Chapter 12: Dinner and Discipline
The walk back to the apartment building was a study in exquisite torture. Every step Rio took in her heels sent a jolt through her, the plug nestled deep and unyielding, the forgotten ache of the belt’s stripes a dull, grounding fire on her thighs. The night air was cool, but her skin was a furnace under the backless dress. Agatha walked beside her, a calm, infuriating pillar of composure, her hand a light, possessive guide at the small of Rio’s back.
They didn’t speak in the elevator. The silence was a pressurized chamber. Rio watched their reflection in the brushed steel doors—her own face flushed, pupils blown wide, next to Agatha’s serene, impassive mask. The only sign of anything amiss was the faint, almost imperceptible tremble in Rio’s knees.
Agatha’s door closed with a soft, final thud. The scent of vanilla and serpent candle was gone, replaced by the quiet, clean smell of her space. Home.
“Against the wall,” Agatha said, her voice dropping into its deeper register, the one that bypassed Rio’s thoughts and spoke directly to her spine. “Hands flat. Forehead to the plaster. Legs apart.”
Rio moved quickly, the familiar ritual a relief. The cool wall kissed her forehead. The position thrust her ass out, the black fabric of her dress pulling tight. She heard Agatha move behind her, the quiet sounds of her removing her coat, setting down her keys.
“You followed instructions at dinner,” Agatha said, her footsteps approaching. “You didn’t come. But your control was hanging by a thread. I could smell your desperation across the table.” Her hand landed on Rio’s hip, burning through the dress. “It was tempting. But patience has its own reward.”
Her other hand gathered the skirt of the dress, dragging it up Rio’s legs slowly, revealing the backs of her thighs, the lace-topped stockings, the bare skin of her ass with its faint, cross-hatched reminders. The cool air was a shock. Then Agatha’s fingers found the base of the plug, cold metal against warm skin. She traced its circumference.
“My plug,” she murmured. “Sitting in your ass all through dinner while you tried to be a good girl. Did you think about it? While you were pretending to listen to the specials?”
“Yes,” Rio breathed into the wall.
“What did you think?”
“I thought… I thought about you putting it there. I thought about it being yours inside me.” The words were ash in her mouth.
Agatha’s hand left the plug. Rio heard the buckle this time, the leather sigh as it was drawn through the loops. Her entire body clenched in anticipation.
“You also fidgeted,” Agatha said, her voice conversational. “When the waiter described the tiramisu. Your thighs squeezed together. A tiny, greedy movement. I saw it.” The belt whispered through the air.
Thwack.
The pain was a bright, searing line, lower this time, across the tender crease where ass met thigh. Rio cried out, her hands sliding on the wall.
“I didn’t give you permission to come, and I didn’t give you permission to seek friction,” Agatha said, her tone sharpening. Another stripe, parallel to the first. The pain was clearer, hotter than in the haze of the previous night. It was a correction. A claiming.
Thwack. Thwack.
Two more, lightning-fast, painting fire on her skin. Rio was panting, tears springing to her eyes. The plug felt heavier, more intrusive.
“Count them.”
“Four,” Rio gasped.
The belt landed again, higher, on the full curve of her ass. “Five.”
Another. “Six.”
Agatha paused. Rio heard the belt drop to the floor. Then Agatha’s hands were on her, kneading the tortured flesh, the pain blossoming into a deep, throbbing heat. Her fingers dipped lower, sliding through the slickness she found there, proof of Rio’s confused, shameful arousal. She rubbed the wetness over the welts.
“Disgusting creature,” Agatha whispered, but there was a thread of awe in it. “You love this. You love being corrected. Own it.”
“I love it,” Rio sobbed, the admission torn from her. “I love it, Agatha.”
“Good.” Agatha’s fingers hooked into the waistband of Rio’s stockings and panties, dragging them down to her knees. The air hit her wet cunt. Then Agatha’s hand was back, not soothing now, but delving. Two fingers shoved into her without preamble, curling deep.
Rio screamed, her back arching, driving herself onto Agatha’s hand. The fullness was unbearable, perfect. The plug and the fingers created a devastating pressure from both sides.
“You’re dripping,” Agatha growled, fucking her with sharp, punishing strokes. “Soaked from a few strokes of a belt. You’re a fucking cliché. A pain slut. My pain slut.” She added a third finger, the stretch brutal, magnificent.
Rio was babbling, a stream of please and yours and more. The orgasm she’d been denied for hours was a roaring beast in her belly, clawing to get out.
Agatha withdrew her hand abruptly. Rio whimpered at the loss. She heard the rustle of clothing, the sound of a zipper. Then Agatha was pressing against her, the hard line of her own denim-clad thigh pushing between Rio’s legs, the rough fabric grinding against her oversensitive clit.
“Not yet,” Agatha hissed in her ear. One hand fisted in Rio’s pink hair, yanking her head back. The other hand went to the plug. With a slow, twisting pull, she began to remove it.
The sensation was surreal, a reverse violation. Rio felt every ridge, the unbearable stretch as the widest part passed her rim. She was whimpering, her cunt pulsing around nothing. Agatha tossed the plug onto a nearby chair with a wet thud.
“Now,” Agatha commanded, spinning Rio around and shoving her back against the wall. Her eyes were wild, her control visibly fractured. She had a strap-on harness secured over her jeans, the dildo a smooth, realistic curve of dark silicone, glistening with lube. “Legs around my waist. Now.”
Rio jumped, wrapping her limbs around Agatha, who caught her effortlessly, pinning her to the wall. The tip of the dildo pressed against her soaked, stretched opening. Agatha looked into her eyes, her breath hot on Rio’s face.
“This is what you wanted at the restaurant. This is what you’ve been begging for. Take it.”
She surged forward, burying the entire length in one savage thrust.
The cry that left Rio’s throat was ragged, animal. It was too much, a fullness beyond anything she’d known. Agatha held her there, impaled, letting her feel every inch. Then she began to move.
It was not making love. It was a fucking. Agatha pistoned into her, the force of it driving Rio’s shoulders into the wall with each thrust. The angle was devastating, hitting a place deep inside that made Rio see white flashes behind her eyes. Agatha’s face was a grimace of intense focus, a sheen of sweat on her temples.
“This cunt is mine,” Agatha grunted, her rhythm becoming erratic, brutal. “Say it.”
“It’s yours!” Rio screamed.
“This ass is mine.”
“Yours!”
“This fucking mouth is mine.” Agatha crushed her lips against Rio’s, her tongue invading, claiming that too. The taste of herself, of wine, of Agatha, was dizzying. Agatha broke the kiss, her breathing ragged. “Who do you belong to?”
“You! I belong to you, Agatha, please, I can’t—”
“You can. You will.” Agatha’s hand slid between them, her thumb finding Rio’s clit, a rough, circular pressure. “Come on my cock. Now.”
It was an order she couldn’t disobey. The orgasm detonated, a cataclysm that ripped through her without grace or beauty. It was a seizure of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Her cunt clamped down viscously on the silicone inside her, her body shaking apart against the wall.
Agatha followed her over, a raw, guttural shout escaping her as she thrust erratically through her own climax, her forehead dropping to Rio’s shoulder, her entire body trembling with the force of it.
They stayed like that for a long minute, joined, panting, slick with sweat. Agatha’s arms, locked under Rio’s thighs, were the only thing holding her up. Slowly, carefully, Agatha pulled out and lowered Rio until her feet touched the floor. Rio’s legs buckled immediately. Agatha caught her, guiding her down to the rug, not the leather chair, just the floor.
This time, the aftercare was silent. Agatha fetched a warm, damp cloth and cleaned her with a tenderness that contradicted the violence of minutes before. She retrieved a glass of water, held it to Rio’s lips. She wrapped a soft throw around Rio’s shoulders.
Rio leaned into her, spent, hollowed out, peaceful. The city lights bled into the room.
After a long while, Agatha spoke, her voice rough. “I have to go out of town for three days. A client in Montreal. An estate auction.”
The words were a cold splash. Rio stiffened.
Agatha’s arm tightened around her. “It’s work. It’s non-negotiable.” She paused. “I want you to have a task while I’m gone.”
“What?” Rio’s voice was small.
“I want you to write. By hand. Three pages each day. What you feel. What you want. What you’re afraid of. No filters. You’ll show it to me when I return.” Her fingers traced Rio’s jaw. “It will give you structure. And it will give me something to read on the plane home.”
It was a leash, made of paper and ink. A way to remain owned across the distance. The cold dread melted, replaced by a warm, solid certainty.
“Okay,” Rio said.
Agatha nodded. She pressed a kiss to the top of Rio’s head. “Come to bed. I’m not done holding you.”
And Rio went, knowing the emptiness of the next few days would be filled by the ghost of Agatha’s command, and the promise of her return. The night stretched ahead, quiet now, the only sound the steady beat of a heart learning a new, relentless rhythm.
The night stretched ahead, quiet now, the only sound the steady beat of a heart learning a new, relentless rhythm. Rio slept deeply, wrapped in that rhythm, in the scent of Agatha on the sheets. Morning came as a slow, gray intrusion. She woke to empty space, the indent on the other pillow the only proof.
Agatha was already gone, a note on the kitchen counter in precise, slanted handwriting. Eat. Work. Write. I’ll know if you don’t. The apartment felt cavernous. Silence, once a blanket, now felt like a vacuum.
The first day was a restless ghost. She tried to work, her graphics software blurring. Her body was a map of faint aches and vivid memories. That evening, she stared at the blank journal Agatha had left—rich, cream paper bound in black leather. Her pen hovered. What you feel. She felt empty. She felt owned. She felt terrified that the feeling would fade.
Her pen finally touched the paper. I feel the ghost of the plug. I keep clenching around nothing. It’s absurd. I miss the weight. I want to feel full again. I’m afraid this is just a chemical thing. I’m afraid you’ll come back and I’ll be boring. The words spilled, ugly and honest. She filled three pages with it, a messy spill of need and doubt.
She took a photo with her phone, the scrawl lit by her desk lamp. She sent it to the number Agatha had given her, the one just for them. Day One, she typed. Her thumb hovered over send. She hit it.
The response came twenty minutes later, just as she was boiling water for tea. Her phone buzzed against the marble counter. Good. The fear is the point. The emptiness is the space I own. Sleep well. Rio read it five times. The emptiness inside her shifted, becoming a shaped thing. A claimed thing.
The second day was worse. The initial peace curdled into a sharp, physical craving. She was snappish with a client. She paced. That night’s writing was darker, more graphic. I can’t stop touching myself. It’s pathetic. I came thinking about your belt on the restaurant chair. I want your fingers in my ass again while you tell me how disgusting I am. I’m afraid I’ve ruined normal sex for myself forever. I’m afraid you think I’m just a slut. She sent the photo.
The reply was faster. You are my slut. There’s a difference. Normal is a myth. Touch yourself again, now. Think of my hand on your throat. Then sleep. Rio obeyed, right there on the kitchen floor, her climax a short, sharp punch that left her feeling scraped out and oddly serene.
The third day was the longest. A hollow calm had settled. Her writing that night was quieter. I wore the collar today while I worked. Just for an hour. It helped. I want to make you proud. I want to kneel by the door when you come home. I fear that’s too much. I fear it’s not enough. She sent it, the vulnerability terrifying.
She was in bed, lights off, when the phone glowed. Not a text. A shared document link, opened in a notes app. Agatha had typed directly beneath Rio’s photographed pages. Your fear of being too much is the one thing I will not tolerate. You cannot exceed my capacity. I am proud. The image of you kneeling is in my head. It’s what got me through this tedious auction. My plane lands at 8. Be ready.
Rio’s breath caught. Be ready. She read the words again. Agatha had read every raw line. She had absorbed the want, the feeling, the fear, and had not flinched. She had claimed that, too.
The following hours were a slow fever. She cleaned, not knowing why. She showered, scrubbing her skin until it pinkened. At 7:30, she stood naked in the middle of her own apartment, the journal in her hand. The collar felt heavy, right. She walked upstairs, the hall carpet soft under her bare feet.
She let herself into Agatha’s dark apartment with the key she’d been given. She could still smell the serpent candle, the bourbon, them. She knelt on the Persian rug, facing the door, her back straight, the journal placed on the floor beside her. The city lights painted the room in blue and gold. She waited.
The key turned in the lock at 8:07. The door opened. Agatha stepped in, a suitcase beside her, wearing a long travel coat, her hair tied back. She saw Rio immediately. Her sharp eyes scanned the scene—the naked kneeling form, the waiting journal. She closed the door. The silence was profound.
She shed her coat, draped it over a chair. She walked to Rio, boots quiet on the floor. She didn’t touch her. She picked up the journal, her fingers tracing the cover. “You wrote.”
“Yes.”
Agatha opened it, reading a random page in the dim light. Her expression was unreadable. She closed the book. “You offered yourself here. Without instruction.”
“You said be ready.”
A slow smile, earned and real, touched Agatha’s lips. “So I did.” She placed the journal on the table. Her hand came to Rio’s chin, tilting her face up. “You missed me.”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
The command was a low current. Rio understood. She leaned forward, her face pressing against the hard line of Agatha’s zipper, her nose nudging the denim-covered heat beneath. She inhaled deeply, the scent of travel, of cold air, of her. She mouthed the fabric, lips and tongue moving against the rough material, a shameless, wordless demonstration of need.
Agatha’s hand tightened in her hair. “Good enough.” She pulled Rio to her feet, her kiss bruising, all possession and homecoming. She tasted of airport coffee and promise. “Now,” she said, breathing the word into Rio’s mouth. “You wrote about wanting my fingers in your ass again.”
She walked Rio backward, never breaking the kiss, until the edge of the leather armchair hit the backs of her thighs. “Bend over it.” Rio bent, the cool leather familiar on her belly. Agatha’s hands ran over her ass, assessing the faint remains of the stripes. “Healed. Good.” A bottle opened. The slick, cool drizzle of oil traced her cleft.
Agatha’s thumb pressed against her, a blunt, insistent pressure. “This hole is greedy now. It remembers.” She pushed in, not one finger, but two, together, a ruthless, stretching invasion that made Rio shout into the leather. There was no gentle re-acquaintance, only claiming. Agatha fucked her with them, a steady, deep corkscrew motion that tore sounds from Rio’s throat she didn’t recognize.
“You filled your emptiness with words,” Agatha muttered, her other hand a vise on Rio’s hip. “Now I’ll fill it with me.” The fingers withdrew. The thick, silicone head of the plug, freshly lubed, pressed where they had been. “Take it. All of it.”
It was bigger than she remembered. The stretch was a bright, white burn. Rio pushed back, swallowing it, a low groan tearing from her as the widest part popped past her resistance and the stem seated deep. She was impossibly full, a shuddering weight settling inside her.
Agatha turned her over, laying her back across the chair arm. Her eyes were fever-bright. She unzipped her jeans, shoved them down. She wasn’t wearing a strap. She was bare, wet, her cunt glistening. She knelt over Rio’s face, one hand braced on the chair back. “You know what to do. Clean me up. Get me ready for your other hole.”
Rio lifted her head, her tongue finding Agatha’s folds with a desperate hunger. She licked into her, savoring the familiar salt-musk, the thrum of Agatha’s pulse under her tongue. She sucked her clit, flattening her tongue the way Agatha liked. Above her, Agatha rocked, a soft, broken sound escaping her.
“Enough,” Agatha gasped, pulling away. She repositioned herself, kneeling between Rio’s splayed legs. She guided the head of the plug with her fingers, aligning it. Then she lowered herself, taking Rio’s swollen clit into her mouth at the same moment she began to fuck herself on the plug.
The dual sensation was insanity. Agatha’s hot, sucking mouth was a vacuum of pleasure on her clit. Below, Rio could feel every movement as Agatha impaled herself, riding the plug buried in Rio’s ass. The base ground against Rio’s perineum with each of Agatha’s downstrokes. It was a closed, filthy circuit.
Agatha moaned around her, the vibration traveling straight to Rio’s core. Her own hips bucked helplessly. “Fuck, your ass is tight,” Agatha panted, lifting her head for a second. “I can feel it gripping me. You’re just a vessel.” She dove back down, her tongue fucking Rio’s slit now, lapping at the mess she was making.
Rio’s hands scrabbled at the leather. The orgasm built not as a wave, but as a pressure change, a swift, seismic shift. “Agatha, I’m—“
Agatha pulled off, her chin slick. She stared down, watching herself ride the plug. “Come. I want to watch your cunt pulse while I fuck your ass.”
The permission unleashed it. Rio shattered, her back arching off the chair, a silent scream on her lips as her cunt fluttered violently around nothing. Agatha rode her through it, her own movements becoming jagged, frantic. With a sharp cry, Agatha slammed down one final time, her body seizing as she came, her own wetness adding to the slick ruin between them.
She collapsed forward, her forehead resting on Rio’s sternum, her breath coming in hot gusts. The plug shifted inside Rio with their shared weight. After a minute, Agatha carefully lifted herself off, the plug slipping free with a soft, wet sound. She gathered Rio into her arms, pulling her onto the floor, onto the rug, not caring about the mess.
They lay tangled, skin cooling. Agatha’s fingers traced the line of the collar. “Your writing,” she said, her voice sleep-rough. “The third day. That was the truth. The rest was just noise.”
Rio nodded, nuzzling into her neck. “The fear…”
“Is mine to handle.” Agatha kissed her hair. “You did well. All of it.” She reached over, her hand finding the discarded journal on the table. She pulled it down, opened it, and placed it on Rio’s bare stomach. “We’ll add to it. Together.”
The empty pages gleamed in the low light, a future waiting to be filled. Rio closed her eyes, the steady beat of Agatha’s heart against her ear a rhythm she no longer had to learn, only follow. The quiet of the apartment was no longer a vacuum, but a held breath, full of what was to come.