Frost is opposingly silent, eerily so, as if nothing has changed. He runs the slapper from my thighs to my torso, and then to my heaving chest. His movements are methodical. Unhurried. His icy eyes hooded with focus and lust. He delicately traces my breasts with the crop, following the swell of my underboob beneath the clamp chain, tugging on it firmer this time. The resulting pinch and pull on my right nipple promptly sends me into another frenzy. I arch my back, impulsively pressing my breasts into the air as though offering them up to the pain even though the action is meant to do the exact opposite. Before I can even form a remotely coherent thought to counteract, a clipped, metallic hiss intersects my cry.
Some strange noise, half whimper, half yelp of shock, bubbles out of my chest. My body tenses like a bowstring, every muscle pulled tight as the Kegel suddenly releases its own scream inside me, the vibrations getting stronger and stronger. I can practically taste my pulse in my temples, a frantic beat that seems to be trying to escape my skull. Yet my heart skips in time with the monitor’s signaling beep that I’m in the danger zone.