Your 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 your face. You continue to look up at him, horrified, but nothing leaves your lips. Nothing can, your mouth parted in silent disbelief, your brain screaming the words you cannot voice.
You have got to be kidding….
He stares at you briefly, analyzing you again in the unnerving way he always does. Without a word, he walks toward you, his expression more severe than you’ve ever seen it. Your breaths grow shallower as he approaches, but instead of stopping in front of you like you assume he is, he walks past you, going around the circle and disappearing behind you.
Impulsively, you whip your head around, and are sorely reminded that you can’t, your restraints allowing you little to no motion. Your neck pivots as far as it can go, but you can’t see behind you. You 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 you.
He comes to stand in front of you again…and your heart damn near ruptures your chest when your 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. You can’t even breathe, your eyes wide, your pupils dilated as they latch on to the object in question.
“A horse whip.” Your delayed answer leaves you in a strange, husky whisper, as if someone else said it. For a second, you’re not even sure you said the words out loud.
He nods, confirming you 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?”
Your eyes slam shut involuntarily as you struggle to swallow, as if the action will completely shut the world out and transport you to another place and time, away from your current reality.
“Ramona, I just asked you a question,” he says when your silence stretches on, his voice forcing your eyes open again. “That means, you say…?”
Tears burn at the corners of your eyes, your nose tingling. “Training horses,” is all you can manage.
“And?” he pushes.
Another hesitant pause ensues, again entirely on your part. “I-In…in BDSM play,” you finally croak. The only reason you know that is because you looked it up on Google. And the only reason you 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 you to grasp the severity of your current situation, for everything to really sink in. You don’t need extra time for that. By God, you know.
“Did you receive my text message?” he asks suddenly, switching gears.
His abrupt line of questioning throws you off a bit, but you answer. “Y-yes,” you whisper, unable to take your eyes off the crop.
“Did you read it?”
Just breathe, Roni. “Yes.”
“What time did I ask you to be here?”
You swallow. “Se-seven fifty-five.”
“Seven fifty-five what?”
“Seven fifty-five PM.”
There it is.
When you should have been here.
This is all a demonstration of time.
Albeit a sick, twisted and unfathomable one.
The circle is the clock…and your legs are makeshift clock hands.
“Did you come here at seven fifty-five PM?” he asks, his voice too deep for comfort.
“No,” you whisper weakly.
“Speak up when I ask you a question,” he warns, flexing his fingers around the crop.
“No,” you repeat, louder this time, your voice cracking with the effort.
“What time did you arrive?”
“A-about nine PM”
“Nine-o-six PM,” he corrects, inching closer to you. “Is that when I asked you to come, Ramona?” he asks, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes at you. “Six minutes past nine o’clock at night?”
You blanch at his intimidating appearance, the elaboration of your lateness making goosebumps scatter all over both your 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,” you say in a rush, trying to make your case. “I got lost on–”
Your words die in your throat, and you feel your head wrenched backward. In a fraction of a second, Frost is on you, cutting you off as he grips your hair from your nape, forcing your chin up.
“I didn’t ask for an explanation or excuse for your disobedience,” he whispers harshly into your 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.”
You wince against the sharp pain, your scalp buzzing at the point of contact, your neck arching as much as it can to support your head and alleviate some of the discomfort his hold is causing. Your 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 you in place. You 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 your widened ones. “Understand?”
You swallow, hating the sheer disadvantage of your situation. You couldn’t even nod if you wanted to, your head locked in place, but you know better than to answer him with physical gestures.
“Yes,” you croak, frowning even though your heart is currently breaking a world speed record.
Frost meets it with a frown of his own. “Yes, what?”
“Y-yes, Sir,” you add breathlessly, the words stuttering out of you as you exhale.
He continues to stare at you for a moment, as if he’s briefly studying your expression. His fingers slide out of your hair abruptly, releasing his rough grip on you. You sigh audibly before you can stop yourself, the release in pressure palpable, the tension seeping out of your neck as it reverts to its normal position.
You 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. You 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.”
You have to grit your teeth at hearing the condescending way he’s talking to you, as though you’re a brainless child. Fury spreads itself across your face, and you’re sure he can see it, but it doesn’t faze him. Not one bit. He keeps going as if you 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.
You almost go queasy at the memory of that stupid water-condom torture session, remembering the awful, mind-numbing pressure in your bladder.
“Yes,” you say without thinking, shocking yourself with your candidness even though it wasn’t really a question. There’s no doubt about it, though. You learned your lesson. And you 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 your lower body, and you barely suppress the instinctive urge to bring your 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 your naked half, setting every inch of your exposed skin on fire.
Your 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 your groin tingle, even as your ears burn with shame. It’s all too strange and novel.
“So…” he continues, his eyes rising to meet yours 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.”