To understand why Tyler's control felt like drowning but Giovanni's feels like?—
No. Not going there.
Jino's different from Giovanni. That much is obvious even to my brain, which has apparently decided to take an extended vacation from logic and self-preservation.
Jino ismethodical. Every touch calculated. Every word measured. Like he's following some kind of internal manual titled "How to Dismantle a Woman's Psyche in Fifteen Easy Steps."
Giovanni is... chaos wrapped in a three-piece suit. One second he's reciting poetry about wisteria, the next he's shoving me off a platform and storming out like I personally offended his entire bloodline.
But here's the thing that makes my stomach twist—I responded to Jino.
Not just my body—though yeah, that betrayed me spectacularly when his fingers slid inside me during the bath. When he made me come in Position Two like it was a fuckinglesson plan.
But mymindresponded too.
Because Jino explained things. Gave me context. Told me what he was doing andwhy. While Giovanni just... expects me to intuit his emotional weather patterns like I have some kind of Italian mobster mood ring installed in my prefrontal cortex.
And I hate that I liked it.
Hate that when Jino's hands guided my hips into the correct angle, when his voice went low and commanding—"Wider, little one. Let me see what's mine to train"—something in my chest just...settled.
Like my nervous system finally found a frequency it recognized.
Which is absolutely fucked, by the way.
Because this is adungeon. I'm literally standing naked in a sex dungeon holding nipple clamps and candles like I'm about to perform some kind of ritualistic sacrifice to the gods of poor life choices.
My eyes drop to the pile of implements in my arms.
Wax candles—because apparently, I have a flair for the dramatic.
Nipple clamps—the adjustable ones, not the spring-loaded monsters in drawer nine that looked like they could double as industrial fasteners.
Leather cuffs—soft-lined, because I'm notcompletelystupid.
Collar with the O-ring—which I definitely should not find as appealing as I do.
Riding crop—a classic. Almost boring in its predictability.
I specifically avoided the ball gag. Just seeing it made my throat close up, made my vision tunnel until all I could see was Tyler's face hovering above me, telling me I talked too much, that I needed to learn when to shut the fuck up?—
Stop.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory like it's a physical thing I can just... flick away.
The flogger stayed in its drawer too. Too many variables. Too much potential for Giovanni to lose control and actually hurt me, not just play at it.
Because that's the line, isn't it?
The thing I'm trying to figure out while standing here like some kind of post-modern Galatea waiting for her fucked-up Pygmalion to bring her to life through strategic application of wax and leather.
With Tyler, the control was... entropic. It expanded to fill every available space until there was no room left for me. Until I was just this... hollow thing wearing Emmaleen's face.
But this?
Giovanni's rules, Jino's training, this whole elaborately constructed nightmare of submission and surveillance…
It hasedges.