A punctured gasp slips through my lips. Then another. And another. My breaths grow ragged, my nails digging into the palms that house them as I grip the strap handles against my own weight and Frost’s actions, clutching like I’m trying to hold on to my sanity even as I feel it slipping between my clammy fingers.
My eyes follow the crop as it slowly glides over the curve of my outer thigh to trail to the back of my knee, then elevating to my calf and shin, my toes stiffening into points, my feet arching impulsively when he brings the head of the crop to rest on the sole of my right foot. The slow motion under my foot makes it tickle, causing my ass to clench and my pelvis to jerk forward again, throwing off the somewhat consistent hold I’ve briefly managed to gain on the Kegel. Tension ripples through me, warding off the motion under my foot as perspiration gathers on my brow.
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