Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Perfect for whom?
“How would you like her to submit to you while you're on the throne?"
I stand suspended between two futures. Between Jino's doctrine and my growing hesitation. Between the man I was trained to be and whatever alternative might exist beyond these walls.
"Maybe I want something else entirely."
“Like what?”
“Maybe I don’t want to share? Did it ever occur to you that I would say no?”
Jino scoffs. Narrows his eyes. Revels in sudden understanding. "You don't have what it takes."
"To trap a woman into slavery with my psychotic cousin? Maybe. But I'm not gonna lose sleep over that."
His eyes narrow. "What's really bothering you here, Giovanni? Because we both know this girl is a problem. A massive, planet-sized problem. And not only that, she’s unstable."
For a moment, I consider lying to him. Deflecting. But… fuck it. "You're bothering me, Jino."
He practically guffaws. "Is that right?"
"Yeah. You're… different. You're…" But I don't have words for what he is. I've lost track of him completely. So I don't answer.
The most telling thing—perhaps the most disturbing thing—is that he doesn't fill in the blank for me. Whether he wants me to struggle through this or he's just not willing to turn his introspection inward, I can't tell.
"You're jealous," he states flatly. "She responded to me, and you can't handle it."
"Perhaps," I admit. "She's mine, after all. But I'm worried, Jino. This should bother you. I'm really not a man who worries about women in this way. You're…" Again, he lets me falter for the word. So I search, the way Emmaleen might search, and find one that almost fits. "You're… cold."
He doesn't react.
So I continue. "Cold and borderline… gone."
"Gone?" He chuckles.
"What's wrong with you? You didn't used to be like this."
"Really." It's deadpan. "What did I use to be like?"
"I realize we haven't been friends for a while—"
“For a while? How about nearly two decades, Giovanni. You went one way when we were teenagers, I went another."
Which is true, but we didn't stop being friends until… don't think about it, Giovanni. Put that night out of your mind. It's over. It's been over…
"Anyway," Jino fills in the empty space hanging between us. "You brought me into this. And now my life is on the line. Either she stays here as your slave, or we kill her."
"We're not killing her."
"Good." He has the audacity to smile. "Let me repeat the question. How would you like her to submit to you while you're on the throne?"
He points to it, so I turn and the moment my eyes lock on the single ornate Victorian chair upholstered in dark leather, I can feel Emmaleen's breath on my thigh, her head in my lap. Her cheek pressing against my hard on.
The poem. I wanted it to be you who—
Emmaleen doesn't want Jino. She wants me.
This is enough to make me answer. "I want her between my legs," I tell Jino, walking over to the throne. I sit, open my legs wide, and point. "Her head right here. So I can stroke her."
"And she can feel your erection," Jino smiles. "I like it. Okay. That's your default after her supplication ritual."
"What the fuck is that?"
"The supplication ritual is foundational. It establishes hierarchy from the moment she enters your presence."
"I didn't ask what it does. I asked what the fuck it is."
"When you take the throne, she approaches with her head and shoulders straight, eyes downcast. She's naked, always. If she's not naked when you enter, she strips. She assumes Position Three in front of the throne and repeats her supplication mantra."
"Which is what?"
"Whatever you want it to be. Simple is better. 'I belong. I obey. I live.' That sort of thing."
"And this is standard," I say flatly.
"Of course." Jino crosses to the kneeling mat, positioning himself in front of the throne. "You won't be here during the day. You'll come in late afternoon. Or whenever, actually. I don't care if you wanna watch." He grins at me. "So I'll be training her when you come in—always. She will never be out of our care. If we are to do this together, then she wakes up in my care, and goes to bed with yours. So you'll enter the dungeon without notice. Immediately, she will be yours. The control will transfer without question. She approaches. She kneels. She speaks her mantra. You acknowledge her. Then she assumes whatever position you've established as your preference." He gestures between my legs. "Which in your case would be her head in your lap."
I don't respond immediately. I'm picturing Emmaleen performing this ritual—her face carefully blank, her mind somewhere far away, separated from her own body by the necessity of survival. A doll going through prescribed motions.
It feels wrong. Not morally—I've never concerned myself with that particular compass. But tactically. Strategically. Emmaleen's submission would be meaningless if it came from a broken automaton.