Thirty-five demerits. The number sits between us like a loaded gun. It’s obscene. I've never had a subject accumulatethat many on day one. Usually it's four, maybe five. The typical procedure is straightforward—an erotic spanking, bend her over the nearest surface, fuck her until she breaks, then wash her hair in the shower like she's incapable of basic self-care.
It's ritualized, efficient. Effective.
But that's enjoyable. And enjoyment is counterproductive to my current objective: making her leave.
If she enjoys the consequences, she might stay. If she stays, she'll die.
The equation is simple. The solution is not.
My cock throbs against my zipper, demanding attention like a petulant child. Jino is upstairs now, we’ve traded places.
Is he jerking off?
How is he handling his needs?
Because he was hard all day as well.
Who cares. Concentrate. The war inside me has clear battle lines. I must punish Emmaleen severely enough to make her leave, protecting her from the inevitable consequences of proximity to me. Satisfying my own lust risks creating a deeper connection. And this is the whole point of handing over the job of breaking her to Jino.
Like it or not, if I want to keep Emmaleen Rourke safe, I need him. Because if it were me putting her into that banana split, I’d have fingered her until she screamed. Then I would’ve thrown her down on the mat and fucked her from behind.
I would’ve ruined everything.
I consider myself a very controlled man, but this woman. She’s like a sexy little witch, spelling me into sexual fantasies with bewildering wordplay.
Emmaleen looks up at the ceiling again, her pen pausing. I wonder what words she's searching for. I wonder if they're lies or truths. I wonder if I'll be able to tell the difference.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it. There's nothing in the outside world more important than what's happening in this room right now.
Emmaleen's shoulders slump slightly. Exhaustion, not defeat. There's a difference. Defeat looks like broken glass. Exhaustion looks like bent metal—still intact, still dangerous if handled incorrectly.
I count her breaths. Twenty-three per minute. Too fast. She's anxious.
Or… excited.
Which was fine—infuriating, but fine—when Jino was in control.
Now, her arousal is a complication.
Her pen moves again, scratching against the paper. From this angle, I can't read what she's writing. I could move closer, but that would break the illusion of control. The illusion that this is routine for me rather than an anomaly that's disrupting every system I've carefully constructed.
She's writing faster now, as if the words have finally broken through whatever mental dam was holding them back. Her free hand clenches and unclenches rhythmically. A nervous habit or a physical outlet for emotional distress? Either way, it's information.
This would be easier if I didn't respect her resilience. If I didn't find her mind as intriguing as her body. If I didn't crave all the parts of her I haven’t sexually conquered yet.
My cock throbs again, reminding me that time is running out. I need to decide. Give in and fuck her, risking the whole point of the game for temporary relief? Or humiliate her into leaving?
I wish it could be different, my little Word Collector. I wish I could punish you until you came on my cock. Until you screamed my name into the night.
But I can't.
You must be broken.
"Stop writing."
The command leaves my mouth, direct and crisp. Her pen freezes mid-letter. She obeys without question, her body responding before her mind can argue.
Good. It's the first sign of proper training taking hold.