Chapter One Hundred and Six

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Eighty Minutes Later...

Beads of cold sweat trickle down my temples and forehead, leaving little wet streaks in their wake, but they do nothing to relieve the unbearable heat emanating from my tense, contorted body.

My eyes slam shut, blocking out the world in front of me but unable to stop the scream erupting from my throat. My mouth feels impossibly dry, hanging open as I pant against another sharp sting in my nipple, signaling that I've given Frost yet another wrong answer...for the eighth time.

The tick-tock sound of the clock in the distance taunts me. I crack one eye open, glaring at the large time device from behind glasses stained with tiny droplets of my sweat. The minute hand closes in on the '12', signaling that exactly an hour and twenty minutes has come and gone since we started this stupid fucking game.

And I'm still cuffed to this bloody chair.

My blurring vision moves back to Frost, wearily following the motions of his hands as they've done every ten minutes. He takes the pitcher again, holding open the head of the condom with the help of some sort of clamp and stand that looks like something out of a high school chemistry lab.

And he pours.

Unshed tears burn the back of my eyes and I watch in exhaustion as more liquid stretches the rubber, making it swell and expand like a balloon. I tremble uncontrollably, forcing myself to keep my eyes open. The last time I tried turning away or close my eyes when he was pouring, both my nipples took the fall. And at this point, after what they've been through in the last sixty minutes, neither one of them can take another hit. And neither can my bladder.

I wince in immense discomfort as another legion of goosebumps scatter across my shoulders and back, making me quiver with anxiety. My head falls involuntarily, tearing my gaze away from the water-bloated condom as the muscles in my strained neck give out and my eyes inadvertently fall on my lower belly. The thing looks abnormally swollen from this angle, distended with the ever-increasing volume of liquid my bladder is struggling to keep inside it—just like the condom. This was precisely Frost's sick plan; torture me with a physical demonstration of what's going on inside my body. Every time the condom stretched further, I swear I felt like my bladder was literally going to burst inside me and drench every inch of my insides with a steaming gallon of piss.

I still feel that way.

My vision blurs considerably as I become lightheaded, feeling blood rushing to my scalp from my head's new bowed position. I briefly wonder if anyone's ever died of a ruptured bladder. Or maybe gotten into a coma from one? What would they even call that? A ruptured bladder-induced coma? Or just plain old piss coma, perhaps?

"You don't look so good, Ramona," I hear Frost say from above me, his words matter-of-fact but his tone clearly mocking.

Thanks for stating the fucking obvious, Sherlock. You want a medal?

And as pissed off as I am, I can't actually bring myself to respond. Hell, I can't even muster the energy to look up at him.

I'm breathing through my mouth now; short, shallow pants that sound a lot like the beginnings of a panic attack, all in an effort to put less strain on my bloated groin. My fingers tremble as I reach for the button on my jeans, shaking in the worst way as I try to unfasten it, but the damn thing won't cooperate with me.

Actually, my stupid fingers won't cooperate with me.

After several more failed attempts, by some miracle, I manage to unsecure the latch. And I can't stop the audible groan that tumbles out of me in bittersweet relief at the small but significant release of pressure on my lower abdomen.

But my relief is short-lived, because soon, I feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek, grazing my skin in the gentlest way even though I know it's only masking something completely opposite; something cold and sinister.

My eyelids flutter closed without my permission, and my heart does the same when I feel his fingers at my elbow, slowly traveling up the length of my arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind them. I inhale sharply when his knuckle grazes over my already erect nipple ever so slightly as his hand slowly moves up my shoulder. The action seems unintended, but it doesn't make the effect any less nerve-wracking.

He leans in, and he brings the very tip of his nose to my temple. The contact sends a rush of uncontrollable shivers down my spine and back up again. My free hand grips the arm of my chair like a vice, clutching at the upholstery as if it's the anchor of life.

He slowly drags his nose across my temple, and then upwards to my hairline. And then, for the first time since I met him, I hear it; the distinct sound of him audibly inhaling. My heart pounds at this new level of intimacy.

Holy crap, is he smelling my hair?

Another inhale.

Holy crap, he is!

"Do you know the point of this game, Ramona?" he asks, his voice lower now because of our proximity and even more sinister than ever. Yet, somehow, it's also...seductive.

I try to keep my wits about me as I feel another bittersweet wave of desire ripple within my pussy just from the compelling sound of his voice. My chest heaves with the weight of his imposing presence, my nostrils flaring as they expunge warm air from my overworked lungs. I have to clench all the muscles in my lower body against the delicious, ticklish sensation even though my inner thighs hurt like a motherfucker from being pressed impossibly hard against each other for well over an hour.

"You enjoy torturing me?" is my unfiltered response, my words little above a whimper thanks to the unrelenting stress my body's under. I'm not even trying to be funny. But, surprisingly, he chuckles at that, and I can actually feel the low, delicious laughs rumbling inside his chest. Somehow, they seem to travel right through him, reverberating into my body like multisonic waves, rippling all the way into my already restless vagina. I have to bite my lip against the delicious, gripping sensation while I struggle to breathe normally.

Without any warning, he pulls away from me, breaking contact and coming into full view once again, leaving me with a strange, twisted sense of disappointment.

"Torture? This is mere child's play, my dear," he says, casually running a hand through his thick, gorgeous hair. "Trust me, Ramona, if I were actually torturing you...well, let's just say you wouldn't be sitting down, for one thing."

His voice and his body language exude total and utter nonchalance, as if he's simply reading a grocery list out loud. But, like before, his eyes give him away. It's like they're these supreme entities all on their own; commanding and invasive and unapologetic, their stark, icy blue hue gleaming with unspoken danger.

A rush of electricity shoots up my spine and hums its way into my head as the implications of his words register in my brain. I grit my teeth against the strange mesh of fear and lust bubbling up inside me in response, hating myself for feeling the smallest bit of the latter even as I vividly feel my pussy pounding away emphatically, echoing the beats of my racing heart. I mean, the guy pretty much just admitted to being an apathetic—and potentially sadistic—prick and my vagina decides to do a frickin' somersault?

Something is terribly, terribly wrong with you, Roni Gallo.

Still, I can't stop myself from shivering uncontrollably as I try desperately not to imagine what exactly his definition of torture entails, blocking out any thoughts of what that would be like if he truly considers what he's done to me so far "mere child's play".

Unexpectedly, he cups my face, and as soon as he does, my bones crumble to dust at the amazing feel of his hand on my skin. I inhale the crisp, woody scent of his cologne, basking in the smell of man, sex, and oriental trees even as my eyes still refuse to meet his.

For a split second, I actually allow myself to believe the act is inconsequential; nothing more than him making contact. But before I can even form another thought, his grip becomes firmer, and an involuntary cry stutters out of me as his fingers dig hard into my cheeks. He maintains his hold despite my outcry and turns my face towards his, forcing me to meet his scary, intrusive eyes.

"The whole point of this exercise, Ramona," he says, emphasizing my name with an added squeeze to my already sore cheeks, "is based solely on the fact that I'm quite annoyed with you." Nothing in his voice or expression mirrors his words. His soulless eyes are impenetrable, his tone clinical, borderline sociopathic. "I gave you two simple instructions," he continues. "Arrive on time, and drink three liters of water over the course of the day. And you couldn't manage to follow either of them."

"I did drink three liters of water," I insist, my voice weak and hoarse from distress and the pressure on my cheeks.

"You mean you chugged three liters of water on your way here," he says with a knowing frown. "I checked your car, remember? I saw the empty bottles."

I consider lying about that; I want to tell him that the bottles are in my car because I'm the most forgetful person on the planet when it comes to recycling—which isn't really far from the truth, if we're being technical. But then I see a flash of danger spark in his icy eyes, almost as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking about and daring me to go through with it. Just as quickly as the thought forms, it turns to dust in my brain, never to be revived.

So, instead, I just frown, trying to mask how jittery and anxious I really feel. "I tried my best," I say quietly, my voice partly pleading, but mostly resigned.

His responding scowl puts mine to shame. "Tried isn't good enough," he sneers. "I don't want you to try, Ramona. I want you to do what I ask you to. And I want you to do it right the first time."

Before I can respond, he leans in too close for my liking, his dangerous eyes zoning in on me like he's some kind of fucking hawk. "You already know you don't get participation points in the real world," he says, his tone turning severe, "so you should also know, you sure as fuck won't get them from me."

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