You blink behind your glasses in confusion, your eyelids fluttering like dying wasps as you consider what has been asked of you.


Your lips part in a frown as you meet his dangerous eyes hesitantly, your own gaze mirroring more than a little suspicion.


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


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


Everything and nothing go through your 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 you, and the increasing pressure in your toes isn’t helping. Blood swirls and swishes chaotically in your head, your temples pounding as if someone is actually knocking on them. Your nose tingles with a sharp buzz, possibly because all the blood in your body is two seconds away from running out of it.


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


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


Frost leans in, bringing just his face closer, his nose actually grazing yours this time. You gulp audibly at the contact, a swarm of tingles rushing through your body, the sensation making you quiver.


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


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




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


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


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


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


Concentrate, you tell yourself.


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






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


“Tears are made from water!” you argue after a brief pause, managing to find your 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?” you frown.


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


You ball your fists even in their raised positions, wishing like hell you were free so you could sock him right between those soulless eyes of his.






You’ve never wanted to spit on anyone in your entire life. You swear to God, you haven’t. The thought has never once even crossed your mind. It’s one of the most disgusting, horribly low things a person can do to another. But when he hits you this time, you almost feel propelled to act by your last answer, and you have to grit your 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 your tongue once more and exhaling in barely subdued exasperation, you say “Sweat,” noting how fat beads of perspiration are forming on your 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 your burning body.




“Go on,” he demands.


“Breathing,” you continue as you exhale angrily again, your breath coming out in a subdued huff as if for emphasis, but it’s also shuddering at his proximity, still feeling his nose grazing your cheek, your skin buzzing at the feel of his against yours, and that only pisses you off even more. That even now when you’re so mad at him, he still has this effect on you.


“What’s the scientific term?”


You frown. “What?”


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


“I’m looking for an answer, not another question.”

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


And, really? Scientific term for breathing?


What the hell is this, Bio 101?




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


You breathe out an audible sigh of utter exasperation. “Respiration,” you grit.


“Better,” he nods.




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




“And the scientific term for that?”






“Period,” you continue, trying your hardest to push past the searing pain. “Also called menses.”




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


“Next,” Frost pushes, clearly unfazed by your agony.


You can’t hold back a sniffle, hating the show of weakness even when you know it’s involuntary.


“E-ejaculate,” you resume, your temples throbbing. You struggle to swallow, your throat working against the incessant wheezing in your chest, praying to every last deity that he doesn’t make you call it by any other name.


“Good,” he says, his voice easily breaking through the mesh of pounding in your head and your labored breathing. You 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.”


You blink against a wave of lightheadedness, struggling to make your brain work in spite of the unconducive conditions it’s being forced into.





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






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




You can barely even keep yours in your mouth at this point, struggling to perform the simple, automatic task of swallowing.










“Also known as…?” he insists, trailing the crop over the bottom curve of your ass cheek.










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










The word falls from your lips like a curse, a lone soundtrack to your current demise, and as soon as it does, all you can think is that, right now, you’re in the deepest kind.






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