Chapter 6
My body trembles under the gaze of the Master. I'm naked, unsettled, and cold. But that's not the most disturbing thing about him. It's not the control, either. It's not the do-not-fuck-with-me-young-lady attitude, or the ski mask, or even the smack of the riding crop.
All that makes sense, actually. Rules are rules. I get it.
What doesn't make sense is… his dick.
Because he's hard, and I'm being forced to look down, and there's just no way to miss it.
It's huge. I mean, under his black leather pants huge. Which means it's quite the specimen when—
"Is your mind wandering, Miss Take?"
Where did he even get that name? I mean, obviously, Giovanni told him.
But what kind of conversation did they have?
"Oh, by the way, mysterious BDSM instructor, call her 'Miss Take' because she's the biggest mistake of my life next to that lime green Versace tie I bought last spring.
" Actually, I've never seen Giovanni in lime green.
Black, charcoal, navy... the man dresses like he's perpetually attending a fashionable funeral.
"You have permission to speak."
I nearly laugh. Because this rule is the best. I can have an entire internal monologue without interruption while—
"Demerit. I asked you a question and gave you permission. That's eighteen demerits. Congratulations, you've surpassed my last best-worst submissive by four demerits in the first hour. And you're just getting started, aren't you?"
Eighteen demerits. Fantastic. At this rate I'll set a world record. Is there a Guinness category for "Most Demerits Earned While Naked Under a Ski-Masked Stranger's Gaze"? I should ask for a certificate when this is all over. Frame it. Hang it next to my English Lit dropout notice.
"Yes, Sir." Oops. "I mean, no, Sir."
"Is your mind wandering?"
"Yes, Sir." I figure I might as well be honest. He is, at least. That's something I never got from Giovanni. With him, it was all games, all the time. The Master is at least fair.
"Tell me why."
"Why?" I chuckle a little. "I have never met you before in my life. You could be a killer for all I know." Like Giovanni, I don't add. "And I've just stripped myself naked on your command."
This is definitely the weirdest job interview I've ever had. "Previous experience in submission? Well, I once let a guy choose my meal at Olive Garden. It was awful—he ordered the chicken alfredo when everyone knows their Tour of Italy is the only acceptable choice."
He circles me, snapping the leather end of the crop on his hand. "I could be a killer. How do you know I'm not? And don't answer flippantly, answer honestly."
It's a good question. Probably planned. Because the answer is obvious and fits the curriculum. "I know you're not a killer—or at the very least, not going to kill me—because Giovanni left me in your care."
Giovanni Bavga: The only man who would outsource his murder AND his sex life. Efficiency at its finest. I bet he has a color-coded Google Calendar. 10 a.m.—Coffee. 11 a.m.—Intimidate local shopkeeper. 2 p.m.—Drop off annoying girlfriend at BDSM Academy.
I can feel Master’s satisfaction. Even before he leans in and strokes my nipple with the end of the crop.
I jump. Holy shit. My mouth opens in surprise, my mind unsure how to respond.
“Did you like that?” the Master asks.
I blow out a breath and shrug.
“Words, Miss Take.”
“I… it… just surprised me, that’s all.”
“Because I touched you? Or because you responded?”
“Both.”
"Veeeery good. Those were perfect answers. Now. Tell me, do you think you’re correct? Do you really believe that this dungeon, and our presence in it, is an extension of Giovanni’s care and protection? Or is this you playing safe? You will look at me when you answer."
I look up, meet his eyes—they are an ice-blue color. "Honest. I might not know Giovanni—"
"Demerit," Master barks. "You do not call him by his first name. What do you call him?"
Right, because using his first name is clearly the most inappropriate thing happening in this basement right now. Not the fact that I'm standing here like Eve before the apple incident while a man in a ski mask plays Submission Simon Says.
I hesitate.
"Demerit. That's twenty. You read the rules before you signed the Doctrine. What do you call him?"
Twenty demerits. Only twenty? Amateur hour. I let out a breath, and with it comes the answer. "Sir, or my King, or Mr. Bavga."
"Continue then."
"Mr. Bavga would not put me in danger. The entire point of this game is to get rid of me to keep me safe. So, even if you are a killer, you're not going to kill me."
It's a twisted logic, but it works. Giovanni Bavga: too busy to kill me himself, too controlling to let someone else do it improperly. The man probably has a manual for how to dispose of bodies alphabetically.
"What do you think I will do to you?"
I blow out a frustrated breath—
"Demerit."
"For what?"
"Demerit. For the attitude, Emmaleen. You want to be here. Act like it. And that's twenty-two. It's a stupid number and you're not going to like the consequences."
Twenty-two. Is that, like, unlucky in Italy or something?
Maybe in the Bavga household, they skip from twenty-one straight to twenty-three when counting.
"And that's twenty-one demerits, Miss Take—no, wait, twenty-two.
Shit. Now I have to punish you extra because numbles divisible by eleven belong to the devil. "
There's a pause here as I, once again, envision myself being spanked by Giovanni. Or this guy, maybe. Which is kinda hot in a way.
"Would you like to know the consequences for ending the day of instruction with demerits?"
"As opposed to what? Surprise, you get a spanking?" I'm still looking at him, so I actually see his mouth turn up at the corners in a smile when this comes out.
Great. He's enjoying this. Nothing creepier than a ski-masked BDSM instructor finding me amusing. What's next, a little giggle while he selects which riding crop matches my skin tone? "The mahogany one really brings out your fear, darling."
"He warned me, you know."
I squint my eyes at him. "Warned you… about what?"
"You."
The snort comes out before I can stop it. "The Mafia Boss warned you, Mr. Spanks-a-Lot, about me? I'm the Word Collector. It's hardly something to be wary of."
Yes, beware my dangerous vocabulary. I might conjugate a verb at you or deploy an Oxford comma. Giovanni probably had to write up a full dossier: "Subject shows alarming tendency to use semicolons correctly; approach with caution."
"How wrong you are."
I wait, expecting more. But nothing more comes forth.
Seriously? That's it? Just "how wrong you are" with no follow-up? What kind of half-assed villain monologue is that? Even cartoon bad guys know you're supposed to elaborate on your cryptic statements. This is like Submission School taught by Mysterious McGee, Master of Unfinished Thoughts.
"Okay. So… what did he say?" God, listen to me.
I suddenly feel like every seventh-grade girl ever when someone casually mentions that the popular boy was talking about you.
What did he say about me? Does he like-like me or just like me?
Next, I'll be passing notes: Check yes if you want to murder me, check no if you're just going to traumatize me psychologically. XOXO, Miss Take.
"You can ask him yourself. Tonight when he comes down to dole out consequences."
Oh perfect. A demerits discussion with Giovanni. I can already picture it: him in his perfectly tailored suit, me in my perfectly nothing, discussing my "consequences."
Which I'm sure are totally boring and proper, like writing lines or standing in the corner. Definitely not him putting me over his knee, his large hand connecting with my bare skin while he counts out each demerit in that controlled voice that somehow gets rougher with each number.
That would be ridiculous to imagine.
Repeatedly. In detail. Which I absolutely haven't done.
I raise my hand. "Question."
"Permission to ask. Also, asking permission, that's a good girl."
Internally, I roll my eyes. That's a good girl?
What am I, a Labrador retriever? Should I wag my tail and fetch his slippers next?
Maybe I'll get a treat if I manage to sit still for five whole minutes without questioning the patriarchy.
Though honestly, if Giovanni's the one giving out the treats.
.. No. Stop it, Emmaleen. Bad girl. See?
I'm even scolding myself now. Stockholm syndrome speedrun, world record pace.
"Why are we bantering, Mr. Master? I thought you were here to teach me how to serve."
Even though I can't see it, I know he just raised an eyebrow. "Was that a challenge?"
"An honest question, nothing more."
"I don't believe you."
"Well, you're the one having a normal conversation with me. If you don't want me to have a normal conversation back, maybe you should stick to the script."
"Demerit times ten."
Wow, inflation hits even in BDSM school. What's next, bulk discount demerits? Buy ten get five free? I should ask if he accepts credit cards or if there's a payment plan available. "Sorry, sir, I maxed out my demerit card already this month. Can we reschedule my punishment for after payday?"
Okay. Okay. I see how this works. I don't even care about the demerits. I'm like ninety percent certain these consequences involve sucking Giovanni's dick or letting him bend me over a couch.
Not entirely terrible punishments.
And there I go again, turning this into a fantasy. My non-existent therapist would have a field day with this psychological mess. See? You actually want to be controlled!
No, what I want is to be seen. There's a difference between being dominated and being dominated by someone who actually sees you.
"You think you understand how this works?" The Master circles me again, his voice shifting to something colder, more clinical. "Mr. Bavga doesn't need to rely on something as obvious as sexual punishment. That would be beneath him."