He’d be putting his fingers inside her. Doling out her punishments at the end of the day in ways that stimulate them both. Fucking her, if he felt like it.
But all of that has been taken from his tool box. I was very explicit about the rules of engagement:
He can touch her with gloved hands and tools—a crop, a vibrator, a feather. Whatever he needs to push her over the edge to make her fail. But never his bare hands.
He can strike her, but only for immediate correction. Punishments are my domain.
He can talk to her, but not read her journal. Her mind belongs to me and me alone.
Now, down below in my dungeon, I realize that even with these rules in place—and even if he follows them to the letter—I cannot control hisinterestin Emmaleen.
Time passes. Seconds. Minutes. Nearly fourteen of them before Jino says, “Legs and head down.”
Emmaleen has been whimpering for eleven minutes. Faltering several times so badly, Jino had to reposition her. Her legs have been shaking the whole time, sweat is now pouring down her face, pooling in her cleavage before running down the underside of her breasts.
Her nipples softened a few times, but Jino tapped them with his crop until they peaked again.
Her pussy has been wet this entire time.
And even though Jino didn’t stimulate her there with his crop, I spent several minutes wanting to do it myself.
I watch Emmaleen’s relief flood through her as she lies on the mat. She’s crying. Silently, but the tears stream down the side of her face, mingling with her sweat and dripping onto the mat.
“You’ve earned my respect, little one,” Jino says, giving her a pet name. “That was a very difficult exercise. In fact, you did it so well, your reward is another lesson.”
“Not more, please,” Emmaleen begs.
“Silence,” Jino says. “You do not get to dictate your training. That is my job. As I was saying, you did so well, I’m going to advance you through another lesson. We'll begin with Position One. Sit up and kneel before your king’s throne.”
Emmaleen struggles to her knees. Body moving too slow for my tastes, but Jino has always been more patient with subs. He allows her the time it takes—nearly fifteen seconds, to situate herself.
Then he explains the position like he's describing how to arrange flowers. Knees together, back straight, hands resting palms-down on thighs, chin level. The way he frames it—as discipline becoming grace, as restraint revealing inner strength—you'd think he was offering enlightenment instead of subjugation.
Emmaleen attempts to follow his instructions, but her body betrays her. Her legs shake, making her knees drift apart. Her core aches, making her shoulders hunch forward. Her fingers curl in on themselves.
Chaos in human form.
My little plan worked. The banana split exhausted her. She will fail for the rest of the day.
"Breathe through the discomfort," Jino coaches, tapping her shoulder with his crop. Not a strike—a reminder. "Count your breaths. Ten in, ten out. Focus on a point on the wall."
He's giving her shortcuts. Little tricks to help her endure what should be an ordeal.
Again, not how I’d do it. Submission isn't a skill to be learned. It's a surrender to be extracted.
Jino treats it like craft when it's supposed to be a conquest.
The minutes drag on. Five, then fifteen, then twenty-five. Emmaleen's breathing grows labored. Her muscles begin to tremble violently from holding the same position. Sweat runs down the curve of her spine.
"Straighten your back," Jino instructs, tapping between her shoulder blades.
She tries, overcorrects, then slumps again.
"Eyes forward, not down."
Another tap, another adjustment.
"Hands flat, not gripping."