Ringing. Pulsing. The sounds fill my ears in a continuous, dizzying stream, like an explosion went off in my head. And body. I feel as if I’ve been blown into a million bits, yet somehow, as far as I can tell, I’m still in one piece.


The sensation of hot semen coating my insides feels like an out of body experience, the implication—and intimacy—of its presence within my body overwhelming.




It’s as if I’m floating above myself, watching this insane scene play out like a movie on a screen even as countless stars continue to float before my eyes.

My breath hitches as Frost pulls out slowly, exiting my pussy with a final, delicious drag. The drastic drop in pressure is jarring, creating a strange, unwelcome void even though it was damn near impossible to contain. The unbelievable fullness is gone, but the searing heat remains, left behind in a pool of cum that coats my swollen lips and lewdly trickles down my thighs. Viscous. Nasty. Sublime.

My hips jerk back, stupidly trying to chase the feeling as my own juices coat the table before I collapse onto it, my body spent, my mind reeling.

I lie there limp, unable to voluntarily move even as my muscles twitch and spasm without my consent. How is it possible my limbs feel like icicles and week-old ramen at the same damn time? The contrast is jarring, yet somehow fitting for the rampage I just experienced. The room spins around me as I lie there, struggling to catch my breath. And failing. I can feel every inch of my body, every nerve ending tingling with the aftershocks of a violent tug of war.

No. Not a war.

A massacre.

You can prepare for war. You can never anticipate a massacre.

I did not anticipate this.

No one could have.

Except him.

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