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)
I will not embarrass myself by letting him make me come.
I can only imagine the demerits I’d earn for that. Even without Master’s explicit instructions to contain my release, I hold it in anyway. Defying him?
No. Obeying his rules. Giovanni is my King, not this stranger with his fingers probing between my legs. But I feel the heat in my cheeks. The moans come out, no matter how hard I try to contain them. When he begins to massage my tender breasts, I have to ask. Because I want him to finish me off and I can’t let it happen without permission. "Why do you keep touching me like that?"
Immediately, I regret it. Because he stops his ministrations and begins washing my hair, his fingers working through the tangles with infinite patience.
"To make you love me," he answers, his voice completely devoid of emotion. Like he's reading ingredients off a cereal box. "To confuse your brain so you see your Master as love, not pain."
Well. That's... refreshingly honest in the most disturbing way possible.
"If you were my sub," he continues, still working shampoo through my hair, "I'd be fucking you slowly tonight. Telling you sweet things. I'd make you come many times to take away the sting of the day."
I scoff, because the absurdity is too much. "I have thirty-five demerits."
"That's irrelevant," he says, like I've just informed him the sky is blue. He begins rinsing out the shampoo. "The entire purpose of this lifestyle is to make each other feel good."
"That's not what this game is about," I counter, because clearly we're playing by different rulebooks.
"I know," he agrees, and there's something almost sad in his voice. "Giovanni is using it in all the wrong ways." His fingers pause momentarily in my hair, as if he's considering the full weight of what he's saying. There's a heaviness to his admission that catches me off guard—a hint of genuine regret threading through his customary coldness. For just a moment, I can glimpse the professional Dom beneath the enforcer, someone who actually believes in rules and boundaries for reasons beyond mere control. Someone who sees Giovanni's game as a perversion of something he respects.
He finishes rinsing my hair and pulls the drain plug. The sound of water rushing down the drain feels weirdly final, like the end of something I can't quite name.
"Stand up," he says, offering me his hand.
I take it, because standing in a slippery bathtub while exhausted seems like a recipe for a concussion, and I've hit my quota of indignities for one day.
He helps me out of the tub, then proceeds to dry me off with what can only be described as the world's most inadequate hand towel. It's barely large enough to cover a dinner plate, let alone a full human person.
"Why such a small towel?" I ask, because the logistics are baffling.
"So that I'm forced to touch every inch of your body," he explains matter-of-factly. "So that my touch will be the only thing you dream about tonight."
Jesus Christ. These people don't do anything by accident, do they? Even the bathroom linens are part of some elaborate psychological operation.
He works methodically, patting down every surface of my skin with the tiny towel, his hands following behind to ensure nothing's missed. It's intimate and clinical simultaneously, which pretty much sums up this entire experience.
When he's finished, he picks up a comb and begins working through my hair until every tangle is gone and it's mostly air-dried. His movements are patient, gentle—nothing like the controlled force from earlier.
Then he produces the nightgown that wouldn't pass for clothing in any reasonable society. It's practically transparent and barely covers anything important, but he slips it over my head like he's dressing a doll.
He leads me to the bed, and I follow because walking feels like a reasonable request at this point. Everything else has been so much more complicated.
He helps me lie down, which feels unnecessarily considerate given that lying down is generally something I can manage independently. But when he pushes my hair out of my eyes with gentle fingers, I don't protest.
Then he leans down and kisses me.
No tongue, no aggressive claiming, no performance for hidden cameras. Just his lips on mine, soft and warm and completely present.
It's the most erotic kiss I've ever experienced, which makes no sense because it's also the most restrained.
When he pulls away, my head is crashing out like a freshman sorority pledge at a frat party and my body is humming with want.
He leaves me there, pussy throbbing like a heartbeat, mind spinning, thoroughly confused, and me… completely fucked.
Because all I want right now… is to be fucked.
And all I can think about is how badly I hope that happens on Day Two.
11
The monitor glow is the only illumination in this room. It’ s 4 a.m., and I'm sitting here like some voyeur, watching yesterday's surveillance feed.