“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you whisper, more to yourself than him, your words drenched in disbelief, your entire body quivering as you stare at the crop now dangling between his fingers. You can’t seem to avert your gaze from the long, black whip even though every inch of your body urges you to do just that, your lungs working overtime, adrenaline-spiked blood coursing through every last inch of your body, making your skin buzz as if you just drowned in a tub of alcohol and your heart damn near beats itself to a pulp inside your chest.
Overwhelmed.
In a nutshell, that’s how you 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 your barely audible remark, eyeing you intently, his expression completely and utterly serious.
You start to shake your head, more and more adamantly with each second, panic getting the best of you as the full weight of what he just said sinks in fully.
He wants to whip you.
He’s going to whip you.
Beat you.
Seventy-one times!
Ah, fuck no!!!
“Y-you…you can’t do that!” you say breathlessly, your 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 you just said the dumbest thing in history.
“Sure, I can,” he says simply, completely unbothered by your 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.
You have no verbal reply, though. No comeback to save you or buy you time. No visible way out of this insane situation.
This cannot be happening…
And yet, despite your frazzled brain’s inability to process your 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 your 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.
Your whole body shivers and burns at the same time, your 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.”
Your left eye twitches, your brow arching incredulously at his words.
You’re…speechless.
Generous? This is you being generous?
Good God, you’re fucked.
He rolls his other sleeve up with the same ease, and for the first time since you met, you notice he uses his left hand just as effectively as he does his right. A small wave of guilt washes over you at the absence of the wedding band on his ring finger, but the feeling is laced with a smidgen of…something else. Relief? Comfort? You don’t know. All you do know is it’s strange and confusing and—
Your latest exhale stutters out of you in a rush as you register the feel of cool leather on your skin. Every last thought in your mind crumbles to dust, disappearing like the air around you and you’re left with nothing but raw, immediate sensation, suddenly far too aware of your own body, probably the most aware of it you’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 your thigh, the action light yet firm.
Your heart spasms at the feel of it, making you feel even more naked, somehow. Your lungs flutter as air struggles to fill them. Your throat constricts around the tightness in your throat yet again, only adding to the difficulty in breathing. You spread your 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 your entire body, slithering down your 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?”
Your breathing is audible now, your chest rising and falling like an entire truckload of batteries just got thrown in it, your eyes glazing behind your glasses as you 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,” you manage to croak, your head dipping with sheer defeat.
You inhale sharply, on the verge of hyperventilating, unable to suppress the rising fear you feel. You try to brace yourself for what’s coming next, balling your fists above your head as you steel—
“Ahhhh!!!” A sharp, concentrated ball of fire erupts from your left ass cheek, quickly fanning out in a horrible ripple. “Oh, my God!” you yell, your eyes slamming shut against the sudden burst of pain, your own voice ringing in your ears, your face contorting with so much confusion and disbelief you can’t even begin to wrap your mind around it. Your lower body jerks forward impulsively, retreating from the source of your agony. And as soon as you do, two consecutive blows land on either of your feet, forcing your 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 you need. Another layer to this insane punishment. It’s not enough that he just whipped you—and plans to do so seventy. More. Fucking. Times—but if your legs leave the designated numbers again…well…you’re in for a whole lot more…unpleasantness.
Tangible heat emanates from where he just hit you, your naked flesh now throbbing with a dull ache. The muscles in your shoulders and back remain tense and taut, downright unable to move, let alone relax.
Your entire body shakes with each exhale, the cuffs trapping your wrists clinking gently under the moonlight with every labored breath you take. Your feet now buzz with the impact of his whip, your toes trembling under your weight as you reluctantly shift them back to their respective spots.
He brings the crop up to eye-level again, looking straight at you, 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 you as a snarl curls his sinful lips.
Your exhale leaves you in a rush, your eyes blinking rapidly against the sinister combination of his words, voice, and the look on his face. And then you remember what he said earlier.
Count.
You swallow, feeling lightheaded all over again as he continues to stare at you expectantly, waiting.
“O-one,” you whisper-croak. You grit your teeth against what you 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, your very own personal hell begins.
***
- Fascinated
- Happy
- Sad
- Angry
- Bored
- Afraid