Chapter 6: Sweat and Submission
The morning air by the river was cool and carried the scent of wet earth and cut grass. Rio’s sneakers pounded a steady rhythm on the damp asphalt, her breath coming in measured clouds. The black leggings Agatha had laid out for her were a second skin, compressive and sleek. The cropped sports top barely covered her ribs, leaving a strip of her stomach exposed to the chill. She felt every eye on the path.
A pair of women power-walking gave her an appreciative once-over. A man on a bike slowed, his gaze lingering. Then, from the sidewalk near a repair site, a sharp wolf-whistle sliced through the hum of traffic. “Lookin’ fit, sweetheart!”
A month ago, Rio would have flipped him off. A week ago, she might have smirked. Now, she kept her eyes forward, her pace unchanged, but a different heat spread through her chest. The whistle wasn’t for her. Not really. It was for Agatha’s choice. She was running in a uniform she hadn’t picked, her body on display according to someone else’s design. The thought made her run harder, the burn in her lungs a cleansing fire.
She finished the three miles exactly where she’d started, her skin slick with a fine sweat, her heart rabbiting against her ribs. The river flowed slow and brown, mirroring the grey-blue sky. She walked to the water’s edge, bending to brace her hands on her knees, sucking in air.
Her phone was in a slim armband. She pulled it free, her fingers leaving smudges on the screen. She opened the camera, switched to selfie mode, and angled it down at the water. The reflection was imperfect, rippling, but it caught the essentials: her flushed face, pink hair darkened and stuck to her temples, the damp fabric of the top stretched taut. The silver hoops in her nipples pressed against the material, undeniable points. She let her mouth fall open just slightly, her eyes holding a challenge she didn’t fully feel.
Click.
She stared at the photo. It was raw, undeniably sexual, a submission packaged as provocation. Without overthinking it, she attached it to a message for Agatha. She typed no words. Just a single emoji: a red heart, a red kiss? A diamond?
No.
Her thumb hovered, then selected the emoji of a dog collar.
She hit send.
The immediate, gut-churn of regret was dizzying. It was too much. It was stupid. It was…
Her phone buzzed in her palm, a single, seismic vibration.
A: Bench. Now. Don’t make me wait.
Rio’s head snapped up, scanning the path. Fifty yards down, under a weeping willow, was a green-painted bench. It was empty. She started walking, her legs suddenly unsteady, the post-run jelly amplified by a sharp spike of adrenaline. She’d expected a text. A command to come upstairs later. Not this.
She reached the bench and sat, the cold iron soaking through the thin leggings. The river gurgled. A duck paddled by. Normal things. Her hands were trembling. She shoved them between her thighs.
She didn’t hear footsteps. She felt a shift in the air, a presence that settled over her like a shadow. Agatha stood beside the bench, dressed in charcoal linen pants and a simple black sweater, her silver hair loose. She looked utterly out of place and completely in control. She’d been watching. For how long?
“Stand up,” Agatha said. Her voice was calm, a low contrast to the sirens in Rio’s head.
Rio stood, facing her. Agatha’s eyes swept over her, a clinical, thorough assessment that felt more invasive than any whistle. They lingered on the damp top, on the visible peaks of her piercings, on the sheen of sweat on her throat.
“The run. Report.”
“Three point one miles. Just under twenty-eight minutes,” Rio recited, her voice embarrassingly thin.
“Acceptable.” Agatha took a half-step closer. The scent of her—vanilla and clean linen—cut through the river smells. “The photo was presumptuous.”
Rio’s bravado, what little was left, crumbled. “I just…”
“You just wanted to see what I’d do.” Agatha finished for her. “You wanted to force my hand. To make this thing between us happen on your timeline, with your bratty little provocations.” She tilted her head. “It’s transparent. And I find it… amusing. In a petulant child sort of way.”
The words stung, precisely because they were true. Rio looked at the ground, at Agatha’s sleek leather boots.
“Look at me.”
Rio forced her gaze up.
Agatha’s expression was unreadable. “The collar. You think you’re ready for that?”
“I want…” Rio began, but the sentence had nowhere to go.
“You want the idea of it. The aesthetic.” Agatha reached out then, not touching her, but tracing a line in the air an inch from Rio’s collarbone. The phantom touch was worse than contact. “The reality is less pretty. It’s wearing my mark where everyone can see. It’s the weight of the lock at the back of your neck. It’s never forgetting, not for a second, who permitted you to take it off.” Her hand dropped. “Friday is a test. A single evening. You’re already trying to negotiate for more, and you haven’t even passed the first.”
“I’m not scared,” Rio whispered, the defiance automatic.
“I know you’re not.” Agatha’s lips quirked. “That’s not the issue. Eagerness without discipline is chaos. You sent me a picture because you’re buzzing with unsanctioned energy. You need an outlet.”
Agatha closed the final space between them. She didn’t kiss her. She placed a single, firm hand on the center of Rio’s chest, right over her pounding heart, and pushed. It wasn’t a violent shove, but it was inexorable. Rio’s calves hit the wooden slats of the bench and she sat down hard, looking up, wide-eyed.
Agatha stood over her, blocking the sun. “Put your hands flat on the bench. Palms down. Keep them there.”
Rio complied, the rough, cold wood biting into her palms. Agatha knelt, one knee on the path between Rio’s feet, in the space the bench left open. The position was shockingly intimate, here in the open, with early lunchtime walkers strolling in the distance.
Agatha’s hands went to Rio’s waist, to the band of the leggings. She didn’t ask. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and the thin layer of fabric beneath, and pulled them down just a few inches, just enough.
Rio stopped breathing. The air on her exposed lower stomach was frigid.
Agatha leaned forward. She pressed her lips to the tense, quivering muscle of Rio’s abdomen. It wasn’t a kiss of passion. It was a brand. A seal. Her mouth was warm and impossibly soft. She held it there for a long, aching moment, her breath ghosting over Rio’s skin.
Then she pulled back, tugging Rio’s clothes back into place with efficient, possessive movements. She stood, brushing a bit of gravel from her knee.
“There’s your outlet,” Agatha said, her voice back to its usual dry calm. “A reminder. Of the claim. Now, go home. Shower. Do your work. The next time you feel the need to send me a photograph, you will ask for permission first. Understood?”
Rio could only nod, her whole body buzzing, the imprint of Agatha’s mouth a burning coin on her skin.
Agatha turned and walked away, not looking back, disappearing around a curve in the path as if she’d never been there.
Rio sat on the bench for a long time, her hands still pressed flat against the wood. The river flowed. The city sounds rose around her. But all she could feel was that specific, devastating point of heat on her body, a promise and a reprimand, more binding than any collar could ever be.