The tick-tock of the clock in the distance signals that a second has gone by.

Two seconds.



You deliberate internally, your breaths growing shallower with each rhythmic sound as his loaded question hangs heavily in the air and adds to the already present, overbearing tension between you.


You force yourself to think in spite of the web of panic weaving itself inside every inch of your trembling body, weighing your options carefully.


– One: Endure utter humiliation as a stranger cleans up your bodily fluids from under you while you watch, confined to a chair like a depraved prisoner.


– Two: Get a third of the money promised to you for being here taken away before you’ve even begun.




“I don’t have all night, Ramona,” Frost’s voice catapults you out of your jumbled thoughts, startling you with its depth. Your heart pounds even faster against the urgency his words evoke. You blink rapidly, hating how anxious he’s making you.


Feeling lightheaded all over again, you take the deepest, most strained breath you ever have, your chest heaving with the effort. With gritted teeth, you force your lips to part against the tension that’s keeping them taut, your eyes on anything but his.


“Option three,” you say breathlessly, the two simple words leaving you in a raspy, reluctant whisper. You swallow hard, your throat working against a colossal mass that seems to have lodged itself in it permanently, as if the action will pacify the unease you feel about what you just said.


About the choice you just made.


You wish you felt more sure of your decision, but fuck if this isn’t a lose-lose situation for you all around.


“I’ll take the punishment,” you elaborate, your gaze dropping to your thighs in resignation, hoping that saying it out loud will somehow help you brace yourself for said punishment. But all it does is make you more afraid. In spite of your efforts to stay calm, you’re visibly shaking, quivering with a sense of fear you’ve never felt before as you try not to imagine what Frost’s idea of punishment entails.


Oh God, maybe I made a mistake


No, no! This was the right choice, all things considered. There’s no way in hell you’d go with option one. And the second option is out of the question. The whole reason you’re even here in the first place is because of the money. It would make absolutely no sense to give any of it up now, right at the start of the very first session, especially when you still have the whole weekend to contend with.


Besides, this man’s already put you through torture tonight. What’s a little more, right?




You try to convince yourself that it won’t be so bad…and it doesn’t work for shit. Your spine goes impossibly rigid as something cold and unsettling slithers up it, fanning into your stiff shoulders. And, as much as you wish you could, you can’t ignore your fear, and you can’t not think about what this punishment could potentially entail…especially if he considers what he’s done to you so far ‘child’s play’. 


When you don’t hear anything, you chance a peek at him, your eyes darting upward inconspicuously while your head stays lowered.


You catch him looking at you. No, staring. Observantly. Very observantly; his eyes assessing, analyzing, studying. And something unsettling passes through them, as if he just learned something important about you.


The pause is unnerving, and it almost seems as if he doesn’t notice how long he stays silent just monitoring you. And, for a split-second, you’re almost convinced he didn’t hear you. You can’t deny the appeal of the possibility that he didn’t catch the answer you gave to his horrid question, but you highly doubt that’s the case.


Just when you’re about to clear your throat to break the awkward silence, he nods, getting up from his chair and moving toward you, not minding the puddle of piss and water from the broken condom he’s stepping in.


You react impulsively, scooting back in your own chair even though you’re inconveniently anchored to it by these damn cuffs. Your upper body retreats as much as it can as he continues to advance, every last disc in your spine pushing hard against the backrest incessantly, hoping you’ll phase right through it eventually if you just keep at it.


If only.


Before you know it, his face is right in front of yours, and you hold your breath impulsively when he leans over your seated form, reaching for you. You squirm anxiously at the sight of his hand, your thighs slamming against each other as your free hand moves with lightning speed to the front of your jeans, awkwardly pulling the unzipped fly together. But you’re caught off guard when he doesn’t reach for your crotch again like you assume he is. Instead, he reaches behind you…and uncuffs you.


The release in pressure is instantaneous, and you can’t suppress the groan that tumbles out of you as soon as the metal ring clicks open. You bring your newly-freed arm out of its formerly uncomfortable position, sighing in relief as you rub at your sore wrist with your other hand. 


You hear another metallic click, and you swallow as you watch Frost pull the silver cuffs from behind you, swiping his thumb over the curve of one ring briefly, almost…reverently, before he sets them on the table. They land with a soft jingle, shining under the bright light they easily reflect, much like the icy eyes that are on you once again.


You wish he would stop looking at you so intently, and you fret in spite of yourself, your shaky hands reaching for your jeans, trying to button them up again and shield yourself from his eyes once more.

But he stops your attempt effortlessly, as if he correctly guessed what you were about to do.


Before you can stop him, his hands latch onto your clothing, yanking your drenched jeans and panties down your legs roughly without even trying. Your own hands fling themselves outward, reaching for his in an effort to halt his preposterous actions as protests fall from your lips like rain from the sky.


“No, don’t!” you shriek, but he doesn’t listen.


Scratch that.


He does listen, and it seems like your objections only egg him on, encouraging him to keep doing what he’s doing. Next thing you know, one of your boots is being yanked off your feet. And then the other one.


Your arms and legs jerk and flail around like you’re on expired cocaine, trying to block his attempts, but you can’t seem to stop him. Not even a little. Amidst the chaos, you hear your panties suddenly rip beneath the denim under his forceful tugs, the flimsy fabric screaming its own protests, as if in solidarity with its owner.


You keep fighting, resisting, but it’s no fucking use. He’s much stronger. Much bigger. And, right now, you can’t even begin to explain how much you hate those disparities.


He pulls them off completely with one last yank, the drenched fabrics sliding away from your legs, taking your poor socks with them and leaving your entire lower body bare.


Frost tosses your clothes without so much as a blink, and you watch in absolute horror as the bundle of cotton and denim drop to the wet floor beneath, joining their brethren in arms, your boots.


Only then does he stop, his roughness halting briefly as his eyes roam the naked half of your body for a moment; his eyes hot, piercing, ripping through you in a way you can’t even describe. His gaze remains fixated on your lower body, even as you try to cover your mound with hands that are shaking as if they’re battery operated.


After another moment, he steps back abruptly. 


“Stand,” he commands.


Your lungs damn near shut down on you as soon as the demand leaves his sinful lips, and you swear to god your heart is going to punch its way out of your chest any second now. You have to brace yourself against another wave of dizziness, blinking back tears of anxiety and overwhelm.


After a moment of hesitation—a whole motherfucking lot of it—you rise from your seat reluctantly, every cell in your body resisting your movements as you stand like he wants you to. Your bare feet meet the wet floor, cold liquid greeting your soles.


Never thought you’d see the day where you’d be standing in your own piss.


Frost grabs your duffel bag, placing the box of condoms back inside it before looking to you once more.


“Follow me.”


He walks past you, his clothes brushing against you ever so slightly as he does, and you can feel the heat emanating from his massive, muscled body.


You swallow.




All you can think is, Oh, boy, recalling what happened the last time he said those words.




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