Chapter 14: Submission
The clothes Agatha had left were not Rio’s own. They were a uniform of another kind: a silk blouse the color of bone, a pencil skirt in charcoal gray that hugged her hips, sheer stockings, black heels with a lethally sharp stiletto. Underwear had not been provided. Dressing felt like being put back into a casing, the soft fabrics a stark contrast to the vivid, throbbing memory of skin on skin. The bite mark on her shoulder was hidden by the blouse’s high collar, a secret she carried against the fine silk.
She found Agatha on the vast terrace, transformed from the sunlit bath of hours before. Night had fallen, and the terrace was a pool of intimate darkness punctuated by the glow of distant city lights and the flutter of a single candle on a low iron table. Agatha stood at the railing, her silhouette a cutout against the glittering sprawl of Paris. She had changed into a tailored jumpsuit of black velvet, her dark hair loose. She held a crystal flute, the amber liquid within catching the candlelight.
“Sit,” she said, without turning.
Rio walked on unsteady legs to one of the low, cushioned chairs. The scent of night-blooming jasmine mixed with something richer, spicier—vanilla and aged leather. She could still feel the ghost of Agatha’s fingers inside her, the ache of the bite.
Agatha turned, her face in shadow. “The Shanghai team is handling the merger talks admirably. They don’t need a junior associate breathing down their necks. But they do need to see potential. They need to see that the firm invests in talent with… fortitude.”
Rio said nothing. Her throat was dry.
Agatha came over, setting her glass down. She stood before Rio, looking down at her. “Do you have fortitude, Rio? Or was last night just a novelty? A dark ride you wanted to try once?”
“It wasn’t a novelty,” Rio heard herself say, the words surprising her with their defiance.
A slow smile touched Agatha’s lips. “No?” She leaned down, her hands resting on the arms of Rio’s chair, caging her in. “Prove it.”
Before Rio could process the command, Agatha’s hands were on her, pulling her up and steering her toward the railing. The city yawned below, a dizzying tapestry of lights and moving cars. The air was cool on her cheeks.
Agatha bent her forward, pressing Rio’s stomach against the cold, wrought-iron rail. The position was brutally exposing. Her skirt rode up. The stockings whispered against her thighs.
“Look down,” Agatha murmured, her body flush against Rio’s back, her mouth at Rio’s ear. “All those little lives. All those little windows. They’re having dinners, watching shows, fucking in their boring beds. None of them know what’s happening up here. None of them can hear you.”
One of Agatha’s hands slid around Rio’s waist, down over the smooth silk of her skirt, to the bare skin of her inner thigh. The other hand came up, fingers tracing the line of Rio’s jaw, forcing her gaze downward at the dizzying drop.
“But you’ll scream so loud all of Paris will hear who owns you,” Agatha whispered, and her voice was pure, dark honey. “Won’t you?”
Rio’s heart hammered against the railing. Fear was a cold wire in her veins, but beneath it, a terrifying heat was pooling, spreading. Agatha’s hand found the hem of her skirt and pushed it up around her waist. The night air kissed her naked skin.
She heard the click of a cap, felt the cold, slippery drizzle of lube between her cheeks. She stiffened.
“Relax,” Agatha commanded, her voice losing all softness. “This is a gift. A reminder to carry inside you through all those tedious meetings.”
The pressure was insistent, blunt, and alien. Rio choked back a sound as the tip of the plug pressed against her. It was larger than she expected, a solid, invading presence. Agatha worked it slowly, mercilessly, with a clinical precision that was more intimidating than rage. There was a burning stretch, a feeling of being opened in a place she’d never considered, and then a sudden, full sensation as the widest part passed. Rio gasped, her fingers scrabbling against the iron.
Agatha gave a final, gentle push. The jeweled base settled snugly against her. It felt enormous, a deep, filled ache.
“Good,” Agatha purred. Her lubed fingers, slick from preparing her, slid around to Rio’s front, diving into the wet heat between her legs without preamble. Rio was already dripping. The shame of that—the sheer, involuntary arousal that betrayed her fear—was almost as violent as the invasion.
Agatha’s fingers thrust into her cunt, hard and fast. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” she growled, her breath hot on Rio’s neck. “Your tight little pussy is dripping for me even while I’m stuffing your ass. You filthy girl.”
The words were a slap. They were also the truth. Rio cried out, a short, sharp sound swallowed by the city’s hum. Agatha fucked her with her fingers, a ruthless rhythm that matched the throbbing pressure of the plug. The dual sensation was overwhelming—a deep, constant fullness behind, a fierce, driving friction in front. It blurred the lines between pain and pleasure until they were indistinguishable.
Agatha curled her fingers, finding a spot that made Rio see white behind her eyelids. “You belong to this,” she hissed. “To the stretch, to the shame, to the way your body begs when it’s being used. You’re not a lawyer up here. You’re a set of holes for me to fill. Say it.”
Rio shook her head, pressing her forehead against the cool rail.
Agatha’s other hand wrapped in Rio’s short hair, yanking her head back. “Say it.”
“I’m… I’m a set of holes,” Rio whimpered, the confession torn from her.
“Whose?”
“Yours!” The word was a ragged scream.
Agatha hammered into her, fingers piston-fast, the heel of her hand grinding against Rio’s clit. The orgasm tore through Rio with violent, shocking force. It was a convulsion that started deep in her womb, amplified by the hard presence in her ass, and radiated out until her entire body was rigid, shaking, her scream ripped from her lungs and flung out over the Parisian skyline. Waves of pleasure, sharp and almost painful, wracked her, milking Agatha’s fingers inside her.
When it finally subsided, Rio hung limp over the railing, held up only by Agatha’s grip on her hip and in her hair. She was sobbing, tears cooling on her cheeks.
Agatha slowly withdrew her fingers, slick and glistening in the candlelight. She brought them to Rio’s mouth. “Clean them.”
Rio, broken and obedient, did. She tasted her own release, salt and musk, as Agatha watched with dark, satisfied eyes.
Then, Agatha gently guided her upright. Rio’s legs nearly buckled. The plug remained, a profound, unignorable reminder. Agatha smoothed Rio’s skirt down with startling tenderness, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“There,” she said, her voice now a businesslike calm. She picked up her forgotten glass of whiskey and handed it to Rio. “Drink. You’ll need your strength. Tomorrow, you present the due diligence findings to the Shanghai team. You’ll stand perfectly, speak perfectly. And you’ll do it with my gift inside you, remembering that no matter how smart you sound, this is your truth.”
Rio took the glass with trembling hands. She drank, the whiskey burning a path of fire down her throat. She looked out at the city, vast and unknowing. The scream was gone, absorbed by the night. All that was left was the deep, owned ache, and a frightening, crystal-clear understanding.
Agatha was right. This was her truth. And part of her, the part that had just shattered into a million pieces over a balcony railing, craved nothing more than to prove she could be worthy of it.