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)
Or maybe I have.
I can't tell anymore.
Day One: I signed a contract that would make most HR departments spontaneously combust. Got locked in a sex dungeon. Learned four submissive positions that made my thighs scream. Cried actual tears in front of a masked stranger. Then got bathed like some kind of Victorian invalid while my brain short-circuited between humiliation and... something else.
Day Two: Had two grown men beat the shit out of each other over aftercare protocols. Discovered that "Master" has a face—and tattooed hands that know exactly where to touch me. Learned that I'm not just a witness to murder—I'm a problem that should’ve been dealt with immediately, not taken to the hospital and put back together.
And now I'm here. Standing across the room from a throne, naked, and holding implements of my own destruction like I'm curating a gallery show titled "Emmaleen's Greatest Hits of Masochism."
So why am I still here?
To win some deranged mobster pissing contest? Check.
To figure out why my pussy gets wet when dangerous men give me rules? Also check.
To understand why Tyler's control felt like drowning but Giovanni's feels like—
No. Not going there.
Jino's different from Giovanni. That much is obvious even to my brain, which has apparently decided to take an extended vacation from logic and self-preservation.
Jino is methodical. Every touch calculated. Every word measured. Like he's following some kind of internal manual titled "How to Dismantle a Woman's Psyche in Fifteen Easy Steps."
Giovanni is... chaos wrapped in a three-piece suit. One second he's reciting poetry about wisteria, the next he's shoving me off a platform and storming out like I personally offended his entire bloodline.
But here's the thing that makes my stomach twist—I responded to Jino.
Not just my body—though yeah, that betrayed me spectacularly when his fingers slid inside me during the bath. When he made me come in Position Two like it was a fucking lesson plan.
But my mind responded too.
Because Jino explained things. Gave me context. Told me what he was doing and why. While Giovanni just... expects me to intuit his emotional weather patterns like I have some kind of Italian mobster mood ring installed in my prefrontal cortex.
And I hate that I liked it.
Hate that when Jino's hands guided my hips into the correct angle, when his voice went low and commanding—"Wider, little one. Let me see what's mine to train"—something in my chest just... settled.
Like my nervous system finally found a frequency it recognized.
Which is absolutely fucked, by the way.
Because this is a dungeon. I'm literally standing naked in a sex dungeon holding nipple clamps and candles like I'm about to perform some kind of ritualistic sacrifice to the gods of poor life choices.
My eyes drop to the pile of implements in my arms.
Wax candles—because apparently, I have a flair for the dramatic.
Nipple clamps—the adjustable ones, not the spring-loaded monsters in drawer nine that looked like they could double as industrial fasteners.
Leather cuffs—soft-lined, because I'm not completely stupid.
Collar with the O-ring—which I definitely should not find as appealing as I do.
Riding crop—a classic. Almost boring in its predictability.
I specifically avoided the ball gag. Just seeing it made my throat close up, made my vision tunnel until all I could see was Tyler's face hovering above me, telling me I talked too much, that I needed to learn when to shut the fuck up—
Stop.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory like it's a physical thing I can just... flick away.
The flogger stayed in its drawer too. Too many variables. Too much potential for Giovanni to lose control and actually hurt me, not just play at it.
Because that's the line, isn't it?
The thing I'm trying to figure out while standing here like some kind of post-modern Galatea waiting for her fucked-up Pygmalion to bring her to life through strategic application of wax and leather.
With Tyler, the control was... entropic. It expanded to fill every available space until there was no room left for me. Until I was just this... hollow thing wearing Emmaleen's face.
But this?
Giovanni's rules, Jino's training, this whole elaborately constructed nightmare of submission and surveillance…
It has edges.
Boundaries.
A beginning and an end.
Even if that end is just "choose your punishment from the correction cabinet and try not to come when he applies it."
Which is its own kind of mindfuck, honestly.
That I chose these things.
That part of me—the part that's apparently been running this show since I signed that contract—actually wants to see what Giovanni does with them.
Wants to know if his hands shake when he lights the candles.
If his breathing changes when he fastens the collar around my throat.
If he'll whisper things in Italian that I don't understand but feel in my bones anyway.
My fingers tighten on the riding crop.
Tomorrow, Jino gets me again. Gets to continue whatever the hell he started in that bathtub—that careful, precise dismantling of every defense mechanism I've spent two years building.