She's breathing faster now. Shallow, panicked breaths that make her rib cage expand and contract rapidly.
I move to her ankles.
Left first. Buckling, clipping—not to the throne this time, but to the bolts set into the floor itself. Installed specifically for this purpose.
Then the right.
When I'm finished, Emmaleen is completely immobilized. Spread-eagled on the floor, unable to move more than a half an inch in any direction.
The position forces her chest to press against the marble, putting pressure on the clamps. She'll feel every heartbeat pulsing through her nipples.
I walk around her slowly, examining the sight from every angle.
Fucking beautiful.
But there's something I need her to understand before we continue.
I retrieve the riding crop from where it still rests beside the throne, then crouch near her head so she can see me without straining.
"Listen carefully."
Emmaleen's eyes are wide, pupils blown so large that only a thin ring of pale green remains visible.
"Your whipping comes first," I explain, keeping my voice level. Instructional. "This is a testing phase. You are going to hold in your reactions as much as possible. No matter what."
I pause, letting that sink in.
"I'll use your whimpers and tears to determine how far to take your punishment tonight. Thirty-seven demerits doesn't mean thirty-seven lashes. It could. If you can take it. But it's not about the number. It's about your willingness to endure the pain in exchange for the pleasure."
I tap the crop lightly against my palm.
Once.
Twice.
The sound echoes in the quiet room.
"If your reactions lie to me—if you overreact, if you feign pain to make me ease up—I will get the cane and show you what real pain actually feels like."
Emmaleen flinches. A full-body jerk that rattles the restraints and makes her gasp in shock as the collar chain pulls on her nipples.
It is this reaction that triggers it.
A twinge of something inside me that is uncomfortably close to glee.
If she lies to me with her reactions, Iwillcane her.
Only once.
But once is all it will take to teach her the difference between discomfort and agony.
Between a riding crop and an instrument designed to break skin.
"Do you understand?" I ask softly.
Emmaleen's voice is barely a whisper. "Yes."
"Yes, what?"