Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen

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7.

11.

Seven.

Eleven.

My eyes dart north to his again, only to find the icy pair gleaming in the dark knowingly, as if he's just seen the epiphany on my face. I continue to look up at him, horrified, but nothing leaves my lips. Nothing can, my mouth parted in silent disbelief, my brain screaming the words I cannot voice.

You have got to be kidding....

He stares at me briefly, analyzing me again in the unnerving way he always does. Without a word, he walks toward me, his expression more severe than I've ever seen it. My breaths grow shallower as he approaches, but instead of stopping in front of me like I assume he is, he walks past me, going around the circle and disappearing behind me.

Impulsively, I whip my head around, and am sorely reminded that I can't, my restraints allowing me little to no motion. My neck pivots as far as it can go, but I can't see behind me. I hear a drawer slide open, followed by some rustling. A moment later, his footsteps fill the quiet room again as they make their way back to me.

He comes to stand in front of me again...and my heart damn near ruptures my chest when my eyes land on what's in his hand.

"Do you know what this is?" he asks, holding it up casually, his body language relaxed, a complete contrast to the severity of his menacing voice. I can't even breathe, my eyes wide, my pupils dilated as they latch on to the object in question.

"A horse whip." My delayed answer leaves me in a strange, husky whisper, as if someone else said it. For a second, I'm not even sure I said the words out loud.

He nods, confirming I haven't gone crazy...yet. "That's right," he says. "A crop, to be exact." His other hand glides across it, his index finger tracing its length as he stares at it almost reverently. "Do you know what it's used for?"

My eyes slam shut involuntarily as I struggle to swallow, as if the action will completely shut the world out and transport me to another place and time, away from my current reality.

"Ramona, I just asked you a question," he says when my silence stretches on, his voice forcing my eyes open again. "That means, you say...?"

Tears burn at the corners of my eyes, my nose tingling. "Training horses," is all I can manage.

"And?" he pushes.

Another hesitant pause ensues, again entirely on my part. "I-In...in BDSM play," I finally croak. The only reason I know that is because I looked it up on Google. And the only reason I did that was because it was one of the items he listed in the contract. One of many.

"Correct again," he offers with another small nod, almost like a teacher would. This time, he's the one who pauses briefly, as if he's waiting for me to grasp the severity of my current situation, for everything to really sink in. I don't need extra time for that. By God, I know.

"Did you receive my text message?" he asks suddenly, switching gears.

His abrupt line of questioning throws me off a bit, but I answer. "Y-yes," I whisper, unable to take my eyes off the crop.

"Did you read it?"

Just breathe, Roni. "Yes."

"What time did I ask you to be here?"

I swallow. "Se-seven fifty-five."

"Seven fifty-five what?"

"Seven fifty-five PM."

There it is.

7, 11.

7:55.

When I should have been here.

This is all a demonstration of time.

Albeit a sick, twisted and unfathomable one.

The circle is the clock...and my legs are makeshift clock hands.

"Did you come here at seven fifty-five PM?" he asks, his voice too deep for comfort.

"No," I whisper weakly.

"Speak up when I ask you a question," he warns, flexing his fingers around the crop.

"No," I repeat, louder this time, my voice cracking with the effort.

"What time did you arrive?"

"A-about nine PM"

"Nine-o-six PM," he corrects, inching closer to me. "Is that when I asked you to come, Ramona?" he asks, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes at me. "Six minutes past nine o'clock at night?"

I blanch at his intimidating appearance, the elaboration of my lateness making goosebumps scatter all over both my clothed and exposed skin.

Oh, God. "N-no."

"Was there anything at all unclear or confusing about my instruction that caused you not to follow it?" he asks simply, but his gaze is anything but. "Even with the emphasis I placed to not be late?"

"It wasn't intentional," I say in a rush, trying to make my case. "I got lost on–"

My words die in my throat, and I feel my head wrenched backward. In a fraction of a second, Frost is on me, cutting me off as he grips my hair from my nape, forcing my chin up.

"I didn't ask for an explanation or excuse for your disobedience," he whispers harshly into my ear, his lips grazing the curve of cartilage almost seductively as he speaks, a complete contrast to the crass tone leaving them. "For your failure to follow one simple instruction."

I wince against the sharp pain, my scalp buzzing at the point of contact, my neck arching as much as it can to support my head and alleviate some of the discomfort his hold is causing. My hands jerk reflexively within the cuffs, trying to free themselves, but unable to move more than an inch, if that. Frost's grip is even more vice-like, and he locks me in place. I can't move. At all.

"Let me remind you one last time that you'll only answer what you've been asked and nothing more," he sneers, his eyes boring into my widened ones. "Understand?"

I swallow, hating the sheer disadvantage of my situation. I couldn't even nod if I wanted to, my head locked in place, but I know better than to answer him with physical gestures.

"Yes," I croak, frowning even though my heart is currently breaking a world speed record.

Frost meets it with a frown of his own. "Yes, what?"

"Y-yes, Sir," I add breathlessly, the words stuttering out of me as I exhale.

He continues to stare at me for a moment, as if he's briefly studying my expression. His fingers slide out of my hair abruptly, releasing his rough grip on me. I sigh audibly before I can stop myself, the release in pressure palpable, the tension seeping out of my neck as it reverts to its normal position.

I watch as his eyes flit to the crop again, as if he's considering something.

"I'm a huge advocate of efficiency," he says out of the blue. I frown, puzzled by his seemingly random statement. "I gave you two very simple instructions and you failed to follow either of them. You didn't get here on time. In fact, you arrived over an hour late. That's pretty cut and dry. You also didn't drink the required volume of water over the course of the day. That detail was vital and quite practical, yet you still managed to fuck it up."

I have to grit my teeth at hearing the condescending way he's talking to me, as though I'm a brainless child. Fury spreads itself across my face, and I'm sure he can see it, but it doesn't faze him. Not one bit. He keeps going as if I just offered him a genuine smile.

"I'd like to think that you learned something from our little game downstairs," he says suddenly, his expression even, but his voice betrays his nonchalant appearance.

I almost go queasy at the memory of that stupid water-condom torture session, remembering the awful, mind-numbing pressure in my bladder.

"Yes," I say without thinking, shocking myself with my candidness even though it wasn't really a question. There's no doubt about it, though. I learned my lesson. And I sure as hell don't need an encore. Ever.

He nods slowly, his eyes still assessing. "Good." His gaze travels south, the pair of diluted sapphires roaming over my lower body, and I barely suppress the instinctive urge to bring my thighs together, remembering his instructions to keep them on the designated numbers. "You still pissed all over my dining room, though," he continues, his eyes still on my naked half, setting every inch of my exposed skin on fire.

My pussy pulses like a road-runner at the combination of his words and his piercing gaze, and the sight of the crop in his hand only intensifies it. And, for some reason, the way he emphasizes 'pissed' makes my groin tingle, even as my ears burn with shame. It's all too strange and novel.

"So...," he continues, his eyes rising to meet mine once more, "since you came at nine-o-six instead of seven fifty-five like you were supposed to, I think it's only fitting that your punishment be a lesson in punctuality. I believe that punishment shouldn't be an end in itself, but a means to one, and since I like efficiency, as I already mentioned, this punishment will be two-fold: One, for pissing all over my dining room. And, more importantly, two, a means to teaching you a much-needed lesson in being respectful of other people's time—as well as your own."

***

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