Chapter 4
My brain misfires—spastic neurons trying to decode the nightmare funhouse I've stumbled into. Stone walls. Flickering candles.
This isn't a basement. It's a production. A theater of psychological fuckery with me as the unwitting lead.
My throat constricts as the reality sinks in. Giovanni locked me down here. On purpose. With Leather Daddy Voldemort. After I watched him kill someone last week.
And that's when my one defense mechanism kicks in—words tumbling out before I can stop them.
"What is this? Who are you—"
"Silence!"
His voice slices through the air—not a shout, but something worse. A command so absolute my vocal cords seize instantly. My spine straightens like it's been electrified, decades of social conditioning responding before my feminist brain can object.
"You do not speak to your Master unless spoken to."
Master? MASTER?
The laughter erupts from somewhere primal, a desperate burst of hysteria that's equal parts terror and disbelief.
It's the kind of laugh that bubbles up at funerals and job interviews—inappropriate, uncontrollable, and absolutely the wrong response to a man in a ski mask calling himself "Master" in what is clearly a very expensive, very elaborate sex dungeon.
I can't stop it. The laughter spills out, high-pitched and frantic, bouncing off stone walls as the absurdity crashes over me in waves. Giovanni Bavga, mob boss and murderer, has locked me in a basement with a BDSM Winter Soldier. After I turned down his money. After I came back for more.
This is my punishment. My lesson. My "Week Two."
And I'm laughing because the alternative is screaming until my vocal cords shred.
"Silence!"
His command slices through my hysterical laughter like a guillotine. My vocal cords snap shut instantly, some primal part of my brain responding to the authority in his voice before my conscious mind can object.
The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. My own breathing sounds obscenely loud. One second. Five. Ten. The masked figure just... looms. Watching. Waiting. The riding crop taps against his palm in that maddening rhythm.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
My heartbeat syncs with it against my will. I feel observed, cataloged, measured. Like a specimen pinned to velvet.
Finally, he gestures with the crop toward a shadowed corner I hadn't noticed before.
In the flickering candlelight sits the most incongruous object imaginable: a child's school desk.
Small. Narrow. The wood worn smooth in patches from years of actual use.
The kind of desk you'd find in an elementary school classroom, not a BDSM dungeon.
Something about the juxtaposition makes my stomach turn. Sweet meets sinister. Innocence meets whatever the fuck this is.
My feet move before my brain gives permission. The involuntary compliance makes my jaw clench so tight my molars might crack, but still, I find myself at the desk. Sitting. The chair is too small, forcing my knees up at an awkward angle. My body hunched and compressed. Diminished.
On the desktop sits a leather-bound book, the gilt lettering catching the candlelight. The Doctrine.
Oh for fuck's sake. Of course it has a title. Of course it's leather-bound. Probably written in virgin's blood on vellum made from sacrificed lambs.
The silence suffocates me, pressing against my eardrums. Words bubble up like a defense mechanism.
"So what is this exactly? Fifty Shades of Get-the-Fuck-out-of-My-Way? Because I didn't sign up for Torture Chamber Barbie, and whatever Giovanni thinks—"
"Silence." Not shouted. Just... absolute.
I try again. "Look, Ski Mask Ken, I don't know what Giovanni told you, but—"
"Stillness." The crop taps once against his palm.
"Are you even going to—"
Crack.
"This is ridiculous. I'm not playing whatever sick game—"
Crack. Crack.
It's like fencing with a wall—every thrust meets the same unyielding surface. My words, my only real weapon, bounce off him without leaving a mark. Each time I push, he absorbs the strike with infuriating stillness, with an economical, one-word response.
I've built my entire life around words. They're my armor, my sword, my escape route. Having them rendered useless is like being stripped naked.
"I don't care what Giovanni told you. I don't care about your little cosplay dungeon. I'm not doing this shit."
No response. Just waiting. The empty stare behind that mask, patient and unbending.
"Did you hear me? I said I'm—"
The movement is so swift I don't see it coming. One second the crop is tapping against his palm, the next it's striking the back of my hand with a sharp crack.
Pain flares—bright, hot, electric—racing up my arm. My breath catches. Words die in my throat. For one perfect moment, everything stops: thought, time, resistance.
And then something else rises beneath the shock. Something warm and liquid that pulses through my body, starting at the sting on my hand and spreading outward. Heat pools low in my belly, between my thighs.
No. No no no.
Horror washes over me, shame burning hotter than the sting on my skin. I'm not aroused by this. I can't be. It's just... it's just that stupid conversation with Giovanni. When I joked about spankings. My brain's just making a weird connection, some crossed wire short-circuiting my system.
But the tingle in my hand doesn't fade. The warmth doesn't recede. The shame and desire twist together, impossible to separate, no matter how desperately I try to rationalize it away.
The masked figure doesn't even twitch until I'm completely still. Only when my breathing steadies does he straighten up and gesture toward the book with that goddamn crop. No words. Just a pointed tap against the leather cover.
Message received, Ski Mask. You want me to open it.
Fine. Whatever gets me out of this nightmare funhouse faster.
The cover creaks when I pull it back, like it's rarely opened. Or maybe it's brand new. Custom-made for my special torture session. How thoughtful.
The first page declares itself in heavy black ink: The Bavga Doctrine. A Manual of Conduct, Discipline, and Loyalty.
Seriously? He went full dictator manifesto? I half expect to see "Written by Giovanni Bavga, Supreme Leader of Riverview" underneath.
Then my eyes catch the motto below: From Obedience, Power. From Loyalty, Safety. From Silence, Survival.
"Wow, did he workshop that with a cult leader, or did it come to him in a megalomaniacal fever dream?"
The crop slices through the air before I can even register movement. CRACK! It lashes across the desk, so close that the edge catches my arm. The sting blooms instantly, a hot line of pain.
I jerk back, the child-sized chair wobbling beneath me. "Jesus fucking Christ! What the hell is wrong with—"
The masked figure makes a notation in a small black book I hadn't noticed before. One mark. Then another.
Wait.
He's keeping score. These are demerits. For speaking out of turn. For cursing. Two marks against me before I've even made it past the title page.
It hits me then, as suddenly and sharply as that crop: this is the contest. This is Giovanni's answer to "double or nothing." Not seduction, not his touch or voice or presence. He's handed me over to this faceless enforcer, to this system of rules and infractions, points and punishments.
This is how he plans to force me out: not by the intimacy of his own hand, but by delegation to law written in leather.
A fresh wave of fury crashes over me, hotter than the sting on my arm. So this is his game? Outsourcing his dirty work to Darth Vader here while he, what—watches on cameras? Waits for me to break under the weight of impossible rules?
If this is Giovanni's way to win, then my answer is simple—I won’t lose. I refuse to be broken by a fucking instruction manual.
I snap my gaze back up at the masked figure, straightening my spine. I clamp my jaw shut, swallowing every sarcastic comment burning on my tongue. If he wants silence, I'll give it—but not as surrender. I'll wear it like armor. Like a middle finger raised in perfect, malicious compliance.
Giovanni won’t get this victory.
The enforcer holds my stare for one long, stretched moment. Then his crop taps the book again. Continue reading.
Fine. I'll read your precious manifesto.
My eyes move methodically down the page. Article I: Address. I must call Giovanni "Sir" or “my King” in private. "Mr. Bavga" in public. No alternatives or abbreviations permitted.
Sure. And I'll curtsy while I'm at it. Maybe throw rose petals at his feet.
Article II: Speech. I don't speak unless invited. Every answer begins with "Yes, Sir" or "No, Sir." No excuses. No defending myself.
Right. Because nothing says "healthy workplace environment" like employees who can't speak without permission.
Article III: Eyes. Eyes downcast unless ordered otherwise. Looking at Giovanni is a "privilege." It’s forbidden to look other men in the eyes.
What am I, Medusa? Will they turn to stone if I make eye contact?
Each new rule is more absurd than the last. Article IV maps out exactly how I should stand, sit, and kneel. Feet aligned. Shoulders back. Head lowered. Hands behind my back. Knees together. Spine straight.
It's like a diagram for assembling a human doll.
Article V dictates that I must follow one pace behind Giovanni. Article VI forbids me from touching myself—no scratching, no adjusting clothing, no self-care.
Sure, I'll just let that mosquito bite fester. Wouldn't want to scratch without permission.
The sarcasm rages inside me like a caged animal, clawing for release. But I keep my lips clamped shut, letting the fury build silently. Internal rebellion is safe. Spoken rebellion earns demerits.
Then I hit Article VII: Rituals. I must pause at the doorway and wait to be acknowledged. I must kneel and say, "Good morning/evening, Sir. How may I serve you?" I must request dismissal with "May I leave, Sir?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake." The words slip out before I can stop them.