Chapter 16: The First Video
The floor of Agatha’s kitchen had been cold. The silence afterwards had been colder. Rio had dressed under Agatha’s watchful eye, each article of clothing feeling like a bandage over a wound that needed air. Agatha had kissed her forehead, a benediction and a dismissal. “Write,” she’d said. Nothing more.
Back in her own apartment, the pristine white walls felt like a vacuum. The journal lay on her minimalist desk, a stark black rectangle against the pale wood. It accused her. The single sentence on the left page was a monument to her cowardice. The right page, blank, was a canyon.
Three days. The memory of Agatha’s touch was a live wire under her skin, but the memory of her disapproval was a frost, layer upon layer, freezing her in place. She’d tried to write. She’d stared at the blank page until the letters of her own previous writing swam and blurred. The words wouldn’t come. They were stuck behind the image of Agatha’s face when she’d said, You’re late.
The frustration was different this time. It wasn’t the buzzy, agitated energy of before. It was a slow, hot simmer, a pressure building in her core with no release valve. Agatha had given her an order. Write. And she was failing. The punishment for this failure wasn’t a spatula or a brutal fuck. It was this echoing silence, this terrible uncertainty. Had she ruined it? Had her dishonesty, her late, fumbled truth, cost her everything?
The thought was a spike of pure panic. It galvanized her. She couldn’t write. But she could show.
She moved to her bed, the afternoon sun casting long, dramatic shadows across the linens. She pulled her phone from its charger. Her hands were steady, purpose cutting through the haze of anxiety. She opened the camera, switched it to video, and propped the phone against a stack of pillows on the bedside chair, angling it toward the bed.
She stood before the lens, heart hammering against her ribs. This was a different kind of exposure. Deliberate. A performance for an audience of one. She met the camera’s eye, her own gaze dark and defiant. She said nothing. Slowly, she pulled her tank top over her head, let it fall. Unbuttoned her shorts, shoved them and her underwear down her legs in one motion, stepping out of the puddle of fabric.
The cool air kissed her skin. She climbed onto the bed, on her back, her head propped on her own pillows. She spread her legs, bending her knees, planting her feet wide. The camera saw everything: the lean line of her torso, the piercings in her nipples, the smooth planes of her inner thighs, and the dark, neat triangle between them, already glistening with the evidence of her torment.
She let her left hand drift down her stomach, over her hip bone, and into the wet heat. A sigh escaped her, audible in the quiet room. Her fingers circled her clit, already swollen and eager. She bit her lip, her eyes falling half-shut, but she forced them open. She wanted to be seen looking.
“Agatha,” she breathed, the name a ragged thing. Her fingers dipped lower, sliding through her slickness, gathering it, before pushing two inside her own cunt. A sharp gasp. It was good, but it was her own hand, her own predictable rhythm. It was practice. It was preamble.
She fucked herself with her fingers slowly, deeply, her hips lifting off the mattress to meet them. “This is what you do to me,” she moaned to the unblinking eye of the camera. “You leave me like this. Soaked. Empty.” She pumped her fingers, the wet, filthy sound amplifying in the stillness. “I can’t write. I can only… feel this.”
With a slick sound, she withdrew her fingers. She reached for the toy on her nightstand. It was silicone, a deep plum color, with a pronounced, bulbous head and a thick shaft. A toy for fullness. A toy for remembering. She didn’t turn on the vibration. Not yet.
She held it before the camera for a moment, letting the light gleam on its surface. Then she brought it down, rubbing the broad, cool head through her folds, over her clit, making her shudder. “This is for you,” she whispered, the confession molten.
She positioned the tip at her entrance, already stretched and yielding from her fingers. She pushed.
The stretch was immediate, breathtaking. She cried out, her head pressing back into the pillow. She worked it in slowly, agonizingly, inch by thick inch, feeling her body open, accommodate, swallow it whole. When it was fully seated, she lay still for a moment, panting, impaled, utterly full. The sheer, solid presence of it inside her was an echo. A substitute. It wasn’t her. It was a ghost of her.
Then, her thumb found the button at the base. She clicked it once.
A low, powerful hum traveled up the shaft, vibrating through her very core. Rio’s back arched off the bed, a broken scream torn from her throat. The sensation was ruthless, direct, a thousand times more intense than her own fingers. It buzzed against her deepest walls, a relentless, internal claiming.
“Fuck!” she shouted, her hands flying to her own thighs, gripping them for anchor. She began to move. She rocked her hips, fucking herself up onto the vibrating monster, taking it as deep as it would go, letting the bulbous head batter that perfect, sacred spot inside her. The vibrations blurred everything, turning the fullness into a buzzing, overwhelming oblivion.
“Agatha… fuck… Agatha…” Her chants were incoherent, punctuated by sharp, punched-out grunts. She spread her legs wider, offering herself completely to the camera’s gaze, her cunt stretched taut around the vibrating purple shaft. She was a spectacle of raw need, her pink hair splayed wildly, her face contorted in ecstatic agony.
The climax built not as a wave but as a seismic event. It started in her toes, a curling tension, rocketed up her legs, clenched her stomach, and detonated in her cunt with a force that whited out her vision. She came with a guttural, screaming cry, her body seizing, her internal muscles clamping down rhythmically, viciously, around the toy that kept humming, kept vibrating, kept fucking her through it.
The overstimulation was instant, electric torture. She sobbed, her hips jerking uncontrollably. “Stop, stop, it’s too much,” she begged the empty room, but her hand didn’t move to turn it off. She rode the razor’s edge, the pleasure so extreme it frayed into pure, shimmering pain.
Driven by a frantic instinct, she pulled the toy out. The sudden, empty ache was a shock. She rolled onto her hands and knees, presenting herself to the camera, her ass in the air, her glistening, used cunt on blatant display. She was panting like an animal. With a trembling hand, she guided the slick, buzzing head back to her entrance.
“Need it,” she grunted. “Need to be full.”
She shoved it back in, sheathing the entire length in one brutal, impaling motion. The sound she made was one of utter conquest. On all fours, she started to fuck herself backward onto it, each thrust a loud, wet slap of silicone against flesh. The angle was deeper, more punishing. She dropped her chest to the bed, ass high, fucking herself with a desperate, driving rhythm.
“Come for me, you fucking cunt, come again,” she snarled, her voice ragged and raw, parodying Agatha’s commands, punishing herself for her absence. The vibration never ceased. The second orgasm ripped through her with less ceremony but equal violence, a deep, thrumming internal quake that left her weak and shaking. She collapsed onto her side, the toy still buried inside her, still humming its electric song.
Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She was a ruin. Spent, oversensitive, hollowed out. Yet the hunger, the furious need to prove her desperation, wasn’t sated. It was a beast now, fully awake.
She turned onto her back again, legs splayed. She pulled the toy out, clicked off the vibration. It shone wetly in the golden light. She looked directly into the camera, her eyes glassy and dark.
“You said to write,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I can’t. The words are all here.” She trailed her fingers through the mess on her thighs, bringing them to her mouth, sucking them clean with a defiant, challenging stare. “This is my truth. This is what you own.”
She turned the vibration on again, the low hum suddenly loud in the quiet. Not the punishing setting. The lowest, persistent thrum. She didn’t insert it. She lay back, spread her legs, and placed the buzzing, bulbous head directly on her swollen, over-sensitized clit.
The sensation was excruciating. Exquisite. She ground herself against it, her hips making tiny, frantic circles, chasing a third climax that felt impossible, a cruelty she was imposing on her own body. It built slowly, a treacherous tide under a sea of nerve-fraying static. Her breaths were shallow whimpers. She was pinned between desperation and surrender, her own hand holding the instrument of her torture.
When it finally broke, it was a quiet, devastating thing. No scream. Just a slow, full-body tremble, a silent cascade of release that left her limp, tears streaming freely down her temples into her hair. The toy fell from her slack hand onto the sheet.
For a long time, she didn’t move. The sun had shifted. The room was darker. The phone camera had long since stopped recording, its memory full.
Finally, she stirred. She sat up, every muscle protesting. She reached for the phone, fumbling with it. She found the video, the lengthy file. Without hesitation, without watching a second of it, she opened a new message. She attached the file. She typed a single recipient: Agatha.
The message field blinked, empty. What did you say? I tried? Here I am? Forgive me?
Her thumbs hovered. Then, she typed three words. They were not an apology. They were a statement of fact, as raw and unadorned as the video itself.
I’m still yours.
She hit send.
The whoosh sound was deafening in the silence. She dropped the phone as if it had burned her. It landed facedown on the rumpled, damp sheets. She hugged her knees to her chest, resting her forehead on them, waiting in the gathering dark for the judgment to come.
The judgment didn’t come for seven hours.
Rio’s phone remained silent and dark on the sheets, a flat piece of obsidian. She finally moved when the room was fully dark, her limbs stiff, her cunt a tender, bruised-feeling hollow. She showered in water so hot it turned her skin pink, scrubbing mechanically, unable to wash away the lingering phantom sensations. She ordered food, ate three bites, and threw the rest away. She stared at the journal but didn’t touch it. The emptiness was a physical weight.
She was lying on her couch, chasing a sleep that wouldn’t come, when the phone finally buzzed. Not a call. A single, incoming text notification. The sound was a electric jolt to her heart. She scrambled for it, her hands clumsy.
The screen bloomed with light. A message from Agatha. No greeting. No commentary on the video. Just five stark lines of text.
I watched it.
I’m not home until the end of this week. Conference in Berlin.
I’m sending you a toy I can control overnight.
Video chat me when it arrives.
I want a live demo.
Rio read the words once, twice, a dozen times. Her breath hitched. Berlin. An ocean away. The distance felt galactic, insurmountable. Yet the words I can control sent a violent, liquid thrill straight to her core. She typed a reply, deleted it, typed another.
What kind of toy? she sent, the question bratty, seeking a scrap of detail to hold onto.
The reply was instantaneous. The kind that obeys. You’ll see. Be ready.
The parcel arrived at noon the next day, a discreet black box with no branding. Rio brought it inside, her pulse fluttering in her throat. She placed it on her kitchen island, her fingers tracing the smooth cardboard. The anticipation was a live wire. She followed the instruction. She opened a video call request to Agatha.
Agatha answered after the third ring. The screen resolved into a hotel room. Agatha sat in a sleek armchair, backlit by the gray Berlin light filtering through a floor-to-ceiling window. She wore a dark turtleneck, her silver-streaked hair loose. She looked effortlessly powerful, a continent away yet somehow more present than the room itself.
“Open it,” Agatha said, her voice clear through the speaker, a quiet command.
Rio fumbled with the tape. Inside, nestled in black foam, was a silicone toy. It was larger than her own, a deep cobalt blue, with a pronounced, veined shaft and a thick, flared base. Embedded near the base was a small, subtle interface with a single LED light, currently dark.
“It’s connected to an app on my phone,” Agatha explained, her tone clinical, like a technician explaining a tool. “I control the vibration patterns. The intensity. The duration. You do not. It has a… robust battery.”
Rio lifted it. It was heavy, substantial.
“Your video was a compelling application of initiative,” Agatha continued, her green eyes fixed on Rio through the screen. “But it was monologue. This is a dialogue. This is me, inside you, from five hundred miles away. Show me you understand the difference.”
Rio’s mouth was dry. She licked her lips. “Here? Now?”
“Is there a problem?” Agatha’s head tilted slightly. “You sent me a tour of your bedroom. The kitchen island will do. Prop the phone up. I want to see you.”
Rio obeyed, her movements slightly unsteady. She arranged the phone so Agatha could see the expanse of polished concrete floor and the island. She stood before it, feeling more exposed than she ever had in Agatha’s actual presence. This was performance and surrender fused into one terrifying act.
She removed her clothes, letting them pool at her feet. The air was cool on her skin. She met the camera’s eye, seeing her own small image in the corner, seeing Agatha’s placid, watching face.
“Wet it,” Agatha instructed.
Rio picked up the toy, carried it to her mouth, and slowly ran her tongue along the length, sucking the head into her mouth, coating it with her saliva. She watched Agatha watch her. Agatha’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes darkened.
“Good. Now. Bend over. Hold the edge of the island.”
Rio turned, leaning forward until her torso was parallel to the floor, her hands gripping the cool, hard edge. She presented herself to the phone, to Agatha. She heard a soft tap from the speaker, a finger on a touchscreen.
The toy in her hand came to life.
It didn’t just vibrate. It pulsed, a deep, throbbing wave that traveled up the shaft and into her palm. She gasped.
“Feel that?” Agatha’s voice was a low murmur. “That’s my heartbeat. Put it in.”
Rio guided the pulsing, slick head to her entrance. The sensation against her fingers was unnerving, knowing the rhythm was dictated by a woman in another country. She pressed. The thickness stretched her, a familiar, burning welcome. She pushed it in, sinking onto it with a choked cry, taking every inch until the flared base was snug against her.
It was inside her. And it was utterly alive with Agatha’s will.
“Hands back on the island,” Agatha commanded.
Rio released the toy, letting it stand on its own, buried inside her, its base protruding. The vulnerability was absolute. She was fucked by a phantom, held open by a piece of technology.
A new pattern began. A short, sharp series of buzzes, like a code. Then a long, sustained, punishing hum that made Rio’s knees buckle. “Oh, fuck!” she cried out, her knuckles white on the island edge.
“Language,” Agatha chided softly, her fingers dancing on her screen. The vibration shifted to a erratic, teasing flicker, maddeningly light, then ramped without warning into a brutal, earthquake rumble that seemed to shake Rio’s very bones.
Agatha was playing her. Rio was the instrument. Her hips began to move involuntarily, fucking herself back on the invisible, pulsating hand, seeking more pressure, more consistency. She got none. The patterns were merciless, unpredictable, denying her any chance to find a rhythm of her own.
“You look beautiful like this,” Agatha observed, her voice calm. “Desperate. And entirely mine. Tell me.”
“I’m yours!” Rio sobbed, the vibrations stealing her breath. “God, please, Agatha…”
“Please what? I’m right here.” Another tap. The vibration ceased completely.
The sudden, hollow silence inside her was a worse torment. Rio whined, pushing back against the inert toy, seeking friction that wasn’t there. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
“Ask properly.”
“Please make me come,” Rio begged, tears of frustration leaking onto the island. “Please, use the toy, use your toy, make your cunt come. I need it.”
The vibration returned, not as a pattern, but as a single, unrelenting, maximum-intensity blast. It was a sonic drill inside her, a white noise of pure sensation. Rio screamed, her body bowing, her vision spotting. The orgasm exploded through her with catastrophic force, a seizure of pleasure so intense it bordered on violence. She clenched around the buzzing shaft, her scream dissolving into ragged, heaving gulps of air.
It didn’t stop. Agatha kept the setting at maximum, forcing Rio to ride out the devastating climax straight into unbearable overstimulation. Rio shuddered, sobbed, tried to pull away, but the toy was anchored inside her, a relentless, buzzing invasion.
Finally, it stopped. Rio slumped over the island, weeping openly, spit and tears smearing the polished surface. The toy slipped out of her, landing with a soft thud on the floor. She was utterly destroyed.
The screen showed Agatha, leaning forward slightly, a faint, satisfied curl to her lips. “The demo is satisfactory.” Her voice was warm now, a gentle scrape of gravel. “Keep the toy charged. I’ll be seeing you.”
The call disconnected.
Rio slid to the cold floor, hugging her knees, the ghost of the vibrations still echoing in her marrow. The island was a mess. Her body was a wreck. A slow, tremulous smile touched her bruised lips. She hadn’t been forgiven. She had been reclaimed, in the most technologically brutal, intimately perfect way possible.
Across the ocean, Agatha closed the app. She picked up her hotel phone, dialed room service for a pot of coffee, and gazed out at the Berlin skyline. The conference was dull. This was not. She had work to do when she got home. A brat to shape. A truth to write. And now, a new tool in her kit.