Emmaleen opens the first drawer with trembling fingers. Inside lies the leather strap, flat and smooth, designed for lashing bare flesh in precise, overlapping stripes across the thighs, each one building on the heat of the last until the skin beneath glows with accumulated correction. The sound will echo through the room—a sharp crack followed by a gasp, then silence as the slave processes the sensation before the next impact arrives.
Her hand hovers over it, uncertain.
She moves on.
The second drawer reveals the feather. Not a punishment in itself but a torment after pain—tracing sensitized skin until pleasure becomes another form of suffering. I typically draw it slowly over whatever marks I’ve made, watching the slave’s body twist between contradictory signals. The feather is a whisper that breaks more resistance than a shout and is best used with the restraints. Tickling is a punishment all its own.
Emmaleen looks up at Giovanni, perhaps hopeful that she could choose this tool to clear her demerits. Giovanni doesn’t respond to her gaze, waiting for the question—which she already knows the answer to.
A feather cannot absolve her of anything. Not by itself.
She closes the drawer.
The third drawer contains a selection of scarlet red wax candles. Once lit, they will be held at precise distances above the slave’s skin to control the temperature of the wax as it is dripped across her breasts or her inner thighs. The first splash will be a shock, but by the tenth, the slave will have unconsciously synchronized her breath with the falling droplets, anticipation and acceptance merging into one continuous state. The patternof hardened wax will map the surrender, each bead a testament to a moment of perfect stillness beneath discomfort.
Most slaves love the wax, no matter how hot it is. It cools so quickly; the burn is more pleasure than pain.
Emmaleen reaches for one. Picking it up. But instead of turning away and handing it to Giovanni, she places the candle on top of the cabinet and keeps going.
The smile creeps up my face unbidden. Well. Such a big surprise this slave is.
The fourth drawer holds nipple clamps connected by a delicate silver chain. I love these, and most slaves learn to love them as well—under the expert hand of a master who knows how to pull the most pleasure out of them.
Emmaleen places them on top of the cabinet with the candle.
I lean back, smiling big now. Well done, Miss Take. Wax and clamps. It’s already painting a very nice picture.
The fifth drawer presents the bamboo cane, slender and flexible. The cane is used with mathematical precision. The number of strokes doesn’t depend on the demerit count, only on the slave’s ability to manage pain because the cane is a serious tool not meant for beginners. The slave is almost always forced to count the lashes, thanking her master for the marks he will leave behind even as the back of her thighs burn in pain. The psychological dimension to this tool far exceeds the physical; the ritual of gratitude for correction reshapes thought patterns more effectively than the welts themselves.
She stares at it longest, her breathing shallow and irregular. Probably imagining what it would feel like. I’ve only ever had one slave choose a cane for consequences, and she was a decade into her training at the time.
Emmaleen closes the drawer and opens the next. Inside are ankle and wrist restraints of butter-soft leather lined with silk. These aren't punishment but context—they create theframework within which correction occurs. I typically secure them to a pillar or post—sometimes a bed, if the slave and I are simply playing. Then I’ll fuck them or correct them, whichever act is necessary. Caning doesn’t always involve restraints, but it’s a very good idea.
She takes out the restraints, placing them on top of the cabinet with the wax and clamps.
Fuck. My cock is throbbing again. I’m picturing this scene. Her spread eagle on the dais, wrists bound to the legs of the throne, legs chained to the eyebolts on the floor. Dripping wax across her nipples as the clamps make them peak.
Not for the first time in my life, I find myself wishing I was Giovanni. It's not jealousy I feel toward my cousin. It's not the fact that his family has more than mine. More power, more money, more everything.
It's just…him. A control freak. Which I am as well. But Giovanni's obsession with control is pathological. He has no conscious about it.None.
I'm just not built that way.
But I wish I was.
The next drawer contains two collars. One without an attachment ring, one with. Emmaleen picks them both up in her hands, one at a time, looking carefully at them. She glances up at her choices on top of the cabinet, then back down at the collar with the ring.
She puts that collar in her pile, having worked out that the nipple clamps can be attached to the collar. Then puts the other one back in the drawer, closing it up.
Fuck. She's planning something. And I can't wait to see it.
I pop the button on my pants, tug the zipper down, pull out my cock, and start jerking. I can’t deal with these rules Giovanni has imposed. How am I supposed to work like this? With this little tart choosing her own scene like she’s been doing thisfor years. Is she deliberately trying to drive me crazy? Is she tempting me? Is she challenging us with these choices?
I think she is.
Which is… delightful. Because while Giovanni can have her tonight, tomorrow morning she is mine. I will replay her consequences. Make her watch. I will accuse her of manipulation.
Then I will teach her that any attempt to control her life will lead to difficult lessons that become increasingly harder to perform to my satisfaction.