If he was giving her a lesson, it was to enjoy the taste of little agonies. Her Master seemed eager to give them and so, by necessity, she was to be eager to receive them. It was possible that she had brought that kind of thing on herself, this morning, taking the features of a maid with an amenable psychology to these games. But Iris was hardly independent, herself, and she would have been the worst being to ask about the spaces where her mind ended and her Master's began. If he had dreamed of Manon, neither she nor Kedrick would know well enough to articulate it now. And really, it was an unnecessary sort of speculation when she was bleeding of her own accord. She gasped for breath she didn't need when he withdrew his cock to string dipping strands from his length to her wet lips. A curious act, when Manon should have been writhing with more damage than lost breath from such treatment. This Manon, Iris's Manon, was a better doll.<br/><br/>In the wake of her heaving breath, the first small, green sprouts pushed upward through the honey-bleeding cuts on her skin. A nubile little garden, that nymph, and any pretend she was enacting could not quite hide that part of her. It was odd that she noticed the sharp pain of her vertebra rubbing the tile as she was spun more than she'd suffered under the artistry of his knife. Perhaps it was the vague shame of it, being pulled by his foot like she was an object placed wrong on the floor. The thought made her shudder, and her occupied sex gave more sweetness to the handle of the kitchen tool.<br/><br/>She wailed with Manon's most convincing voice when he drove the rod deeper inside her. Iris did not have to pretend at that agony. The handle pressed inward until it hit hard into the wall of her fruit, a particularly delectable remnant of her produce origins. She would have flailed and writhed on the floor if he had not been pushing down on her shins as he manipulated the tool. Iris was gasping, arching in futile protest of it, choking on her own sobs. She hardly noticed where he'd poised himself, or that he was laughing. That negligence was simply another punishment before the throbbing pain in the pit of her belly had subsided. She let out a little shriek, tensing as he shoved himself into her. It should have been painful to them both, if it had been anyone but Iris. Instead, her body's own protest was simply encouragement to his length, wrapping him tightly in her warm passage. Really, it was a curious thing to have at all. What need was there for a creature who subsisted on blood and sunlight to have such a entry? If he cared to consider it, it was apparent it was for nothing other than his pleasure. Surely, the nymph existed solely to spoil the most rotten parts of him.<br/><br/>By the time he'd found enough of a rhythm to drive himself toward his own release, her gasping cries had fallen to more delectable moans. It was to the soft sounds that Kedrick had overheard, as Manon busied herself in his chair, that Iris would be filled.<br/><br/>The nymph, for her part, was perilously near to her own trembling climax when he stilled inside her. She lay there, breathing hard for a moment. And then Manon moved to reach between her legs and grasp at the protruding end of the spatula, still securely between her slick folds, to manipulate it until she was gasping and shaking in the throes of her own pleasure. Whether he withdrew himself or remained until she had finished, his maid would not seem to care. And then, when she was done, Iris gave him a quintessentially Manon kind of smile, weary and spent. "Will that be satisfactory for the moment?" she would ask, as if she'd not just taken her own liberties in the wake of his ostensible punishment for her. Practical to the point of offense, at times. It would have been a wonderfully convincing display, if it hadn't been for the small blooming flowers that littered her body where he'd marred her.