Iris didn’t immediately understand, beyond the implications in the tone of his voice. It made her tremble, and her pulse quickened under his fingertips as they met her neck. His touch drew downward, and she arched toward him, the honey-gold hue of her skin freezing to something a little more porcelain and winter-designed. It made a remarkable contrast to the flush pink of her stiff bud, pressed into his palm with the soft weight of her breast. Even as he cupped it, the round firmed and swelled like a subtle inhale. Iris had been grown with ripely endowed fruits of her own, but Greta was, even still, a more ample woman. When his grip tightened, squeezing harder, her little and pleasured gasps slipped to a whimper. “Master,” she breathed, and it was information in her pleading tone but nothing else. It was his own fantasy to decide what that little seed might be begging for with Greta’s tongue.<br/><br/>He’d said she should be punished, but he was not touching her like she was being scolded. When he sat back from her, it was not simply Greta’s sharp brown eyes, but her pronounced cheekbones and cranberry lips, on Iris’s face. She looked a shade taller, too, if he were mindful of her curled legs and the spire of her spine. His blood had blushed right, it seemed, because he called the concierge’s name. Iris flushed. “If it will please you.” She acquiesced, though she was gentle when he own hand first graced her cheek. Iris swallowed hard, eyes closed as she dragged her fingers down. Down her neck, where his prints had pathed, over the ridge of her peeking collarbones, and between Greta’s heavy swells.  A soft stomach, smooth with care that did not include rigor, and over the subtle ghost of pretty and broad hips.<br/><br/>Iris’ fingers found their home at the apex of Greta’s thighs. They hovered there, even as the other hand struck hard against her own skin and left an angry red print behind. She yelped at her own abuse, exhaling sharply once before administering it again. It was a bit shameful, though Iris did not inherently understand shame. She could see the garishness of the behavior, though, and felt that her Master might find it unsightly. The prospect of disdain burned her blood, and when she looked to him for approval it was grovelingly pathetic. She hit herself harder and felt her knees knock together. There was nothing he could ask that she would not try to do; a deeply cruel trick of her very nature.<br/><br/>When she had stung herself several times, gritting her teeth as she demanded thoroughness of herself, the digits which had been left to attend to her pleasure began their own task. Her soft folds had grown slick beneath little curls of auburn, tidy like Greta would keep herself. It didn’t entirely matter if the illusion was accurate, only that it was what Kedrick wished to see. Iris sank a little lower in the seat, unfolding her legs so that she might reach the warm and rosy pink that begged her touch. It made her gasp to address her sensitivity, and she was ginger at first. The hand which she had used to abuse herself groped roughly at her own chest in idle distraction. When she had bathed her fingers in her eager, she hooked them into the heat of her sex. Iris slapped herself again, with Greta’s hand, and felt herself clench hard around her fingertips.