To own her—utterly and completely.
To carve my will into her consciousness until she breathes my authority with every inhale.
Until the boundary between her desires and my commands blurs beyond recognition.
To let Jino break her apart so I can put her back together again.
Piece by meticulous piece.
A demolition and reconstruction so complete she'll forget there was ever a version of herself that existed before me.
Hello, slave.
I've been waiting for you my whole life.
17
The control room glows around me as I watch Giovanni guide the girl toward her consequences. The throne room cameras feed flawless clarity—every pixel a verse in this ritual of correction we're building together.
My cock is already throbbing inside my pants. It’s a distraction I don’t need, but there’s no point in resisting the allure of what’s about to happen.
Men become masters for different reasons. Predictable ones, like power.
And less commonly, as a form of submission.
For me, however, it’s about the process.
I like to watch the slaveslearn. I like to watch them adapt. I like the failure just as much as the triumph.
Of course, when training my own slaves—or even the slaves of someone who has hired me to train theirs—there’s an expectation of reward. Not just for them, but for me.
The slave is always mine while they are under my care. In every way.
Giovanni was adamant about this when he hired me, though. Not only was I not allowed to fuck her, I wasn’t allowed totouchher.
“Gloves only,” Giovanni finally agreed. Because there’s no way to properly train a sub without touching. It’s absurd. “A crop,” he continued. “A knife, a feather—whatever tool you need. But never your skin against hers.”
Well, I smile. Clearly, we have evolved beyond that now.
I’m still not allowed to fuck her, but… we’ll see.
So I don’t correct my throbbing cock. I let it pulse. I let it be hungry and insistent. I let it press against my zipper like a sinner seeking absolution as I think about having my fingers inside her. How she clenched around them. How her body betrayed her mind.
It’s not enough.
It’s never going to be enough. This arrangement is out of balance. The division of authority doesn’t match up with the level of skill I will use to mold her into a proper little plaything.
But that discussion can come later. Emmaleen is about to choose her first punishment and I don’t want to miss a moment. This choice reveals everything—her fears, her desires, her capacity for endurance.
My eyes return to the screens, flitting between views, seeing her at every angle, until I choose one from behind and one pointing down from the top of the cabinet, so I can see her face.
Thirty-seven demerits on day one. Crazy. It’s absolutely obscene. If she were mine, I’d throw her out. I’d berate her for not taking my time seriously and tell her to never come back.
Of course, they always come back. Naked and begging, kneeling at the doorstep to my country house. Foreheads pressed against the rough coir of the slave mat. The bristly fibers pressing into their knees, leaving red dents that will last an entire afternoon.
But Giovanni isn’t me. And this girl isn’t mine.
Such a shame. She’s very submissive. Bratty. A bit immature, actually. But sassy too. I like sass. It’s got a place in the Dom/sub dynamic. And on her, it’s very cute.