Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen

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"You've got to be kidding me," I whisper, more to myself than him, my words drenched in disbelief, my entire body quivering as I stare at the crop now dangling between his fingers. I can't seem to avert my gaze from the long, black whip even though every inch of my body urges me to do just that, my lungs working overtime, adrenaline-spiked blood coursing through every last inch of my body, making my skin buzz as if I just drowned in a tub of alcohol and my heart damn near beats itself to a pulp inside my chest.

Overwhelmed.

In a nutshell, that's how I feel.

Scratch that.

Overwhelmed as all fuck would be a far more accurate statement.

"Not even a little bit," is Frost's immediate response to my barely audible remark, eyeing me intently, his expression completely and utterly serious.

I start to shake my head, more and more adamantly with each second, panic getting the best of me as the full weight of what he just said sinks in fully.

He wants to whip me.

He's going to whip me.

Beat me.

Seventy-one times!

Ah, fuck no!!!

"Y-you...you can't do that!" I say breathlessly, my tone anything but confident, like that of a person trying to reason with someone utterly unreasonable, knowing deep down that their effort is in vain.

He arches his brow as if I just said the dumbest thing in history.

"Sure I can," he says simply, completely unbothered by my reaction. "You said so yourself when, if my memory serves me well, you answered with a clear and concise 'Yes' when I gave you the terms and conditions of option three. Or are you going to tell me you bumped your head on the way here and suddenly have selective amnesia?"

I'd like to bump your head against something, you douchebag.

I have no verbal reply, though. No comeback to save me or buy me time. No visible way out of this insane situation.

This cannot be happening...

And yet, despite my frazzled brain's inability to process my current predicament—and much of anything else, for that matter—seconds continue to tick by and this unfathomable, mind-boggling event doesn't cease to unfold.

Frost brings the crop up, holding it so the flattened head comes to my eye-level. The object itself doesn't look that intimidating, but being wielded by this blue-eyed demon makes it look like Satan's favorite play stick.

My whole body shivers and burns at the same time, my bones quaking beneath flaming skin that's somehow also doused in goosebumps.

"If you chose to end this, and you can at any time," he says, rolling up his sleeve, the action efficient even with the whip in his hand, "you end everything. Remember that. No second chances or do-overs. This is all-in or all-out every step of the way. I know you know all this, but some things bear repeating. Plus, I'm feeling a little generous in spite of your mood-dampening disobedience and you look like you could use the reminder."

My left eye twitches, my brow arching incredulously at his words.

I'm...speechless.

Generous? This is you being generous?

Good God, I'm fucked.

He rolls his other sleeve up with the same ease, and for the first time since we met, I notice he uses his left hand just as effectively as he does his right. A small wave of guilt washes over me at the absence of the wedding band on his ring finger, but the feeling is laced with a smidgen of...something else. Relief? Comfort? I don't know. All I do know is it's strange and confusing and—

My latest exhale stutters out of me in a rush as I register the feel of cool leather on my skin. Every last thought in my mind crumbles to dust, disappearing like the air around me and I'm left with nothing but raw, immediate sensation, suddenly far too aware of my own body, probably the most aware of it I've ever been. No. No, there's no 'probably' about it.

"Put your feet back where they're supposed to be," he commands, tapping the head of the crop on the side of my thigh, the action light yet firm.

My heart spasms at the feel of it, making me feel even more naked, somehow. My lungs flutter as air struggles to fill them. My throat constricts around the tightness in my throat yet again, only adding to the difficulty in breathing. I spread my legs reluctantly, bringing each foot back to stand over the two, very specific numbers he'd placed them on just moments earlier.

"Let's begin," he says, each octave of his voice reverberating through my entire body, slithering down my spine and back up again. "For the duration of your punishment," he calmly continues, "the only words I want to hear from you are the counts of each lash, followed by this statement: I promise to never be late for a session again. Understood?"

My breathing is audible now, my chest rising and falling like an entire truckload of batteries just got thrown in it, my eyes glazing behind my glasses as I watch him helplessly, flexing the crop in his hand. His forearm bulges with the motion, veins visible over the lean, corded muscles.

Oh, God! "Y-yes, Sir," I manage to croak, my head dipping with sheer defeat.

I inhale sharply, on the verge of hyperventilating, unable to suppress the rising fear I feel. I try to brace myself for what's coming next, balling my fists above my head as I steel—

"Ahhhh!!!"

A sharp, concentrated ball of fire erupts from my left ass cheek, quickly fanning out in a horrible ripple.

"Oh, my God!" I yell, my eyes slamming shut against the sudden burst of pain, my own voice ringing in my ears, my face contorting with so much confusion and disbelief I can't even begin to wrap my mind around it.

My lower body jerks forward impulsively, retreating from the source of my agony. And as soon as I do, two consecutive blows land on either of my feet, forcing my eyes open once again.

"Put your feet back where they're supposed to be," Frost says with a scowl. "Keep them on the designated numbers at all times. I won't tell you again."

The unapologetic command reflects perfectly in his dangerous gaze.

Oh, Jesus...

Just what I need. Another layer to this insane punishment. It's not enough that he just whipped me—and plans to do so seventy. More. Fucking. Times—but if my legs leave the designated numbers again...well...I'm in for a whole lot more...unpleasantness.

Tangible heat emanates from where he just hit me, my naked flesh now throbbing with a dull ache. The muscles in my shoulders and back remain tense and taut, downright unable to move, let alone relax.

My entire body shakes with each exhale, the cuffs trapping my wrists clinking gently under the moonlight with every labored breath I take. My feet now buzz with the impact of his whip, my toes trembling under my weight as I reluctantly shift them back to their respective spots.

He brings the crop up to eye-level again, looking straight at me, his expression simultaneously cold and hot, a mixture of irritation and lust.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" he growls, the icy pair narrowing at me as a snarl curls his sinful lips.

My exhale leaves me in a rush, my eyes blinking rapidly against the sinister combination of his words, voice, and the look on his face. And then I remember what he said earlier.

Count.

I swallow, feeling lightheaded all over again as he continues to stare at me expectantly, waiting.

"O-one," I whisper-croak. I grit my teeth against what I have to say next. "I...I p-promise I'll never b-be late for a...a session again."

And with that singular, stuttered statement, my very own personal hell begins.

***

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