Smart psychology, actually. Nothing destroys ego quite like forced self-observation during moments of vulnerability. I bet Giovanni planned that placement down to the inch.
The throne dominates one end of the room—empty now, but still radiating authority. Even vacant, it commands attention. Giovanni understands power dynamics better than most psychology textbooks I've read.
Then there's the niche that reads like an altar to the Bavga Doctrine. Religious iconography mixed with submission protocols. Because nothing says "healthy relationship dynamics" like literally worshipping your partner's control manual.
The bench sits along one wall, narrow and deliberately uncomfortable. I pause here, my mind drifting despite my exhaustion. I can picture myself bent over it, hands gripping the edges while Giovanni... while he...
Heat floods my cheeks. My body is apparently a traitor with terrible timing, getting aroused while I'm conducting educational reconnaissance.