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)
"Good girl," I murmur. "One more."
The right breast. Same careful process.
Cup. Stroke. Attach. Tighten.
This time she's prepared for it, but the squeak still comes—higher-pitched, more desperate.
I go over to the cabinet, pull out an additional chain from the nipple clamps drawer, and walk back over to her. She’s already flushed. When I attach the chain to her collar, then tug her head down, forcing her to bow so I can attach it to the chain between the nipple clamps, she hisses.
Perfect.
I step back to admire my work.
Emmaleen stands before me, collared and clamped, her chest heaving with each breath. The clamps pull with the movement, sending fresh waves of sensation through her. She wants to look up at me. To meet my gaze, despite the rules. But the chain keeps her chin down.
Her nipples are already darkening from the restricted blood flow.
I like this look.
I think I’ll ask Jino to use this for daily conditioning.
"The cuffs."
She bends again, careful not to move her head too much, and retrieves the leather wrist and ankle restraints, handing them over without meeting my eyes.
I hold them for a moment, weighing them in my hands. Considering.
Then I point to the floor in front of the throne.
"Lie down. Face down. Arms and legs spread wide."
Emmaleen carefully lowers herself with obvious reluctance, her movements stiff and uncertain. She arranges herself on the cold cement, cheek pressed against stone, limbs extended. Breasts flattened. Clamps bending her nipples in an unnatural way.
She is vulnerable.
Exposed.
Mine.
I kneel beside her, starting with the left wrist. I buckle the cuff snugly, then clip it to the ring embedded in the throne's front left leg.
The right wrist. Same process.
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, I will cane 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?"
Her throat works as she swallows. I watch the collar shift with the movement.
"Yes, Sir."
Close enough.
I stand, moving behind her where she can't see me. Where every strike will be a surprise.
The crop feels right in my hand. Balanced. Precise.
I trail the leather tip down the length of her spine, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. I flick it gently across her ass cheeks. Emmaleen shivers but doesn't make a sound.
Smart girl.
"We begin now," I tell her. "Remember—hold it in. Let me read you."
I raise the crop.
And then bring it down across her ass with controlled force.
The crack echoes like a gunshot.
Emmaleen's body jerks against the restraints. A sharp inhale—almost a gasp—cuts through the silence.
She whimpers, but doesn't scream.
I watch the pale skin of her ass turn pink where the crop landed. A perfect line of color blooming across the curve.
Beautiful.
I pause to pick put the candle, then light it.
Emmaleen is already trying to soothe herself with controlled breathing.
I drip the wax onto the welt. Then, immediately, as if the two actions were one, I raise the crop again and let it land. This time, lower. Across the crease where her ass meets her thighs.