Consciousness hits you like a big bag of bricks, bashing into your brittle body so that your limbs are suddenly heavy and unresponsive.

Even as you comprehend, it’s hard to think straight. Frost’s cold eyes continue to stare, all the way into your brain matter, and you can see the calculation in his gaze, the way he’s assessing you. Like he’s capturing your reaction. Weighing your value.

You can do little else but mimic as you watch him retrieve yet another item from his impeccably-organized, seemingly endless archive of tools: this one much larger. You can’t bring yourself to read its label, struggling with the basic task of dragging air into your lungs. He hauls it to the first H framework, standing straight and tall that he rivals it. The moment he brings it up to its bridge, you know you’re in for hell.

Quietly, Frost fastens the gear to the horizontal rod with an expert hand, his face a mask of concentration as he works. It clacks and clangs into place as you continue to observe, transfixed. When he’s done, he tugs a few times to test its security, like a surgeon checking and rechecking his instruments before an operation. He gives it one last, critical look before letting it go.

You watch with your heart in your mouth as it hangs at the center.

A swing.

A sex swing.

Oh…oh, god…

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