Another scream rips itself from your raw throat, your eyes slamming shut against the piling, cumulative pain.


Your latest answer, like all the ones before it, voices both your victory and defeat, but the accompanying blow is especially hard this time, seemingly more punishing than all the others combined.


You try—and fail—to collect yourself, swallowing and trying to breathe normally even though you feel like you’re on the verge of hyperventilating from how close he is, his fingers resuming their movements on your bare hip, the fact that your entire lower body is naked, unveiled and open for him to see in spite of the darkness surrounding you.


You inhale his crisp, spicy scent, breathing him in involuntarily, and you feel your treacherous pussy twitch and pulse from the combination of sensations, becoming more and more restless, as if it’s asking for more of what happened earlier.


In horror, you realize that your hips just moved without your permission, before you can even think about it or stop yourself, your body seeking more of the delicious friction his fingers are teasing you with. He doesn’t say anything, and if he noticed, he doesn’t give it away. But you’re sure he did. He’s too observant and assertive not to. You steel yourself against him, against the sensations his fingers are eliciting between your thighs.


You almost choke on your own spit when, almost painfully slow, his fingers trail over the curve of your thigh, and his large hand comes to settle right under your butt cheek, the action almost…natural. As if it’s supposed to be there, as if it’s done it so many times before.


He laces his fingers through your hair, grabbing a large fist full of the wild, tousled curls at the back of your head, his grip rough yet measured. The action forces your chin up, and the barrier of your glasses offers zero protection against the indescribable intensity in his eyes, against the severe expression that simultaneously mars and enhances his striking features.


You feel the crop at your inner thigh, the blunt edge of the head creeping up the juncture between your legs, settling precariously just mere inches away from the bare folds of your nether lips. Distinct moisture clutches at them; hot, slick liquid smearing and coating your most sensitive flesh as it trickles out. You clench your core muscles involuntarily, but the effort is futile and you feel the unmistakable plop of discharge force its way out.


You have to tear your eyes away from his at the knowledge your body is reacting this way, betraying you.


“You’re not quite done yet, Ramona,” he says after you go silent for a brief but significant pause. Well…silent save for the erratic wheezing you can’t seem to control. “You still have one more to go. What else?”


“I don’t know,” you lie.


“Sure, you do,” is his verbal, measured response, but his fingers glide up the side of your hip, the crop still in place between your thighs.


After another awkward pause, you grit your teeth and your eyes slam shut as you force yourself to say the word, unable to bear looking at him while you do.




The word leaves you in a shy, almost timid whisper, and the strained cracking in your voice only makes you sound even more nervous. You try desperately not to think about his cock, how it looked earlier, so naked and full and firm and ample.


Before you have time to shake the image from your mind you feel a sharp, intense pain explode in your pussy.


It’s so abrupt.


So unexpected and out of the blue.


Your eyes snap open with the speed of a meteor right before it hits, and before you can draw another breath, you feel the crop deliver a second blow.


Your mouth falls open without a lick of resistance, fresh new tears instantly blurring your impossibly wide eyes.


You want to scream, to wail, to cry out, but nothing leaves your lips.


Nothing can.


For a fraction of a second, everything literally goes blank. You can’t think. Can’t move. Can’t breathe.


One second passes.


Two seconds.




You stare with wide, confused, mortified eyes into those of a beautiful monster, into something you’ve never seen before.


A smirk dances on his face as he takes in your state. You can barely even process what just happened, your body overrun with sensations too intense for your mind to conjure, and your brain begins to combust inside your skull, unable to keep up.


At some point you hear his voice, low and seductive, but also extremely disquieting.


“Good, Ramona,” he touches the head of the crop to your nether lips, and you damn near die on the spot when he starts to rub it against the sore flesh, his motions insistent. “I do believe you’ve earned your ass a reprieve.”


Your breath catches in your throat, hoping that it might mean this nightmare is finally over—though you doubt this spawn of hell would let you off that easy. You struggle desperately to ignore what’s happening down below, to push past the utter mortification of what this bastard is doing to you even though you’re shivering like someone just shoved the world’s biggest igloo in your back.


In a cracked, breathy whisper, you ask, “S-so my p-punishment is over?”


He lets out a light chuckle, pressing the crop a little harder into your pussy. A loud gasp forces it way out of you, your back arching as your hips retreat, seeking safety that is nowhere in sight. You have to bite on your bottom lip to stifle another gasp, involuntarily rising further on already tipped toes in a futile attempt to get away from his invasion.


“What do you think, Ramona?” he smirks.


You’re panting from the pressure the crop is now putting on your crotch.


“No,” you whimper.


His eyes narrow dangerously, all trace of humor gone.


“Arriving late, not following instructions and now asking to have your punishment ended.”


“But I didn’t—”


This time, you can’t suppress the gasp that rips itself from your throat, your words dying instantly, once again cut off when presses the crop so hard into your mound that it starts to slide into your opening.


“Let’s add speaking out of turn to the list of infractions.” His tone is murderous. Harsh. Unapologetic. Just like the look in his eyes.


“The correct answer you gave earned your ass a break,” he says, his eyes flitting over your raw, throbbing cheeks. “Surely, that’s something you don’t contest. However…” his eyes rise to meet yours again, the most wicked, sinister grin tugging on his delicious lips, “your punishment is far from over.”


He quickly pulls the crop out, causing you to gasp as the pressure is lifted, but with lightning speed, the crop descends on you again, and he gives your pussy another slap.


Your eyes roll into the back of your head, your breath stuttering in your chest as a sharp blast of fire ripples into your core.


His voice brims with the amusement of a kid at a live circus.


“So let’s continue, shall we?”


And without warning he begins to make quick, hard hits to your sensitive slit, so close that you have no time to breathe in between strokes.


Your entire body tenses, every cell in your body rupturing and coming back together again in a split second. You feel the wind literally get knocked out of you, breathless as your lungs seize in your chest, your airways shutting down and all oxygen ceases to move. Your skin buzzes all over, like it’s stuffed with a colony of angry bees, and palpable fire burns between your thighs.


You blink rapidly against the sheer intensity of what you’re being subjected to, what you’re being forced to endure, your limbs going impossibly stiff, straining with the effort it’s taking to support your taut, rigid body. Your hands ball up into tight fists above your head involuntarily, your fingernails digging into the already bruised flesh of your palms. But the sharp sting is nothing compared to what you feel between your legs. 


Out of nowhere, liquid heat rushes out of you without your permission, and you can do nothing to stop the vulgar flow. Wet smacking sounds fill the air one after another, hard leather colliding with moist, slippery flesh, like an obscene song.







Tears flow freely down your cheeks, all your restraint to keep them at bay eroding with each whip to your pussy.


Oh God, oh God, oh God


You don’t know how long it continues until he stops abruptly and stares at you.


“Who said you could stop counting?” Frost growls through gritted teeth, the danger in his voice matching that of his eyes as they narrow viciously at you.


You try to speak, but a strained, incoherent sound is all you can manage.


Breathe, you have to remind yourself. Just breathe.


And you try to, desperately, but each inhale feels like you’re attempting the impossible right now. Your heart pounds too hard and too fast for your chest to contain it, feeling like it’s going to break in half.


Large, strong fingers dig into your cheeks, forcing your chin up, squeezing the already achy sides of your face firmly. Frost touches the very tip of his nose to yours, the edgy gleam in his icy eyes driving a tornado of shivers through every inch of your body…shivers that somehow collect in your pussy, further inflaming the sharp sting that it’s pulsing against.


“You seem to be enjoying this punishment,” he whispers, a wicked grin offsetting the visible tension in his jaw. “I hadn’t realized how much of a slut you were when I asked for this deal.”


Your eyes bulge at that remark, heat scorching your entire face, but before you can respond, you feel something being shoved into your mouth and fastened around your head. Your blood runs cold as realization dawns on you as to what it is.


A ball gag.


A frickin’ ball gag.






Jesus, you really can’t speak now—not that you were doing a bang-up job of it before.


He takes a few steps back, his icy eyes boring into yours.


“I’m going to leave you here now,” he says, the words leaving his gorgeous lips so easily, the statement so casual, so matter-of-fact. “You haven’t earned a safe word yet because of your disobedience. However,” he smirks, “if, at any point, you decide you can’t take any more, there is a whistle in the ball. All you have to do is blow it and I’ll end it…all of it.”


He turns to do exactly as he promised, and with wide eyes, you can do little else but stare blankly at his back as he walks toward the door. Utter disbelief floods your already disheveled system, and your brain is having a hell of a time struggling to accept everything he just said when, abruptly, you feel the circle begin to move on its own…taking you with it.


Your eyes widen in shock all over again, a gallon of adrenaline spiking your blood in milliseconds. Your instincts kick in full force, your reflexes taking over, and you begin to jerk in your bindings impulsively.


Frost turns back to you.


“Oh, and one more thing…” he adds, clearly feigning forgetfulness. The amusement in his voice is unveiled. “In addition to the whipping, every seventy-one minutes—which, if you remember, is the number of minutes you were late by—the circle above you will move. And, in spite of that, you will keep your feet on the ‘7’ and ‘11’.”


It’s not a request. Not by any stretch of the imagination. It’s not even really a demand.

It’s a statement. A simple, matter-of-fact statement that bears no repeating and requires no further elaboration.


The door swings open, and a block of dull light appears, ever so slightly illuminating the entryway and all in its path, including Frost. He looks over his shoulder one last time, one hand on the knob, his cold blue eyes piercing through the dimness.


“I suggest you use this time to think about what you have done and why you deserve this punishment.”


As he says the last word the door shuts behind him and you’re left alone in the room.


In the dark.




Bound and gagged.


Without a clue when you’ll be allowed to leave.




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