{ "item_title" : "Detention Rules", "item_author" : [" Polly Bane "], "item_description" : "What if the one man who never raises his voice is the one who finally takes the fight out of you? At twenty, Emily slouches in the back row of the lecture hall during Political Philosophy 201, one sneaker propped on the seat in front of her, thumbs flying across her phone, bored out of her mind. When her silver-templed professor calls her out in front of everyone, she flashes a lazy grin and says she is just confirming an appointment. He doesn't blink. Today. Four o'clock. My office. His office smells of leather and paper. He slides a leather-bound notebook across the desk and wants one hundred lines, neat and legible, no shortcuts. At seventy she mutters that this is ridiculous, and moments later her palms are flat on the polished wood and she is counting every smack out loud, stunned at her own obedience. When she finally shoves the finished notebook back at him, he tucks it into a drawer and says only For today. She swears she won't go back. She goes back, and now there are rules. She calls him sir, she sits up straight, she follows every instruction without argument, and every infraction is punished immediately. She learns a base position, kneels on the carpet while the clock ticks, and earns ten hard strokes and her first real tears just for shifting her knees. Her next assignment is fifty lines of I am a brat who needs discipline, and when she writes the last one through hot, furious tears, a secret part of her feels lighter. Then come posture drills, his hand straightening her back, and corner time facing the wall, ignored, until he calls her. And always that one quiet word she pretends to hate. Better. Before long the rules follow her out of his office. A text every night by ten. Fifty lines of I will obey without question. A white blouse and a black skirt, knees covered, no sneakers. She lays out her jeans to prove she won't bend, then wears the skirt anyway. When she snaps at him to stop saying better, he calls it a major infraction, and afterwards his hand rests on the small of her back while he tells her she needs this. The next time she is bent over his desk, he tells her to look at him, and his mouth claims hers. We crossed it. Together. One night her text arrives at ten oh seven, and this time the punishment doesn't end when the counting does. His hand slides beneath her skirt, he makes her count again, and he decides exactly when she may let go. You'll come when I allow it. The next day she kneels and says it out loud, I need discipline, then begs him to punish her. Soon she texts good morning at eight sharp, keeps her bed made and her desk clear, and the day he tells her she is his, she whispers that she is. Then he takes a leather collar from his desk drawer and makes her ask for it. A photo of her made bed earns two words back, good girl, and soon the collar rides under her blouse, hidden in plain sight. One evening he meets her at a little cafon the city square, the collar under a silk scarf, and orders her to stand in posture in the middle of the caf . He sends her to the bathroom for her panties and pockets them as if nothing has happened. On a quiet side street, her palms against the brick and footsteps passing behind them, he tells her the one thing she can no longer argue with. You belong to me everywhere. When there are no walls left to her obedience, will Emily ever want her freedom back? Readers who love a stern, unhurried man, a brat who counts every stroke out loud and a slow, aching fall into his rules will find all of it here.", "item_img_path" : "https://covers4.booksamillion.com/covers/bam/9/79/827/077/9798270775407_b.jpg", "price_data" : { "retail_price" : "14.99", "online_price" : "14.99", "our_price" : "14.99", "club_price" : "14.99", "savings_pct" : "0", "savings_amt" : "0.00", "club_savings_pct" : "0", "club_savings_amt" : "0.00", "discount_pct" : "10", "store_price" : "" } }

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