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)
There's a pattern here, and I'm apparently too stupid or too damaged to break it.
But if I don't figure out why I'm so attracted to dangerous men—why I keep gravitating toward the ones who view my destruction as entertainment—I'll never break the cycle. I'll keep bouncing from one psychological terrorist to the next until someone finally kills me or I kill myself trying to escape.
Maybe that's what this is. Maybe this is my chance to understand the broken thing inside me that keeps choosing violence over safety, chaos over peace.
The notebook waits in front of me, blank pages hungry for confession.
I realize, with crystalline clarity, exactly how fucked up this game really is. Surrender my body to Master by day—a man I don't know, don't want, don't trust. Then surrender my mind to Giovanni by night—the one whose touch I crave but can never have.
Clever.
Fucking diabolical, but clever.
The game shifts in my mind. The Jenga tower of self-destructive behavior topples in my head, blocks scattering everywhere, no longer stacked neatly for Giovanni to prod and dismantle at will.
They’re mine—my scraps, my wreckage.
What I choose to rebuild from them is mine too.
I open the notebook and start writing.
9
I watch Emmaleen from behind, tracking the minute adjustments in her posture. She slouches, barely maintaining the appearance of discipline. Her muscles must be screaming after eleven hours in Jino's care. The clock on the wall ticks past seven.
The day isn't over yet.
She writes in the journal with careful precision, as if each word might detonate if misplaced. Every few sentences, her head drifts upward, searching the ceiling for inspiration—or perhaps for mercy.
There's something methodical in how she approaches this task.
The Word Collector, doing what she does best.
My cock has been hard most of the day—begging me to fuck her or jerk off to climax. It's distracting but manageable. Unlike lesser men, I can compartmentalize desire. It's a background process, not the main function.
What interests me right now is what she's writing—how much of herself she'll surrender without physical coercion. The mental surrender is always more telling than the physical.
Thirty-five demerits. The number sits between us like a loaded gun. It’s obscene. I've never had a subject accumulate that many on day one. Usually it's four, maybe five. The typical procedure is straightforward—an erotic spanking, bend her over the nearest surface, fuck her until she breaks, then wash her hair in the shower like she's incapable of basic self-care.
It's ritualized, efficient. Effective.
But that's enjoyable. And enjoyment is counterproductive to my current objective: making her leave.
If she enjoys the consequences, she might stay. If she stays, she'll die.
The equation is simple. The solution is not.
My cock throbs against my zipper, demanding attention like a petulant child. Jino is upstairs now, we’ve traded places.
Is he jerking off?
How is he handling his needs?
Because he was hard all day as well.
Who cares. Concentrate. The war inside me has clear battle lines. I must punish Emmaleen severely enough to make her leave, protecting her from the inevitable consequences of proximity to me. Satisfying my own lust risks creating a deeper connection. And this is the whole point of handing over the job of breaking her to Jino.
Like it or not, if I want to keep Emmaleen Rourke safe, I need him. Because if it were me putting her into that banana split, I’d have fingered her until she screamed. Then I would’ve thrown her down on the mat and fucked her from behind.
I would’ve ruined everything.
I consider myself a very controlled man, but this woman. She’s like a sexy little witch, spelling me into sexual fantasies with bewildering wordplay.
Emmaleen looks up at the ceiling again, her pen pausing. I wonder what words she's searching for. I wonder if they're lies or truths. I wonder if I'll be able to tell the difference.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it. There's nothing in the outside world more important than what's happening in this room right now.
Emmaleen's shoulders slump slightly. Exhaustion, not defeat. There's a difference. Defeat looks like broken glass. Exhaustion looks like bent metal—still intact, still dangerous if handled incorrectly.
I count her breaths. Twenty-three per minute. Too fast. She's anxious.
Or… excited.
Which was fine—infuriating, but fine—when Jino was in control.
Now, her arousal is a complication.
Her pen moves again, scratching against the paper. From this angle, I can't read what she's writing. I could move closer, but that would break the illusion of control. The illusion that this is routine for me rather than an anomaly that's disrupting every system I've carefully constructed.
She's writing faster now, as if the words have finally broken through whatever mental dam was holding them back. Her free hand clenches and unclenches rhythmically. A nervous habit or a physical outlet for emotional distress? Either way, it's information.
This would be easier if I didn't respect her resilience. If I didn't find her mind as intriguing as her body. If I didn't crave all the parts of her I haven’t sexually conquered yet.