Chapter 5 #2
"Oh, yes," Jino says. "You are so fucked.
" He slaps the crop against his hand as he continues to circle her.
"This is not a game to me. I'm not here to tantalize myself with your submission.
I'm not here to get off on your obedience.
I'm not here to give you the alpha-male experience, Miss Take.
I'm here to teach you how to serve. This is a job to me.
You are an assignment. I have been tasked with molding you into Giovanni Bavga's submissive.
When I'm done with you, you will worship the ground he walks on.
You will submit to him because it pleases you.
You will obey him because every fiber of you has been conditioned to crave his control.
You will kneel when he enters a room. You will thank him for his discipline.
You will beg for his approval, not because you fear punishment, but because you cannot breathe without it.
That is the point where my work ends, Miss Take—when your resistance becomes devotion, and when Giovanni Bavga does not need to demand your submission.
You will offer it. Freely. Desperately. Without hesitation. "
Emmaleen says nothing, just continues to look down at her feet. But I can tell she's not submitting to Jino.
She's thinking…
"You signed the Doctrine," Jino continues.
"You know where the key is. You can leave at any time, I need to make that very clear.
You are not my prisoner. You are my student.
You are here of your own free will. You are here because you want to learn how to please Giovanni.
If any of this sounds like something you'd rather not subject yourself to, I urge you to take the key and leave.
Now. Do not waste my time, because if you do, you will just piss me off. "
Still, she thinks. Staring down at her yellowed sneakers, she thinks.
"Do you understand me?" Jino asks.
Emmaleen doesn't look up this time. She nods her affirmation.
Jino cracks his gloved hand with the crop. "When you speak to me, you say, Yes, Sir."
"Yes, Sir," she says. But then, she looks up. Smiles at him.
"Seventeen."
She looks down.
What the hell is happening here? Why was she smiling?
I don't know why I'm asking myself this question, the answer is so obvious.
She… likes him.
No, maybe a jump too far.
She… respects him.
He explained himself. She got rules. She was given expectations.
He was… fair.
And if there's one thing Miss Take likes, it's fairness.
For a moment, I can't think.
Emmaleen is responding to Jino. Not with reluctant compliance, but with something that borders on... willingness.
I lean closer to the monitor as Jino's corrects her posture. Her spine straightens. Her chin lowers precisely the right amount. Her hands fold in front of her without trembling.
These aren't the movements of someone who's merely placating. These are the calibrations of someone testing a system they find intriguing.
Is she a true submissive?
I hadn't factored that into my calculations. I assumed her submission would be a painful, broken thing—extracted like a molar, bloody and unwilling. I expected resistance at every step, creating the perfect conditions to break her spirit and make her take the money and leave.
But this...
Jino circles her like a drill sergeant, his boots marking each step with quiet authority.
He adjusts her elbows, taps her ankles into proper position.
It's methodical, exact, and utterly without sexual overtone—yet her breathing changes with each correction.
It quickens, then steadies as she finds the position.
"That outfit is an insult to both taste and protocol," Jino says, gesturing to her mismatched clothes. "Was this deliberate provocation or just incompetence?"
Emmaleen doesn't answer. Smart. She's learning faster than I anticipated.
"From now on, you will wear your assigned uniform. Go to the wardrobe in the corner."
She follows his directive without hesitation, eyes properly downcast. Each step measured. She's already adapting, already calibrating herself to the rules.
This wasn't part of my plan.
When she reaches the wardrobe, Jino instructs her to remove the uniform inside. She pulls it out, then freezes.
The uniform is elegant in its austerity—a crisp white blouse with a high collar, black pinafore dress that ends just above the knee.
Modest, but in context, also deeply controlling.
I chose it myself, designed to both conceal and constrain.
No hint of individuality permitted. Nothing flashy or distracting—just clean lines that emphasize her role as something that belongs within a structure.
To me.
It's not overtly sexual—that would be beneath me. It's the complete stripping of her personal expression that gives it power. The pink blazer and tattered denim were her feeble attempts at rebellion. This uniform will erase that daily decision from her life entirely.
"Put it on," Jino says.
Emmaleen looks around the room, seeking corners, doors, any semblance of privacy. Her fingers tighten around the fabric.
"There is no privacy," Jino says flatly. "Your thoughts, your movements, your flesh—all of it belongs to Giovanni Bavga now. And by extension, to me as his agent of instruction. Put on the uniform."
I watch her face process this information, scanning for the breaking point. This should be it. The moment where theory becomes practice. Where abstract submission collides with concrete humiliation.
She should run. She should grab the key and flee.
Instead, she places the uniform down on the nearby bench, and begins to undress.
She folds the blazer, the gesture almost sarcastic in its precision. Her blouse follows, the white fabric clinging to her fingers like a final attempt at modesty. On the bench, her clothes form a neat pile, a bastion of order in this room of controlled chaos.
The denim skirt is next, the material clinging to her thighs before surrendering to the floor. Emmaleen stands there, her socks, underwear, and bra a final barrier against the inevitable. Her fingers hover over the strap of her bra, hesitation evident in the trembling of her hand.
"Everything," Jino commands, his voice a whip crack through the room.
Emmaleen blushes. A flush spreading across her cheeks, her neck, her chest.
My cock throbs, king in his cage, demanding release.
I lean forward, searching the monitor for any sign of Jino's response. His leather pants, molded to his thighs, show a distinct bulge. He's hard. He's fucking aroused.
But so am I.
The monster in my pants is starting to have cravings.
Emmaleen wiggles and the underwear slips down her legs. She reaches behind her back and the bra slips away from her breasts, down her arms, falls to her feet.
Then she looks up at him—her new master—and meets his eyes.
Jino doesn’t correct her. Instead, he locks his gaze with hers.
I press the call button. A demand, a command, a summons to presence.
But Jino ignores it.
He and Emmaleen challenge each other.
“What the fuck is happening here?” I mutter, once again pressing the call button.
But it’s like I’m not even in the room—which, of course, I’m not. But I am a participant in this display and both Jino and Emmaleen are well aware who’s dungeon it is they’re standing in.
Still. I am ignored as Emmaleen stands fully naked, using her body as a canvas of defiance. Her breasts are perky and challenging, her nipples tight with… cold? Fear?
No. An awakening.
I want to know what she's thinking.
Is she calculating?
Is she surrendering?
Emmaleen's nakedness is a symbol, a flag of truce, a declaration of surrender.
And Jino, with his undeniable erection, is a traitor to my plans.
The tension in the room is a wire pulled taut, ready to snap. I need to understand this dynamic, to control it, to bend it to my will. But first, I need to let it unfold, to watch it, to study it. To learn its patterns and its secrets.
Emmaleen's breathing slows, her body adjusting to the exposure, to the scrutiny. Her eyes, downcast once again, but still aware, miss nothing.
Jino's penchant for control is a whisper in the room, a promise of what's to come.
And I, the observer, the Monster, the puppeteer, am both frustrated and fascinated.
The game has changed, the rules altered, the stakes raised.
And I am getting off on it.
The pulse of my cock cannot be denied.
The idea of watching Emmaleen submit to Jino—all the while Jino is erect, probably fucking her in his mind—it's both enraging and thrilling.
What the fuck is wrong with me?