Chapter 17
The control room glows around me as I watch Giovanni guide the girl toward her consequences. The throne room cameras feed flawless clarity—every pixel a verse in this ritual of correction we're building together.
My cock is already throbbing inside my pants. It’s a distraction I don’t need, but there’s no point in resisting the allure of what’s about to happen.
Men become masters for different reasons. Predictable ones, like power.
And less commonly, as a form of submission.
For me, however, it’s about the process.
I like to watch the slaves learn. I like to watch them adapt. I like the failure just as much as the triumph.
Of course, when training my own slaves—or even the slaves of someone who has hired me to train theirs—there’s an expectation of reward. Not just for them, but for me.
The slave is always mine while they are under my care. In every way.
Giovanni was adamant about this when he hired me, though. Not only was I not allowed to fuck her, I wasn’t allowed to touch her.
“Gloves only,” Giovanni finally agreed. Because there’s no way to properly train a sub without touching. It’s absurd. “A crop,” he continued. “A knife, a feather—whatever tool you need. But never your skin against hers.”
Well, I smile. Clearly, we have evolved beyond that now.
I’m still not allowed to fuck her, but… we’ll see.
So I don’t correct my throbbing cock. I let it pulse. I let it be hungry and insistent. I let it press against my zipper like a sinner seeking absolution as I think about having my fingers inside her. How she clenched around them. How her body betrayed her mind.
It’s not enough.
It’s never going to be enough. This arrangement is out of balance. The division of authority doesn’t match up with the level of skill I will use to mold her into a proper little plaything.
But that discussion can come later. Emmaleen is about to choose her first punishment and I don’t want to miss a moment. This choice reveals everything—her fears, her desires, her capacity for endurance.
My eyes return to the screens, flitting between views, seeing her at every angle, until I choose one from behind and one pointing down from the top of the cabinet, so I can see her face.
Thirty-seven demerits on day one. Crazy. It’s absolutely obscene. If she were mine, I’d throw her out. I’d berate her for not taking my time seriously and tell her to never come back.
Of course, they always come back. Naked and begging, kneeling at the doorstep to my country house. Foreheads pressed against the rough coir of the slave mat. The bristly fibers pressing into their knees, leaving red dents that will last an entire afternoon.
But Giovanni isn’t me. And this girl isn’t mine.
Such a shame. She’s very submissive. Bratty. A bit immature, actually. But sassy too. I like sass. It’s got a place in the Dom/sub dynamic. And on her, it’s very cute.
Emmaleen opens the first drawer with trembling fingers.
Inside lies the leather strap, flat and smooth, designed for lashing bare flesh in precise, overlapping stripes across the thighs, each one building on the heat of the last until the skin beneath glows with accumulated correction.
The sound will echo through the room—a sharp crack followed by a gasp, then silence as the slave processes the sensation before the next impact arrives.
Her hand hovers over it, uncertain.
She moves on.
The second drawer reveals the feather. Not a punishment in itself but a torment after pain—tracing sensitized skin until pleasure becomes another form of suffering.
I typically draw it slowly over whatever marks I’ve made, watching the slave’s body twist between contradictory signals.
The feather is a whisper that breaks more resistance than a shout and is best used with the restraints. Tickling is a punishment all its own.
Emmaleen looks up at Giovanni, perhaps hopeful that she could choose this tool to clear her demerits. Giovanni doesn’t respond to her gaze, waiting for the question—which she already knows the answer to.
A feather cannot absolve her of anything. Not by itself.
She closes the drawer.
The third drawer contains a selection of scarlet red wax candles.
Once lit, they will be held at precise distances above the slave’s skin to control the temperature of the wax as it is dripped across her breasts or her inner thighs.
The first splash will be a shock, but by the tenth, the slave will have unconsciously synchronized her breath with the falling droplets, anticipation and acceptance merging into one continuous state.
The pattern of hardened wax will map the surrender, each bead a testament to a moment of perfect stillness beneath discomfort.
Most slaves love the wax, no matter how hot it is. It cools so quickly; the burn is more pleasure than pain.
Emmaleen reaches for one. Picking it up. But instead of turning away and handing it to Giovanni, she places the candle on top of the cabinet and keeps going.
The smile creeps up my face unbidden. Well. Such a big surprise this slave is.
The fourth drawer holds nipple clamps connected by a delicate silver chain. I love these, and most slaves learn to love them as well—under the expert hand of a master who knows how to pull the most pleasure out of them.
Emmaleen places them on top of the cabinet with the candle.
I lean back, smiling big now. Well done, Miss Take. Wax and clamps. It’s already painting a very nice picture.
The fifth drawer presents the bamboo cane, slender and flexible.
The cane is used with mathematical precision.
The number of strokes doesn’t depend on the demerit count, only on the slave’s ability to manage pain because the cane is a serious tool not meant for beginners.
The slave is almost always forced to count the lashes, thanking her master for the marks he will leave behind even as the back of her thighs burn in pain.
The psychological dimension to this tool far exceeds the physical; the ritual of gratitude for correction reshapes thought patterns more effectively than the welts themselves.
She stares at it longest, her breathing shallow and irregular. Probably imagining what it would feel like. I’ve only ever had one slave choose a cane for consequences, and she was a decade into her training at the time.
Emmaleen closes the drawer and opens the next.
Inside are ankle and wrist restraints of butter-soft leather lined with silk.
These aren't punishment but context—they create the framework within which correction occurs. I typically secure them to a pillar or post—sometimes a bed, if the slave and I are simply playing. Then I’ll fuck them or correct them, whichever act is necessary.
Caning doesn’t always involve restraints, but it’s a very good idea.
She takes out the restraints, placing them on top of the cabinet with the wax and clamps.
Fuck. My cock is throbbing again. I’m picturing this scene. Her spread eagle on the dais, wrists bound to the legs of the throne, legs chained to the eyebolts on the floor. Dripping wax across her nipples as the clamps make them peak.
Not for the first time in my life, I find myself wishing I was Giovanni. It's not jealousy I feel toward my cousin. It's not the fact that his family has more than mine. More power, more money, more everything.
It's just… him. A control freak. Which I am as well. But Giovanni's obsession with control is pathological. He has no conscious about it. None.
I'm just not built that way.
But I wish I was.
The next drawer contains two collars. One without an attachment ring, one with. Emmaleen picks them both up in her hands, one at a time, looking carefully at them. She glances up at her choices on top of the cabinet, then back down at the collar with the ring.
She puts that collar in her pile, having worked out that the nipple clamps can be attached to the collar. Then puts the other one back in the drawer, closing it up.
Fuck. She's planning something. And I can't wait to see it.
I pop the button on my pants, tug the zipper down, pull out my cock, and start jerking.
I can’t deal with these rules Giovanni has imposed.
How am I supposed to work like this? With this little tart choosing her own scene like she’s been doing this for years.
Is she deliberately trying to drive me crazy?
Is she tempting me? Is she challenging us with these choices?
I think she is.
Which is… delightful. Because while Giovanni can have her tonight, tomorrow morning she is mine. I will replay her consequences. Make her watch. I will accuse her of manipulation.
Then I will teach her that any attempt to control her life will lead to difficult lessons that become increasingly harder to perform to my satisfaction.
It occurs to me now that Giovanni never said she couldn't touch me. Only the other way around.
Oh, he will hate that. It means blow jobs are most certainly on the table without a rule renegotiation.
The eighth drawer contains a riding crop identical to mine. She lifts it, testing its weight against her palm. Then, her eyes lift up. They look right at me. Right into the camera. She knows it’s there. She knows I'm watching.
Has known the whole time?
And there. There it is—a smirk. Barely perceptible, but definitely a smirk.
She places the crop on top of the collar.
She’s fucking with me. Which is infuriating.
But she’s also thinking about me. Which makes me pump my cock faster.
The wooden paddle sits in the ninth drawer. The silk rope in the tenth. The eleventh, a blindfold.
She chooses none of them. But pauses after closing the drawer holding the blindfold. Her gaze wanders up to her pile, like she’s imagining her own punishment before it happens.
She’s done this before, I realize. This isn’t her first time as a sub.
Giovanni mentioned she came out of a difficult relationship, so whoever this Dom was, he was probably an amateur.
Violence and anger have no place in this lifestyle.
It’s challenging enough with absolute trust. And there’s no way to build trust when consequences aren’t meant to build the slave up, but tear them down.
Emmaleen understands the assignment.
She’s building herself a scene.
She moves on. The twelfth drawer holds a ball gag. Emmaleen immediately closes this one, barely looking at it.
Hmm. That was a weapon in her last relationship. That Dom gagged her. Excessively, if her reaction is any indication.
The ball gag is more psychological than painful. Controlling the mouth—any kind of gagging, be it with a cock or a ball—is fundamentally stressful. It’s airway constriction. It demands silence. There’s no way to communicate.
It also signals ownership—your breath is mine, your throat is mine—and must be properly set up in the sub’s mind before use if the Dom wants to avoid this kind of reaction to the gag in the future.
Pooling saliva leads to drooling, which leads to humiliation.
Swallowing, something that happens without thought in normal circumstances, becomes very difficult.
The power dynamic is immediate and absolute.
Especially since the sub is typically bound during use.
New subs can go short periods of time with a gag in their mouth, but every girl has a specific limit on that time before instinct takes over and panic sets in. It’s the master's job to mitigate this type of reaction—to avoid it altogether is the goal.
But new Doms always fuck this up. Paradoxically, new Doms—especially if they are prone to anger and violence—tend to like the ball gag. It’s the ultimate control without having to touch the girl.
It's interesting that Emmaleen didn’t react this way to the collar and cuffs. She chose those tools, which means she finds them pleasurable.
I want to think about that some more, but Emmaleen is now picking up a horsehair whip. A small smile plays across her lips.
Is she remembering something?
Does this mean that there were good times with her last Dom?
Or is she simply picturing Giovanni using this whip on her?
It’s a tool of pleasure more than punishment. And the fact that she knows this is interesting in, and of, itself.
The fourteenth drawer presents a Wartenberg wheel—stainless steel with radiating pins, rolled across the skin with varying pressure. The sensation ranges from ticklish to painful depending on application. She picks it up, spinning it against her arm, testing its bite. Then puts it back.
The final drawer contains a leather flogger with dozens of thin tails.
My technique with this implement is fluid, almost artistic—building from gentle thudding to precise stinging with incremental shifts in wrist position.
I can maintain consistent stimulation for extended periods, creating a trance-like state where endorphins flood the system and resistance becomes physiologically impossible.
Leaving it where it lies, she closes the drawer.
She turns to face Giovanni, who looks like he’s been holding his breath through this entire act.
The selection reveals everything—her fears, her limits, her hidden desires.
Some submissives choose what terrifies them most, confronting fear directly.
Others select what secretly arouses them, disguising desire as punishment.
The truly calculating choose what appears severe but affects them least.
Miss Take is clearly among the truly calculating.
Her choices were meant to manipulate the outcome.
Which is a bit infuriating.
But also exhilarating.
Because I now know that I don’t have to coddle her. I don’t have to baby her. I will still be careful, of course. But this act of control—this revelation of experience—has raised my expectations of her tomorrow, not lowered them.
Giovanni’s mind is probably spinning with fantasies—as is mine. My cock is still hard, my hand still jerking, but I’m not even close to coming. I will release once tonight, and I’ll save that release for something more than choosing punishment tools.
I know I cannot fuck her, not with my cock, at least. But I plan on pushing that rule to the absolute limit.
This realization is a comfort, so I allow myself a small fantasy, imagining how she might feel if I ever did get the chance to take her properly. To make her mine.
How she would clench around me.
How her body would yield if I were the one selecting her correction, applying it with my own hands rather than directing from a distance.
How her skin would flush under my touch, warming beneath my fingertips as I molded her resistance into surrender.
His game, his rules.
Sure.
Whatever gets him through the day…