Page 11 of The Apples Hung Like Stars
This is everything.
Sheis everything.
Chapter Eight
Clíodhna
If I thought she was in subspace before, it’s nothing to how she is now. I keep on, moving the flogger in a figure of eight pattern that never falters. I’ve enough experience, and it’s never felt as crucial as it does right now.
But then she slumps, her wrists pulling tight in the cuffs and I see that though she doesn’t want me to stop, Janet’s had enough. She’s so far gone that if she needed to safeword, I’m not sure that she could.
I hang the flogger back up, smile at her protesting whimpers, and then kiss down her back, palm her arse, and squeeze—just a tiny bit—to hear another delicious whimper.
“You’re done, kitten,” I say, and even though she says she isn’t, I know better.
I undo her ankle cuffs, knowing that the wrist cuffs will keep her upright for the minute, and then scoop her up, using my free hand to undo the other cuffs.
And when her arms drop and she goes limp against, me I know I’ve made the right decision.
I don’t even look back at the audience as I leave. I can sense their disappointment, but my sister’s in a foul mood, I can tell,and she’ll be more than happy to take it out on one or two of them, for everyone else’s entertainment.
Janet is here for no one else but me.
No, that’s not true.
She’s here for herself.
There are a smattering of rooms off the main play area, and I head for the most luxurious. The one with a bed, for I want to lay out my Janet and feast upon her, and I want to do so in comfort.
She’s still clinging to me when I close the door behind us, and turn on the dim lights. I go to lay her down and she shakes her head and holds on tighter.
“Kitten?”
“Nothing.”
“Janet, are you okay?”
The tiniest, most imperceptible of nods.
“What colour are you?”
“Green,” she manages to whisper, and her voice is hoarse, as if she’s spent hours screaming. I manoeuvre her so that I can sit, hold her, and grab a water bottle from the bedside table. It has a built-in straw, so I don’t have to wrestle with a lid, and I’m able to place it at her lips and order her to drink without much trouble.
She doesn’t do so immediately, so I lower my voice to the threatening growl that I use with my banshee subjects. “If you don’t drink…” I don’t even need to finish the threat because she grabs it and starts drinking right away, gulping water as fast as her mortal body can handle.
She tries to stop, halfway through, but I don’t move the bottle away, keep it there until Janet sighs grumpily and continues drinking.
Once the bottle is empty, and I’ve shaken it to double check, I lean us both back on the bed so that we’re laying down.
“How are you feeling, kitten?” I ask.
“Hungry,” she says, and I’m about to sit up and find where we’ve put the snacks in this room, when she growls herself, an adorable noise. “Not likethat. My queen, Clíodhna, I’mhungry.” And it’s only then that I discern her meaning.
She’s hungry forme.
Good. Because I have been hungering for her since the moment I lay eyes on her, and I intend to eat my fill.
Her gaze has sharpened. She feels less melty and pliable, and more focused directly on me.
