Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Two

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There are times in life when absolutely nothing makes sense.

When nothing goes right.

When everything seems out of place.

Wrong-side up.

Inside-out.

Surreal.

Impossible.

And, yet, you know it's real. That it's happening...to you.

Even though you can't truly comprehend how it could be.

For me—Ramona Lisa Gallo, a simple, twenty-four-year-old college student—this is one of those times.

I blink absently in the darkness, my head fuzzy, my skin prickling. The taste of rubber fills my mouth, cool, dense leather spreading my lips taut, forcing them ajar. I struggle to swallow around the ball lodged against my tongue and fail, suddenly aware of just how securely the straps have been fastened behind my head. I never thought something that's literally all smooth curves could be so hard and imposing; the kind of novel sensation that I would happily go through life without knowing. It feels indescribably invasive. Almost brutal. Like its owner.

But I don't think I could bring myself to speak even if I was able to. To make a single sound.

I don't know how long I stay like this; in a seemingly infinite loop of time where there's no beginning and no end. Where the distinction between reality and fantasy somehow...disappears.

No, not fantasy.

Horrific simulation.

Part of me feels like I'm dreaming. Like none of this is actually transpiring. I mean...how did I get here? Really?

What the fuck do you mean, how did you get here? the voice in my head spits. That motherfucker put you here, remember? And the only reason he could do that is...well...your dumb ass told him he could. When you signed his contract. Remember that?

My eyes slam shut against the memory, and I wish I could bleach my brain free of it. Maybe it's a good thing my hands are cuffed, otherwise I'd probably strangle myself for doing something so stupid.

God, if I'd known it'd be like this...

What, you wouldn't have signed it? Huh? the voice jumps in again.

The question hangs over my head like a wet, stinky towel, spawning a myriad of others.

Would I have turned it down if I knew I would have to endure everything I just did? And likely more? Would I have had the strength to say no and find another way? A better way? A more dignified way? Did I make the right choice? Did I—

Suddenly, mechanical croaking erupts out of nowhere, catapulting me out of my racing thoughts and startling me yet again. I recognize the sound instantly, as well as what it signifies, but I'm not prepared for what it entails.

The overhead contraption I'm cuffed to turns for the second time, rotating clockwise and, once again, forcing my upper body along with it. My torso twists without my permission, half of me turning in a different direction than the other as I will my feet to stay put despite the subsequent attempt to displace me.

Seventy-one more minutes have gone by.

Seventy-one minutes since that blue-eyed demon left me here to rot in this literal time-out he calls punishment.

I'd think the concept clever, brilliant even...if it wasn't pure and utter hell.

Actually, purgatory is probably a more accurate description.

I continue to maintain my balance, the very tips of my toes on the designated 7 and 11 until the rotating noise stops and the device goes static again, leaving me in absolute silence once more.

I breathe out a small sigh, glad that I'm still able to keep my balance, but I can already feel the additional strain from my new position creeping into my upper body, and I sense a knot starting to form in my right shoulder.

It'll be okay, I tell myself. Don't think about it.

And I try not to. I really do.

But when I look up from my new vantage point, I notice something in the distance that instantly makes my mind sprint out of control.

Scratch that.

Multiple things.

And the few I can make out in the severe dimness quickly bring on an overwhelming wave of lightheadedness.

Furniture.

The kind that I'm positive isn't decor or fit for a living area.

And, behind it...

Oh, God!

A shelf.

A massive shelf; lined with objects...objects that look like they have a singular purpose:

Being inside something.

Or someone.

***

My eyes remain fixed on the shelf ahead, the sparse moonlight casting pale shadows against its massive outline and the objects sitting adjacent to each other within its layered frame.

For the first time since I got here—was forced in here—I wish it was completely dark, if only to be spared the sight of what I'm currently looking at. What—in spite of the genuine fear it strikes in me—I'm unable to take my eyes off.

For several moments, the sound of my uneven breathing is the only thing I can hear, the singular source of noise in this eerily quiet room.

It's clear what this is, and yet, I can't seem to make sense of it. Or perhaps, I don't want to. Hell, I can barely even reason, my thoughts mangled like the remnants of what used to be my clothing.

Wavering curiosity—and perhaps a survival-based need to know—keeps my gaze glued to the outline of the shelf, my eyes peering through the darkness behind my glasses. Unmeasured time passes, and I continue to stare ahead, just looking at what's laid out in front of me, not trying to actually identify anything in particular.

Suddenly, pages and pages of the contract resurface in my mind, as if the physical document is right in front of me.

Crop...Nipple clamp...Ball gag...Bondage collar...Bondage hood...Disc blindfold...Anal beads...Flogger...Paddle...Speculum...Power box...Violet wand...Straitjacket...PES Electro Stim...Spreader bar...Vibrator...Armbinders...Mittens...Vacuum pump...

I imagine them all sitting on that shelf, the words I read over and over and over again now materialized in front of me without any warning, their elusive forms veiled only by the blanket of a winter night.

For the first time in my life, I'm genuinely happy it's dark.

I feel like I'm watching a movie, lost in a second, less talked about twilight zone, and another sizable chunk of my lifespan is spent on having a silent, internal meltdown.

If I could take a guess, I'd say about thirty minutes.

No, more like forty.

Or maybe it's only fifteen?

Shit. I don't know.

I have no way of knowing—aside from this stupid thing I'm chained to, and its way of telling time isn't exactly helpful. Certainly not to me.

I knew from the beginning that I signed a deal with the devil and, thus, couldn't expect anything short of hell from him. But not in a million eons could I have imagined that this is how this night would go. That this is where I would end up.

Jesus. And I thought I was losing my mind before.

To think that, just hours ago, I was in the safety of my bedroom, freaking out over whether I'd suck at sex. It seems absolutely ludicrous now, positively laughable considering that fucking me seemed to be the last thing on Frost's mind tonight. Fucking me over, however, was clearly at the top of his to-do list.

The silence around me rolls on, like an invisible companion to the unmeasured time. It becomes more and more deafening, overbearing, like an entity in itself, looming over me, taunting me with its presence, and only enhances the tsunami of emotions coursing through me; emotions brought on by the objects peering at me through the darkness.

Suddenly, my voice cracks in spite of myself, the strained, unfamiliar sound echoing in the quiet room, disrupting the false sense of calm I've managed to grasp until now. The initial shock wears off, the surprise-factor and novelty of being forced to literally face what Frost clearly has in store for me dissipating—along with what's left of my sanity.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god...

I whimper behind the gag, exhaling harshly, unable to voice the true extent of terror rippling inside me. I'm blindsided by my own fear, the ever-present emotion suddenly coming down on me like an avalanche, taking firm hold of every last fiber of my being. I'm a hostage; both physically and inside my own body. I can't even—

Mechanical croaking erupts out of nowhere, drowning out my racing thoughts and strained, speedy breaths. It pops up so suddenly, more jarring than the two times it came before. I try to steel my feet on the cold floor, but my reflexes kick in too late. The contraption pulls my arms clockwise once again, the rotation enough to finally displace me.

My knees buckle underneath me like plastic toys, caving under the invisible force, my feet stumbling as I lose my balance for the first time.

An involuntary squeal tears itself out of me at the loss of stability and resulting strain on my arms. I groan around the ball gag, my eyes slamming shut as I wince in pain.

The device halts soon after, as does its accompanying croak. I look down, seeing both my feet inches away from where they're supposed to be.

Instinctively, my eyes shoot up, darting around the room frantically, in search of one thing:

Cameras.

The action is futile given the lack of light, but even without visible evidence of it, I know he's watching.

He must be.

Fuck.

He knows.

Intentional or not, he knows that I took my feet off the numbers. He'll walk through that door any second now and—

Every single thought I have disintegrates in an instant, vanishing into thin air. A muffled scream erupts inside me, reverberating in my chest, trapped with no way to escape. Sharp, concentrated zaps shoot up both my feet out of nowhere, literally jolting me into another stratosphere and leaving me with the most unpleasant, unexpected sensation.

Shock.

An electric shock.

Oh...oh, my god...this isn't happening...

***

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