Chapter One Hundred and Twenty

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I blink behind my glasses in confusion, my eyelids fluttering like dying wasps as I consider what has been asked of me.

My lips part in a frown as I meet his dangerous eyes hesitantly, my own gaze mirroring more than a little suspicion.

What in God's name is this motherfucker up to now?

A violent shiver rips through my spine, all the muscles in my back tensing as the skin covering them breaks into another swarm of goosebumps.

Everything and nothing go through my mind all at once; jumbled, unfocused thoughts of past and present that somehow intertwine with the singular echo of Frost's latest demand.

It's hard to think with the way he's looking at me, and the increasing pressure in my toes isn't helping. Blood swirls and swishes chaotically in my head, my temples pounding as if someone is actually knocking on them. My nose tingles with a sharp buzz, possibly because all the blood in my body is two seconds away from running out of it.

I swallow hard at the demand, already hating where this is going. The pink elephant is right there, and I can still feel remnants of it down the length of my legs even though it's mostly dried up since he chained me to this bloody contraption in this chilly room. I grit my teeth, not wanting to say the word as it's obvious that he's asking me to because he knows I'll relive the embarrassment of what happened in the dining room.

When I remain silent, stalling and glaring at him for implicitly bringing up the fact that I pissed myself all over again—that he made me piss myself—without a care for how it makes me feel, he grins knowingly, matching my glare with a sinister look of his own.

Frost leans in, bringing just his face closer, his nose actually grazing mine this time. I gulp audibly at the contact, a swarm of tingles rushing through my body, the sensation making me quiver.

"I'm still waiting for your answer, Ramona," he whispers against my lips in a calm, collected, slightly amused tone—too calm for my liking—the familiar, dangerous edge creeping into his voice.

"Piss," I blurt in annoyance, almost defiantly, even as I feel heat burn my ears and sting my cheeks. He chuckles, presumably at the way I say it, obviously getting a kick out of my anger with him. I have to grit my teeth against his mocking reaction, against the urge to tell him to shove his stupid laughter where the sun doesn't shine. And I almost do...until I remember that the sun isn't shining in here; inside this dark room where he has me tied up and completely vulnerable to his every whim. So instead, I just breathe out in angry resignation, tearing my eyes away from his merciless ones.

Whack!

I fall silent for several seconds, feeling the burn of the whip spread like fire over my skin, gritting my teeth against the pain.

"Is 'piss' the only way you personally lose water as a woman, Ramona?" he asks when my silence ensues. "If it is, I'd highly recommend seeing a doctor A.S.A.P," he adds sarcastically.

I can't stop myself from doing a major eye roll at the statement. The only thing I'll need a doctor for is the therapy I'll most definitely need after being subjected to all his bullshit.

"Time's a wasting, Ramona," he smirks, circling me slowly like a wolf that's toying with its captured prey, dragging the crop over my body as he does, the head never parting from my thighs. I can barely even think, let alone concentrate on the question with the feel of the cold leather against my skin. I swallow, or at least, I try to, failing to suppress another shiver that rummages through my ever-stiffening torso, struggling to focus on the task at hand.

Concentrate, I tell myself.

The proximity of his own big body is overwhelming, the imposing, towering presence just too much to bear.

"Tears."

Whack!

My body tenses at the impact, my eyes going wide and glassy, my lips parting in a mix of shock and pain, unable to verbalize the question clearly written on my face.

"Tears are made from water!" I argue after a brief pause, managing to find my voice even though it sounds entirely like someone else's now.

"I didn't say you were wrong," he says simply, the calm nonchalance of his voice a complete contrast to the merciless fire in his eyes.

"Then why did you hit me?" I frown.

He arches his brow slightly, eyeing me like I'm a simpleton. "Why did I hit you? Is that a trick question?" That response does nothing but infuriate me. And, naturally, Frost doesn't give a fraction of a fuck. He meets my scowl with pure and utter nonchalance. "Keep going."

I ball my fists even in their raised positions, wishing like hell I was free so I could sock him right between those soulless eyes of his.

"Saliva."

Whack!

I've never wanted to spit on anyone in my entire life. I swear to God, I haven't. The thought has never once even crossed my mind. It's one of the most disgusting, horribly low things a person can do to another. But when he hits me this time, I almost feel propelled to act by my last answer, and I have to grit my teeth against the anger-driven urge to do just that. Right in his perfect face.

And then curse his trifling ass to the moon and back.

Instead, choosing to bite my tongue once more and exhaling in barely subdued exasperation, I say "Sweat," noting how fat beads of perspiration are forming on my temples and forehead, almost as if in demonstration, the cold air only making the moisture more prominent, but it does absolutely nothing to help cool down my burning body.

Whack!

"Go on," he demands.

"Breathing," I continue as I exhale angrily again, my breath coming out in a subdued huff as if for emphasis, but it's also shuddering at his proximity, still feeling his nose grazing my cheek, my skin buzzing at the feel of his against mine, and that only pisses me off even more. That even now when I'm so mad at him, he still has this effect on me.

"What's the scientific term?"

I frown. "What?"

His response to my question is another lash to my raw ass.

"I'm looking for an answer, not another question."

Jesus Christ, this asshole is impossible! I barely even heard the damn question through the ringing in my ears!

And, really? Scientific term for breathing?

What the hell is this, Bio 101?

"R-respiration?"

His gorgeous lips fall into a frown, his brow arching in reproach. "What did I say about asking versus answering me?"

I breathe out an audible sigh of utter exasperation. "Respiration," I grit.

"Better," he nods.

Whack!

He hits me so hard you'd think I gave him the wrong answer. The whole dynamic of this stupid 'punishment' is a complete mind-fuck.

"Pooping."

"And the scientific term for that?"

"Excrement."

Whack!

"Period," I continue, trying my hardest to push past the searing pain. "Also called menses."

Whack!

The blow lands right next to my pussy, as if for emphasis. An unrestrained scream rips itself from me, scalding tears pooling in my eyes against the sheer intensity fanning into my tender flesh.

"Next," Frost pushes, clearly unfazed by my agony.

I can't hold back a sniffle, hating the show of weakness even when I know it's involuntary.

"E-ejaculate," I resume, my temples throbbing. I struggle to swallow, my throat working against the incessant wheezing in my chest, praying to every last deity that he doesn't make me call it by any other name.

"Good," he says, his voice easily breaking through the mesh of pounding in my head and my labored breathing. I breathe out the smallest sigh of relief, but whatever minuscule reprieve it brought with it disappears as quickly as it came when he says, "Now men's."

I blink against a wave of lightheadedness, struggling to make my brain work in spite of the unconducive conditions it's being forced into.

"Tears."

Whack!

I bite my bottom lip as the sting pierces deeper into my flesh than any have so far, the sharp smack resounding in my ears, almost as bad as the blow itself. And, as if to demonstrate my words, an hour's worth of unshed tears finally overflows, running down my cheeks and leaving large, uneven wet streaks all over my face.

"Sweat."

Whack!

As if in demonstration, I feel the beaded droplets of sweat run down the sides of my face with no resistance, seemingly giving up their fight.

"Saliva."

I can barely even keep mine in my mouth at this point, struggling to perform the simple, automatic task of swallowing.

Whack!

"Respiration."

Whack!

"Piss."

"Also known as...?" he insists, trailing the crop over the bottom curve of my ass cheek.

"U-urination."

"Good."

Whack!

"Ahhh!"

I'm panting now, unable to suppress the tremors wrecking my body, my arms impossibly sore and tense, my legs quaking with the effort it's taking to support my weight. My toes are on the verge of giving out, like they're about to sink right into the floor from too much pressure, and I almost wish they would if it means it'll take the pain away. I'm tempted to ask him if that's biologically feasible, but another blow to my hip completely eradicates the thought from my mind. I really have no idea if I'll ever be able to walk after this. They feel like large, self-contained blisters, two seconds away from bursting.

"Excrement."

"A.K.A?"

Sigh.

"Shit."

The word falls from my lips like a curse, a lone soundtrack to my current demise, and as soon as it does, all I can think is that, right now, I'm in the deepest kind.

Whack!

***

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