The fourteenth drawer presents a Wartenberg wheel—stainless steel with radiating pins, rolled across the skin with varying pressure. The sensation ranges from ticklish to painful depending on application. She picks it up, spinning it against her arm, testing its bite. Then puts it back.
The final drawer contains a leather flogger with dozens of thin tails. My technique with this implement is fluid, almost artistic—building from gentle thudding to precise stinging with incremental shifts in wrist position. I can maintain consistent stimulation for extended periods, creating a trance-like state where endorphins flood the system and resistance becomes physiologically impossible.
Leaving it where it lies, she closes the drawer.
She turns to face Giovanni, who looks like he’s been holding his breath through this entire act. The selection reveals everything—her fears, her limits, her hidden desires. Some submissives choose what terrifies them most, confronting fear directly. Others select what secretly arouses them, disguising desire as punishment.
The truly calculating choose what appears severe but affects them least.
Miss Take is clearly among the truly calculating.
Her choices were meant to manipulate the outcome.
Which is a bit infuriating.
But also exhilarating.
Because I now know that I don’t have to coddle her. I don’t have to baby her. I will still be careful, of course. But this act of control—this revelation of experience—hasraisedmy expectations of her tomorrow, not lowered them.
Giovanni’s mind is probably spinning with fantasies—as is mine. My cock is still hard, my hand still jerking, but I’m not even close to coming. I will release once tonight, and I’ll save that release for something more than choosing punishment tools.
I know I cannot fuck her, not with my cock, at least. But I plan on pushing that rule to the absolute limit.
This realization is a comfort, so I allow myself a small fantasy, imagining how she might feel if I ever did get the chance to take her properly. To make hermine.
How she would clench around me.
How her body would yield if I were the one selecting her correction, applying it with my own hands rather than directing from a distance.
How her skin would flush under my touch, warming beneath my fingertips as I molded her resistance into surrender.
His game, his rules.
Sure.
Whatever gets him through the day…
18
Two days.
It's been two entire days since I walked back through Giovanni Bavga's front door with that stupid skeleton key mocking me from a hook, and somehow everything has shifted sideways.
Or maybe I have.
I can't tell anymore.
Day One: I signed a contract that would make most HR departments spontaneously combust. Got locked in a sex dungeon. Learned four submissive positions that made my thighs scream. Cried actual tears in front of a masked stranger. Then got bathed like some kind of Victorian invalid while my brain short-circuited between humiliation and... something else.
Day Two: Had two grown men beat the shit out of each other over aftercare protocols. Discovered that "Master" has a face—and tattooed hands that know exactly where to touch me. Learned that I'm not just a witness to murder—I'm a problem that should’ve been dealt with immediately, not taken to the hospital and put back together.
And now I'm here. Standing across the room from a throne, naked, and holding implements of my own destruction like I'mcurating a gallery show titled "Emmaleen's Greatest Hits of Masochism."
So whyamI still here?
To win some deranged mobster pissing contest? Check.
To figure out why my pussy gets wet when dangerous men give me rules? Also check.