"That's it, baby," he continues, his tone almost soothing, despite the filth spilling from his lips. "Take my cock. Take all of it."
Baby.
My belly flutters, my heart soaring like a fool even though I know it's a runaway utterance. A thoughtless spi...
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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.
