“No, no, no,” she chanted, her breathing coming fast and hard. She tried to close her legs, but the kettlebells attached to her ankle cuffs wouldn’t let her, and she tried to scoot backward, but she was already as far back as she could go. She couldn’t stand up because her legs were stretched so far out she couldn’t even plant her feet, and she couldn’t bring her arms down because they were still tethered to the weight rack behind her.

There was no escape.

Big ignored her attempts to get away and struck the other thigh, again coming so close to the juncture of her thighs that one zip-tie caught the edge of her labia, and stars exploded in her head.

He paused, angling his head toward hers. She couldn’t see his face, only the skull mask, impassive and unchanging. She didn’t have a clue what was going through his mind, and that scared her the most.

“Please don’t,” she said again, her chest heaving. Pain was everywhere. In her nipples, where the clamps still held them tight and every breath bought fresh hurt. In the welts across her breasts, her arms, her thighs. In her shoulders and arms from being stretched out, in her hips from her legs being spread. There was so much of it that it was hard to concentrate on any one area, but she knew without a doubt that all of it would fade like yesterday’s lip gloss if he slapped her pussy with those zip ties.

“Please don’t, what?” Big asked. His voice was muffled by the mask, but the slow, southern drawl—and the threat—came through loud and clear. He dropped his hand to softly drag the fistful of plastic across her lower belly. The ends brushed over the top of her mound, a tickling tease, and she flinched.

“Please don’t hit my pussy,” she managed.

“Tell me what I want to know,” he countered, and dragged the fistful of ties lower.

She bit her lip to hold back a cry of pleasure, and of despair. She was so wet, so swollen, that the faint scratch of plastic felt like a lightning bolt. The ties bumped over her clit, a dozen tiny flicks, and she was so sensitive that each one felt like a hammer blow. She wanted to come so badly she could taste it, but oh God, she didn’t want him to hit her pussy with those instruments of torture.

If she told them where the nonexistent, totally made-up diamonds were, everything would stop. No zip-tie pussy whip, but also, no orgasm. Sure, she could give herself one, and no doubt Cade would jump her bones later, but the rest of the game would go away.

But if she didn’t tell them where the not-real-diamonds were, the game would go on. And she would absolutely get her pussy whipped by zip ties.