Your knees crumple instantly, unable to support the tremors in your legs around the intense throbbing between them. You slump to the floor, unbound from Frost’s cinch hold yet deprived of release. You watch him adjust his pants as you pant from the floor, shame incinerating every part of you. The contrast between your dispositions is so stark, it feels almost surreal. Frost is collected, zipping himself back up and falling into step without a hitch while you literally can’t even stand. So, you continue to watch in disbelieving, stunned silence save for the panting. You watch him walk over to pick up the crop that must’ve found its way to the floor at some point in the chaos. He returns with it to pull out a timer from his pocket with his other hand, holding it up in front of you. Your mind races, trying to process the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions flooding your consciousness.

His voice cuts through the tension-laden air, a mixture of cold detachment and calculated control. “You hold on for nine minutes,” he states, his eyes piercing into yours. The stopwatch perched between his long fingers glares at you with its menacing glow as if to mimic its handler, its digits etching the duration of your struggle in stark clarity. You look on at the depiction of how long you held onto the “electron” as it continues to hang from the chain still tethered to your clamped nipples. Nine minutes and thirteen seconds stretch before your eyes like an eternity of asking the impossible, each number a summation of both your success and subsequent failure. And then…

“Therefore, your punishment will be nine lashes.”

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