Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Four

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Twenty-three.

Twenty-four.

Twenty-five...

For the first time since this damned "ritual" in the name of punishment began, I've been forced into starting a ritual of my own; counting up to the next rotation of the make-shift clock.

Seventy-one minutes times sixty seconds.

Four thousand, two hundred and sixty.

That's the number that separates me from my next play-date with Satan's toy—or my potential victory over it if I play my cards right, paltry as they may be.

Forty-two.

Forty-three.

Forty-four.

Forty-five.

Forty-six.

Forty-seven...

I'm surprised I can even manage basic math with a brain as fried as mine—thanks, in no small part, to the last electrocution that bastard, Frost, "blessed" me with. Hell, it's nothing short of a miracle I still remember how to count. But fried or not, I just hope I have a brain at all by the end of this abysmal night.

Why I didn't do this before, I have no idea, but after the last round of getting zapped, I sure as hell don't need any further incentive to keep track of when the next one will come—only so that I can avoid it like the fucking plague.

Only, it's much worse than the plague—to me, at least.

Seventy-four.

Seventy-five.

Seventy-six.

Seventy-seven.

Seventy-eight...

Desperation is a funny thing.

A powerful thing.

A scary thing.

It seems I've been feeling a lot of that emotion recently. It's been one of the few, constant entities in my life these last few weeks.

One hundred and twenty-six.

One hundred and twenty-seven.

One hundred and twenty-eight.

One hundred and twenty-nine.

One hundred and thirty.

One hundred and thirty-one...

You'll do all sorts of things when you're desperate; things you never thought you would.

Things you genuinely thought you couldn't.

Were incapable of.

Above.

You'll become willing to.

Even when you hate it with every fiber of your being.

Even when it costs you your soul.

That's what literally landed me in this position—on so many levels.

Five hundred and four.

Five hundred and five.

Five hundred and six.

Five hundred and seven.

Five hundred and eight...

Desperation over money.

Desperation over my grandmother.

Desperation over my future.

Desperation over taking a fucking piss.

Nine hundred and seventeen.

Nine hundred and eighteen.

Nine hundred and nineteen.

Nine hundred and twenty.

Nine hundred and twenty-one...

I'm really not sure if I should laugh or cry.

Sigh.

I'm tempted to do the former, only so I don't end up erupting into a tsunami of wails, tears and snot bubbles, and then spiraling into a bottomless pit of insanity with nothing but raw wrists, bruised skin, and blistered toes to show for it.

One thousand, six hundred and sixty-two.

One thousand, six hundred and sixty-three.

One thousand, six hundred and sixty-four.

One thousand, six hundred and sixty-five.

One thousand, six hundred and sixty-six—

An almost violent shiver rips through me all of a sudden, and I feel simultaneously cold and hot, the temperature in the room seeming to drop exponentially with each passing hour, pushing me deeper and deeper into this winter night that seems to have no end. But the tension in my body is generating heat from every inch of muscle and bone in me, fanning out all over my skin in a strange, prominent buzz.

The large, wet streaks on my legs from pissing myself have all but dried up, but even with them spread apart, I can still feel the sticky sensation at the juncture between my thighs; evidence that, unlike the rest of my lower body, warm fluid is still very much present there, amplified by the cool air that continuously grazes it.

Like a cruel cue, the memory of what happened downstairs floods my mind—the memory of what Frost did to me.

Honestly, I still can't believe it happened. Well, at least a part of me can't, and I hadn't been able to process it when it did. There's no way I could have. It was all so sudden, so abrupt and unexpected that it almost felt like a dream in the moment—or nightmare, I'm not sure which. Plus, I was so caught up in all my immediate feelings; how overwhelming the raw pressure of his fingers felt against my naked flesh, how an army of bees buzzed uncontrollably in my groin in spite of the fear and shock that was coursing through me, how his rough, firm strokes elicited a myriad of sensations in my core that I wish I could confidently classify as bad instead of conflicting.

But now, in the still, eerie quietness of the room with no sounds to distract me and the darkness subduing my sense of sight, I suddenly have no choice but to contend with the memory, even though it's the very last thing I want to think about.

Against my will, I practically relive it all over again, my body humming from the intensity of the recollection; the feel of his long, thick fingers spreading me open, sliding inside me without a lick of restraint or hesitation, filling me in a way I didn't expect, in a way that spawns a thousand emotions that all clash with each other.

His invasion was only enhanced by his speed and precision, a sense of control and power that I can't even begin to describe.

I bite into the gag impulsively, inhaling sharply against how strong he'd been, how unapologetic, easily stroking my insides, pumping me hard, rubbing against my folds intently even when my own fingers dug into his wrist, begging him to stop.

Begging him to keep going...

No! That's not true. I didn't want him to touch me like that.

And yet, you were going to come...

Stop it!

I think the unending silence is finally getting to me; another addition to the list of things that are, quite literally, testing my sanity tonight. And it's working.

But I have to get a grip. Going to war with myself over things I have no control over isn't going to help me in the slightest. In fact, it's bound to ensure my demise.

Almost instinctively, I ball my fists above my head, the simple, physical action the only thing I can do to stay somewhat centered in the midst of all this madness, the only thing I have a say in, it seems.

Still...it's just too much. It's all far too vivid, too confusing, too chaotic, and my unforgettable "dinner" with Frost continues to blaze through my mind, the image of his hand disappearing beneath my jeans replaying in my head again and again like a broken record tossed straight from hell. I try to will it away, struggling to replace it with thoughts of something boring, of anything that isn't connected to tonight and the ominous man at its center.

But no can do.

As much as I try to block it, as hard as I focus, it won't go away. It won't disappear; the memory of his fingers coated with me, with my essence, the motion of him sliding those fingers into his mouth, grinning around them, his eyes ablaze with lust, their iciness ripping through every bone that holds me together. That particular image hits me like a boulder to the face, the unwelcome reminder hijacking my brain, gripping me like a vice, and eliciting inappropriate, delicious sensations down below all over again.

I will it to stop. All of it. But my mind won't listen. And neither will my treacherous body.

I have to resist the urge to bring my legs close together when I feel viscous fluid suddenly gush out of me, nothing subtle or inconspicuous about its emergence. The collision of liquid and custom flooring produces a subtle, wet plop that makes my entire face burn uncontrollably, the lewd sound far more noticeable than it would be if it wasn't so damn quiet.

Air leaves me as though it's made of cement, my nostrils flaring as I exhale harshly around the ball gag. Copious amounts of saliva exit the sides of my mouth, sliding down my chin in a gross, sloppy descent. The sensation is...utterly humbling, if nothing else.

Impulsively, I wipe my chin against my shoulder, the battered fabric of what used to be my T-shirt serving a new purpose as my make-shift bib, relieving me of some of the icky dribble. I'm not sure which to feel more ashamed of; the uncontrollable flow from my mouth or my vagina, both openings powerless to hold on to their respective contents.

My groin tingles furiously, unusual, sharp twinges spreading throughout my lower belly that I can only chalk up to the aftermath of Frost spanking my pussy to within an inch of its life with his stupid crop. I can't believe the sheer nerve of that motherfucker; that he had the audacity to do something so...so unhinged. So disrespectful. So callous and unfathomable when—

The largest army of goosebumps scatters all over my back, cutting my aggravated stream of thoughts short when I don't anticipate—and consequently can't stop—another thick accumulation of discharge that, quite literally, runs out of me. My eyes bulge at the jarring sensation of slick, abundant mucus exiting my body, and I watch in utter mortification as the clear, wet mass lands between my feet, this time hitting the floor in a distinct, audible splatter, slightly visible under the shadows of my criss-crossed legs.

I...I have no words.

If my mouth wasn't already open, my jaw would be on the floor right next to the sight in front of me—

Another cramp hijacks my already incapacitated leg, stealing my attention and forcing a groan out of me.

"Ugnh! Hanh ogh ah gih!" I curse, the incoherent words directed at both the numbing pain and my short limbs. I silently lament their relative stockiness to my upper body, imagining that this would be far less torturous if I didn't have to stretch them so much. Then again, perhaps Frost designed—or, more likely, adjusted—this...this thing with my proportions in mind. Honestly, it probably wouldn't matter either way. Long legs, short legs, wide knee caps, narrow knee caps, bony wrists, sturdy wrists, chubby fingers, skinny fingers—and anything in between, he would find a way to make me miserable, no matter what. That's what devils do. And for nothing other than the sheer heck of it, even though, in his twisted, psychotic mind, he insists this is, somehow, for my benefit.

My eyes flit back to the little puddle underneath me, my focus returning to the unexpected, inexplicable occurrence...and a bloodcurdling realization instantly dawns on me.

Liquid and electricity do not play well together.

The coldest, chilling sensation slithers up my spine and back down again, as if the entire Arctic just got stuffed into every inch of my body. And every last hair on the back of my neck stands at attention, rising instantly—along with my heart rate.

I can't even fathom the idea:

Being electrocuted in your own cum.

***

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