My heart slams into my throat, almost choking me. My wrists shake miserably, barely managing to keep my tightly wound upper body from colliding with his dining table.
“Replace the straw with my cock.”
The command embeds itself into my consciousness, reverberating like an endless echo, each repetition amplifying its cruelty. It penetrates my mind like a decadent poison, as if he spoke it several times instead of one. But one is enough.
No. One is too much.
And yet, I feel my pussy clench at air, convulsing around its own emission, as if grasping for the straw that was just in it.
For what I’ve been explicitly tasked to replace it with.
That’s how long it takes to move.
My knee lifts off the table like it’s made of lead, the smooth, cool surface of the polished wood a stark contrast to the tension that grips me. I shuffle backward cautiously, my hands groping behind me for stability on the dining table. The fine grains of the wood under my palms feel exaggerated, every ridge and groove a reminder of the precarious situation I’m in. My knee lifts off the table as I shuffle backward, and I glance over my shoulder tentatively as I crawl backward, carefully avoiding his icy eyes as I climb down from the tabletop. My foot searches cautiously for the floor as I edge backward until my toes touch the ground, sending a jolt of reality up my spine. My foot is still arched as I descend from the table…and onto Frost.