Even women who like this kind of thing—women who pay Jino to train them—can't hold a position that well in the first hour.
And Emmaleen isn't that kind of woman.
Emmaleen is defiant and bratty. That’s her natural state. This compliance is the opposite of that.
Jino doesn’t explain himself, simply orders her to kneel.
She does it without comment. Without breaking a single rule.
See. I knew it. She’s trying to beat me at my own game.
He commands her to lie back on the mat and place her fingertips behind her head. “Don’t pull on your neck,” I hear him say. Then, he encourages her to bring her knees up so her thighs are perpendicular to the floor and her shins are parallel, like she’s sitting in a chair tipped backward. He holds her head, telling her to lift her shoulders off the ground. “Keep your back anchored to the floor,” he says.
It intrigues me that he’s so adept at positioning her like this, even though he claims it’s not part of submissive training.
Apparently, my cousin has a secret life I’m unaware of. Because he was right. This is a humiliation ritual during anassassination. A ritual invented by my father. That’s how he got his nickname—Salvatore the Splitter.
I concentrate on the screen. Emmaleen’s legs are up in the air now. The position mimics the ‘bicycle exercise’ used to strengthen the core, with one modification.
Jino places his gloved hands on the inside of her knees and spreads her legs open.
Emmaleen gasps. Sweat is beading on her forehead and she’s not even in position yet.
“That’s good,” Jino says, encouraging her. “Very good. If I could cancel a demerit, I would do that now. But, unfortunately, only your king can cancel demerits.”
When my father did this to people, it wasn’t sexual in the least. He was going to castrate them before the head shot. The testicles would be saved, the body dumped in a river or buried on a farm, and the balls would be arranged in a banana split boat and a package sent. A message would be received.
This banana split is of an entirely different nature. Emmaleen is fully positioned now—small of her back on the mat, neck lifted, legs spread open, and core engaged to the max.
The exposure is meant to provoke. But Emmaleen's body betrays something else. Her chest rises with steadier rhythm, her skin flushes deeper, heat pooling across her collarbone. She is pointing her toes and elongating into the pose as though she’s filling it with defiance, daring me to watch.
Jino is momentarily caught up in the shape of her. The outline she makes. The sweat beading on her forehead. And yes, the glistening wetness clearly visible between her legs.
Humiliation turned inside out to become arousal.
Jino’s eyes linger on her exposed body. His arousal is obvious—his hard cock visible in his leather pants. The way he licks his lips as he watches her.
I lean forward, letting out a long breath. This is not professionalism. This is desire.
My finger hovers over the summons button once again, but I resist, moving it away.
Jino is right. Emmaleen is getting to me. There is no reason to play this game other than because I am reluctant to let her go. The proof is everywhere.
The elaborate setup of the game.
The leather-bound Doctrine.
The uniform—which she hasn’t even put on yet.
Everything has been planned down to the smallest detail.
Everything but Jino’s attraction to her, apparently.
But what did I think would happen? He’s a Dom molding a sub into a toy. Erections are par for the course. If he were training her for himself, he’d be doing a lot more than just brushing her nipples with the end of a crop.
He’d be pushing her to climax, then commanding she hold it in. Orgasm restriction is pretty much all I do for ‘training’ because I find it fun.
But Jino finds it useful.