Chapter Text
The pescabivona drops the moment your fingers touch it, releasing its grip on the branch to tumble down into the sparse grass at the bottom of the tree. “Merda,” you hiss, beginning your way back down the ladder. Even though you know the fruit will be thoroughly washed by the siblings working in the kitchen, the fall will have turned half of it into a squishy mess.
“It’s like it can’t wait to be eaten,” a voice says, nearly startling you into losing your footing. You’d thought you were alone out in the orchard. It’s the end of the season, and you’re the only sister who’s been sent into this area to gather the last of the late-ripening fruit. As soon as you’ve ensured that you’re not going to fall the rest of the way to the ground, you look around to see who’s talking to you. There’s no one to be seen anywhere.
You swallow, trying to convince yourself that you’re not going crazy. It’s just a gray, melancholy kind of fall day, and being alone in this is so different from the bustling abbey, you’re imagining things. That’s not all that strange, considering. What was it the voice said, though? It’s like… It said it was like…
“The peach,” the voice says again, and a figure walks around the side of the tree. “It dropped right off the branch the second you touched it. Like it was begging to be used.”
You stare, then realize you’re staring and feel the heat rush to your face. And then you stare again, because you simply can’t help it. It’s one of the ghouls, that much is clear, but you’ve never seen any of them without their masks before. This one’s a woman…or a female, at any rate. They look human enough in their performance get-up, but now that you’re face-to-face with one it’s hard to ignore the grayish hue of her skin, the pointed ears, the horns and most especially the tail curling out from behind her to pluck the fallen piece of fruit from the grass.
The ghoul lifts her eyebrows and smiles at you, displaying sharp fangs. “What, see something you like?”
Your blush comes back in force, and you focus on climbing the rest of the way down the ladder so that you have an excuse to at least partially hide your face. On the ground it’s worse, though, because she’s right there at the bottom waiting for you, the peach still cupped in the spade of her tail. She’s taller than you, up close. Taller, stronger, and even more entrancing—dangerous! More dangerous, that’s what you were supposed to think. And she most certainly is dangerous, but if you’re quite honest with yourself that’s exactly what makes her so entrancing. Is that the right word for it, entrancing? Appealing? Yes, but no. Beautiful.
“You’re b…” You’re out of your element, but still smart enough to slam your mouth shut before it can betray you. The ghoulette smirks at you as if she knows exactly what you were going to say, but lets it pass without comment. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, I was watching the clouds,” she says conversationally, transferring the peach from her tail into her hand. “But then you came out and that was more interesting, so I’ve been watching you.”
There’s that blush again. It hasn’t even had a chance to fade, yet somehow it’s back, heating your cheeks. “What could be interesting about me?”
She smiles wide, giving you an even better view of those fangs. “You have no idea.”
“I don’t,” you say, recovering a little sense of self. “That’s why I asked.”
“Oh, sassy!” She flicks her tail excitedly. “See, that’s another thing that’s interesting right there. I wouldn’t have thought you’d have it in you to talk back to me.”
“I wasn’t trying to…” You sigh, uselessly hoping that a sense of frustration will cover your nerves. “Why aren’t you wearing your mask?”
The ghoulette shrugs, putting her attention on the peach now. “Didn’t feel like it. Why’d you swear when this thing threw itself at you?”
The way she’s talking about the fruit is still a little unsettling, but at least the question is straightforward enough. “The impact will have ruined it.”
“What, because of this?” She rotates it in her hand, where you can’t help but notice the lethal-looking claws where there should be fingernails. The peach has split open in several places along one side, leaking juice into her palm—which she unconcernedly lifts to her mouth and licks delicately away. “I like it better this way. Damage makes it taste sweeter.”
“No it doesn’t,” you contradict her boldly, a small part of you hoping she’ll accuse you of talking back again. “It just makes a mess. There’s juice everywhere.”
She passes the peach into her other hand and licks one of her fingers off in a way that’s impossible to construe as anything but sexual. “What’s wrong with making a mess? The peach doesn’t mind. It exists to get ripped apart and enjoyed. It likes it.”
You watch as she takes a bite, arousal stirring inside you over the way her lips follow her fangs, closing around the flesh of the fruit and lingering against the soft fuzz of its skin. Determined to squash any feelings of attraction toward her, you cross your arms defiantly. “What are you, the peach whisperer?”
That entertains her. She throws her head back and laughs delightedly. Then she proceeds to take another lingering bite. A thin trail of juice trickles down from the corner of her mouth over her chin. You fight the impulse to wipe it away. “Sure, that’s me.” she says, and holds the bitten peach out toward you. “Want some?”
Hesitantly, you reach out and take it. She beams at you, watching with apparent interest as you have a taste. The flesh is crushed, but the flavor is just as sweet as any pescabivona. It also leaks juice all over your mouth.
“See?” The ghoulette grins wickedly. “All that juice? That’s how you can tell it likes getting bitten.”
The way she’s eyeing the peach juice on your face, you get the definite feeling that there’s an intended double-entendre. “No, it’s juicy because it hit the ground and got a little crushed.”
Her grin only widens. “Exactly.”
You wipe your face off with the back of your hand. “Well, I’m not a peach. I don’t even know why I took a bite of it. This whole thing feels a little too on-point, don’t you think?”
Her tail grabs the peach back, holding it as she runs her long tongue all the way along the eaten half. “What do you mean?”
“A tree? A woman? A demon? A piece of fruit?” You raise your eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound familiar to you at all?”
“You did not just compare me to a serpent.” Her beautiful features contort with annoyance and she takes a step closer, reminding you how much taller she is than you. She’s also put herself close enough to kiss. Not that you’d want to. She’d probably rip you apart like that peach.
And yes, maybe you’d like a little of that. You’ve always been attracted to power and dominance, and this ghoulette radiates both. You’re just not sure you’d survive the experience.
Something tickles your ankle, and you glance down to see her tail playing with the bottom of your habit. Desire uncoils in you faster than you can think, bringing with it a visceral fantasy of that tail going all the way under the garment and up the bare skin of your legs. You take a deep breath, battling with your base instincts. “I’m…sorry,” you manage to mumble. Your mouth feels very dry despite the lingering peach juice. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”
Her features slide neatly back into a smile. “Are you scared of me, peach?”
“No,” you lie. “And I’m a person, not a peach.”
“Are you sure?” She leans down and in, and you freeze. You’re fairly sure you stop breathing as she runs the tip of her tongue over your lips. “You taste like a peach.”
You try to swallow so that you can speak and fail completely. What she just did has utterly reduced you to a wordless puddle of fear and want. You can feel yourself becoming wet with excitement…just like the way she described the peach. Damn it, she was right. You’re not sure if it really wanted to be used, but at this moment in time you definitely do.
“Besides,” she purrs with her mouth right next to your ear, “even if this was forbidden fruit, you’re a sister of sin, aren’t you? You’re supposed to embrace temptation. And from what I’ve heard, you’re usually very happy to do so.”
You do manage to swallow at last, though your mouth still feels dry and your insides remain a writing mess of desire. “W-who told you that?”
“No one.” She leans back enough that you’re forced to look up to meet her eyes. “And everyone. People talk, I listen.”
After running your tongue over your dry lips, you ask “Then what, exactly, did you hear?” Your voice comes out as nothing more than a whisper.
“I already told you.” Despite the fangs, the smile she gives you now feels different than the others. It’s warm, reassuring, almost hopeful. “That you’re a peach.”
“Oh.” This makes sense now. Over the few years you’ve spent with the church, you suppose you’ve had enough sex to get a reputation as something of a masochist. You can think of at least several people who wouldn’t hesitate to name you as an eager sub. So this gorgeous, dangerous creature in front of you decided she was in the mood to dole out some abuse, did her research, and looked for a moment to catch you alone to tell you that she knows what you are and what you like. “Oh.”
“So?” Her smile is still hopeful, almost…no, there’s no way she’s nervous, what a ridiculous thought. “I’m sure my information was right. I smell the arousal on you. Why are you trying to convince me that you don’t want to be picked, instead of begging to be used?”
Why does she have to keep using words like that? It’s rapidly wearing down your resistance…which is probably exactly why she’s doing it. You don’t blame her. You want to be worn down. Letting out a long, shaky breath, you manage an answer. “I’m not used to people just walking up to me and asking, for one thing.”
“Oh!” She looks genuinely surprised by this. “You humans are so strange somethings. Fun—” That’s definitely a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. “—but strange.”
“That’s…” You run your tongue over your lips again. It’s out of nerves, not an attempt to be seductive, but you notice the way her eyes follow the movement. She’s through playing it cool, apparently. In fact, she looks as though she could go feral any moment. “That’s the other thing. Most of the time when I invite someone to hurt me, they don’t have, you know…claws. And fangs.”
“You think I can’t control myself?!”
Great, now you’ve offended her. “I don’t know,” you protest. “I don’t know anything about you.”
“And the sister who you invited to melt an entire candle over you last March?” She crosses her arms angrily, and the air by your legs stirs as her tail thrashes in displeasure. “You knew all about her?”
“Hey!” You haven’t agreed to anything yet, even if your interest is very piqued, and she’s acting as though you’ve wronged her for asking a question. “For someone who’s all for just popping out of nowhere, propositioning someone, and expecting them to jump at it without asking anything, you obviously went through the trouble to find out quite a lot about me! And no, I didn’t have any deep conversations with Sister Madeline, but I at least knew her name!”
Honestly, you’re a little worried about the consequences of standing up for yourself to a sexy ghoulette, but to your surprise she seems pleased. “Is that all you need?” She grins, takes another bite of the peach, and tosses the remainder over her shoulder. “You can call me Cirrus. At least, for now. If you actually want to play, you’re going to be using mistress. So do you?”
“Do I…?” This is going too fast for you to keep up, but with each thing she says and does you find it more difficult to care about that.
“Do you.” She steps into your personal space again, leaning uncomfortably close, and places the tip of one claw right at the base of your throat. “Want to.” She draws it up in a slow line to your chin, stimulating every nerve she touches without triggering any pain or blood. “Play?”
This really was a foregone conclusion from the moment she surprised you on the ladder, and she knows it. “Yes,” you admit, nearly trembling with the force of your desire to have her touch you more. “Yes, please, I think I do.”
“Think isn’t good enough,” she scolds you, brushing her lips over the side of your neck. “I need a definite yes or no, peach.”
It’s amazing that your brain is managing to function at all, given how horny you’ve become, but a realization still strikes you out of nowhere. “We had that whole tree of knowledge crap backward,” you say slowly, daring for the first time to reach out and touch her arm. “If I’m the peach, I’m pretty sure that makes me the temptation for you.”
“I never said you weren’t,” she purrs, all honesty and sweetness now that it’s clear she’s going to get her way. “Which is it? Yes or no?”
Fuck it. You were never that great at self-preservation anyway, and you are absolutely intoxicated by the thought of what this ghoulette—Cirrus—can do. Will do, oh Satana. “Yes,” you confirm, this time with conviction. “Yesyesyesyesyes. Where do you want to go?”
“Go?” The way she blinks at you is deceptively innocent, because you feel her tail winding around your wrist as she speaks. “Why would we go anywhere?”
You weren’t expecting that! “But, it’s—it’s outdoors—anyone could—”
Cirrus smiles very sweetly. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Because once you say yes to me, I’m not going to tolerate any buts. No protests. Period.”
You’re almost too aroused to breathe, just from the way she says that. You’re going to be a complete mess two minutes into this.
Good.
“Don’t I at least get a safe word?” asks the last remaining ounce of your good sense.
Cirrus tips her head to the side, amused. “If you want one.”
Okay, okay, you need a good word. Easy to remember. But not basic, something good enough for her. “Pescabivona,” you say after a moment of rapid consideration.
Her eyes move to the tree, and she nods in satisfaction. “That’s a lot of syllables.”
“I know,” you gulp.
Her smile widens. “Alright. Pescabivona.”
You smile in relief. “Thank you. Yes. I’m sure.” Recalling her earlier wording, you deliberately add, “Use me. I’m begging you.”
“With pleasure.” Her grip on your wrist tightens, and your heart races. “Now?”
Unholy father, you can’t believe you’re doing this. It feels like a lust-driven fever-dream. “Whenever you like, mistress.”
Cirrus lets out a long breath that’s so heavy with pleasure it almost classifies as a moan. “Good girl.” Using her tail and one hand she pulls you right up against her, running her free hand along your side with relish, familiarizing herself with the curves of your hip and breast. Once her hand reaches your armpit she moves inward, cupping your breast in her hand and digging the tips of her claws in just enough to send a rush of barely containable desire through you. Hopefully, you tilt your face upward, your lips parted in longing. You don’t know whether she can kiss you without her fangs getting in the way, but you desperately want to find out.
You don’t get to. She comes tantalizingly close to kissing you, holding your chin firmly in place as she brazenly licks your face. But while her tongue glides over your parted lips she makes no attempt to slide it between them. She’s teasing you. A whine of frustration squeaks out of your throat and her grip on your chin abruptly hardens, the points of her claws digging painfully into your skin. “Is there a problem?”
You’d shake your head if she didn’t have an iron grip on it. The sense of helplessness is an incredible aphrodisiac. “N-no, mistress.” Just using the title adds to the already uncomfortable slickness between your legs.
She stares down at you, eyes dark, breathing shallow with anticipation. You wonder if—hope that—she’ll tighten her grip just that much more, puncture the skin along your jaw, make you bleed. Instead, she releases you and steps back, flicking a hand at your habit. “Take that off.”
Your sub instincts are strong enough that they should tell you to comply immediately, but they’re muted by your natural human instincts to look around the landscape for signs of life. As eager as you are to please her, you’ve never stripped down in the middle of the orchard before.
The hesitation is a mistake. You see the slap coming a second before it connects, but your flinch does nothing to mitigate the sharp sting of Cirrus’ palm, or the burning lines that her claws leave in their wake. “What are you waiting for, peach?” Her lip curls up disdainfully. “Do you need to land on the ground before you’re ready? Is that it?”
Your instincts are starting to kick in properly. Instead of touching your stinging cheek you duck your head humbly, staring at your feet. “No, mistress. I’m sorry, I—”
There’s no chance to finish the apology. Her hand closes painfully around your throat as she slams you backward into the peach tree. The bark digs uncomfortably into your back, though that’s the least of your concerns. Cirrus’ grip on your neck isn’t quite tight enough to choke you, but she’s also pressing you into the tree at face-level. Her face-level. Your toes scrabble in the grass, trying to find enough purchase to hold yourself up and pull in some air. It’s no good, you can’t reach, and your hands come automatically to her wrists to try and lift yourself slightly.
She smiles at you, waiting a long moment before pulling you off the tree, shoving you down and away. You stumble and fall, catching yourself with your hands and knees. But you’re only on them for a second or two before the weight of a boot lands squarely between your shoulder blades, pushing you the rest of the way into the ground. Your mouth connects with the sparse grass before you turn your head to the side. Then you see Cirrus’ shiny black boot and get a glimpse of her face as she squats down to grab you by the hair.
You gasp as she yanks your head back, holding it so you have no choice but to look up at her. “Is this what you needed? Hm?”
Satan help you, but it absolutely is. The scratches on your cheek are throbbing, you’re gasping for breath, and your scalp is screaming protests, but you are loving every fucking second of it. “Yes, mistress.”
Cirrus tilts her head to the side, watching you squirm with evident pleasure. “I think you need a little more, don’t you?”
A little more what, exactly? You’re literally shaking with arousal. “Yes, mistress, whatever you say.”
Maintaining her grip on your hair, she shoves your face into the ground and grinds it in the dirt. Blades of grass tear off, sticking to your skin, and soil clings to your lips. You moan, and she pushes you around a little more. “You like this, don’t you.” A throaty purr in your ear. “You want me to step on you again?”
“Yes, please, mistress,” you pant eagerly, and she releases your head. Moments later you’re rewarded with the toe of her boot nudging your face until the grass-stained side of it is on display. Then the sole presses against your ear and cheek, pressure slowly increasing as she shifts her weight forward. It’s not enough to crush any of your bones—in fact, it doesn’t even hurt that much. She wasn’t kidding when she told you she could control herself. Right now, in this moment, degradation is more fun for her than pain.
“While you’re down there,” she says calmly, taking her foot off your face, “My boots need cleaning.”
Definite degradation. You embrace it, though it feels like the slightest touch from her would push you to the brink of an orgasm. Shakily lifting yourself back onto your hands and knees, you bring your mouth to the top of the nearest boot, running your tongue in broad strokes over the smooth surface. There’s a little dirt from the orchard, but otherwise they don’t really need cleaning. The taste is synthetic and unpleasant, and your saliva is starting to dry up before you finish the first boot, but you know better than to stop until she tells you to.
Either she senses this or she’s eager to move onto something else. “Hurry up,” she sighs airily. “I’m getting bored.” You don’t pause to respond, simply switch over to the other boot gratefully, taking far less time than you did on the first. Cirrus doesn’t complain. Instead, she smiles down at you, making you feel like a puppy that’s just learned a new trick. You’ve pleased her. If you had a tail, you’d be wagging it.
“Now then.” Without bending over, she tugs at your clothes with her tail. “Off.”
You’re completely in sub mode now, ready to do nearly anything she asks without pause for thought. In record time, you’ve got everything but your panties lying in a pile. Cirrus looks you over for an agonizingly long time. Standing mostly nude in an orchard while she stares makes you feel exposed and self-conscious, but you keep your eyes down and your hands at your sides. She’s coming closer. Your blood pressure spikes as she stops mere centimeters from you, the bottom of her clothed chest rubbing lightly on the top of your bare one. Without any ceremony, she shoves her hand down the front of your panties.
You gasp, though it immediately turns into a groan as she slides her middle finger between your slick folds, penetrating you with the tip of her claw. “You are a little pain slut,” she says breathlessly, retracting her finger and pushing it along the same path again. You close your eyes, struggling to remain stationary. Your breath catches as she pushes her finger past the first knuckle. Despite your best efforts your posture changes, back arching and hips shaking with tension, inner walls trying to clench around something that she’s already withdrawn. Don’t stop please don’t stop please don’t stop, your inner monologue screams. The struggle isn’t to remain stationary anymore, it’s to remain standing.
Something sharp scrapes its way painfully down from the hollow of your throat to your navel. Your eyes snap back open, focusing on the long, thin scratch between your breasts. Its center turns red in some parts as blood wells to the surface of the cut, but it’s not deep. Beyond that, Cirrus’ hand is still lingering beneath your panties, not stroking or even moving. Just pressing. Slowly, she withdraws it, tracing her claw up your body, over the scratch, all the way up to the top.
Suddenly her other hand is in your hair again, gripping tight enough to control but not harm. She lifts your face from your demure, downturned pose until you’re staring up at her. “That’s better,” she says, smiling in satisfaction. “I want your eyes up, understand? On me. Don’t hide those fantastic expressions from me.”
“Yes, mistress,” you gulp, “I understand.”
She caresses your face almost tenderly with the fingers that are still coated in your arousal, rubbing it into your cheek and lower lip. “You wanted me to keep going, didn’t you, peach?”
“Yes,” you confess, but when your lips are parted she pushes her fingers between them, over your tongue and all the way to the back of your throat, stretching your mouth open and nearly hitting your gag reflex. A claw scrapes against the roof of your mouth, but you can barely taste the blood over the flavors of sex and ghoul covering your tongue.
Moving her hand rhythmically back and forth, essentially finger-fucking your throat, her voice is a deep, dangerous purr. “You wouldn’t want to come yet, would you? That’d be so disappointing, for you to reach it that soon. Not when you haven’t even begun to beg me for it. I need to see desperation on your pretty face before I even think about letting you come.” Unceremoniously, she removes her hand from your mouth and wipes it off on her pants. She releases your hair, too. “Got it?”
Shaking, you manage a nod. “Yes, mistress.” Though you’re not entirely sure how much more desperate you can get.
“Good.” She’s so incredibly sexy when she smiles at you like that. The fangs are irresistible. You’d love to run your tongue over them or feel them pierce your lip. Fuck, you hope she removes her clothes at some point in this. You can only begin to imagine what it’s like between her legs, what she tastes like, what sort of sounds she might make if you give her an orgasm. But you can’t dwell on it because she’s already doling out her next order. “Go find a switch. There are plenty around here—choose a good strong one.”
It's one of the oldest tricks in the book for a reason: it’s effective. Making you go searching for your own implement of abuse creates a wonderfully sick sense of anticipation. Just crawling around the bases of the peach trees in nothing but soaked panties is degrading enough, and add to that the knowledge that she’s going to whip you with a stick? Your imagination conjures phantom pains against your bare skin at each fallen stick you examine, and you’re constantly aware of Cirrus leaning casually against the tree trunk, watching you. Taking too long to choose one runs the risk of boring her, and you’re determined to make her happy. Not just because she’s not going to let you come until she’s pleased, but because you want to see that divine fanged smile of hers again.
You settle on a stick about as long as your forearm and thick as your little finger. It bends without snapping, and it has several knobs and angles that are practically guarantees for suffering. The ache in your pussy extends from your clit deep up into your cervix. Everything is hypersensitive, throbbing, longing. You’re excited, so excited, to hear the soft rushing sound of this switch parting the air and cracking viciously into your flesh. On your knees, you hold it out to Cirrus for inspection, remembering to keep your face up and watching her this time. Her gaze flicks back and forth between the switch and you. Judging from the way she runs her tongue over her lips and her breathing perceptibly quickens, you’ve made the right choice.
She nods, demonstrating more of her approval as she runs her hand up and down the stick, her tail coiling and uncoiling rapidly as she blatantly eyes you up. “Good girl,” she says softly, making you shiver as she touches the tip of the stick to your left breast, trailing it harmlessly over your hardened nipple and leaving thousands of nerve endings crying needily in its way. She pauses, smirks, circles back, and delivers a tiny smack to your areola. You let her see your gasp and witness the battle on your face as you attempt to retain your composure. Then she moves it down, tapping between your legs until a groan forces its way up your throat. She said she wanted you to beg? You can beg. “Please, mistress.”
The switch moves up to your arm, smacking hard enough that you wince. “Please what?”
“P-pl-please…” She can’t expect you to speak in coherent sentences right now, can she? It’s beyond you.
“Please what?” she snaps again, whipping the switch against your outer thigh. This blow is even harder than the last, making you gasp and then moan in quick succession.
“Oh Satan use it please use it on me,” you pant, your voice not much more than a strangled moan.
You’ve neglected to call her mistress, but it’s possible she’s too excited to care. “Are you sure?” she asks in an urgent, throaty whisper that belies her own rising needs. “I won’t hold back.” You’re too worked up to speak, but you manage to jiggle your head up and down. You’re rewarded with a faint but audible moan from Cirrus’ lips. “Alright. Face the ladder. Lean into it. Put your hands on this rung and don’t you dare fucking move them.”
The steps of the ladder, of course, angle inward as they go up. This means that while your feet are ostensibly on the ground, you are by no means standing under your own power. You feel more as if you’re lying on your stomach, only instead of something solid beneath you there is only the frame of the ladder and the thin air between rungs. One step rests against the fronts of your calves, the next against your thighs, the next pressing just below your stomach, one just below your breasts, the next at your shoulders. Your head and breasts dangle through the gaps, and your hands are clutching the rung just above your head.
You sense her moving closer behind you and the need for some sort of physical contact sears through you like agony, burning you from the inside out. The stick brushes tantalizingly over the back of one thigh, rubbing gently against the cheek above it before pulling back. You can feel the strike coming even before the telltale whoosh of air, and your already shaky muscles tense defensively. When it hits you, you stand no chance of holding back a shout of pain, and your hold on the ladder rung above you becomes a determined death-grip.
And yet when the impact is over, leaving only an intense firey stripe across your butt, your next exhalation is laced heavily with pleasure.
You’re expecting a lengthy pause as Cirrus examines her work and chooses her next target, but a second strike comes right on the heels of the first, near the first but approaching the small of your back. There’s less excess flesh there, so the impact is harder and the sting less. It knocks some of the air out of you, and you cling to the ladder rung as tears burn the backs of your eyes.
The flurry of blows that follow destroy you almost completely. You know you’re not bleeding—well, you don’t think you’re bleeding, but you’ll definitely be bruising in an hour or so. You’re screams have probably scared off all the birds in the orchard, even though you keep resolving to swallow the sounds. You feel hot from your butt to your shoulders, your arms ache from stubbornly holding onto the rung above your head, and your vision is blurred by tears. You have a safe word. Somewhere in the dark recesses of your brain, you know that. You even remember what it is. And despite the way she’s unleashing upon you, you actually do trust Cirrus to stop if you use it. You almost do use it. It’s on the tip of your tongue.
Maybe you really are sick, because you choose to bite back on the word. Every time the stick slaps against your inflamed skin, it adds to the dangerous pressure building inside you. Pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin, and for you they go hand in hand. You can feel yourself tipping toward an orgasm, embracing the suffering until it becomes indistinguishable from gratification. You cross a threshold in your mind and your cries turn into animalistic grunts and moans.
But of course, just as you’re about to crest, overwhelmed by the unrelenting pain and submission to the point of ecstasy, the strikes just…stop. You drag in a few ragged gasps, the last of which is more a mewl of protest. As you begin to process what’s been taken from you, you almost start crying all over again.
Not for long. Clawed, graceful hands pry your clenched fingers from the ladder rung, and a surprisingly strong arm supports you as you roll sideways and drop to the ground. You offer no resistance as Cirrus rolls you onto your back, too exhausted and elated and frustrated to function. That is, until she kisses you. All your systems come back online stunningly quickly when that happens.
This isn’t like her teasing and deliberate temptation earlier. This is a very real, very hungry kiss, brimming with lust. You can feel the heat of her body just above yours, the press of her knees against the outsides of your thighs, her chest resting on yours and her hair falling forward to tickle your ears. Her tongue is strong, insistent, passionate, and her lips are soft and full. She tastes of peaches, but more than that—she tastes the way a sunrise would taste, if it had a flavor. Her fangs are barely noticeable.
You don’t dare lift your hands to touch her, but you allow yourself to respond to the kiss. Your mouth moves against hers with unfettered, unashamed urgency and greed. And for this moment, she allows it, pressing herself fully against you, cupping your cheek with one hand. Fuck, you want to touch her so badly. As your toes curl inward, you clench your hands into fists at your sides, fighting your hips as they try to tilt upward. Having to stay still now is harder than having to stay still while you were draped over the ladder. You want her so badly it clouds your mind, barely hanging on to your last shred of self-control.
Maybe she can sense how desperate you’re becoming, because she pulls back from you and sits up, situating herself comfortably on your thighs as she examens you. Most of the damage won’t be visible with your back in the grass, but you watch her eyes roam over your head and torso, paying particular attention to the cheek she slapped and the scratch between your breasts. The way she moves is almost reverent as she reaches out, running her claw back down the thin line of drying blood, drawing a breathless whimper from your swollen lips.
“That was very good,” she tells you, moving her hand sideways to your breast and toying with the nipple—rolling it between her fingers, pinching and rubbing, flicking the side of one claw back and forth. Your hips make a valiant attempt to buck upward, but the way she’s sitting keeps you firmly against the ground so that all you manage is a weak spasm. You keep your eyes on her as she continues, bypassing your panties to dip the fingers of her other hand just inside your entrance. “I see you liked it,” she smirks, taking her hand back out and locking her eyes on yours as she runs the tip of her tongue over each glazed finger. “So did I. Do you want to see how much?”
Your eyes get so wide you’re almost surprised they don’t fall out of your face. For a second you’re absolutely frozen by how much you want what she’s offering, but you break free of the paralysis with an enthusiastic nod. “Yes, mistress. Yes, please. If you want!”
Her tails comes from outside your line of vision, smacking you across the mouth. It smarts, putting the nail in the coffin for your swollen lower lip; you feel it split open and taste copper in your mouth. But judging by the glow of amusement in Cirrus’ eyes, it wasn’t a malicious blow. Just a pointed reminder. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t want,” she tells you coolly. “I just thought I’d be generous and let you think you had a choice in the matter.”
Another deep groan of desire fills up your chest, only to get forced back down by your tenuous willpower. “Thank you, mistress. You’re very generous.” You’re bleeding, your back is a tapestry of pain, your face hurts, and yet all you can focus on is sex. Your pussy’s running this show, and what it wants takes priority over anything the rest of your body might have to say.
She rises smoothly, starting to unfasten her slacks as she stands up. Then she sits back down, using your chest as a chair as she unlaces her boots and tugs them off. And then she stands to finish removing her slacks. You see no trace of underwear. She casts off her shirt without a second thought—though really, if anyone were out in the orchard, they definitely would have made themselves known by now. (Well, unless they were enjoying themselves watching you and Cirrus. In which case you could hardly blame them.)
Cirrus’ gray-toned skin makes her look like a statue of an ancient goddess, standing untouched and unashamed in her glorious nudity. The wind ripples dramatically through her hair as you try to commit every detail of her body to memory. She’s perfect. Inhumanly beautiful. You don’t deserve to touch her. You don’t deserve her attention at all.
That’s not an opinion that she shares, it seems. She sits down in the grass, ankles on either side of your shoulders, and wraps her tail tightly around a hunk of your hair. It tugs none too gently, convincing you quickly to roll over onto your hands and knees, which you would have gladly done without any persuading. Cirrus is stretched out on her back, knees up, arms crossed comfortably behind her head, by the time you get your hands under you. Then she gives you a rough tug forward by your hair, not stopping until you’re so close her juices are on your chin. Oh, Satana, she’s just as wet as you are, the slickness clinging to every bit of you that touches her.
Much as you’d love to take time to appreciate that, you know far better than to hesitate now. You dive right in, placing your lips at the very bottom of her folds and running the tip of your tongue up one side, hoping ghoul anatomy matches that of humans. It certainly seems like it does, but—yes, there. Your tongue finds the bundle of nerves nestled just past the top of her entrance, and her thighs tighten when you trace a circle around it. She doesn’t taste the way you’d expect (smoke and roses, your tongue tries to tell your brain), but it’s pleasant and slick. You take your time, exploring with your tongue, occasionally pausing to bring your lips together over her clit, sucking gently or flicking your tongue until her hips twitch, shifting closer to your attentions.
This isn’t masochism you’re displaying at the moment. You’re allowing yourself to enjoy a reward, and she’s giving it to you. When one of her hands hits the ground, flexing helplessly in pleasure, you push further forward, putting your shoulders within her reach as you press your tongue all the way into her. Her hands clamp onto your shoulders immediately, claws digging in and puncturing the skin. The pain from that brings you a level closer to ecstasy. Already you’re almost suffocating in her pussy, nose pressed against her as you work your tongue inside, hardly pausing to breath because you enjoy the restricted airflow.
Moving your arm leads to a quick stab of pain where she’s grabbing your shoulder, but it’s more than worth it to hear her moan as you bring your mouth up to focus on clit and slide the tip of your middle finger into her. Her grip on you tightens, the puncture wounds becoming briefly excruciating when she jerks your arm forward. “If you’re going to do it, fucking do it,” she half snarls, half begs.
You don’t waste breath responding, just double down on what you’re already doing. Two fingers, in as deep as you can get them, curving upward as you push them in and out, not slowly but hard, matching yourself to her hip movements. All your remaining concentration goes into using your lips and tongue to stimulate her clitoris, only occasionally lowering your head further so your tongue can briefly join your fingers.
The sounds Cirrus is making, the way she’s grinding down on your fingers, the trembling of her thighs beside your head…it’s almost enough to distract you from the unhinged way she grasps at your skin. It feels like she’s gouging chunks out of your shoulders, raking her claws down your upper arms. If not for that, you would still be over the moon, intensely enjoying your spot between her legs, but you wouldn’t have the looming presence of your own orgasm surrounding you like a shroud. You’re not allowed to come yet, you tell yourself with all the determination you can muster. But your insides feel like they’re boiling, walls repeatedly clenching on nothing, tears of effort leaking out the corners of your eyes. If she doesn’t get there soon, you have a feeling that orgasm is going to grab you around the throat and shake you, whether you like it or not.
Come on, come on, I know you’re close, you whine internally, humping air as you increase the speed of your fingers and dance your tongue over her clit with a precision you didn’t know you possessed. That does it. Her back arches almost entirely off the ground with an unearthly shriek and her hips thrash upward so hard the pubic bone smashes your upper lip into your teeth. You suck it up and roll your tongue in another tiny circle, nearly coming undone as her claws bore holes into your shoulders.
And then, after a few more spectacularly unholy contortions, Cirrus subsides. You’re breathing is reduced to sharp, sporadic gasps, and when her grip on your shoulders relaxes you can feel the blood trickling down your arms. You’re so close to coming that you could cry, but you try to find a sense of pride in the way she continues to twitch and tremble as you rest your forehead in some cool dirt.
You’re permitted to stay like that for the span of a second or a minute, it’s difficult to gauge at this point. But however much time has passed, you’re brought back into the moment when she props herself up on her elbows, sits up further, and reaches out to run her fingers over your bleeding left arm. She smears the blood, dragging a red trail off to the side, and touches her fingers to a different wound. This time she brings her red, wet fingers to her mouth, fitting her lips around them and closing her eyes in bliss.
Then she opens them, and smiles at you. “You’re amazing,” she says, her tone awed and sincere. “So brave, so tough. So obedient, so beautiful.” She brushes her thumb over your split lip.
You swallow. “You think I’m beautiful?”
“Absolutely,” she says, and her smile is almost shy. “Especially now, with blood drying all over you.”
“I don’t think it’s drying yet, mistress,” you murmur with a nervous smile.
She chuckles softly. “Some of it is. Now tell me, peach. Did you come without my permission?”
You look up at her worshipfully, so glad that you can give truthfully give the proper answer. “No, mistress. I was close. I’m—I’m aching, but—but I didn’t.”
“So good,” she breathes, lifting your chin with her hand and running her tongue over your lip. “You never even used your little safe word.” You say nothing, just gulp and watch her. “What are you waiting for? Roll over. You’ve earned it.”
“Oh, thank you, mistress,” you whisper hoarsely, using your shaking arms to push yourself over onto your back. She shifts position so that she’s seated next to your hip, scratching your inner thigh far too lightly to leave a mark, trailing her tail over your breasts and leaning over to lick your nipple. It hardens again immediately, and gets even harder when she pauses to blow on it. Then she brushes the spade of her tail languidly back and forth over it as she leans over, kissing you again.
That’s all it takes to put you right back at the precipice of an orgasm, and you cry out when the ball of her thumb ghosts over your soaked pussy and begins rubbing your clit. You’re a gibbering mess even before she shoves not one or two, but three fingers into you, stretching you just enough to add a hint of pain as she pumps them in and out with agonizing slowness. And you’re already shivering at the edge of oblivion when she leans over and sinks her fangs into the flesh of your shoulder, biting and sucking mercilessly. You stand no chance against the strength of this tidal wave, not after being so aroused for so long. There’s almost no pleasure to the orgasm when you come—it’s only violence and release. But you’re swept completely out of yourself by it, briefly forgetting your own name as you see stars, and the relief afterward is truly profound.
Eventually you blink and see the light of early dusk peeking between the branches and leaves far above you. You let out a long, slow breath, and realize how many places you hurt. You start to laugh.
Cirrus tips her head to the side, a faint smile on her blood-stained lips as she watches you. “What’s funny?”
You make your arms move, pressing your hands to your face to cover the adrenaline-drunk laughter. “Nothing, mistress.”
“You can call me Cirrus now.” She grabs your wrists and pulls your hands down. “Come on. What’s funny?”
Her hands feel nice on your wrists. You wish you had the capacity to tell her how lovely she is, how fascinating, how you suddenly want to know everything there is to know about her. All you have is the world’s lamest joke. If she doesn’t think it’s funny, you’ll probably never see her again, and the thought of never feeling her body against yours again is almost physically painful. On the other hand, if she likes your pathetic attempt at humor…
“It’s stupid,” you warn her, but she raises her eyebrows and fixes you with a pointed stare. “Okay,” you shrug, wiping at one of your weeping shoulder wounds with your palm. “It’s just—what’s black and white and red all over?”
She narrows her eyes, waiting for the punchline.
“It’s supposed to be, a newspaper,” you explain, already wishing you could crawl under a rug. “It’s…it’s a terrible joke. But the thought that just popped into my head was—me, once I get my habit back on. Me.”
Cirrus laughs.