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)
There was no gradual escalation from pain to pleasure that would've taught her body the difference between agony and ecstasy. That would've shown her how punishment transforms into reward under controlled hands.
Just the crop.
Just violence without architecture.
Giovanni's fingers trace lazy patterns on her spine—gentle now, tender even. The monster playing at humanity again. And Emmaleen not only accepts it, she seeks it. Her body instinctively curls toward the source of her pain as if it were shelter.
Because Giovanni made himself both.
Predator and protector.
Wound and balm.
I mentally list his infractions, each one a violation of not just the contract we signed, but the trust he was cultivating with Emmaleen.
One. Safe words are absolute. No psychological manipulation surrounding their use.
Giovanni gave her "wisteria," then immediately contaminated it. Told her there would be no punishment—then planted seeds of disappointment, failure, unreadiness in her mind if she decided to use it.
That's not safety. That's a trap disguised as mercy.
Two. Punishment must serve a pedagogical purpose. Pain without lesson is abuse.
What did she learn tonight except that Giovanni can hurt her? That he will hurt her, regardless of her choices, her consent, or her carefully selected tools for consequences?
The riding crop was supposed to be integrated into a sequence. What that sequence looks like was up to Giovanni. Maybe wax first—controlled heat, measured application. Then clamps. Pressure that builds and teaches endurance. Then the crop, as punctuation. As emphasis on a lesson already delivered.
That’s how I would’ve done it. There would’ve been reason behind the application.
There was no reason in what I just watched.
That was more than two dozen strikes of internal rage disguised as discipline.
Three. The dominant maintains emotional control at all times during scenes.
Giovanni's voice on the audio feed was ragged. Unsteady. Each strike carried weight beyond correction. It carried buried remnants of his childhood trauma, his father's indifference, his fury at being traded like livestock.
He wasn't training her.
He was exorcising demons onto her skin.
Making Emmaleen count the strikes in this context was cruel. Especially after planting seeds of disappointment in her mind about using her word.
In her mind, the counting wasn’t just a way to make her accept his punishment, it was used to make her feel as though she earned this response. Like she deserved it. Almost as if pain, when originating from Giovanni's hands, was somehow proof of her worth.
This is the same pattern she learned with her ex-boyfriend.
Same dance, different partner.
I’m not a therapist, but plenty of abused women have come through my training. Though they are fragile, they’re not special in the way I move them through the curriculum. All women are fragile under the dominant hand of a man. I have designed my lessons to account for past trauma, whatever it may be.
But Emmaleen is… just… different. I’ve only been here three days, but she means more to me than a nameless, faceless student. She’s… Emmaleen. This game, and my role in it, puts her in a different category.
I like her.
For fuck’s sake, Giovanni likes her.
She feels like a friend to him. That’s what he said.
And this is what he does to her when she decides to trust him and submit completely?
Like… what the fuck, bro? What the fuck.
We're supposed to be breaking that cycle.
We're supposed to be teaching her submission under controlled circumstances, inoculating her against men who'd weaponize her submissive nature.
But watching Giovanni hold her now, watching her melt into his arms despite the welts blooming across her thighs…
We're not saving her from anything.
We're just making her better at surviving monsters.
My jaw clenches.
This isn't anger—not the hot, immediate kind. This is colder. Deeper.
It’s betrayal.
Giovanni betrayed the contract. Betrayed the methodology we agreed upon. Used techniques designed to heal and twisted them into fresh trauma.
But worse—he betrayed her.
On the monitor, he kisses the top of her head.
She doesn't move. Doesn't respond. Just breathes against him, each exhale shaky, uncertain.
Broken.
The word surfaces before I can stop it.
Not broken the way we intended—will bent, then reshaped. Chaos organized into something beautiful.
Just… broken.
Wisteria.
The syllables hang in my mind like an accusation.
She didn't say it because Giovanni made sure she couldn't. Not without believing herself weak, unready, and insufficient.
That's not consent.
That's coercion with better packaging.
My reflection stares back from the monitors—jaw tight, eyes dark, tattooed hands still pressed against the desk as though I'm holding myself in place.
Maybe I am.
Because the alternative is confronting Giovanni. Voiding the contract. Walking away from Emmaleen entirely and letting her sink or swim in waters I know she can't navigate alone.
Or worse.
Admitting that I want to be the one holding her right now.
Want to be the one she turns to when the pain becomes too much.
Want to undo every mark Giovanni left and replace them with my own—carefully measured, properly contextualized, designed to build rather than destroy.
The thought tastes like treason.
Giovanni's voice drifts through the dungeon speakers, low and rhythmic. Soothing.