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)
So I do.
I read him seventy-three pages of terza rima while he fingers me, edges me, denies me release over and over again. I read about my darkest fantasies and deepest fears. I read about the way his violence makes me feel alive and his tenderness makes me feel destroyed.
I read until my voice is hoarse and my body is trembling and I can't tell anymore if I'm crying from pleasure or pain or the sheer overwhelming intensity of being seen this completely.
And when I finally reach the last page—the one I was still writing when Giovanni banged open the dungeon door—my voice falters on the final tercet.
"So take me, break me, make me yours to keep
I choose these chains, this King, this dungeon deep
And pray I never wake from this dark sleep."
The notebook slips from my fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud.
Giovanni's hand is still between my legs, his fingers still inside me, his breath hot against my neck.
For a long moment, he doesn't respond.
The silence stretches.
And stretches.
And stretches.
Until my brain does that thing it always does when confronted with emotionally devastating silence—it starts vomiting words like a broken slot machine spitting out pennies.
"So, here's the thing," I blurt. "And I know this is going to sound completely unhinged, but just... bear with me, okay? Because I've been thinking about this a lot while you were upstairs doing whatever mob bosses do when they're not tormenting their basement slaves, and I think I figured it out."
Giovanni's fingers go still inside me.
I keep talking.
"At first I thought you and Jino were like... I don't know, a good cop/bad cop situation? But that's not quite right because you're both kind of the bad cop, just in different ways. Then I thought maybe you were like a Venn diagram, which I already told Jino about, but that's too clean. Too geometric. This isn't geometry, it's—it's more like one of those fucked-up M.C. Escher paintings where the staircases go up and down at the same time and nothing makes logical sense but somehow it all works as long as you don't think about it too hard."
His hand shifts slightly. I take it as permission to continue.
"Or no, wait. Maybe you're like... like a toaster?"
Silence.
"Okay, hear me out. A toaster has settings, right? Light to dark. And some people like their toast barely warm, just kissed by heat, still soft in the middle. That's like... I don't know, normal relationship stuff. Vanilla. Safe. But then there are people—broken people, probably—who crank that dial all the way to Maximum Char. Who want their toast burnt. Who want it smoking and crispy and so dark it's almost inedible. And everyone looks at them like they're insane, but that's just how they like their toast, you know?"
I'm spiraling. I can hear myself spiraling. But I can't stop.
"Except that metaphor doesn't work either because you're not a toaster, you're a person. A terrifying person with a monster inside him and a penchant for riding crops and emotional devastation. And Jino's not a different setting, he's a whole different appliance. Maybe he's like... a microwave? Efficient, precise, heats things from the inside out—"
"Emmaleen."
Giovanni's voice is low. Dangerous.
I keep going because I'm on metaphor overload.
"What I'm trying to say—and clearly failing spectacularly at—is that everyone should get what they need. Right? That's not crazy. That's just... logistics. If you need to feed your monster, then you should be allowed to feed the monster. If I need the pain and the pleasure all tangled up together until I can't tell them apart anymore, then I should get that. And if Jino needs the perfect student who actually listens and learns and doesn't just use submission as self-destruction, then he should get that too."
I'm breathing too fast now. My words are tumbling out in a rush.
"It's a fucked-up puzzle of porn, okay? I get that. I get how completely insane this sounds. But what can I say? No one asked me if I wanted to be submissive. No one sat me down at age eighteen and said, 'Hey Emmaleen, just so you know, you're going to spend your life craving things that will make therapists weep.' No one asked if I wanted to enjoy the touch of monsters."
I pause, sucking in air.
"I just do. And also, it was just a turn of phrase, but one should not discount serendipity when it manifests. But I did say, double or nothing."
He actually chuckles. Then, without warning, Giovanni's fingers curl inside me, hitting that spot that makes my vision blur. I gasp, my knees buckling, but he holds me up with the hand fisted in my hair.
"Double or nothing," he repeats, his voice dark with amusement. "You're doubling down on your own enslavement."
"I'm—oh god—I'm doubling down on my choice." The words come out strangled because his fingers are doing something absolutely devastating and I'm trying to have a coherent conversation while my body is staging a full-scale revolution. "There's a difference. The chains are still mine. I'm just... adding more chains. Heavier chains. Chains with like, extra links and—fuck—and better craftsmanship."