Chapter One Hundred and Twelve

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The tick-tock of the clock in the distance signals that a second has gone by.

Two seconds.

Three.

I deliberate internally, my breaths growing shallower with each rhythmic sound as his loaded question hangs heavily in the air and adds to the already present, overbearing tension between us.

I force myself to think in spite of the web of panic weaving itself inside every inch of my trembling body, weighing my options carefully.

- One: Endure utter humiliation as a stranger cleans up my bodily fluids from under me while I watch, confined to a chair like a depraved prisoner.

- Two: Get a third of the money promised to me for being here taken away before I've even begun.

Or...

"I don't have all night, Ramona," Frost's voice catapults me out of my jumbled thoughts, startling me with its depth. My heart pounds even faster against the urgency his words evoke. I blink rapidly, hating how anxious he's making me.

Feeling lightheaded all over again, I take the deepest, most strained breath I ever have, my chest heaving with the effort. With gritted teeth, I force my lips to part against the tension that's keeping them taut, my eyes on anything but his.

"Option three," I say breathlessly, the two simple words leaving me in a raspy, reluctant whisper. I swallow hard, my throat working against a colossal mass that seems to have lodged itself in it permanently, as if the action will pacify the unease I feel about what I just said.

About the choice I just made.

I wish I felt more sure of my decision, but fuck if this isn't a lose-lose situation for me all around.

"I'll take the punishment," I elaborate, my gaze dropping to my thighs in resignation, hoping that saying it out loud will somehow help me brace myself for said punishment. But all it does is make me more afraid. In spite of my efforts to stay calm, I'm visibly shaking, quivering with a sense of fear I've never felt before as I try not to imagine what Frost's idea of punishment entails.

Oh God, maybe I made a mistake...

No, no! This was the right choice, all things considered. There's no way in hell I'd go with option one. And the second option is out of the question. The whole reason I'm even here in the first place is because of the money. It would make absolutely no sense to give any of it up now, right at the start of the very first session, especially when I still have the whole weekend to contend with.

Besides, this man's already put me through torture tonight. What's a little more, right?

Right?

I try to convince myself that it won't be so bad...and it doesn't work for shit. My spine goes impossibly rigid as something cold and unsettling slithers up it, fanning into my stiff shoulders. And, as much as I wish I could, I can't ignore my fear, and I can't not think about what this punishment could potentially entail...especially if he considers what he's done to me so far 'child's play'.

When I don't hear anything, I chance a peek at him, my eyes darting upward inconspicuously while my head stays lowered.

I catch him looking at me. No, staring. Observantly. Very observantly; his eyes assessing, analyzing, studying. And something unsettling passes through them, as if he just learned something important about me.

The pause is unnerving, and it almost seems as if he doesn't notice how long he stays silent just monitoring me. And, for a split-second, I'm almost convinced he didn't hear me. I can't deny the appeal of the possibility that he didn't catch the answer I gave to his horrid question, but I highly doubt that's the case.

Just when I'm about to clear my throat to break the awkward silence, he nods, getting up from his chair and moving toward me, not minding the puddle of piss and water from the broken condom he's stepping in.

I react impulsively, scooting back in my own chair even though I'm inconveniently anchored to it by these damn cuffs. My upper body retreats as much as it can as he continues to advance, every last disc in my spine pushing hard against the backrest incessantly, hoping I'll phase right through it eventually if I just keep at it.

If only.

Before I know it, his face is right in front of mine, and I hold my breath impulsively when he leans over my seated form, reaching for me. I squirm anxiously at the sight of his hand, my thighs slamming against each other as my free hand moves with lightning speed to the front of my jeans, awkwardly pulling the unzipped fly together. But I'm caught off guard when he doesn't reach for my crotch again like I assume he is. Instead, he reaches behind me...and uncuffs me.

The release in pressure is instantaneous, and I can't suppress the groan that tumbles out of me as soon as the metal ring clicks open. I bring my newly freed arm out of its formerly uncomfortable position, sighing in relief as I rub at my sore wrist with my other hand.

I hear another metallic click, and I swallow as I watch Frost pull the silver cuffs from behind me, swiping his thumb over the curve of one ring briefly, almost...reverently, before he sets them on the table. They land with a soft jingle, shining under the bright light they easily reflect, much like the icy eyes that are on me once again.

I wish he would stop looking at me so intently, and I fret in spite of myself, my shaky hands reaching for my jeans, trying to button them up again and shield myself from his eyes once more.

But he stops my attempt effortlessly, as if he correctly guessed what I was about to do.

Before I can stop him, his hands latch onto my clothing, yanking my drenched jeans and panties down my legs roughly without even trying. My own hands fling themselves outward, reaching for his in an effort to halt his preposterous actions as protests fall from my lips like rain from the sky.

"No, don't!" I shriek, but he doesn't listen.

Scratch that.

He does listen, and it seems like my objections only egg him on, encouraging him to keep doing what he's doing. Next thing I know, one of my boots is being yanked off my feet. And then the other one.

My arms and legs jerk and flail around like I'm on expired cocaine, trying to block his attempts, but I can't seem to stop him. Not even a little. Amidst the chaos, I hear my panties suddenly rip beneath the denim under his forceful tugs, the flimsy fabric screaming its own protests, as if in solidarity with its owner.

I keep fighting, resisting, but it's no fucking use. He's much stronger. Much bigger. And, right now, I can't even begin to explain how much I hate those disparities.

He pulls them off completely with one last yank, the drenched fabrics sliding away from my legs, taking my poor socks with them and leaving my entire lower body bare.

Frost tosses my clothes without so much as a blink, and I watch in absolute horror as the bundle of cotton and denim drop to the wet floor beneath, joining their brethren in arms, my boots.

Only then does he stop, his roughness halting briefly as his eyes roam the naked half of my body for a moment; his eyes hot, piercing, ripping through me in a way I can't even describe.

His gaze remains fixated on my lower body, even as I try to cover my mound with hands that are shaking as if they're battery operated.

After another moment, he steps back abruptly.

"Stand," he commands.

My lungs damn near shut down on me as soon as the demand leaves his sinful lips, and I swear to god my heart is going to punch its way out of my chest any second now. I have to brace myself against another wave of dizziness, blinking back tears of anxiety and overwhelm.

After a moment of hesitation—a whole motherfucking lot of it—I rise from my seat reluctantly, every cell in my body resisting my movements as I stand like he wants me to. My bare feet meet the wet floor, cold liquid greeting my soles.

Never thought I'd see the day where I'd be standing in my own piss.

Frost grabs my duffel bag, placing the box of condoms back inside it before looking to me once more.

"Follow me."

He walks past me, his clothes brushing against me ever so slightly as he does, and I can feel the heat emanating from his massive, muscled body.

I swallow.

Hard.

All I can think is, Oh, boy, recalling what happened the last time he said those words.

***

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