Iris was crying, curiously mangled sounds gasping from between her wet lips as she flinched and shook under the fall of his repeated blows. When the strikes stopped, and she was left dangling and trembling like some strung up animal caught in a snare, she could not help but to let out a sharp yelp when his touch returned. Imploringly soft in the wake of his remarkably delighted violence, it was nearly as traumatic to be treated to such patronizing pleasures. And he was brief, teasing, mocking the mistreated flesh. For a moment, it was as if she could not differentiate between being struck and his softer touch. Perhaps there was latency in her senses, lagging behind with the shifts in his soul.<br/><br/>When he sent her away, she fled from him because it was the thrill in his heart and a sharper truth of Naella's. Her knees slipped against the well-polished table, and her choked whimpers were an overture to the effectiveness of his punishment. She was dripping down the flush spans of her inner thighs, a pretty pink compliment to the angry red blush of her assaulted flesh. It was awful that he was standing there to see it,  some strange suggestion of his sister and the pitiful reality of his manufactured faerie girl.  There were shades of violet blossoming in the wake of his strikes. The sound of his belt buckle was cacophonous, beating at her ears and sending urgency to her curling fingers as she crawled haltingly forward. Cat and mouse, playing some bizarre game. Had his sister always been such a toy in his mind?<br/><br/>His hand on her ankle was enough to make her buckle, falling forward onto her chest and snapping her teeth as her chin hit the table. "Master?" it was barely a whisper, tangled in the taste of blood on her tongue. Her eyes were wide and black, staring out at the empty mouth of the room. It felt yawning and immensely far away, an empty chasm of hallway stretching ahead. Iris felt she was being made to peer into that abyss with such precise cruelty. How terrible it was to tell her she was failing, even as every snapping neuron in her body hissed of the things he ached to release. It was as fine as being informed she was defective. Her eyes were summer blue when he flipped her onto her back, staring up at him with wet lashes and parted lips.  Naella's natural blush had always been so infuriatingly lewd, hadn't it?<br/><br/>It was unequivocally Naella's voice that cried out desperately when he thrust his full length into her, ruining her dress like it was simply an obligation of this barbaric dance.  She was so certainly his sister when she arched and writhed, jerking her hips down hard. It was Naella's breasts that bobbed against her gasping breath, and Naella's disastrously soft body that flailed on the table and lit the most primordial pleasures in their joined space. She cried, his sister too, but it might sound like infuriated relief if he'd dreamed it.  When he demanded it, she sang.<br/><br/>Sweet, keening girl. Lips swollen on her own confused lust, tongue slipping when his pace was dissonant with the tune. Had the song always been meant to be played from a scratched and skipping record? If it had not been that she was edible thing being taken, splayed, on a dinner table, the effect might have been haunting. Instead, it was like a bizarre coalescence of their confused childhood. The boy who had wanted and the girl who had been too indecisive to wilt or bloom under his care.<br/><br/>And Iris was such a delightful reflection of that girl. Little sprout with hair like spun starlight and petals that were prettiest when they were plucked.