Chapter 17: The Morning Report
The vibration had echoed in her bones for days. A phantom pulse. Rio would be selecting fonts for a client’s logo and her cunt would clench, empty, remembering the brutal, remote-controlled climax Agatha had wired into her from Berlin. The blue toy sat on her nightstand, charging, its single LED a watchful eye. She hadn’t touched it since. The order was implicit: you don’t decide when.
The morning sun was a sharp blade cutting across her bed. Her phone buzzed on the white linen, not a call, but a text. The sound was a cardiac arrest.
Agatha: Send me a photo of your cunt. Wet. Now.
Rio’s breath left her in a rush. No greeting. No context. A direct line to her nervous system. She threw the covers off. Her sleep shorts were already damp; she’d been dreaming of knuckles against her thigh, a voice in the dark. She shoved them down, kicked them away. She lay back, knees falling open, the cool air a shock against her heated skin.
She grabbed her phone. The camera app opened with a click. She didn’t pose. She didn’t filter. She held the phone between her spread legs, angled it down, and captured the stark, intimate truth: the pink, glistening folds, the neat triangle of hair, the sheen of arousal already coating her inner thighs. It was clinical and lewd. It was exactly what had been demanded. She sent it.
The three blinking dots appeared immediately. Rio’s heart hammered against her sternum. She watched them, hypnotized.
Agatha: Good. Plug yourself with the blue toy. Leave it in until I tell you to take it out. Then go about your day. I’ll be watching.
A flush, hot and shameful, spread from Rio’s chest to her throat. I’ll be watching. It wasn’t just about the plug. It was about the walk to the café. The grocery selection. The entire mundane theater of her life performed with a secret lodged inside her. A signature on her insides.
She got up, her legs unsteady. The toy was cool from sitting by the window. She picked it up, its weight familiar and daunting. She didn’t bother with lube; her own wetness was ample, a physiological surrender. At the edge of the bed, she bent forward, one hand bracing on the mattress. With the other, she guided the broad, cobalt silicone head to her entrance.
It wasn’t a slow tease. It was an installation. She pushed back against it, swallowing the thick head with a guttural groan. The stretch burned beautifully, a familiar ache of submission. She worked it deeper, inch by relentless inch, until the flared base settled snug against her, a permanent, heavy fullness. She stood up straight. The shift in gravity made it feel larger, more present. A constant, reminding pressure.
She dressed with careful, deliberate movements: simple black cotton underwear, loose charcoal sweatpants, a tight white tank top. Each layer felt like a disguise. The plug was a grounding wire, tethering her to Agatha’s will with every step.
The grocery store was a symphony of normalcy. Fluorescent lights hummed. Cart wheels squeaked. A child wailed for cereal. Rio moved through the aisles, a basket hooked over her arm. The plug shifted inside her with every step, a subtle, insistent nudge. She focused on the list on her phone: coffee, eggs, bread.
Reaching for a carton of oat milk on a high shelf stretched her torso. The movement pressed the plug’s base more firmly against her, a shock of sensation that made her breath hitch. She glanced around, paranoid. No one was looking. They saw a girl with pink hair buying groceries. They didn’t see the secret. They didn’t see the leash.
In the produce section, she bent to inspect avocados. The angle drove the toy deeper. A small, choked sound escaped her. Her knuckles whitened on the handle of the basket. I’ll be watching. Was Agatha imagining this? Was she picturing Rio trembling by the lemons, her cunt stuffed full on command? The thought, the unbearable intimacy of that shared, secret knowledge, made her clench around the silicone. A bolt of raw pleasure-pain shot through her. She straightened up too quickly, dizzy.
At the checkout, the bored cashier scanned her items. Beep. Beep. Beep. Rio stood, trying to appear casual, while the plug seemed to pulse in time with the scanner. Her face felt hot. She paid with a swipe of her phone, mumbled a thanks, and gathered her bags.
The walk home was agony. Every sidewalk crack sent a jolt through her. The friction of her sweatpants against the base was a maddening tease. By the time she pushed through her apartment door, she was slick with sweat and desperate. She dropped the bags on the kitchen floor and leaned against the island, panting.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Agatha: Home?
Rio: Yes.
Agatha: Take it out. On the kitchen floor. Film it.
Rio’s hands shook. She fumbled the phone, setting it to record propped against a bag of coffee beans. The angle was low, looking up at her standing by the island. She pushed her sweatpants and underwear down to her ankles. The cool air hit her wet skin. She reached behind herself, fingers finding the solid, slick base of the plug. She took a shaky breath, then pulled.
It didn’t slide. It dragged, the thick shaft resisting, her body reluctant to give it up. A low moan tore from her throat as it finally popped free with a wet, obscene sound. She held it in front of the camera, coated in her shine, before letting it drop to the concrete with a soft thud. She spread her legs, showing the camera her used, glistening, empty cunt, breathing hard.
She picked up the phone, ended the recording, and sent the file without watching it. She collapsed onto the floor, the cold concrete against her cheek, waiting.
The reply came faster than expected.
Agatha: My flight lands at 8:15. Be showered. Be in bed. The journal will be on the nightstand. I will read what you’ve written. Then we will discuss your day.
The message was a door slamming shut and a new one swinging open. A finality and a beginning. The conference was over. Agatha was coming home.
Rio showered as directed, scrubbing away the sweat and grime of the day but not the feeling. That was etched in. She put on a simple black silk slip. She didn’t light candles. She didn’t tidy. The apartment was as it was. The journal waited, a silent judge on the nightstand.
She got into bed, pulling the sheets to her waist. The silence was a vault. Each tick of the wall clock was a hammer strike. She heard the elevator ding in the hallway, a distant, metallic sigh. Footsteps, firm and measured, approached her door. No knock. A key slid into the lock.
The door opened.
Agatha filled the doorway. She wore a long, dark wool coat, a scarf loose around her neck. She carried a single leather suitcase. She looked tired, elegant, and utterly in charge. The scent of cold night air and her jasmine perfume wafted in. Her eyes found Rio in the bed, then flicked to the journal.
She said nothing. She took off her coat, draped it over a chair. She walked to the bed, picked up the journal, and sat in the armchair near the window. She opened it. The sound of the page turning was like a gunshot in the quiet.
Rio watched, her heart a frantic bird in a cage. Agatha’s face was impassive as she read. She turned a page. Then another. Her expression didn’t change, but the air in the room tightened. Rio had written. Pages and pages. Not about design. Not about clients. Raw, jagged fragments about the sound of boots overhead, about the cold kitchen floor, about the hollow after the vibration stopped, about the terrifying freedom of being owned.
Agatha closed the journal. She placed it neatly back on the nightstand. She stood and walked to the bed, looking down at Rio. Her green eyes were unreadable in the dim light.
“You went to the store,” Agatha stated, her voice low.
“Yes.”
“What did you buy?”
“Oat milk. Eggs. Sourdough. Coffee.”
“And while you were buying sourdough, what were you thinking about?”
Rio’s throat tightened. “You. The plug. Whether you could feel… how full I was.”
A slight, almost imperceptible nod. “Good.” Agatha sat on the edge of the bed. Her hand came up, her cool fingers tracing the line of Rio’s jaw. “You understand the assignment now. The writing and the flesh. They are the same confession.”
Her thumb brushed Rio’s lower lip. Rio’s lips parted.
“I am tired,” Agatha said, almost to herself. “Jet lag is a dull knife. I need something sharp. I need to feel present.” Her gaze locked onto Rio’s. “Get on your knees. On the floor.”
Rio moved without thought. The silk slip whispered as she slid from the bed, her knees meeting the polished concrete. She looked up at Agatha, who remained seated on the bed’s edge, a queen on a dais.
Agatha unbuttoned her tailored trousers, pulled them and her underwear down just enough. What she revealed wasn’t soft or welcoming. It was the same brutal, beautiful terrain Rio had dreamed of. Neatly trimmed hair, thick labia, and her clit, already prominent under its hood.
“Use your mouth,” Agatha commanded, her voice flat. “No hands. Make me feel where I am.”
Rio leaned in, the scent of her, musky and deep, flooding her senses. She didn’t start gently. She obeyed the need for something sharp. She opened her mouth and sealed it over Agatha’s cunt, licking a broad, flat stripe from her entrance to her clit. Agatha’s hips jerked. A sharp inhale.
Rio buried her face in her, her tongue seeking, probing, fucking into her with desperate intensity. She sucked on her labia, lapped at her opening, tasting salt and essence and power. She found her clit and circled it with the pointed tip of her tongue, fast, then slow, reading the jerks of Agatha’s thighs against her ears.
“That’s it,” Agatha breathed, her hand coming down to tangle in Rio’s pink hair, not guiding, just possessing. “Fucking devour it. That’s your purpose right now.”
Rio moaned against her, the vibration earning a grinding thrust against her face. She was drowning in it, drunk on the taste and the feel and the sheer permission to serve. She fucked Agatha with her tongue, deep and messy, until her jaw ached and her own cunt was throbbing, empty and weeping.
Agatha’s breaths became ragged. The hand in Rio’s hair tightened, pulling her closer, holding her in place. “Right there. Don’t you dare stop.”
Rio redoubled her efforts, her tongue a relentless piston, her lips sucking, her nose pressed into coarse hair. Agatha’s body went rigid. A low, guttural sound rippled from her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated claiming. Her cunt pulsed against Rio’s mouth, a hot, rhythmic flood. Rio drank it down, swallowing every drop, her tongue gentling now, lapping softly through the aftershocks.
After a long moment, Agatha’s grip loosened. Rio rested her forehead against Agatha’s thigh, panting, her face soaked.
Agatha stood, pulling her clothes back into place. She looked down at Rio, a slick, kneeling mess on the floor. “You can get back in bed now.”
Rio climbed back onto the mattress, her body humming, her lips swollen.
Agatha walked to the bathroom. Rio heard the sink run. When she returned, she was holding a plain wooden hairbrush, its back wide and smooth. She placed it on the nightstand next to the journal.
“We will discuss your writing tomorrow,” Agatha said, sliding into bed beside Rio. She turned off the lamp. The room was plunged into darkness, broken only by the city’s glow through the windows. “The brush is for the discussion. For the lies of omission. For the late truths.”
She didn’t touch Rio. She simply lay on her back, a dark outline beside her. “Go to sleep.”
Rio lay stiffly, the threat of the brush a cold stone in her gut, the taste of Agatha still on her tongue a brand. The two sensations warred within her—dread and devotion, terror and hunger. In the dark, a tear escaped, tracing a hot path to her pillow. She didn’t wipe it away.
Agatha’s breathing deepened, evened. She was already drifting, secure in her dominion.
Rio stared at the ceiling, feeling more profoundly, perilously awake than she ever had in her life. The waiting was over. The real work was about to begin.