Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
But that's not how this works. That's not what she came for.
I gesture toward the chapel's curtained alcove. "Ya know where to go, a stór."
She happily skips her way across my great room, disappearin' from view.
I don't follow immediately. Instead I stand in the threshold holdin' her performance notebook, flippin' to the transgression section, each demerit cataloged with clinical precision.
Right, so here's the thing about Giovanni's demerit system—it's bollocks, isn't it? Complete theater. She could probably breathe wrong and he'd find a reason to add another tally.
But that's not the point. The point is the performance.
Giovanni sends Emmaleen to my chapel when he wants to make her happy. Not because she did somethin' wrong, just… to make her happy.
Because she likes my chapel, demandin' and fucked up as it is.
She's in to it.
And there's no way in fuckin' hell that Giovani Bavga is ever gonna bend her over a prayer desk and make her pray to him.
He's just… not that guy.
This visit he's cataloged twelve demerits for me to clear, which is a good number.
I close the notebook and enter the chapel.
She's already in Position Prima—kneelin' at the prie-dieu, forehead pressed to the prayer desk, hands clasped like she's beggin' salvation from a God who abandoned her the moment she signed Giovanni's contract.
Which is just another bit of theatre.
She loves that damn mobster. Monster and all. All three of us know that he's the glue. He's what holds this arrangement together.
"Saint Lorcan, deliver me," she's whisperin'. "Saint Lorcan, guide me. Saint Lorcan, hold me. Saint Lorcan, free me."
I stand behind her, close enough that my robe brushes her bare shoulder, and open the notebook.
"Twelve demerits this week," I read aloud. "Ya've been bad, a stór. Bratty. Testin' boundaries ya know better than to cross."
"Yes, my Saint," she breathes.
"Spoke without permission. Incorrect posture. Multiple instances of lookin' up when ya should've kept you're eyes down." I flip the page. "Self-touch at two in the mornin' when ya knew full well your body belongs to yer King, not to your own wanderin' hands. And the worst transgression—" I lean down, mouth near her ear, "—ya smiled during punishment. Like yer King's discipline was entertainment instead of instruction."
"Yes, my Saint," she whispers again, voice thick with arousal.
She's not afraid of me.
She's not afraid of any of this.
Oh, she struggles. She cries, and sobs, and begs sometimes. To keep goin', to push harder, to give in to me own monster.
But there are cameras in here. Mine, obviously. But every fuckin' second is recorded for Giovanni to observe later. Not a live feed, though I could do that if I wanted. He just didn't ask for it so I didn't offer.
He doesn't really want to know what happens here. He just wants the option.
I straighten, closin' the notebook with deliberate finality. "Twelve votives. Light them. Confess each sin as the flame catches."
Emmaleen rises with fluid grace and crosses to the bank of red candles linin' the chapel wall. I watch her select the first taper, hands steady despite the tremor I know is buildin' in her core.
One by one she lights the candles, confessin' each demerit in that quiet voice, illuminatin' the space with symbols of her failures. When the twelfth candle flickers to life, she turns back to me, eyes downcast, waitin'.
The rest of the ritual has been done and done again. All the stations but one. The last one.
Some, like Position Secunda, are for punishment.
Others, like Tertia through Sextus, are for edging. Making her beg. Driving her insane with her own arousal.
The later ones—Septima, Octavo, Nonus—are mostly check-ins. Hydration, hand feeding, petting. I edge her still, but only enough to make her writhe, never enough to make her fail.
We do all of them.
It takes hours.
Hours of eating her out, commanding her to hold her orgasms.
Hours of promising her my cock, but never giving it to her.
When I first introduced her to the chapel, her absolution was bestowed quickly in Secunda.
That's not how we do it now.
She gets nothing but edging until Decimatio.
By the time we finish Nonus, the sun is just startin' to rise and she's barely able to keep her eyes open. But she's still wet as fuck. And she hasn't orgasmed in almost eight hours.
She's desperate for it.
But Decimatio is demandin'. It's the final release for both of us.
The one time in this whole ritual where I take more than I give.
So she gets a choice.
She's lying on my stone altar, face up, legs spread, pussy dripping with her own arousal, when I lean down into her ear and whisper, "Would ya like to bathe now, lass? Call it a night? Get some sleep?"
"Noooo," she moans softly. "No, my Saint. I want to finish." She opens her eyes, her pupils are wide as fuck, and looks at me. "Please. Please let me finish. Please give me more."