Some strange noise, half whimper, half yelp of shock, bubbles out of your chest. Your body tenses like a bowstring, every muscle pulled tight as the Kegel suddenly releases its own scream inside you, the vibrations getting stronger and stronger. You can practically taste your pulse in your temples, a frantic beat that seems to be trying to escape your skull. Yet your heart skips in time with the monitor’s signaling beep that you’re in the danger zone.

Frost is opposingly silent, eerily so, as if nothing has changed. He runs the slapper from your thighs to your torso, and then to your heaving chest. His movements are methodical. Unhurried. His icy eyes hooded with focus and lust. He delicately traces your breasts with the crop, following the swell of your underboob beneath the clamp chain, tugging on it firmer this time. The resulting pinch and pull on your right nipple promptly sends you into another frenzy. You arch your back, impulsively pressing your breasts into the air as though offering them up to the pain even though the action is meant to do the exact opposite. Before you can even form a remotely coherent thought to counteract, a clipped, metallic hiss intersects your cry.

Hot tears prick at your eyes, shimmering with overwhelm, and you watch, in a heightened cognitive state, as Frost lowers his zipper.

Oh god…

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