Emmaleen squirms.
I smile.
Jino stands. "Three!" he barks.
She bends forward, back heaving with the breath of relief. Jino taps her with the toe of his boot. "Get in line. Be still. Arms all the way extended. Keep your head straight. Only your forehead touches the mat, not the nose."
She's breathing very hard now. Exhausted, humiliated, and turned on as well.
They all get turned on. Even if they hate us.
Jino keeps her in third position for nearly twenty minutes this time. Correcting her with the crop, circling her as he compliments her ass, toeing her back into form with his boot.
It's harder than it sounds to keep this position.
Harder than it looks to keep any position for such an extended length of time.
She struggles hard with the second round of Zero. Awkwardly bending back, toppling over at the last moment. She hurriedly stretches her legs out, puts her hands at her sides, and closes her eyes.
The rest is even shorter than it was last time. And when Jino breaks her out of it with a sharp, "One!"—she breaks. Completely breaks.
I'm instantly hard. My hand slides down to the bulge in my pants and I stroke myself as I watch Emmaleen Rourke, Little Miss Take,lose.
She is losing. Obeying, complying—what a plan that was, eh, Miss Take?
And again, she's reminded that her day is only just starting.
I watch, jerking off, as Jino puts her through her routine six more times.
8
I'm past broken. I started this twisted game with such confidence—giving in to win—but I don't feel like a winner right now. I feel like something that crawled out of a dumpster fire and got hit by a truck. A very expensive, very Italian truck.
Hot. Sweaty. Shaking like a chihuahua in a thunderstorm. And crying. Because apparently my tear ducts have decided this is their moment to shine.
"Stand up."
Oh good. More commands. Because what this day really needed was another round of Simon Says: Dungeon Edition.
I try to push myself up from the mat, but my legs have apparently declared independence from my brain. They're cramping, protesting, staging their own little rebellion.
Master circles me like a predator evaluating its wounded prey. “Are you going to obey? Or should we get that demerit mark up one more tick to a solid thirty-four?”
I can’t believe he would give me a demerit for collapsing. Like I can control gravity when put through the Cirque du Soleil boot camp without the circus family background.
I sigh. Against the rules. But he doesn’t demerit me. Maybe he’s tired too? I mean, sitting on a throne making notesand circling a broken woman like a wolf—it’s exhausting just thinking about it.
“Get up, Emmaleen.”
You’ve come this far, my inner pep talk starts.Don’t be a stupid quitter now. Surely the first day is almost over? It’s hard to tell. I feel like I’ve been down in this dungeon for months.
I groan, crying—I’ve been crying for hours now. It’s just who I am, apparently—as I roll over one final time, get up on all fours, and force myself to stand up.
Once up on my feet, he doesn't praise me. Doesn't acknowledge that I've been leaking saltwater like a broken faucet for the last however-many circuits through Position Hell. Just flashes that crop in front of my face, barking commands. "Go sit at your school desk. Hands flat on the table. Look straight ahead. Best posture until your King arrives for consequences."
Your King. Like I'm living in some demented fairy tale where the prince is a sociopath and the castle is a basement torture chamber.
But bright side—consequences? Not only might it turn into an erotic spanking, it means the day really is over. Punishments comes at the end, right?