Chapter 7: Preparations
The mark on her stomach had faded to a faint pink memory, a ghost of pressure, but Rio felt it like a fresh brand all through Thursday. It was there as she hunched over her tablet, designing a logo for a vegan snack company. It was there as she microwaved ramen for dinner, the sterile light of her kitchen too bright. It pulsed in time with her heartbeat, a constant, low-frequency reminder: You are being considered.
By Friday afternoon, the anticipation had become a physical ache, a tight coil in her gut that no amount of pacing could loosen. At four PM exactly, she stripped and stepped into the shower.
The water was scalding, a punishment and a purge. She washed her hair, scrubbed her skin with a coarse loofah until it shone pink, and shaved every possible inch with a meticulous, shaking care. She was preparing an offering. When she finally turned the water off, the bathroom was thick with steam, the world reduced to white noise and dripping tiles.
She wiped a hand across the mirror, clearing a porthole. Her reflection was blurred at the edges, her pink hair dark and plastered to her skull, water beading on her shoulders, rolling down between her small breasts. Her piercings glinted, silver against flushed skin. She looked like a stranger—nervous, exposed, waiting.
The velvet box was on the closed toilet lid. She opened it. The silver plug lay nestled in its bed, cold and obscene in its elegance. Next to it was the other item Agatha had specified: a small, silicone clit stimulator, simple and effective.
Her hands weren't steady. The bottle of lube was cool. She squeezed a generous, clear dollop onto her fingers, the scent of aloe and nothingness filling the damp air. She braced one hand on the cool marble sink, lifted one foot to rest on the lid of the toilet, and opened herself.
The first touch of her own slick fingers was clinical. She was just following instructions. But as she pressed the rounded tip of the plug against her, her breath hitched. It wasn't about pleasure. It was about accommodation. She pushed, slowly, feeling the impossible stretch, the burn of intrusion. Her body resisted, clenched, then yielded with a soft, shameful pop as the widest part slipped past her tight ring of muscle. She gasped, her forehead dropping against the mirror, leaving a new foggy patch. It was in. Deep. A foreign, solid weight inside her. The jeweled base sat snug against her, a cool teardrop of silver.
Next, the stimulator. She positioned the flexible silicone lips over her clit, the gentle suction engaging with a quiet click. A jolt, sharp and electric, made her thighs tremble. She left it on its lowest setting, a persistent, buzzing hum that was just this side of torment.
She forced herself to stand straight, to look in the mirror again. The girl looking back was wide-eyed, breathing shallowly through her mouth. Prepared. She saw the faint, determined set of her own jaw. Not scared.
She dressed with ritualistic care: a matching bralette, dark skinny jeans, a soft grey sweater that fell off one shoulder. Ordinary clothes. Beneath them, her body was a secret crime scene. She wanted to surprise Agatha with the no panties part.
At six fifty-five, there was a single, firm knock on her door.
Rio’s heart tried to climb out of her throat. She walked across her apartment, the plug shifting inside her with every step, a relentless reminder. She opened the door.
Agatha stood in the hallway, backlit by the ugly fluorescent light. She was dressed for an evening—tailored black trousers, a silk blouse the colour of red wine, a long, open coat. She looked Rio up and down, her gaze like a physical sweep, lingering on the hint of collarbone exposed by the drooping sweater.
“You’re on time,” Agatha said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. She closed the door behind her. The apartment seemed to shrink, the air thinning. “Turn around. Slowly.”
Rio obeyed, rotating in place, feeling Agatha’s eyes on her like lasers mapping her skeleton.
“Adequate,” Agatha pronounced. “Is everything in place?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t hear the stimulator.”
Rio, chastised, reached a hand into her jeans, fumbled with the tiny remote in her pocket, and turned the device on. The immediate, vicious buzz made her jolt. A small, punched-out sound escaped her.
“Good.” Agatha stepped closer. She didn’t touch Rio’s clothes. Instead, her hand slipped under the back of Rio’s sweater, her palm warm and dry against the skin of Rio’s lower back. Her fingers traced down, over the waistband of the jeans, and pressed firmly against the jeweled base of the plug.
Rio whimpered. The pressure sent a shockwave through her, a direct line from her ass to her clit, where the stimulator whirred.
“You’ll keep this on,” Agatha murmured, her lips close to Rio’s ear. “The entire evening. You’ll walk beside me. You’ll make polite conversation if spoken to. You’ll stand still when I look at art. You’ll do all of this while this little toy keeps you wet and throbbing, and while you feel every movement of the plug inside you. You will not come. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Rio breathed, the word barely audible.
“If you do well, there will be a reward. If you fail, the punishment will be inventive. Now, look at me.”
Rio turned her head. Agatha’s eyes were dark, bottomless. This close, Rio could see the fine lines at their corners, the slight smudge of eyeliner. Agatha’s hand came up, her thumb brushing roughly over Rio’s lower lip.
“Such a pretty, bratty mouth,” Agatha said, almost to herself. Then her expression shifted, becoming brisk. “Coat. We’re leaving.”
The gallery was a white-walled maze of murmuring people and expensive champagne. Rio moved through it in a daze of sensation. Every step was an event. The plug moved, a solid, undeniable presence. The stimulator was a constant, maddening vibration, a tiny angry bee trapped against her most sensitive nerve. It kept her on a knife’s edge, a low-grade hum of arousal that made her skin feel too tight, her clothes too rough.
She stood beside Agatha as a man in thick-framed glasses explained the "neo-primitivist anguish" in a splatter of red and black paint. Rio heard none of it. She was counting her own heartbeats, focusing on keeping her breathing even, on not grinding her thighs together. A sheen of sweat prickled at her temples.
Agatha’s hand would occasionally find the small of her back, a light, proprietorial touch that somehow ratcheted the tension higher. Once, as they moved to a new room, Agatha leaned in. “Your pupils are huge,” she whispered, her breath hot on Rio’s neck. “You look utterly fucked out, and we haven’t even started. It’s delicious.”
Rio nearly stumbled.
They were in front of a large, dark photograph, a silvery landscape, when the crisis hit. A wave of heat crashed through Rio, a desperate, clenching need that centered on the unrelenting buzz between her legs. Her knees buckled. Agatha’s hand shot out, fingers digging into her hip, holding her upright.
“Steady,” Agatha commanded, her voice low and sharp. “Breathe through it. You’re not allowed to break yet.”
Rio sucked in air, tasting champagne and despair. She locked her muscles, riding the wave of near-overwhelm until it receded to a tolerable, agonizing thrum.
The ride home in the back of the taxi was silent. Agatha stared out the window. Rio stared at her own hands, clasped tightly in her lap, feeling every bump in the road transmit through the plug, feeling the wetness soaking through her soaked jeans. The stimulator was a private, relentless humiliation.
Back in Rio’s apartment, the door had barely clicked shut before Agatha pushed her against it, her body a long, firm line against Rio’s back. Her hands were on Rio’s hips, gripping hard through the denim.
“You did… adequately,” Agatha growled into her ear. “You held on. Now you get your reward for not being a messy little bitch in public.”
Her hands went to the button of Rio’s jeans, yanked them down. The cold air hit Rio’s wet skin. Agatha’s finger hooked around the base of the plug and pulled.
Rio cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound, as the solid silver slid out of her, leaving her feeling gaping and empty. Agatha didn’t pause. She spun Rio around to face her. Rio’s jeans tangled at her ankles. Agatha’s kiss wasn’t gentle. It was claiming, demanding, all teeth and invading tongue. Rio could taste the champagne on her, the hint of her lipstick.
Agatha broke the kiss, her eyes blazing. “On the bed. On your back. Now.”
Rio half-hopped, half-fell towards the bed, shedding her sweater, fumbling with her bralette. She scrambled onto the cool duvet, lying back, exposed, her chest heaving. The clit stimulator was still humming, a frantic counterpoint to her heartbeat.
Agatha followed, slower, shedding her coat, unbuttoning her blouse with deliberate fingers. She didn’t undress fully. She simply pushed her trousers and underwear down her thighs, just enough. She knelt on the bed, between Rio’s spread legs, and looked down at her. The look was one of pure, hungry possession.
“Take that fucking thing off,” Agatha said, nodding at the stimulator.
Rio’s fingers trembled so badly she could barely manage the clasp. When it finally came free with a soft pop, the sudden absence of vibration was its own shock.
Agatha’s hand wrapped around Rio’s throat, not squeezing, just holding, a collar of flesh. “You’ve wanted this since you first heard me through the ceiling,” she stated. “You’ve imagined this exact moment. Tell me.”
“Yes,” Rio choked out.
“Say it.”
“I’ve wanted this. I’ve wanted you to fuck me.”
Agatha’s other hand slid down Rio’s body, through the slick mess between her legs. She didn’t tease. Two fingers pushed into her, deep and merciless, curling. Rio arched off the bed with a shattered gasp.
“So wet,” Agatha murmured, working her fingers in and out, a brutal, perfect rhythm. “Soaked just from being told what to do. Pathetic and perfect.” She added a third finger, the stretch intense, making Rio see stars. “Are you going to come from just my fingers, you desperate little slut?”
Rio could only nod, her hips rocking, meeting each thrust, hurtling towards the edge. Agatha’s thumb found her clit, pressing hard in circles.
“No,” Agatha snapped, stopping all movement abruptly. “Not yet.”
The denial was a physical pain. Rio whimpered, her body begging.
Agatha withdrew her fingers, brought them to Rio’s mouth. “Taste. Taste how badly you want it.”
Rio opened her mouth, her tongue licking her own wetness from Agatha’s skin, the act degrading and wildly erotic.
“Good girl.”
Then Agatha was moving, shifting her weight. She guided the head of her strap on hard to Rio’s entrance. Rio hadn’t seen her put on the strap, but the reality of it, the pressure, was undeniable.
Agatha didn’t ask. She pushed in.
Rio screamed. It was a raw, tearing sound of too much—too much stretch, too much feeling, too much everything. Agatha filled her utterly, a hard, unyielding thickness that shoved the air from her lungs. She was pinned, impaled.
“Fuck,” Agatha hissed, her composure cracking for a second, her head falling forward. “You’re so fucking tight. You’re gripping me like a vise.” She began to move, slow, punishing thrusts that burned. “This is what you needed, isn’t it? To be completely full. To be used.”
Rio could only cling to Agatha’s shoulders, her nails digging in, taking each deep, driving stroke. The pain melted, transmuted into a pleasure so acute it bordered on agony. Agatha set a relentless pace, her hips pounding against Rio’s, the slap of skin filling the room. Each thrust jarred the plug’s memory, each withdrawal left a desperate emptiness.
“Come on,” Agatha grunted, her breath hot on Rio’s neck. “You can come now. Come on my cock, you pink-haired bitch. Show me how much you love being fucked like this.”
The permission was the final trigger. Rio’s world shattered into white-hot fragments. The orgasm ripped through her, violent and endless, wringing a sobbing, broken cry from her throat. Her cunt clamped down in rhythmic, milking spasms around the hard silicone inside her.
Agatha kept fucking her through it, dragging the climax out until Rio was sobbing from oversensitivity. Only then did Agatha’s rhythm stutter, her own release a low, guttural groan against Rio’s shoulder, her body shuddering with the force of it.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Agatta’s weight was heavy, welcome. Slowly, she softened, pulled out, and collapsed beside Rio on the tangled duvet.
The silence was different now. Thick with sweat and scent and spent energy. Rio’s body felt liquefied, every nerve sung out. The ghost of the plug was gone, replaced by a deeper, satisfying ache.
Agatha’s hand found hers on the sheet, laced their fingers together. It was a simple, shockingly tender gesture amidst the wreckage.
“The collar,” Agatha said, her voice a rough scrape in the dark. “We’ll discuss it on Monday.”
It wasn’t a promise. It was a fact. A door left open. Rio turned her head on the pillow, looking at Agatha’s profile in the streetlight bleeding through the blinds. She didn’t speak. She just squeezed the hand holding hers, once, tight.
The ache in her muscles was no longer a prayer. It was an answer.