Resilient little sprout, she had the capacity to bend and change in the ways that would satiate her best. More access to sunlight, more access to his furious blood. It left her trembling on the cold floor, wearing Manon’s face with such remarkable conviction. But then, too, she could not be human. And so she was still a sapling when he pried beneath her vigorous camouflage. Manon’s voice moaned for her master, his fingers plying her until she made godless and unrestrained gasps for his pleasure, but it was still Iris’ sugar-dense sap clinging to the intimate curves of her skin and holding to the cooking instrument he’d repurposed.<br/><br/>The part of Iris that was the Manon he wanted had some vague decency to wail when he shoved the handle, unceremoniously, between her legs. The roughness of the intrusion was enough to sting her eyes with tears, blinking back the big, glimmering droplets as she panted and hugged her knees tighter still. Ah, this should be humiliating to the dutiful maid, and Iris should be more aroused for the mistreatment. His blood was dutifully explicit in her veins, giving her body all the encouragement it needed to tighten on the device and pulse shivers down her spine. The length of the spatula jerked, pulled by her reflexive flinch when he took the cold knife blade to kiss her sensitive skin.<br/><br/>She did cry then, and it was from all the overwhelming sensations that followed the blade’s edge. It was sharp, so she felt the pain after a small delay, like her own flesh was holding its breath to know what paths he might cut. She clenched her fists until her fingernails dug into her palms, willing herself to lay still. How much more would he maim her, if she thrashed beneath his incisions? For all that effort, that ridiculous spatula still bobbed like a little flag post at sea. How unsightly it was to be revealed that way, clenching around something that could not love her.<br/><br/>“I’m sorry. I will try harder,” Manon gasped, whimpering as the honied blood welled forth to remind him plainly: this was a play thing, not his Manon mangled beneath him. Her little gasps turned toward more panicked mewls, dragged between his own delight and her confused pleasure. It was an insult to her body, and her nerves fired frantically in protest, but her mind was his to dictate. How could she not hunger for this kind of treatment? It made her swollen mound salivate furiously around the spatula handle.<br/><br/>When her voice had become offensive, he rewarded it with his rigid length, a hot gag on her warm tongue. It did not silence her entirely. Muffled, humming against his skin, it was a curious sort of thing that she would struggle when she did not, in the traditional sense, need to breathe. When she seemed to come to an understanding of her present situation, her limbs stopped flailing and she bled for him obediently. The spatula trembled and bobbed. Would Manon take such pleasure displaying this dutiful endurance? Iris could not have known. She simply understood that Kedrick would have desired it so, and so the nymph’s body could not fathom any other delight.<br/><br/>Her tongue, after some time, began to encourage him further as well. A hungry girl, in the end. Manon had always seemed like she might be.