William is gone and Sugar cannot help herself; in the new moon’s darkness she slips into Agnes’s bedroom. Lace curtains hang heavy as a threat. Sugar sits in the chair opposite the bed, and though she seemed quite still with slumber, it’s only a moment before Agnes stirs.
“Is it you?”
Sugar grips at the chair, her knuckles hard as the arms’ wood.
“Usually I think it’s Clara. But tonight I knew you’d come. Are you there?”
“Yes,” Sugar says, low. “It’s me. But you mustn’t look.”
“I so long to see you, angel,” Agnes laments; but she stuffs her face into her pillow obediently, and waits.
Sugar goes to her.
She strokes her hair, untangling it carefully and rubbing gently on her temples. The professional in Sugar almost asks how Agnes likes that, but as an otherworldly creature she must be sure of herself. Instead she lets the tiny noises of happiness Agnes makes guide her, and guide Sugar they do, down the tense road of her neck.
Massaging Agnes’s back, arm, and chest, Sugar’s hand brushes over Agnes’s breast, and she notes in passing the hard points of her breasts. Agnes titters at the touch, and reprovingly Sugar touches a finger to Agnes’s dry lips. “Now, now,” Sugar scolds. “Will you be good?”
“I promise.” Agnes nips at Sugar’s finger but doesn’t bite down, as though to illustrate her restraint. “My eyes are closed,” she adds.
“Very well,” says Sugar, and as if they had agreed in advance on such a thing, Agnes rolls from her side to lie flat on her back, her body opening for Sugar.
A moment later, though, she twitches and whines with urgent discomfort and her eyes, though still closed, seem to tighten; Sugar withdraws her hand from between Agnes’s legs. “I’m sorry, darling, I’m sorry,” Sugar soothes her, and adds a curse in her unwritten book for the man whose fingers preceded hers. “I forgot.”
“How can one of you forget?” Agnes would seem sullen if her distress were less raw. As it is, she only sounds plaintive.
“Too many to look after,” Sugar replies, truthful. She knows William would never ever have done this — he never has for her, after all — so this will be safe; she kneels at the foot of the bed, lifts a hem, and kisses gently Agnes’s wounded little cunt.
Agnes’s knee wobbles. “Are you sure?” she asks, as if Sugar were in danger. In answer Sugar’s tongue drags all the way over her slick chasm, lying beneath coarse hair, and then sucks a bit on the swelling flesh between chasm walls, to gratifying results. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Agnes’s legs flail freely, and Sugar laughs into her, tastes juice on her tongue. She delves and digs, repeating those greedy plate-licking passes, and is rewarded by a sharp tug on one of her ringlets. Agnes cries out again louder than before; mouth deep in her quim, Sugar returns to some milder, clit-sucking kisses before she is through, her own nethers warmed by the fond proximity.
“Are your eyes yet closed?” Sugar asks, hidden still in the skirt of Agnes’s nightgown.
Agnes needs long moment before she can answer. “Yes.”
“Good.” Sugar rises, and looks at Agnes with a critical eye. She’s heard of the diet. “Now be patient.”
Agnes doesn’t appear to want for anything just now, and she nods. She doesn’t seem to have moved at all when Sugar returns from her trip downstairs.
“I have a favor to ask.” Sugar readies herself, her recital.
“Anything,” Agnes breathes.
“Angels cannot eat the food of this earth, lest we be trapped here forever. It is therefore the object of our greatest longing and jealousy. Will you eat for me, and tell me how it tastes? I would be so grateful.”
“I— I suppose.” Agnes sits up, and faces away from Sugar. “For you.”
Sugar reaches around her and with a little guidance places a chocolate bonbon in Agnes’s mouth. “Please.”
Half a thoroughly unwholesome meal later, Agnes has lost her shyness in eating and Sugar senses that she must be gone. Agnes won’t be satisfied with not looking for much longer. “Thank you, dear,” Sugar says, taking back the kitchen tray. Agnes contrives to wheedle a longer stay or a brief peek, but can’t prevail; Sugar stands and starts to go.
At the last moment — “And how do I taste, angel?” calls Agnes, the minx, even as Sugar passes through the doorway.
“Like heaven,” Sugar says, and she goes.