"Clean that up," she said. "Use your tongue."
She walked into the bathroom and slammed the door.
The slam reverberated through the penthouse, a final punctuation mark to the violence of the morning. Yanna was left alone in the vast, silent foyer, the air conditioning humming its low, expensive tune, chilling the sweat that slicked her skin.
She looked at the object on the floor.
The harness lay there like a dead animal. The black leather straps were twisted, the silver buckles glinting cold and sharp in the morning light filtering through the sheer curtains. And in the center of the tangle lay the silicone phallus. It was wet. It glistened with a mixture of Yanna's own fluids and the saliva Camille had spat onto her.
Use your tongue.
