The Morning After the World (Part 2)
A Witches of Clitwick Bonus Chapter
by Blair Lennox
The first touch of her tongue drew a sound from Morgana that was not human. It was older than human — a raw, shattered cry that filled the bedroom and sent the ward-lights pulsing gold outside the window.
Elise did not rush. Term one. She had all the time in the world and a woman pinned beneath her who could not touch her, could not guide her, could only lie there and feel and tell the truth.
She explored with her tongue first. Long, slow strokes through slick heat, tasting her. She found the clit — swollen, sensitive, twitching at the first direct contact — and circled it with the tip of her tongue, light, teasing, nowhere near enough.
“More,” Morgana gasped. She pulled against the binding — hard, now, the silver glowing brighter. “Elise, more, harder, I need —”
“Tell me exactly what you need.”
“Your tongue — flat — right there — and pressure, god, pressure, I need you to press and suck and don’t you dare stop —”
Elise pressed. She flattened her tongue and applied steady, rhythmic pressure, and Morgana’s thighs clamped against her ears and her hips rolled in a desperate, grinding rhythm. The sounds were continuous now — moans and broken words and Elise’s name repeated like a prayer.
She added her fingers. Two, sliding inside with no resistance — Morgana was soaked, had been since good girl — and the stretch drew a guttural groan that vibrated through the bond.
She curled her fingers. Found the spot — the specific, devastating angle she had mapped on night three, the place inside Morgana that made her forget her own name and every lover she’d had in three centuries and remember only this: only Elise, only now.
“There — right there — don’t move, don’t change anything — oh god, Elise, I’m going to —”
“Come for me.” Elise said it against her, the vibration adding a layer of sensation that made Morgana’s back arch off the bed. “Come for me, and let me hear it. All of it.”
Morgana came.
The orgasm hit like a detonation — her entire body seizing, wrists straining against the silver binding, thighs locking around Elise’s head, voice cracking open on a scream that rattled the windows and sent gold light blazing through the cottage. Elise felt it through the bond — the full, devastating force — and the wave triggered a sympathetic pulse between her own legs that made her gasp and press deeper because Morgana was still coming, still clenching around her fingers, still making sounds beyond language.
She didn’t stop. She eased the pressure — lighter, gentler — added her lips around the clit and sucked softly and Morgana said “again” in a voice so destroyed it was barely recognizable.
She built the second one differently. Slower. Drew it out. Used her tongue in lazy, circular patterns while her fingers moved with deliberate, almost cruel patience — stroking the spot, retreating, stroking again. Morgana writhed beneath her, the binding humming with the force of her pulling, her body sheened with sweat.
“Elise — please — it’s too much and not enough —”
“I know what you need.” Through the bond, she felt the precise shape of Morgana’s arousal. She adjusted. Pressed harder, curled deeper, and the second orgasm crashed through with a force that made the first look like a warm-up — sustained, rolling, the binding blazing silver-bright, the cottage walls glowing, flowers blooming in every window box in the village.
When it ebbed, Elise released the binding. The silver dissolved. Morgana’s trembling hands found Elise’s face and pulled her up and kissed her with a ferocity that tasted of herself on Elise’s mouth.
“Your turn,” Morgana said, and flipped her.
“My terms are simple,” Morgana said, looking down with eyes gone almost entirely gold. “I want to make you feel what I just felt. And I want to hear every sound. No biting your lip, no burying your face in the pillow. The catalogue is not yet complete.”
She started at Elise’s mouth. Kissed her deep and thorough. Then her jaw. Her throat. She lingered at the base of the neck, sucking until the mark bloomed red.
“I’m marking you. You bound my wrists with magic and called me a good girl and made me come twice before breakfast. I am leaving evidence.”
She moved to Elise’s breasts. Kissed each freckle. Took a nipple into her mouth and used the specific, rolling technique that made Elise grab the sheets and forget how to form sentences.
“Oh god — your mouth —”
“Louder. You are a woman who bound a three-hundred-year-old witch to a bed with magic. You can handle being loud.”
Elise was loud. She was loud when Morgana’s mouth moved down her stomach, tracing the crease of her hip. She was louder when Morgana settled between her thighs and said, “I am going to taste every part of you, and you are going to watch me, and if you close your eyes I will stop.”
She did not close her eyes.
Morgana’s mouth was devastating. Three hundred years of experience applied with focused intensity — reading Elise’s body the way Elise read contracts, adjusting in real time. Her tongue traced long, slow paths through wet heat, circling the clit without touching it directly, building anticipation until Elise was saying things she had never said before — direct, explicit, specific demands.
“There — exactly there — harder — oh fuck, yes, like that, don’t stop —”
Morgana didn’t stop. She applied her mouth with devastating patience, keeping Elise at the edge, because three centuries of experience meant knowing exactly how long a body could sustain this level of arousal.
She slid two fingers inside. Slowly. Watching Elise’s face — the eyes going wide and dark, the expression shifting from desire to something beyond desire. She curled her fingers and pressed and Elise’s spine arched.
“Tell me what you feel.”
“Everything. I feel your mouth and your fingers and the bond and your magic and — I’m going to come — Morgana —”
“Come,” Morgana said, and pressed deeper, and sucked harder, and Elise shattered.
The orgasm rolled through her like thunder — deep, sustained, her body clenching around Morgana’s fingers, her voice breaking open. The bond carried the wave to Morgana, who came too — untouched, undone by the feedback alone, the shared pleasure cresting simultaneously while the cottage blazed and Beryl’s entire morning batch rose so high it hit the ceiling.
They lay together afterward, breathing hard, tangled in sheets the cottage was actively warming.
“I believe we have successfully negotiated our morning-after terms.”
“Shall we renew the agreement?”
“Annually?”
“I was thinking daily.”
Morgana’s laugh — the real one, the one the Hush had tried to destroy — rang through the cottage and into the village, where it became part of the morning, part of the magic, part of the irreplaceable joy that powered the wards and made Clitwick the most alive place in the world.
Lucy, from the dresser, sighed once, heavily, and said: “I will never forgive either of you for the volume. The duration. Or the fact that the bread is now on the ceiling. Kindly feed the cat.”
They fed the cat.
They renewed the agreement.
They lived extraordinarily ever after.
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