Chapter 7 #2
He knows I'm right. She's trying very hard. She didn't move at all. She might even be holding her breath.
Even women who like this kind of thing—women who pay Jino to train them—can't hold a position that well in the first hour.
And Emmaleen isn't that kind of woman.
Emmaleen is defiant and bratty. That’s her natural state. This compliance is the opposite of that.
Jino doesn’t explain himself, simply orders her to kneel.
She does it without comment. Without breaking a single rule.
See. I knew it. She’s trying to beat me at my own game.
He commands her to lie back on the mat and place her fingertips behind her head.
“Don’t pull on your neck,” I hear him say.
Then, he encourages her to bring her knees up so her thighs are perpendicular to the floor and her shins are parallel, like she’s sitting in a chair tipped backward.
He holds her head, telling her to lift her shoulders off the ground.
“Keep your back anchored to the floor,” he says.
It intrigues me that he’s so adept at positioning her like this, even though he claims it’s not part of submissive training.
Apparently, my cousin has a secret life I’m unaware of. Because he was right. This is a humiliation ritual during an assassination. A ritual invented by my father. That’s how he got his nickname—Salvatore the Splitter.
I concentrate on the screen. Emmaleen’s legs are up in the air now. The position mimics the ‘bicycle exercise’ used to strengthen the core, with one modification.
Jino places his gloved hands on the inside of her knees and spreads her legs open.
Emmaleen gasps. Sweat is beading on her forehead and she’s not even in position yet.
“That’s good,” Jino says, encouraging her. “Very good. If I could cancel a demerit, I would do that now. But, unfortunately, only your king can cancel demerits.”
When my father did this to people, it wasn’t sexual in the least. He was going to castrate them before the head shot. The testicles would be saved, the body dumped in a river or buried on a farm, and the balls would be arranged in a banana split boat and a package sent. A message would be received.
This banana split is of an entirely different nature. Emmaleen is fully positioned now—small of her back on the mat, neck lifted, legs spread open, and core engaged to the max.
The exposure is meant to provoke. But Emmaleen's body betrays something else. Her chest rises with steadier rhythm, her skin flushes deeper, heat pooling across her collarbone. She is pointing her toes and elongating into the pose as though she’s filling it with defiance, daring me to watch.
Jino is momentarily caught up in the shape of her. The outline she makes. The sweat beading on her forehead. And yes, the glistening wetness clearly visible between her legs.
Humiliation turned inside out to become arousal.
Jino’s eyes linger on her exposed body. His arousal is obvious—his hard cock visible in his leather pants. The way he licks his lips as he watches her.
I lean forward, letting out a long breath. This is not professionalism. This is desire.
My finger hovers over the summons button once again, but I resist, moving it away.
Jino is right. Emmaleen is getting to me. There is no reason to play this game other than because I am reluctant to let her go. The proof is everywhere.
The elaborate setup of the game.
The leather-bound Doctrine.
The uniform—which she hasn’t even put on yet.
Everything has been planned down to the smallest detail.
Everything but Jino’s attraction to her, apparently.
But what did I think would happen? He’s a Dom molding a sub into a toy. Erections are par for the course. If he were training her for himself, he’d be doing a lot more than just brushing her nipples with the end of a crop.
He’d be pushing her to climax, then commanding she hold it in. Orgasm restriction is pretty much all I do for ‘training’ because I find it fun.
But Jino finds it useful.
He’d be putting his fingers inside her. Doling out her punishments at the end of the day in ways that stimulate them both. Fucking her, if he felt like it.
But all of that has been taken from his tool box. I was very explicit about the rules of engagement:
He can touch her with gloved hands and tools—a crop, a vibrator, a feather. Whatever he needs to push her over the edge to make her fail. But never his bare hands.
He can strike her, but only for immediate correction. Punishments are my domain.
He can talk to her, but not read her journal. Her mind belongs to me and me alone.
Now, down below in my dungeon, I realize that even with these rules in place—and even if he follows them to the letter—I cannot control his interest in Emmaleen.
Time passes. Seconds. Minutes. Nearly fourteen of them before Jino says, “Legs and head down.”
Emmaleen has been whimpering for eleven minutes. Faltering several times so badly, Jino had to reposition her. Her legs have been shaking the whole time, sweat is now pouring down her face, pooling in her cleavage before running down the underside of her breasts.
Her nipples softened a few times, but Jino tapped them with his crop until they peaked again.
Her pussy has been wet this entire time.
And even though Jino didn’t stimulate her there with his crop, I spent several minutes wanting to do it myself.
I watch Emmaleen’s relief flood through her as she lies on the mat. She’s crying. Silently, but the tears stream down the side of her face, mingling with her sweat and dripping onto the mat.
“You’ve earned my respect, little one,” Jino says, giving her a pet name. “That was a very difficult exercise. In fact, you did it so well, your reward is another lesson.”
“Not more, please,” Emmaleen begs.
“Silence,” Jino says. “You do not get to dictate your training. That is my job. As I was saying, you did so well, I’m going to advance you through another lesson. We'll begin with Position One. Sit up and kneel before your king’s throne.”
Emmaleen struggles to her knees. Body moving too slow for my tastes, but Jino has always been more patient with subs. He allows her the time it takes—nearly fifteen seconds, to situate herself.
Then he explains the position like he's describing how to arrange flowers.
Knees together, back straight, hands resting palms-down on thighs, chin level.
The way he frames it—as discipline becoming grace, as restraint revealing inner strength—you'd think he was offering enlightenment instead of subjugation.
Emmaleen attempts to follow his instructions, but her body betrays her. Her legs shake, making her knees drift apart. Her core aches, making her shoulders hunch forward. Her fingers curl in on themselves.
Chaos in human form.
My little plan worked. The banana split exhausted her. She will fail for the rest of the day.
"Breathe through the discomfort," Jino coaches, tapping her shoulder with his crop. Not a strike—a reminder. "Count your breaths. Ten in, ten out. Focus on a point on the wall."
He's giving her shortcuts. Little tricks to help her endure what should be an ordeal.
Again, not how I’d do it. Submission isn't a skill to be learned. It's a surrender to be extracted.
Jino treats it like craft when it's supposed to be a conquest.
The minutes drag on. Five, then fifteen, then twenty-five. Emmaleen's breathing grows labored. Her muscles begin to tremble violently from holding the same position. Sweat runs down the curve of her spine.
"Straighten your back," Jino instructs, tapping between her shoulder blades.
She tries, overcorrects, then slumps again.
"Eyes forward, not down."
Another tap, another adjustment.
"Hands flat, not gripping."
Tap. Adjust. Fail. Repeat.
She’s hiccupping sobs by the time Jino releases her. He tells her to lie back on the mat, and she whimpers. Muttering something about no more…
But, oh, Miss Take, we’re just getting started. You have hours and hours of training ahead of you before you’ll be allowed to truly rest.
This respite, just a ploy.
To flatten your defenses.
To trick you into thinking relief is coming.
Only to force you into another position.
"Position Two,” Jino says, his voice echoing through the dungeon. “Kneel.”
Emmaleen isn’t even trying to hide her tears now.
“Open." His voice carries the same measured cadence as before. "This posture represents vulnerability through obedience."
I roll my eyes. Always with the fucking poetry.
"Keeping your back straight, widen your knees to shoulder width. Hands remain on thighs, eyes downcast."
Emmaleen shifts, tears flowing, legs shaking.
"I said open," Jino repeats, tapping the inside of her knee with the crop.
She hesitates, her discomfort palpable even through the surveillance feed. The conflict plays across her face like a silent film—vulnerability warring with dignity. She opens her knees perhaps two inches.
"Wider," Jino says. His tone is calm, but there's steel beneath it now. "Shoulder width."
Another inch. Maybe.
"That's not shoulder width." Jino places both hands on the inside of her knees and presses outward, exposing her pussy. "Here. This is shoulder width."
She exhales sharply, her jaw tightening as her body assumes the new position. The resistance in her eyes is delicious. There's something so satisfying about watching a woman with her intelligence, her education, reduced to such basic commands.
Open your knees.
Straighten your back.
Eyes down.
Each one represents another piece of her former self being systematically dismantled.
Jino circles her like a shark, examining her form from every angle. "Hold this position. Keep your breathing steady."
Minutes pass. Three. Ten. Twenty. She’s been gasping for breath for almost all of those minutes, despite Jino’s constant coaching. She looked over to the key hanging on the wall sixteen times.
“Go on, Miss Take,” I murmur, watching. “Get up. Take the key. Walk out and all of this torture will end.”
"Still," Jino commands. "Find the stillness."