Chapter 20: The Aftermath Feast
The front door clicked shut, sealing them in a pocket of silence thick with the echo of the city and their own ragged breaths. The pristine order of Agatha’s entryway—the single antique hall table, the framed black-and-white photo of a gnarled tree—felt like a museum exhibit after the raw animal truth of the rooftop. Rio’s knees buckled. Not from weakness, but from a need for protocol, for a ritual to contain the storm inside her.
She sank onto the cool marble tiles, the red dress pooling around her. Her gaze fixed on the floor between Agatha’s polished leather boots. Her voice, when it came, was scraped raw from suppressed cries. “Mistress. May I eat you out?”
Agatha paused, the only sound the soft rustle of her blazer being removed. Rio watched the boots turn to face her. A long, elegant finger hooked under her chin, tilting her face up. Agatha’s expression was unreadable, a mask of polished observation. The predatory warmth from the alley was banked, but not gone—a fire behind glass.
“Eager,” Agatha remarked, her thumb stroking Rio’s bottom lip. “Still so messy from being fucked in an alley, and already begging for more. What a hungry thing you are.”
She began to reach for the harness buckle at her hip.
Rio’s hand shot out, stopping just short of touching, hovering over Agatha’s thigh in a silent plea. “Leave it in.” The words were a hoarse whisper. “Please. I wanna… I wanna be extra greedy tonight. I want to taste it. Taste you on it.”
Agatha’s sharp green eyes flashed. The controlled smile that graced her lips was one of pure, undiluted possession. “Greedy is a dangerous thing to confess, pet. It invites a reckoning.” She withdrew her hand from the buckle. “Follow.”
She led Rio not to the living room, but directly to the bedroom. The sanctuary. The deep red velvet drapes were open, allowing the neon glow from the city to paint bloody stripes across the mahogany floor. The scent here was deeper—sandalwood, vanilla, the crisp tang of linen spray, and beneath it, the faint, muskier trace of sex and leather from previous nights.
Agatha sat on the edge of the vast bed, then leaned back on her elbows. The tailored trousers were open, the harness stark black against her pale skin. The silicone cock, still glistening from Rio’s body, stood rigid from the junction of her thighs. In the dim light, it looked less like plastic and more like an obsidian scepter.
Rio crawled forward, the marble’s chill giving way to the dense pile of the rug. Her world narrowed to the space between Agatha’s legs, to that slick, imposing shape. She nuzzled the inside of Agatha’s thigh, her hot breath ghosting over skin. Her mouth watered.
A finger pressed under her chin again, halting her.
“Not yet.” Agatha’s voice was a low command. “You asked for greedy. Now beg for it. Properly. Make me believe the rooftop wasn’t enough. Make me believe you’re still empty.”
Rio’s eyes, dark and wide, locked onto hers. The plug inside her pulsed, a phantom fullness that highlighted a deeper ache. Her pride, the bratty independence she wore like armor, was ashes. This was the raw core. She let it speak.
“Please, Mistress.” The words tumbled out, desperate and true. “Let me worship your cock. Let me taste every drop of me on it, every drop of you. I want to feel you come down my throat while I’m still plugged and empty for you. I want to choke on it. I want to be your fucking cocksleeve. Please.”
Agatha’s chest rose and fell in a slow, deep breath. The only sign of her affect. She gave a single, regal nod.
Rio didn’t hesitate. She dove, taking the entire length into her mouth in one desperate, practiced slide. The taste was complex—bitter silicone, the salt of her own arousal, the clean, mineral scent of Agatha’s skin beneath the harness. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking hard, her tongue swirling around the molded veins, lapping at the base where the harness met Agatha’s body. Her own moan vibrated around the shaft.
One of Agatha’s hands fisted in her short pink hair, not yanking, just holding her in place, a anchor of pure ownership. The other hand came to rest on Rio’s head, a gentler weight.
“That’s it,” Agatha hissed, her hips giving a minute jerk upwards. “That’s my greedy girl. Take it all. Show me how much you love this plastic substitute. Show me your throat was made for it.”
Rio obeyed, pushing deeper until the tip nudged the back of her throat. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes, but she forced herself to relax, to swallow around the intrusion. The sensation of choking, of being used so completely, sent a violent bolt of pleasure straight to her own throbbing clit. She was humiliated, cherished, degraded, and exalted, all at once.
She set a frantic rhythm, bobbing her head, her saliva making a slick, obscene sound. Her free hand crept up, cupping the base of the harness, her fingertips seeking and finding the hot, damp center of Agatha beneath the sturdy material. She pressed the heel of her hand there, grinding in time with her mouth.
Agatha’s breath hitched. The hand in Rio’s hair tightened. “Fuck. Just like that. You perfect, filthy whore. You need it so bad.”
Rio redoubled her efforts, her own arousal a flood between her legs, a counterpoint to the deep, weighted fullness of the plug. She was a vessel for service, her own pleasure entirely secondary and yet skyrocketing because of it. She felt Agatha’s thighs begin to tremble, heard the low, guttural sound building in her chest.
Agatha came with a sharp, bitten-off cry, her body bowing off the bed, her grip on Rio’s hair becoming iron-tight. Rio kept sucking, milking the harness through the climax, swallowing nothing and everything, until Agatha’s hand pushed her away, gentle but firm.
Rio fell back on her heels, gasping, her lips swollen and slick. She looked wrecked and triumphant.
Agatha lay panting for a moment, then pushed herself up. Her eyes were black in the half-light. She reached for Rio, pulling her up by the arms and into a searing kiss. Rio could taste herself, could feel Agatha’s triumph on her tongue.
“Get on the bed,” Agatha murmured against her mouth. “On your back .”
A frisson of understanding shot through Rio. She scrambled onto the vast mattress, lying down and shimmying until her head hung back over the side, her throat exposed, the world upside down. The blood rushed to her head, a dizzying, submissive euphoria.
Agatha stood beside the bed. She unclipped the harness, letting the strap-on fall to the rug with a soft thud. Then, naked now except for her open trousers, she climbed onto the bed, straddling Rio’s face. From this inverted angle, Rio could see everything—the silver streaks in her pubic hair, the glistening, swollen folds, the powerful lines of her thighs.
“You wanted greedy,” Agatha said, her voice thick and warm. “So you’ll suck my cunt while I fuck yours with this.” She held up the harness, the cock still slick from both their bodies. “You don’t get to come until I say you’ve earned it with your tongue.”
Before Rio could even process the command, Agatha lowered herself onto her mouth. The scent was overwhelming, musky and sweet. Rio’s tongue lashed out instinctively, finding Agatha’s clit, sucking it hard.
At the same moment, Agatha pushed Rio’s legs apart. She guided the silicone tip to Rio’s dripping, neglected entrance. With no preparation beyond the existing wetness and the memory of the rooftop, she sheathed herself inside Rio in one long, relentless stroke.
The double sensation was catastrophic. Rio’s cry was muffled by Agatha’s flesh. The stretch was immense, the fake cock pounding into the exact same sensitive, overstimulated spot as before. And her mouth was full, her tongue working on the real, trembling heart of the woman above her, the taste of Agatha’s climax bitter and perfect on her lips.
Agatha set a brutal, precise pace, fucking Rio deep and hard with the strap while grinding against her mouth. “You feel that?” Agatha panted, her voice strained. “You feel how empty you were? How you needed this pounding to feel right? Lick me like you mean it, you little slut. Lick me like your orgasm depends on it.”
It did. Rio was a live wire, every nerve screaming. The plug inside her shifted with each thrust, creating a delirious fullness. She focused everything on her tongue, on the bud under her lips, on the sounds Agatha was making—guttural, unfiltered, losing control.
“Yes, there, right there, don’t you dare stop—” Agatha’s hips stuttered. Rio felt her fluttering, tasted the new rush of salt. Agatha came again, a quieter, deeper release that squeezed Rio’s head between her thighs.
As the waves subsided, Agatha didn’t slow the punishing rhythm of her hips. She rode Rio through her own orgasm, the strap-on pistoning in and out with wet, slapping sounds. “Now you,” Agatha growled, breathless. “Now you come. Come on this fake cock I bought for fifty dollars. Come for me like the cheap, beautiful thing you are.”
The permission, the crude words, the unrelenting physical stimulation—it was the final trigger. Rio’s orgasm detonated, a white-hot burst that tore a ragged scream from her throat, a scream swallowed by Agatha’s skin. Her cunt clamped down in vicious, rhythmic spasms around the silicone, her body convulsing under Agatha’s weight until she was utterly spent, boneless, floating in a sea of sensation.
Agatha slowly pulled out. She slid off Rio, collapsing beside her on the bed. For long minutes, the only sounds were their slowing breaths and the distant sirens of the city.
Finally, Agatha rolled onto her side. She traced the line of Rio’s jaw, her touch now impossibly soft. She leaned in and kissed her, a closed-mouth press of lips that spoke of something other than hunger.
“Go shower,” she said, her voice back to its normal, soothing register. “Use the guest bath. There’s a towel and a robe. When you’re done, come back. You’ll sleep here tonight.”
Rio, numb and liquid, could only nod. As she forced her shaky legs to carry her to the bathroom, she understood. The reckoning for her greed wasn’t punishment. It was this: the deliberate, calm tenderness that followed the storm. It was the command to sleep in the sanctuary. It was the terrifying, glorious realization that she was not just being used, but being kept.
The guest bathroom was all cool marble and chrome, a sterile capsule after the velvet heat of Agatha’s room. Rio stood under the spray, water sluicing the sweat and the slick evidence of her greed from her skin. She was sore in a deep, satisfying way, her muscles humming, her cunt throbbing with a hollow ache now that the plug was its only occupant.
The bathroom door opened without a knock. Steam curled around Agatha’s tall frame as she entered, naked, her hair still in its loose bun. She leaned against the counter, watching through the glass for a long moment, her gaze analytical. “You look rinsed,” she said, her voice cutting through the water’s drum. “But not clean. Not where it matters.”
Rio turned, water stinging her eyes. “Mistress?”
Agatha stepped into the shower, the space becoming instantly intimate, crowded. She took the handheld showerhead from its cradle. “Face the wall. Hands flat against it.” Her tone brooked no argument, a return to the rooftop’s crisp command.
Rio obeyed, the marble tiles cold against her palms and forearms despite the steam. The glass door was fogged, turning the world beyond into a soft, glowing blur. She was exposed, her back arched, the water now hitting her shoulder blades and streaming down the cleft of her ass.
Agatha adjusted the dial. The pulse of the water changed from a steady rain to a hard, pinpoint jet. It was cool, almost cold. She directed it to the back of Rio’s knees, making her jump. “Stay still.” The jet traveled up the inside of a thigh, a shocking, sensual intrusion. It circled, never quite touching her soaked, swollen folds. The tease was surgical.
“You begged so prettily,” Agatha said, her free hand coming to rest on Rio’s hip, fingers splayed. “My greedy girl. You wanted to taste everything. Did you like the taste of your own cunt on my strap?”
“Yes, Mistress,” Rio gasped, her forehead pressing to the tile.
The water jet warmed again, becoming a hot, throbbing pulse. Agatha moved it, finally, letting the pressurized stream hit Rio’s clit dead-on. Rio cried out, her hips jerking forward into nothing, seeking friction. “I didn’t say you could move.” Agatha’s hand on her hip clamped down, holding her in place against the wall. The hot jet continued its relentless assault, a brutal, impersonal stimulation that built tension with terrifying speed.
“Please,” Rio whimpered, her knuckles white.
“Please what?” Agatha’s voice was close to her ear now. “You want to come? From a showerhead? After the night you’ve had?” She shifted the jet away instantly, replacing it with the broad, flat spray that soaked her back. The sudden loss was a physical pain. “No. You’re going to learn patience. You’re going to learn that your orgasms are mine to give, not yours to take from appliances.”
Rio shuddered, a sob of frustration caught in her throat. The emptiness inside her yawned.
Agatha turned her around roughly. Water sheeted down Rio’s face. Agatha’s eyes were emerald stones. “On your knees.”
Rio sank into the water pooling at the shower drain. The world shrank to the level of Agatha’s thighs. Agatha parted her legs, one foot propped on the edge of the tub. The silver-streaked thatch of hair was dark with water, droplets clinging to the curls. The scent here was different under the spray—clean skin and something fundamentally, powerfully female.
“Clean me,” Agatha commanded. “With your mouth. Properly this time. No rush. No greed. Worship.”
Rio leaned in, her hands finding Agatha’s hips to steady herself. She bypassed the center, first kissing the sharp angle of a hip bone, licking a trail down the inside of a thigh, tasting chlorine and soap and Agatha. She nuzzled, taking her time, her earlier frantic energy banked into a slow, devotional burn.
Agatha’s fingers carded through her wet pink hair, not guiding, just resting. A silent approval.
Finally, Rio let her tongue find its true destination. She lapped slowly, exploring the outer lips, then delving into the hot, silken interior. She used the flat of her tongue, then the tip, circling Agatha’s clit with a patience she didn’t know she possessed. The taste was clean water and that deeper, musky essence that was uniquely Agatha. She sucked gently, her nose pressed into coarse hair.
Above her, Agatha let out a long, slow sigh. Her thighs tightened slightly around Rio’s head. “Good. Just like that. Your tongue is learning.”
Rio lost track of time. There was only the rhythm of her mouth, the pulse of the shower on her back, the tightening of Agatha’s muscles under her hands. She felt the precise moment Agatha’s control began to fracture—a tiny hitch in her breath, a minute tremor. Rio focused all her attention there, her tongue fluttering rapidly, insistently.
Agatha’s climax wasn’t loud. It was a deep, shuddering release, a series of convulsions that Rio felt against her lips, a hot rush against her tongue. Agatha’s hand fisted in her hair, holding her tight as she rode the waves, her other hand braced against the shower wall. When it subsided, she gently pushed Rio’s head back.
Rio looked up, water and arousal dripping from her chin. Agatha’s expression was soft, unguarded for a fleeting second. Then the mask of composed ownership settled back into place, more gentle now. “Stand up.”
Rio rose, her knees protesting. Agatha took the bar of sandalwood soap and lathered her hands. She began to wash Rio, her movements thorough and oddly tender. She soaped Rio’s shoulders, her back, her breasts, washing away the last phantom traces of the rooftop alley. Her hands slid between Rio’s legs, cleaning her with a clinical intimacy that made Rio’s breath catch.
“The plug,” Agatha said, her voice a low murmur near Rio’s ear. Her soapy fingers found the flared base. “I think you’ve earned a break from it.” With a careful twist and pull, she removed it. The sensation of sudden, shocking emptiness made Rio gasp, her cunt clenching around nothing. Agatha rinsed her there, the water both a caress and a violation.
She turned Rio back under the main showerhead, rinsing the soap away. Then she reached for a conditioner, working it through Rio’s short hair with a surprising expertise, her fingers massaging her scalp. It was this, more than anything else—this mundane, caring act—that undid Rio completely. Her eyes stung with more than water.
Agatha rinsed her hair, turned off the water. The silence was sudden and profound, broken only by the drip from the showerhead and their breathing. She opened the door, grabbed a large, fluffy towel, and wrapped Rio in it, rubbing her briskly. She towel-dried her own hair, letting the bun come undone, silver streaks plastered to her neck.
She led Rio, wordless, back into the bedroom. The sheets had been changed. Fresh, cool linen awaited. Agatha pushed her onto the bed and climbed in beside her, pulling the duvet over them. She drew Rio against her, Rio’s back to her front, her arm a heavy, secure weight around Rio’s waist.
“Sleep,” Agatha whispered into her damp hair, her body a solid wall of heat. “The night is over. The morning will bring new instructions.”
Rio let her eyes close. The city’ endless glow painted the ceiling. The soreness was a lullaby. The emptiness was a promise. She was kept. She was, for now, home.