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)
No—that's inaccurate.
I'm not "like" a voyeur.
I am one.
I rub my eyes. Sleep has been an unreliable ally since Rico's body hit the floor. Three hours of restless turning before I gave up and came down here wearing nothing but a hard-on and some black boxer briefs.
The surveillance room is my sanctuary—everything visible, nothing hidden, complete control from a distance.
I love it.
Little Miss Take fills the screen. Yesterday's footage plays out in clinical detail. Her posture as Jino trains her. The trembling in her thighs as she holds Position Two. The mathematical precision with which she struggles to maintain her composure.
I fast-forward, frame by frame, watching the deterioration of her resistance. It's like watching metal fatigue under pressure—invisible until it suddenly isn't.
The feed switches to the desk cam. Here it is: the journaling. I adjust the volume, check the time stamp: 6:17 p.m. The finale of a full day of instruction.
I study her face. She has her back to me in the actual room, but the camera captures what I couldn't see. Every slight movement of her eyes. The tightening at the corners of her mouth. The way she holds her breath before putting pen to paper.
She's frowning. Not the performative frown of someone who thinks they're being watched, but the unconscious pull of concentration. Her eyebrows draw together over the bridge of her nose, creating a small valley of focus.
I lean closer, increasing magnification. Why? Why is this woman consuming my attention when I have LaRiccia problems that could level a city block? She's just pretty. Conventionally attractive in that standard-issue, Instagram filter way. Clean skin, proportionate features. Statistically appealing.
But statistics don't explain the way my cock hardens when she defies me. Statistics don't account for the tightness in my chest when she looks me in the eyes.
On screen, she grunts suddenly—a sound of frustration. Her hand stops writing, and she begins tapping the fountain pen against the page in a rapid, irritated rhythm. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Four beats, pause. Four beats, pause. Like she's trying to summon the right word through percussion.
I didn't notice this when I was behind her in the room. My focus had been elsewhere—on the curve of her spine, the tension in her shoulders, the way her hair fell in tangled waves down her back.
Then—there it is. A nearly silent chuckle escapes her lips. A sound of victory. She's found it: the perfect word. Her hand moves with renewed purpose across the page, the pen flowing smoothly now.
I find myself smiling. Against my will. Against every calculated move I've made. She just outthought herself, won a battle against her own brain, and is quietly celebrating.
This is why she's dangerous. This is why I can't look away. She's alive in there. Even after hours of Jino's conditioning, even sitting naked on a wooden chair, her will hasn't diminished. It's just redirected into a poem about submission—a poem that revealed more than I first suspected.
I wanted it to be you who—
That unfinished line. What did she want from me? To train her? Touch her? Break her? All of it, probably. The possibilities have been repeating in my head all night, playing on an endless loop that's keeping me from sleep.
I focus on the camera that looks down on the throne and zoom in on her poem, reading it again. Analyzing the structure—terza rima, of course. It’s our thing now, isn’t it?
These poems are incredibly hard to write. A chain forced to carry forward, each stanza dragging the next, no line allowed to stand alone. Break one link and the whole structure falls. A prison, forcing its captive forward. No pause, no relief, no escape but through.
The way I left last night was sloppy. Undisciplined. I shoved her—actually put my hands on her and pushed—like some fucking street thug. Pure reaction.
That’s not who I am. That’s not how I operate.
Tonight will be different. Tonight I’ll have control.
Of myself, of her, of every word between us.
I'm satisfied now. Dominance restored. The room is quiet except for the hum of the surveillance equipment. My breathing has finally slowed.
I need sleep. The black leather couch across the room looks almost inviting. I’ve got about fifty minutes before Jino arrives to start day two of Emmaleen's training. Enough time to reset.
But as I start to get up, something catches my eye.
Little Miss Take is disobeying my direct orders.
Eat. Bathe. Dress. Sleep. Four simple commands that even a child could follow.
After eating the bread and sausage, she simply collapses onto the bed. No bath. No nightgown. Just straight to sleep like my instructions were optional suggestions.
Small defiance. Insignificant in the scope of things. Yet the sight of it crawls under my skin like a splinter.
And now it occurs to me—much too late to matter, that I failed her last night. I let emotion get the best of me, and in this weakness, I forgot that feeding, bathing, dressing, and putting her to bed were my responsibility.