The Real Zoe Nightshade part 7
k," she breathed against his hipbone. Each pass felt like a fuse being lit—anticipation coiled tighter than the rope biting his wrists. Three minutes crawled by, measured in ragged breaths and the soft *shush* of leather kissing flesh. Then she paused behind him, her stillness somehow louder than her movement.
"I think I’ll keep you in the dark," she decided abruptly, her voice bright with predatory glee.
“It’s *so* much more fun when you're blind. You’re much more helpless."
Zon abruptly through the artinet backward and knelt down, her fingers hooking into the elastic cuff of Wiŋyanpata’s white cotton sock. She peeled it down his ankle with deliberate slowness—a torturer removing a glove—letting the damp fabric pool around his heel before flicking it off entirely. The basement air kissed his bare foot, cold and damp as river stones. She repeated the motion with the other sock, gathering both in her palm like crumpled handkerchiefs. He tensed, the rope biting deeper into his wrists as she stood behind him.
"Relax, tiger," she murmured, her breath warm against his nape.
"This won’t hurt."
The lie slithered through the dark. She folded one sock lengthwise into a thick band, its cotton weave stretching taut between her hands. Before he could flinch, she pressed the fabric firmly over his eyes—a sudden eclipse—and knotted it tightly at the back of his skull. The world vanished into scratchy, sweat-scented darkness. The second sock followed instantly, wrapped twice around the blindfold’s knot and cinched brutally tight with a sailor’s hitch. The pressure dug into his occipital bone, anchoring blindness with industrial certainty.
Her palms slid over his shoulders—cold, deliberate—as she leaned close. Her lips brushed his ear, barely touching skin.
"Your body is my instrument," she whispered, each syllable crisp as a piano hammer striking wire, "and I’m going to make lovely tunes with it."
The promise hung suspended. He felt her her hands lift off his shoulders, then heard her feet sliding backwards across the carpet. Then came the sound: a low, deliberate *shhhhhh*—like sandpaper dragged over velvet—as she slid the martinet’s wooden handle across the plush carpet. The sound crawled up his spine, amplified tenfold by blindness. One step. Pause. Another step. Closer. The air thickened with bergamot perfume and her predatory stillness. He braced, muscles locking, anticipating the tails’ bite against his nape—the familiar sting. Instead, he heard the faint *whoosh* of leather slicing air, a quick circle overhead—then blinding agony detonated between his legs. The martinet’s tails coiled around his penis and testicles like electrified barbed wire, squeezing, burning. A raw, guttural squeal tore from his throat—less human, more hog pinned for slaughter—echoing off concrete walls.
Three seconds of silence stretched into eternity. Then—*CRACK!*—a direct lash across the front of his genitals. He felt her step forward, the displaced air brushing his knees before the blow landed. His scream hadn’t faded before the next strike came—one second later—another vicious snap against the same tortured flesh. *CRACK!* A pause—four seconds—then *CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!*—six seconds, seven seconds, eight seconds, two seconds, five seconds—each impact a lightning bolt to his groin. After the twentieth lash, he choked out, "Stop! Feels like—like tasers on my nuts!" She ignored him, the tails already whistling toward his shoulders. Methodically, relentlessly, she painted his body in fire: neck-knobs, kneecaps, armpit hollows, lower back ridges, shoulder blades, buttocks still tender from her hand—each zone received twenty precise, measured blows. When she reached his feet, she hooked her fingers beneath his arches, lifting them clear of the floor to whip soles and toes—top and bottom—the tails biting between digits with clinical cruelty. Then Zon returned to his genitals, starting the routine over again.
Wiŋyanpata strained against the ropes suspending him from the pipe—frantic, jerking motions that only tightened the knots. His wrists burned raw; his shoulders screamed. He tried kicking backward—a blind, desperate lunge—but she sidestepped easily, the martinet whistling down onto his inner thigh instead.
"Fuck!" he gasped, the word cracking into a sob. The agony radiated outward—a pulsing, molten ache deep in his pelvis—making him dizzy. He slumped forward, trembling violently, breath hitching in wet, shallow gulps. He couldn’t free himself. He couldn’t even lift his head. The blindfold absorbed his tears.
Zon abruptly ceased her assault. The martinet clattered softly onto the plush silver carpet behind him. Then her arms encircled his waist—a sudden, possessive clasp—her breasts pressing against his sweat-slicked back. Her lips brushed his ear, her voice a low, silken murmur
"You’re not going anywhere, handsome. Your body is all mine."
Her grip tightened, fingers digging into his hips.
"You’re gonna stay right here until I’m done marking it. Know what time I’ll be finished?"
She paused, letting her breath ghost over his earlobe.
"When every inch of you looks like a plum—purple and swollen."
Zon’s declaration hung in the damp air as she resumed her measured rhythm. The martinet’s tails whispered through darkness—*shhhh-CRACK*—finding Wiŋyanpata’s left flank precisely where she’d left off.
Her pauses weren’t mercy, they were strategy. If she continually and vigorously punished him, say one lash every second or several lashes a second, and did this for a long time, both of them could suffer, severe dehydration. By whipping him and then giving him breaks that would last a number of seconds, she could continue indefinitely. The maximum amount of seconds she gave him as a reprieve was 20.
Zon kept at it for twenty-five minutes exactly, her martinet tails kissing every inch of exposed skin except his face—she prized that pretty visage too much to bruise it. By the fifteen-minute mark, Wiŋyanpata’s body had surrendered completely. His knees buckled into a permanent, trembling crouch, held upright only by the ropes digging into his wrists and the occasional sharp correction from her tails. He hung limp as wet laundry, his whimpers thin and constant—a high-pitched drone beneath each *CRACK*—no longer capable of screams or struggles, just the animal sound of enduring pain.
The martinet clattered onto the silver carpet behind him—a soft thud that echoed louder than any whip-crack in the sudden silence. Zon stepped close, her bare feet brushing his toes. She didn’t speak. Instead, she pressed her cheek against the nape of his neck—a slow, deliberate slide downward. Her skin was cool silk against his welted shoulders, her nose tracing the ridge of his spine like a cartographer mapping ruin. Down she moved, inch by inch: her jawbone grazing the swell of his left buttock, her lips dragging over the livid spider-palm bruise there, her forehead pressing into the hollow behind his knee. She lingered at his calves, rubbing her face side-to-side against the knotted muscle, then descended to his ankles, the arches of his feet, finally nuzzling her chin between his toes. Sixty seconds passed. She reversed course—cheekbone skating up his inner thigh, temple resting against his scrotum—a blasphemous benediction—before ascending his belly, ribs, collarbones. Two full minutes of this silent, invasive pilgrimage. When her face lifted from his throat, she exhaled sharply.
"God, you’re *furnace*-hot, baby," she murmured, her thumb swiping sweat from his lip. "Gotta cool that down." Her footsteps retreated—quick, efficient—up the basement stairs.
The silence felt heavier than the ropes. Wiŋyanpata heard the distant *whir* of her refrigerator’s ice dispenser, a mechanical counterpoint to his ragged breathing. Minutes later, she returned, carrying a dark blue plastic bucket in her right hand, its contents rattling like broken glass. In her left hand, Zon held a pair of silver steak tongs.
She placed the bucket directly beneath his suspended torso—close enough that the cold air radiating from the ice numbed his toes. With surgical precision, she clamped a single ice cube between the tongs’ teeth. The first touch—a sharp, crystalline kiss against his left shoulder blade—made him gasp. She traced slow, deliberate circles over the welted skin, the ice melting instantly into rivulets that snaked down his ribs. Each pass felt like acid and anesthesia combined—the initial shock of cold followed by a deeper, marrow-deep ache. He whimpered, the sound thin and involuntary.
"Louder," Zon commanded softly, selecting another ice cube once once the first had dissolved. She pressed this one directly onto the swollen bruise blooming across his hipbone, holding it there until the cold burned like fire. His sharp intake of breath—a ragged, wet sob—made her hum with satisfaction. She moved systematically: kneecaps, inner elbows, the tender skin behind his ears. Every flinch, every choked cry, every tremor that racked his frame was meticulously cataloged. His misery wasn’t just sound—it was texture, rhythm, a symphony conducted by her tongs. The ice cube grazing his scrotum elicited a guttural, animal groan that vibrated through her fingertips; she lingered there, savoring the discordant note.
Then she paused, tongs hovering above the bucket. A slow, predatory smile spread across her face—not at his pain, but at the wicked geometry of his suspended body. Dropping the tongs on the carpet, she braced her left knee firmly against the small of his back. Her right hand slid between his thighs, fingers digging into the crease of his right buttock. With brutal efficiency, she leveraged her knee backward while wrenching her hand outward—spreading him wide. The cold air hit his exposed anus like a physical slap. He gasped, intense, wondering what she had in mind.
Zon snatched the tongs back up, plunged them into the ice slurry, and clamped onto a jagged shard nearly the size of a plum pit. Without hesitation, she pressed the freezing mass directly against his puckered entrance. He stiffened—a choked whimper escaping—as she twisted the tongs clockwise, grinding the ice deeper with relentless pressure. With a brutal shove, she forced it past the sphincter’s resistance. The frozen intrusion burned like dry ice shoved into raw meat, a cold so profound it seared nerve endings. He screamed—a raw, tearing sound halfway between a cat’s screech and a pig’s slaughterhouse squeal—arching violently against the ropes suspending him. Zon threw her head back and laughed, a bright, crystalline peal that bounced off the damp concrete walls; she doubled over, clutching her stomach, tears of genuine mirth streaking her cheeks. “Oh, *tiger*,” she gasped between giggles, “you sound like a rusty hinge on hell’s back door!”
She withdrew the tongs, leaving the ice cube wedged deep inside him. Almost immediately, his body convulsed—a violent, involuntary spasm—as his rectum clenched, trying desperately to expel the freezing invader. Zon saw the telltale tightening ripple across his buttocks.
"Oh no you don’t,” she murmured, amusement sharpening to focus. She knew the tongs’ metal teeth could shred delicate tissue if she tried to clamp the slippery, melting cube. So she turned them upside down and shoved the black rubber-covered handle straight into him instead—a blunt piston ramming the ice deeper. The ice shifted, scraping against raw nerves. Wiŋyanpata screamed again, louder this time—a ragged, tearing sound that echoed off the pipes—his entire body straining against the ropes until they creaked. The ice wasn't just cold; it burned with a paradoxical agony, like dry ice pressed against sunburn. Inside him, it dissolved slowly, flooding his core with glacial water that felt like liquid nitrogen seeping into his bloodstream, which only increased the volume of his yelling.
Zon waited patiently until the cube melted entirely—about 30 seconds of Wiŋyanpata’s tortured tremors—before withdrawing the handle. His rectum clenched instantly around emptiness, spasming like a fist around smoke. She dipped the tongs back into the ice slurry, selecting a smaller cube this time, and traced it deliberately along his spine’s ladder of welts. The cold bit deep, pulling another choked sob from him. Cube after cube followed: dragged slowly over the purple map of his buttocks, pressed hard against the bruise blooming on his thigh, rolled teasingly across his nipples until they stood pebble-hard. Each touch was a fresh betrayal—ice kissing agony—and he shuddered violently whenever she neared his groin. She paused with seven cubes left, tongs hovering above the bucket.
"Seven’s lucky," she mused aloud, tapping metal against plastic. "Feels wasteful not to share."
He froze at the sound of her shifting behind him—the whisper of stockinged knees sinking onto carpet. Her fingers hooked into the crease of his buttocks again, spreading him wide.
"No! Please—not again!" he begged, voice shredded raw.
"It burns like acid!" Zon ignored him, clamping the first cube firmly. With practiced efficiency, she shoved it past his clenching resistance, followed immediately by the rubber handle ramming it deeper. His scream fractured into wet, hacking coughs.
Thirty seconds crawled by—measured in convulsions and melting ice—before she withdrew the handle. His rectum pulsed around emptiness, spasming violently.
Cube two followed instantly: clamped, shoved, rammed deep. His scream dissolved into a wet gurgle—throat raw as butchered meat—as the glacial burn spread through his pelvis.
"Shhh,"Zon murmured, not soothing but commanding silence.
"Save your voice."
Cube three—smaller, sharper—she pressed deliberately against his prostate before forcing it inward. A strangled yelp escaped him; his hips jerked uncontrollably.
"Hold still," Zon commanded, ramming the handle deeper until his scream dissolved into choked hiccups. She counted seconds softly: "Thirty... twenty-nine..." Her breath warmed his lower back as she monitored the spasms rippling through him. When she finished the countdown, Zon withdrew the handle, leaving the ice melting against raw nerves.
She shifted closer, her lips grazing his earlobe—a parody of intimacy.
“Only four more to go," she whispered, the words crisp as cracking ice. His head snapped toward her voice instinctively, blindfolded eyes wide beneath the sock-gag. He shook his head violently—a frantic, silent *no*—but she just chuckled, thumb tracing the tear-slick fabric over his cheekbone.
"Look at you," she murmured, utterly unmoved by his begging face. "All that gorgeous despair."
Cube four she plunged deep with surgical precision.
The ice daggered into him—a glacial scalpel carving through sphincter muscle, rectal lining, fat deposits—before lodging against his prostate. Wiŋyanpata’s scream tore out wet and ragged, a sound like torn canvas. His hips bucked wildly against the ropes, tendons straining like frayed cables. Zon leaned into the rubber handle, grinding the freezing mass deeper until his convulsions dissolved into shallow, hiccuping gasps. Once more counted thirty seconds aloud—each number crisp as a whip-crack—her breath warming the sweat-slicked hollow above his tailbone.
Cube five she pressed against his perineum first—a slow, deliberate burn—before ramming it home. His choked sob dissolved into a whimper
"Still with me, tiger?" She asked.
Silence. Only the drip-drip-drip of meltwater pooling beneath him. She slapped his thigh—hard—the welted flesh stinging under her palm.
“Answer." A ragged gasp.
"Y-yes."
"Good."
Cube six followed—smallest yet, sharp as flint—shoved deep without ceremony. His hips jerked like a marionette's.
"Thirty seconds, twenty-nine seconds," she murmured, counting aloud while tracing the handle's rubber grip against his trembling thigh. Cube seven—the final icy invader—was shaped like a Swiss roll: cylindrical, ridged, larger than the others. Zon clamped it firmly with her tongs, pressing its frozen geometry against his entrance. "Last one, tiger," she whispered, her breath ghosting over his sweat-slicked spine. "Make it sing." With brutal efficiency, she rammed it home, grinding the ridges deep into raw tissue.
He let out a moan that sounded like a ghostly wail—a long, hollow exhalation stripped of hope or protest. It hung in the damp air like cathedral incense, echoing off the pipes before dissolving into silence. His body went limp, suspended only by the ropes now, every muscle slack. Not exhaustion, but surrender. Beneath him, meltwater dripped steadily onto the carpet—*plink-plink-plink*—mocking his stillness.
Zon slid the martinet handle’s wooden grip between the rope knots cinched above Wiŋyanpata’s wrists—a lever against hemp—and twisted hard. The sailor’s hitch groaned, slackening just enough for her to jam the silver steak tongs into the gap. She pried sideways, metal teeth scraping wood, until the knot surrendered with a fibrous *pop*. The ropes slithered off his wrists like dead snakes. He crumpled instantly—a boneless collapse toward carpet—but she caught him under the armpits, her biceps straining against his deadweight. Everywhere her fingers pressed into his welted skin—shoulders, ribs, hips—he hissed like steam escaping a kettle, the sound sharp and involuntary. She pivoted, hauled one of his limp arms across her shoulders, and began dragging him toward the stairs. His bare feet scraped across carpet, then met the first marble step with a meaty slap. A guttural groan tore loose as his soles hit cold stone—*uhn-uhn-uhn*—deepening with each upward jolt against her hip.
She dumped him onto the living room’s hello Kitty carpet—a grotesque splash of pink against his welt-purpled skin—and flicked the ceiling fan switch. Blades whirred to life overhead, stirring the scent of sweat and melted ice into lazy spirals. He lay motionless, face pressed to shag pile, breath shallow as creek water over stones. Zon nudged The area it separated his thigh from his buttocks with her big toe, causing him to whimper as it pressed down on several overlapping, pink stripes.
"One hour," she announced, her voice crisp as snapping celery.
"Just like day one."
Her shadow fell across him as she leaned down, fingers tracing the rope burns circling his wrists. "Rest well, tiger."
She straightened and and stretched her body in a slight arch.
“Because when I get back?"
Her smile widened, predatory and bright.
"I’m fucking your brains out, on your cock and up your ass!”
"I think I’ll keep you in the dark," she decided abruptly, her voice bright with predatory glee.
“It’s *so* much more fun when you're blind. You’re much more helpless."
Zon abruptly through the artinet backward and knelt down, her fingers hooking into the elastic cuff of Wiŋyanpata’s white cotton sock. She peeled it down his ankle with deliberate slowness—a torturer removing a glove—letting the damp fabric pool around his heel before flicking it off entirely. The basement air kissed his bare foot, cold and damp as river stones. She repeated the motion with the other sock, gathering both in her palm like crumpled handkerchiefs. He tensed, the rope biting deeper into his wrists as she stood behind him.
"Relax, tiger," she murmured, her breath warm against his nape.
"This won’t hurt."
The lie slithered through the dark. She folded one sock lengthwise into a thick band, its cotton weave stretching taut between her hands. Before he could flinch, she pressed the fabric firmly over his eyes—a sudden eclipse—and knotted it tightly at the back of his skull. The world vanished into scratchy, sweat-scented darkness. The second sock followed instantly, wrapped twice around the blindfold’s knot and cinched brutally tight with a sailor’s hitch. The pressure dug into his occipital bone, anchoring blindness with industrial certainty.
Her palms slid over his shoulders—cold, deliberate—as she leaned close. Her lips brushed his ear, barely touching skin.
"Your body is my instrument," she whispered, each syllable crisp as a piano hammer striking wire, "and I’m going to make lovely tunes with it."
The promise hung suspended. He felt her her hands lift off his shoulders, then heard her feet sliding backwards across the carpet. Then came the sound: a low, deliberate *shhhhhh*—like sandpaper dragged over velvet—as she slid the martinet’s wooden handle across the plush carpet. The sound crawled up his spine, amplified tenfold by blindness. One step. Pause. Another step. Closer. The air thickened with bergamot perfume and her predatory stillness. He braced, muscles locking, anticipating the tails’ bite against his nape—the familiar sting. Instead, he heard the faint *whoosh* of leather slicing air, a quick circle overhead—then blinding agony detonated between his legs. The martinet’s tails coiled around his penis and testicles like electrified barbed wire, squeezing, burning. A raw, guttural squeal tore from his throat—less human, more hog pinned for slaughter—echoing off concrete walls.
Three seconds of silence stretched into eternity. Then—*CRACK!*—a direct lash across the front of his genitals. He felt her step forward, the displaced air brushing his knees before the blow landed. His scream hadn’t faded before the next strike came—one second later—another vicious snap against the same tortured flesh. *CRACK!* A pause—four seconds—then *CRACK!* *CRACK!* *CRACK!*—six seconds, seven seconds, eight seconds, two seconds, five seconds—each impact a lightning bolt to his groin. After the twentieth lash, he choked out, "Stop! Feels like—like tasers on my nuts!" She ignored him, the tails already whistling toward his shoulders. Methodically, relentlessly, she painted his body in fire: neck-knobs, kneecaps, armpit hollows, lower back ridges, shoulder blades, buttocks still tender from her hand—each zone received twenty precise, measured blows. When she reached his feet, she hooked her fingers beneath his arches, lifting them clear of the floor to whip soles and toes—top and bottom—the tails biting between digits with clinical cruelty. Then Zon returned to his genitals, starting the routine over again.
Wiŋyanpata strained against the ropes suspending him from the pipe—frantic, jerking motions that only tightened the knots. His wrists burned raw; his shoulders screamed. He tried kicking backward—a blind, desperate lunge—but she sidestepped easily, the martinet whistling down onto his inner thigh instead.
"Fuck!" he gasped, the word cracking into a sob. The agony radiated outward—a pulsing, molten ache deep in his pelvis—making him dizzy. He slumped forward, trembling violently, breath hitching in wet, shallow gulps. He couldn’t free himself. He couldn’t even lift his head. The blindfold absorbed his tears.
Zon abruptly ceased her assault. The martinet clattered softly onto the plush silver carpet behind him. Then her arms encircled his waist—a sudden, possessive clasp—her breasts pressing against his sweat-slicked back. Her lips brushed his ear, her voice a low, silken murmur
"You’re not going anywhere, handsome. Your body is all mine."
Her grip tightened, fingers digging into his hips.
"You’re gonna stay right here until I’m done marking it. Know what time I’ll be finished?"
She paused, letting her breath ghost over his earlobe.
"When every inch of you looks like a plum—purple and swollen."
Zon’s declaration hung in the damp air as she resumed her measured rhythm. The martinet’s tails whispered through darkness—*shhhh-CRACK*—finding Wiŋyanpata’s left flank precisely where she’d left off.
Her pauses weren’t mercy, they were strategy. If she continually and vigorously punished him, say one lash every second or several lashes a second, and did this for a long time, both of them could suffer, severe dehydration. By whipping him and then giving him breaks that would last a number of seconds, she could continue indefinitely. The maximum amount of seconds she gave him as a reprieve was 20.
Zon kept at it for twenty-five minutes exactly, her martinet tails kissing every inch of exposed skin except his face—she prized that pretty visage too much to bruise it. By the fifteen-minute mark, Wiŋyanpata’s body had surrendered completely. His knees buckled into a permanent, trembling crouch, held upright only by the ropes digging into his wrists and the occasional sharp correction from her tails. He hung limp as wet laundry, his whimpers thin and constant—a high-pitched drone beneath each *CRACK*—no longer capable of screams or struggles, just the animal sound of enduring pain.
The martinet clattered onto the silver carpet behind him—a soft thud that echoed louder than any whip-crack in the sudden silence. Zon stepped close, her bare feet brushing his toes. She didn’t speak. Instead, she pressed her cheek against the nape of his neck—a slow, deliberate slide downward. Her skin was cool silk against his welted shoulders, her nose tracing the ridge of his spine like a cartographer mapping ruin. Down she moved, inch by inch: her jawbone grazing the swell of his left buttock, her lips dragging over the livid spider-palm bruise there, her forehead pressing into the hollow behind his knee. She lingered at his calves, rubbing her face side-to-side against the knotted muscle, then descended to his ankles, the arches of his feet, finally nuzzling her chin between his toes. Sixty seconds passed. She reversed course—cheekbone skating up his inner thigh, temple resting against his scrotum—a blasphemous benediction—before ascending his belly, ribs, collarbones. Two full minutes of this silent, invasive pilgrimage. When her face lifted from his throat, she exhaled sharply.
"God, you’re *furnace*-hot, baby," she murmured, her thumb swiping sweat from his lip. "Gotta cool that down." Her footsteps retreated—quick, efficient—up the basement stairs.
The silence felt heavier than the ropes. Wiŋyanpata heard the distant *whir* of her refrigerator’s ice dispenser, a mechanical counterpoint to his ragged breathing. Minutes later, she returned, carrying a dark blue plastic bucket in her right hand, its contents rattling like broken glass. In her left hand, Zon held a pair of silver steak tongs.
She placed the bucket directly beneath his suspended torso—close enough that the cold air radiating from the ice numbed his toes. With surgical precision, she clamped a single ice cube between the tongs’ teeth. The first touch—a sharp, crystalline kiss against his left shoulder blade—made him gasp. She traced slow, deliberate circles over the welted skin, the ice melting instantly into rivulets that snaked down his ribs. Each pass felt like acid and anesthesia combined—the initial shock of cold followed by a deeper, marrow-deep ache. He whimpered, the sound thin and involuntary.
"Louder," Zon commanded softly, selecting another ice cube once once the first had dissolved. She pressed this one directly onto the swollen bruise blooming across his hipbone, holding it there until the cold burned like fire. His sharp intake of breath—a ragged, wet sob—made her hum with satisfaction. She moved systematically: kneecaps, inner elbows, the tender skin behind his ears. Every flinch, every choked cry, every tremor that racked his frame was meticulously cataloged. His misery wasn’t just sound—it was texture, rhythm, a symphony conducted by her tongs. The ice cube grazing his scrotum elicited a guttural, animal groan that vibrated through her fingertips; she lingered there, savoring the discordant note.
Then she paused, tongs hovering above the bucket. A slow, predatory smile spread across her face—not at his pain, but at the wicked geometry of his suspended body. Dropping the tongs on the carpet, she braced her left knee firmly against the small of his back. Her right hand slid between his thighs, fingers digging into the crease of his right buttock. With brutal efficiency, she leveraged her knee backward while wrenching her hand outward—spreading him wide. The cold air hit his exposed anus like a physical slap. He gasped, intense, wondering what she had in mind.
Zon snatched the tongs back up, plunged them into the ice slurry, and clamped onto a jagged shard nearly the size of a plum pit. Without hesitation, she pressed the freezing mass directly against his puckered entrance. He stiffened—a choked whimper escaping—as she twisted the tongs clockwise, grinding the ice deeper with relentless pressure. With a brutal shove, she forced it past the sphincter’s resistance. The frozen intrusion burned like dry ice shoved into raw meat, a cold so profound it seared nerve endings. He screamed—a raw, tearing sound halfway between a cat’s screech and a pig’s slaughterhouse squeal—arching violently against the ropes suspending him. Zon threw her head back and laughed, a bright, crystalline peal that bounced off the damp concrete walls; she doubled over, clutching her stomach, tears of genuine mirth streaking her cheeks. “Oh, *tiger*,” she gasped between giggles, “you sound like a rusty hinge on hell’s back door!”
She withdrew the tongs, leaving the ice cube wedged deep inside him. Almost immediately, his body convulsed—a violent, involuntary spasm—as his rectum clenched, trying desperately to expel the freezing invader. Zon saw the telltale tightening ripple across his buttocks.
"Oh no you don’t,” she murmured, amusement sharpening to focus. She knew the tongs’ metal teeth could shred delicate tissue if she tried to clamp the slippery, melting cube. So she turned them upside down and shoved the black rubber-covered handle straight into him instead—a blunt piston ramming the ice deeper. The ice shifted, scraping against raw nerves. Wiŋyanpata screamed again, louder this time—a ragged, tearing sound that echoed off the pipes—his entire body straining against the ropes until they creaked. The ice wasn't just cold; it burned with a paradoxical agony, like dry ice pressed against sunburn. Inside him, it dissolved slowly, flooding his core with glacial water that felt like liquid nitrogen seeping into his bloodstream, which only increased the volume of his yelling.
Zon waited patiently until the cube melted entirely—about 30 seconds of Wiŋyanpata’s tortured tremors—before withdrawing the handle. His rectum clenched instantly around emptiness, spasming like a fist around smoke. She dipped the tongs back into the ice slurry, selecting a smaller cube this time, and traced it deliberately along his spine’s ladder of welts. The cold bit deep, pulling another choked sob from him. Cube after cube followed: dragged slowly over the purple map of his buttocks, pressed hard against the bruise blooming on his thigh, rolled teasingly across his nipples until they stood pebble-hard. Each touch was a fresh betrayal—ice kissing agony—and he shuddered violently whenever she neared his groin. She paused with seven cubes left, tongs hovering above the bucket.
"Seven’s lucky," she mused aloud, tapping metal against plastic. "Feels wasteful not to share."
He froze at the sound of her shifting behind him—the whisper of stockinged knees sinking onto carpet. Her fingers hooked into the crease of his buttocks again, spreading him wide.
"No! Please—not again!" he begged, voice shredded raw.
"It burns like acid!" Zon ignored him, clamping the first cube firmly. With practiced efficiency, she shoved it past his clenching resistance, followed immediately by the rubber handle ramming it deeper. His scream fractured into wet, hacking coughs.
Thirty seconds crawled by—measured in convulsions and melting ice—before she withdrew the handle. His rectum pulsed around emptiness, spasming violently.
Cube two followed instantly: clamped, shoved, rammed deep. His scream dissolved into a wet gurgle—throat raw as butchered meat—as the glacial burn spread through his pelvis.
"Shhh,"Zon murmured, not soothing but commanding silence.
"Save your voice."
Cube three—smaller, sharper—she pressed deliberately against his prostate before forcing it inward. A strangled yelp escaped him; his hips jerked uncontrollably.
"Hold still," Zon commanded, ramming the handle deeper until his scream dissolved into choked hiccups. She counted seconds softly: "Thirty... twenty-nine..." Her breath warmed his lower back as she monitored the spasms rippling through him. When she finished the countdown, Zon withdrew the handle, leaving the ice melting against raw nerves.
She shifted closer, her lips grazing his earlobe—a parody of intimacy.
“Only four more to go," she whispered, the words crisp as cracking ice. His head snapped toward her voice instinctively, blindfolded eyes wide beneath the sock-gag. He shook his head violently—a frantic, silent *no*—but she just chuckled, thumb tracing the tear-slick fabric over his cheekbone.
"Look at you," she murmured, utterly unmoved by his begging face. "All that gorgeous despair."
Cube four she plunged deep with surgical precision.
The ice daggered into him—a glacial scalpel carving through sphincter muscle, rectal lining, fat deposits—before lodging against his prostate. Wiŋyanpata’s scream tore out wet and ragged, a sound like torn canvas. His hips bucked wildly against the ropes, tendons straining like frayed cables. Zon leaned into the rubber handle, grinding the freezing mass deeper until his convulsions dissolved into shallow, hiccuping gasps. Once more counted thirty seconds aloud—each number crisp as a whip-crack—her breath warming the sweat-slicked hollow above his tailbone.
Cube five she pressed against his perineum first—a slow, deliberate burn—before ramming it home. His choked sob dissolved into a whimper
"Still with me, tiger?" She asked.
Silence. Only the drip-drip-drip of meltwater pooling beneath him. She slapped his thigh—hard—the welted flesh stinging under her palm.
“Answer." A ragged gasp.
"Y-yes."
"Good."
Cube six followed—smallest yet, sharp as flint—shoved deep without ceremony. His hips jerked like a marionette's.
"Thirty seconds, twenty-nine seconds," she murmured, counting aloud while tracing the handle's rubber grip against his trembling thigh. Cube seven—the final icy invader—was shaped like a Swiss roll: cylindrical, ridged, larger than the others. Zon clamped it firmly with her tongs, pressing its frozen geometry against his entrance. "Last one, tiger," she whispered, her breath ghosting over his sweat-slicked spine. "Make it sing." With brutal efficiency, she rammed it home, grinding the ridges deep into raw tissue.
He let out a moan that sounded like a ghostly wail—a long, hollow exhalation stripped of hope or protest. It hung in the damp air like cathedral incense, echoing off the pipes before dissolving into silence. His body went limp, suspended only by the ropes now, every muscle slack. Not exhaustion, but surrender. Beneath him, meltwater dripped steadily onto the carpet—*plink-plink-plink*—mocking his stillness.
Zon slid the martinet handle’s wooden grip between the rope knots cinched above Wiŋyanpata’s wrists—a lever against hemp—and twisted hard. The sailor’s hitch groaned, slackening just enough for her to jam the silver steak tongs into the gap. She pried sideways, metal teeth scraping wood, until the knot surrendered with a fibrous *pop*. The ropes slithered off his wrists like dead snakes. He crumpled instantly—a boneless collapse toward carpet—but she caught him under the armpits, her biceps straining against his deadweight. Everywhere her fingers pressed into his welted skin—shoulders, ribs, hips—he hissed like steam escaping a kettle, the sound sharp and involuntary. She pivoted, hauled one of his limp arms across her shoulders, and began dragging him toward the stairs. His bare feet scraped across carpet, then met the first marble step with a meaty slap. A guttural groan tore loose as his soles hit cold stone—*uhn-uhn-uhn*—deepening with each upward jolt against her hip.
She dumped him onto the living room’s hello Kitty carpet—a grotesque splash of pink against his welt-purpled skin—and flicked the ceiling fan switch. Blades whirred to life overhead, stirring the scent of sweat and melted ice into lazy spirals. He lay motionless, face pressed to shag pile, breath shallow as creek water over stones. Zon nudged The area it separated his thigh from his buttocks with her big toe, causing him to whimper as it pressed down on several overlapping, pink stripes.
"One hour," she announced, her voice crisp as snapping celery.
"Just like day one."
Her shadow fell across him as she leaned down, fingers tracing the rope burns circling his wrists. "Rest well, tiger."
She straightened and and stretched her body in a slight arch.
“Because when I get back?"
Her smile widened, predatory and bright.
"I’m fucking your brains out, on your cock and up your ass!”
31-35, M