Page 8 of The Apples Hung Like Stars
“Are you ready, kitten?”
“Yes, Clíodhna,” I say. “Yes, my queen.”
Chapter Six
Clíodhna
Once she’s tethered to the cross, I allow myself a moment to drink in Janet’s body. She’s plump—fat, mortals these days would call her, in a tone of voice that implies that they don’t recognise a bountiful body when they see it. The swell of her hips, her stomach, overflowing as if the universe decided that we could never have enough of her.
She’s made for this, softly braced against the wood, her arse rounded and offered up to me, even without her moving to do so.
Such a beautiful target area.
I caress her backside, dressed in black lace, and I’m momentarily tempted to tear them off her, but the masochist in me—usually silenced—wants to wait a little longer.
I want to earn the right to see her.
Touching someone like this, with gentleness, with reverence, isn’t my usual modus operandi, but I don’t usually want to fuck someone either. I want to fuck them up. But with Janet, I have very different intentions.
She is going to soar.
I turn to where the rack of floggers stands, opposite the cross and run my fingers over the tresses. The tails are different oneach one; some are thuddier, while others have more a bite. Soft suede and even a man-made plastic… Each of them will have a different impact, will fall differently about Janet’s body.
My fingers pause over one of the softer suede floggers. The tails on this are almost buttery, but it has some serious heft to it. This is what’s calling to me. This is what I wish to use.
I take it off the peg and walk back to where Janet is waiting.
She has closed her eyes and I don’t want that, I want her to open her eyes and to take in the adoring gaze of our audience.
“Kitten,” I whisper by her ear, and her head lulls where it is.
“Yes, Clíodhna?” Her voice is breathy, and she’s back floating in subspace, I can tell.
“Open your eyes, my dear.”
She turns her head so it is resting on the pad and then only opens her eyes when she is facing me.
Brown eyes.
Deep brown, like the darkest bark of a tree.
Her eyes remind me of a time when I roamed Éire not in suits, and with a flogger in my hand, but rather atop a horse. Riding through forests, chasing through trees, making mortals dance at my every whim.
The Golden Apple fulfils some of that need, but not all.
I had not realised how much I miss it.
“Yes, my queen?” she whispers, and I told her to call me Clíodhna, but when she speaks like that, her words devotion, I cannot bring myself to resent it.
From her lips, queen sounds magnanimous, kind, merciful. None of them words that would usually be assigned to the Queen of the Banshees. I look out across the club and there are other fae there, some of them my subjects. They stare, eagerly awaiting the entertainment.
I almost change my mind and take her down, but—
“Clíodhna? Are you okay? Do you need to safeword?”
Her concern, even whilst trussed up for me, is touching.
“No, kitten,” I say. “I don’t need to safeword.” I hold out the flogger for her to see, and her eyes go wide. “This is what I wish to use on you.”
