Pull-ups

Okay, let's start. Follow me. We went back up to the gym. He led me to the pull-up bar, made me climb onto a box, handcuffed me to the bar, and then removed the box.

• You're going to do 100 pull-ups. If you fail, I'll punish you.
• But I can only manage 70, Virgil.

He pressed the remote control. My collar triggered a searing electric shock that shot through my neck, making me scream. My muscles contracted violently, my fingers gripping the bar desperately while my feet kicked in the air.

• That'll be 130 for that. Start and count.

My arms were already trembling with the effort, my muscles burning like fire as I desperately tried to pull myself up to the bar. The first pull-up was agony—every fiber of my shoulders screamed under the strain, my fingers slipping slightly on the cold metal.

"One," I gasped, my voice hoarse, as Virgil stood before me, arms crossed, his dark gaze piercing me.

I went back downstairs, trembling. Up to 70 I was okay, but the stretching of my muscles was almost unbearable; 130 would be ****. He approached, and without stepping out of the way, he lifted my bodysuit and took out clamps with small weights, which he placed on my breasts.

The clamps snapped shut on my sensitive nipples with a metallic clang, each weight pulling at my flesh like cruel hooks. I winced, a stifled moan escaping my lips as the pain radiated in burning waves to the pit of my stomach. Virgil coldly adjusted the weights, his fingers lightly brushing my damp skin with calculated indifference.

• This is for a fantasy my ex-girlfriend never wanted to fulfill, and this

he placed 3-kilo weights on my ankles

is to teach you to take our pact seriously.

"One hundred and one," I gasped, my arms burning, the clamps on my breasts tearing tears with every movement. Virgil suddenly struck my thighs with a steel rod—a sharp burn erupted where the flesh was already trembling.

"Stand up, bitch. Your elbows are buckling." His voice cut like the blade he had placed on a bench, "as a precaution."

I clenched my fingers on the bar, the cold metal sticking to my skin. One hundred and ten. A sob.

• Virgil, I can't go on,

He pressed the remote again.

The electric shock ripped across my neck, a white flash of pain running down my spine. My fingers clenched convulsively around the bar, my knuckles whitening with the strain as my arms vibrated like taut strings, the weights on my breasts jiggled grotesquely, amplifying the pain.

"One hundred and eleven," I sobbed, my voice breaking, saliva dripping from my lower lip. The clamps on my breasts tugged at my flesh with every movement, their metallic bites searing.

"Faster," he ordered. "Faster," he ordered. His voice cracked like a whip, and I clenched my teeth, the muscles in my arms burning. My fingers slipped slightly on the bar, sweat making the metal slippery. I pulled with **** ****, my shoulders burning as if they would tear apart.

"One hundred and twelve," I moaned, each syllable wrenched from my ravaged throat.

At 120, I let go of the bar, unable to continue. He placed the cube under my feet and untied me.

• You see, when you're motivated, you push beyond your limits, but you failed.

He handed me a belt with a dildo and an anal plug that closed with a padlock.

• Put this on slowly. I want to see you suffer while putting it in. You'll wear it all the time when we're alone. The dildo and the plug can vibrate and move inside you with the same remote control.

My trembling fingers closed around the belt, the cold, heavy leather against my damp skin. The dildo was glistening, already coated in a gel that accentuated its obscene appearance. I presented the dildo to my vagina, and the plug automatically positioned itself in front of my anus. They were large. I swallowed.

• Virgile, can I go to the bathroom first?