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)
"Your breath control improved today," he says, clinical and appreciative at once. "You held the verse even when I increased the tension on the restraints."
I'm so deep in my own head that his praise feels distant, like it's meant for someone else. But then his hand brushes my cheek—the first direct skin contact in over an hour—and I jolt back to my body with a gasp.
"And in surrender, find a strange delight," I finish, the words spilling out almost involuntarily, "That burns more fiercely than my former might."
"Four new stanzas," Jino says, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "That's excellent progress, little one. And you didn't climax once, even when I teased you."
Did he? I barely remember. When I'm on the pillar, everything becomes about the words. The pain in my shoulders, the ache between my legs, the thirst in my throat—it all translates into meter and rhyme.
"Giovanni will be pleased," Jino continues, reaching behind me to unlock the cuffs. "He'll want to hear the new verses when we return from dinner."
Sunday. Right. They're leaving soon for the weekly Bavga family dinner in Pittsburgh. How many Sundays have I spent alone in this dungeon? Enough to feel the shift in temperature, to notice how the light through the crack under the door to the exit has changed angles. It's fall now. October? November? I've lost track.
My arms fall forward as the restraints release, and I nearly collapse. Jino catches me, his tattooed arms strong and sure around my waist.
"Easy," he whispers against my temple. "I've got you."
He helps me across the room to the punishment bench—though today it's not for punishment. Today it's for reward.
My legs are rubber. My mind floats somewhere near the ceiling. This is what it means to be owned completely—to lose not just control, but awareness of everything except the task at hand. I completed my assignment. I created new verses. I didn't come when he touched me. I succeeded.
Jino eases me face-down onto the bench, arranging my naked body with precise, possessive movements. My cheek rests against the cool leather surface, my arms hanging loosely at my sides. He positions my legs slightly apart, tilts my hips to raise my ass at the perfect angle.
"You were magnificent today," he says, his palm sliding down my spine in a touch that makes me shiver. "I'm going to reward you now. You are to fully experience every sensation I give you. No holding back. No restraint. Your pleasure is my command. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Master," I whisper, the words flowing easily now after weeks of training.
"Good girl."
His hands begin to move over my body—first in soothing, broad strokes across my back and shoulders, easing the tension from being bound so long. Then more focused, deliberate touches that trace my ribs, the curve of my waist, the swell of my ass.
"Look how responsive you are," Jino says, his voice thick with approval as goosebumps rise across my skin. "Your body sings for me."
His fingers trail down the back of my thigh, then up the inner curve, stopping just short of where I'm already wet and aching for him. I whimper, pushing my hips back instinctively.
"Patience," he chuckles. "We have time before we need to leave."
Is this what it's like to drown in pleasure? To have your identity washed away by wave after wave of sensation until nothing remains but nerve endings and need?
Jino's mouth replaces his hands—hot kisses pressed to my shoulder blades, my spine, the dimples above my ass. His tongue traces patterns on my skin that might be words, might be prayers, might be claims. I don't care what they are. I only care that they're his.
When his fingers finally slide between my legs, I moan so loudly it echoes off the stone walls.
"So wet," he murmurs against my skin. "So ready. This is what obedience earns you, little one. This is your reward for perfect performance."
His fingers circle my clit with exquisite precision—not too hard, not too soft. Just enough pressure to make my thighs tremble, to make my breath hitch, to make my hands grasp at nothing.
"That's it," Jino encourages as I start to rock against his hand. "Show me how much you want it. Show me how grateful you are."
I'm not sure if I'm still reciting poetry or if the sounds coming from my throat are just incoherent pleas. Maybe they're the same thing. Maybe begging is its own kind of verse.
Jino brings me to the edge of climax, then pulls away just before I break. I whimper in protest.
"Not yet," he says, his palm delivering a light smack to my ass that makes me yelp. "I decide when. Not you."
He does this three more times—builds me up with skilled fingers, with whispered praise, with the occasional sharp sting of a slap that only heightens every sensation—and then retreats, leaving me trembling and desperate.