Chapter 4: Lucys new girlfriend
The word “mine” hung in the stale air of the room, a toxic vapor Lucy was now forced to breathe. Agatha’s hand remained a heavy, claiming weight on her breast, the kiss a wet brand on her mouth. Lucy felt carved out, hollow, a beautiful shell held upright only by the older woman’s relentless grip.
“Up,” Agatha said again, but this time it was accompanied by a sharp pat on Lucy’s thigh. The casual ownership of the gesture sent a fresh wave of nausea through her. “Can’t get comfortable here.”
Lucy moved numbly, sliding off Agatha’s lap. Her legs were unsteady. She stood before the armchair like a prisoner awaiting sentencing, the torn knees of her stockings a testament to the floor’s rough captivity. Agatha looked her up and down, a slow, appraising stare that felt more invasive than the groping.
“That dress,” Agatha sighed, as if disappointed. “So obvious. All anyone sees is the wrapping. We’re going to unwrap you now.”
She heaved herself out of the chair with a grunt, the fabric of her own dress sighing in protest. She took Lucy’s hand—not gently, but with a firm, enfolding clutch—and led her from the living room, down the short, dim hallway. Past the bathroom where Lucy had been sick. To a closed door at the end.
Agatha’s bedroom.
The door swung open on a room that was almost pathologically neat, and drab. A double bed with a plain, dark quilt dominated the space. A single dresser, a small closet. The air was even closer here, saturated with the same rosewater-and-sweat odor, concentrated. It was the smell of Agatha’s skin, her sheets, her private life. It felt like walking into the woman’s lungs.
“In,” Agatha commanded, releasing Lucy’s hand to gesture toward the center of the room. Lucy stepped over the threshold. The act felt irrevocable. Behind her, she heard the door click shut, and then the definitive, soft snick of the key turning in the lock. Her heart, which had been fluttering weakly, gave a single, hard thud against her ribs.
Agatha placed the key on the dresser, the small metallic sound grotesquely loud. “No interruptions,” she said, her back to Lucy. She began to unbutton her own cardigan, her movements methodical. “Turn around.”
The command was so flat, so devoid of erotic charge, it was chilling. Lucy turned, facing the bed, staring at the tightly tucked quilt. She heard the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of shoes being toed off. She braced herself for touch.
It didn’t come. Instead, Agatha’s voice, closer now, just behind her left ear. “You take it off. Slowly. Let me see what my carelessness has left lying around.”
Lucy’s fingers trembled as she reached for the thin strap of her silk dress. The cool slip of it, once an armor of allure, now felt like the last layer of her own identity. She pushed it off her shoulder. The other strap followed. The dress whispered down her body, a sigh of surrender, pooling in a black puddle at her feet. She stood in only her lace-trimmed bra, matching panties, and the torn stockings.
“All of it,” Agatha breathed. Her presence was a heat at Lucy’s back.
Lucy’s hands went to the clasp of her bra. It sprang open. The weight of her breasts, so often admired, felt heavy and exposed. She let the bra fall forward from her arms. Next, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pushed them down her hips, stepping out of them. Finally, she rolled the ruined stockings down her legs, her movements robotic. The cool, still air of the room touched every part of her. She was naked.
“Good.” The word was a puff of stale breath on her shoulder. “Now get on the bed. On your back. Arms at your sides.”
Lucy obeyed. The quilt was rough against her skin, the pillows flat. She lay staring at the ceiling, a water stain mapping a continent of neglect above her. She was a specimen, pinned. She heard Agatha move, the floorboards creaking. Then the woman came into view, standing beside the bed, looking down at her.
Agatha was naked. The sight was a shock of brutal reality. Her body was soft, pillowy, a landscape of pale, loose skin and dark moles. Her breasts hung low, her stomach rounded, a thatch of coarse grey hair between her thighs. The intimacy of her unattractiveness was more violating than any idealized form could have been. This was the raw, unadorned truth of the person who now owned her. The smell of her, unmasked by fabric, filled Lucy’s nostrils—a pungent, animal, deeply personal odor.
Agatha didn’t speak. She simply looked, her eyes behind the glasses moving from Lucy’s face, down the length of her trembling body, to her feet, and back up again. It was a scrutiny that felt like a physical violation. A low, appreciative hum vibrated in her throat. “Exquisite,” she murmured, not to Lucy, but to herself. “A perfect, fuckable doll.”
She climbed onto the bed, the mattress groaning and dipping heavily under her weight. She didn’t lay down. She knelt beside Lucy, one heavy thigh pressing against Lucy’s arm. Her hand, dry and warm, landed on Lucy’s sternum, pinning her to the bed.
“You belong here,” Agatha stated, her voice conversational, as if remarking on the weather. “In this bed. Under my hands. This is the purpose of all that beauty. Not for magazines. Not for her. For this. For me.”
Her hand began to move. It wasn’t a caress. It was a mapping. Her palm, rough in places, slid over the swell of Lucy’s breast, fingers closing around the nipple, pinching and twisting until Lucy gasped. “Sensitive,” Agatha noted clinically. She leaned down, her large body blotting out the light from the single bedside lamp, and took the other nipple into her mouth. But there was no tenderness, no seduction. She suckled hard, her teeth grazing the peak, then bit down sharply.
Lucy cried out, a short, sharp sound of pain.
“Quiet,” Agatha said, releasing the flesh with a wet pop. She moved downward, her hand sliding over the flat of Lucy’s stomach, making her muscles jump and quiver. “Such a tight, young thing. Every inch of you.” Her fingers combed through the soft, blonde curls between Lucy’s legs, a proprietary gesture. “Mine.”
Then Agatha’s weight shifted. She moved down the bed, settling her bulk between Lucy’s splayed legs. Lucy jerked, trying to close her thighs, a last instinct of modesty or defense.
Agatha’s hands slapped down on the insides of Lucy’s thighs, hard. The sound was a crack in the quiet room. “Open,” she commanded, her voice hardening. “I’m looking at what’s mine.”
The sting of the slap reverberated through Lucy’s flesh. A hot tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracing a path into her hairline. She forced her muscles to go slack, letting her legs fall open in a crude display of submission. The exposure was total, humiliating.
Agatha stared for a long moment. Then she lowered her head.
There was no warning, no gentle precursor. Agatha’s mouth was on her, tongue pushing inside with a blunt, immediate force. It wasn’t loving. It was a claiming. A violent, wet exploration. Lucy’s back arched off the bed, a shockwave of unwanted sensation jolting through her. It was too much, too direct, too raw. Agatha’s tongue worked ruthlessly, lapping, thrusting, circling her clit with a rough, rhythmic pressure that was devoid of any attempt at giving pleasure. It was about taking, proving access, demonstrating ownership.
Lucy’s hands clenched the rough quilt. Sounds were being torn from her throat—small, choked gasps that were neither pleasure nor protest, just the involuntary exhalations of a body being used. Agatha grunted against her, the vibrations adding a new layer of intensity. One of Agatha’s hands left her thigh and snaked upward, roughly kneading her breast, pinching the nipple again in time with the thrusts of her tongue.
“You taste like cheap vodka and regret,” Agatha muttered, lifting her head for a moment, her chin glistening. “Perfect.” She dove back down, her assault becoming more aggressive, more focused. Her tongue was a relentless piston, her nose pressed hard against Lucy’s flesh. The smell of her own arousal, mixed with Agatha’s avid, wet attention, filled the air.
Lucy felt a traitorous, shameful coil of heat begin to tighten in her belly. Her body, betrayed by its own biology, was responding to the brutal stimulus. A low moan escaped her, this one tinged with something other than pain. She hated it. Hated herself.
Agatha sensed it. She redoubled her efforts, her technique shifting from pure domination to a cruel, efficient expertise designed to wring a reaction from Lucy’s flesh, if not her spirit. A thick finger, slick with spit, pressed against Lucy’s entrance, then pushed inside without ceremony. Lucy cried out, her hips bucking off the bed.
“There it is,” Agatha snarled, her voice muffled. She added a second finger, stretching Lucy, curling them inside her with a brutal, knowing twist. Her mouth returned to Lucy’s clit, sucking hard, her tongue flicking rapidly.
The combined assault was overwhelming. The rough fingers fucking her, the sucking mouth, the overwhelming smell and taste and sound of it—it bulldozed through Lucy’s revulsion, her fear, her shame. A violent, shocking orgasm ripped through her, a convulsive wave that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with raw, brutal release. Her body seized, back bowing, a ragged scream tearing from her throat.
Agatha rode it out, fingers pumping, mouth relentless, until the last tremor subsided. Then she withdrew, slowly, her fingers making a wet, obscene sound as they slipped free.
She moved back up Lucy’s body, her own face flushed, her breath coming in heavy gusts. She looked down at Lucy, who lay spent, tears streaming silently, her perfect body glistening with sweat and saliva. A smirk of supreme satisfaction twisted Agatha’s lips.
“See?” she panted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Your body knows who owns it. It’s smarter than you are.”
She rolled off Lucy, lying beside her on the bed, a heavy, sweating presence. She grabbed Lucy’s wrist, guiding her hand down between Agatha’s own spread thighs. The coarse, wet hair, the swollen, hot flesh there—it was a demand.
“Now,” Agatha breathed, her eyes glinting behind her smudged glasses. “You make me feel what you felt. Show me your gratitude.”
Lucy’s hand was trapped, her fingers pressed into the coarse, damp heat between Agatha’s thighs. The command echoed, a tangible thing in the close, smothering air of the bedroom. Gratitude. The word was a foul joke. Her body still hummed with the residual shock of the orgasm Agatha had ripped from her, a physical betrayal that left her soul feeling scoured out.
“Go on,” Agatha murmured, her voice a thick, expectant rasp. She shifted her hips, grinding against Lucy’s limp hand. “Use your mouth. That pretty little mouth Patsy likes to kiss. I want to know what it feels like.”
A final, silent scream echoed in the vault of Lucy’s mind. She turned her head on the pillow. Agatha’s body was a pale expanse in the weak light, the thatch of grey hair, the heavy folds of skin. The intimate smell of the woman—sweat, rosewater, and the sharp, salty tang of her own arousal—intensified, a fog Lucy had to breathe. To survive this, a part of her reasoned with cold, sudden clarity, she had to move. Obedience was the only path through.
She pulled her hand free and pushed herself up on trembling arms. The movement was mechanical. She swung one leg over Agatha’s broad hips, straddling her waist, feeling the soft give of the older woman’s stomach beneath her. She didn’t look at Agatha’s face. She focused on the brittle pattern of the quilt, the water-stain continent on the ceiling, anything to leave the reality of the moment.
“That’s it,” Agatha coaxed, her hands coming up to grip Lucy’s slim hips, her thumbs digging into the bone. “Now get down there and show me.”
Lucy closed her eyes. She bent forward, her blonde hair falling like a curtain, and lowered herself. The smell hit her first, intensifying, becoming a complex, layered geography of musk and salt. As she neared Agatha’s spread flesh, a new, deeper note bloomed in the air—the earthy, pungent, unmistakably musky scent of her anus. It was animal, profoundly private, and viciously intimate.
A shocking, electric bolt of arousal jolted through Lucy’s core. It was immediate and debilitating, a purely physical reaction that bypassed all thought and revulsion. Her cunt, still sensitive and wet from Agatha’s violation, clenched hungrily. The shame that followed was hot and nauseating, but it couldn’t extinguish the sudden, desperate throb between her own legs. Her body was craving more degradation, more of this filthy sensory overload.
She opened her mouth and let her tongue touch Agatha’s labia. The taste was strong, brackish. Agatha groaned, a sound of deep satisfaction, and her hands fisted in Lucy’s hair, guiding her head, forcing her deeper. “Yes. Lick it. Lick my old cunt, you perfect little slut.”
Lucy obeyed. She followed the pressure of the hands in her hair, her tongue moving in slow, broad strokes, then circling the stiffened clit. She swallowed the taste, inhaled the musky, overpowering scent that was making her own hips twitch subtly against the empty air. Each groan from Agatha, each jerk of her hips, fed that shameful, growing fire in Lucy’s belly. She was being used as a utensil for gratification, and her own traitorous body was celebrating the fact.
“Deeper,” Agatha panted, bucking upward. “Get your tongue inside me. Fuck me with it.”
Lucy pressed her face closer, her nose now nudging against the coarse hair, that intense, musky scent of Agatha’s anus flooding her senses with every inhale. She probed with her tongue, pushing it into the yielding, slick channel. Agatha’s thighs tightened around her head, a warm, sweaty prison. Lucy could hardly breathe, just a narrow funnel of air filled with the taste and smell of this woman’s dominance.
“Oh, fuck,” Agatha hissed, her voice strangled. “Your tongue… so good. Such a good little whore for me.” Her words were razors wrapped in praise, cutting and binding Lucy simultaneously. The hands in her hair became demanding, pulling her exactly where Agatha wanted her, controlling the pace and pressure.
Lucy lost herself in the rhythm, in the suffocating, scent-drunk darkness. Her own need was a sharp, whining pulse. She moved a hand from where it braced against the mattress and slid it between her own legs. She touched herself, her fingers sliding easily through her own wetness, and a broken, muffled sob vibrated against Agatha’s flesh. She was fingering herself while eating out the homely, predatory woman who owned her, and the sheer, horrific wrongness of it was the most potent aphrodisiac she’d ever known.
Agatha felt the movement, heard the sob. “That’s it,” she growled, her hips pumping faster against Lucy’s mouth. “Get yourself off while you suck me. Come on my taste, you desperate bitch.”
The command was the final trigger. Lucy’s fingers worked frantically, her tongue relentless, the musk and the salt and the filthy words crashing over her. Her second orgasm of the night tore through her, a silent, seismic event that locked her muscles and blurred her vision into grey static. She rode it out, her mouth still working, until Agatha’s own climax followed, a guttural cry and a flood of bitter tang on Lucy’s tongue.
The hands in her hair went slack. Lucy stayed there, collapsed between Agatha’s thighs, for a long moment. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the dim hum of the house. She finally pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, the taste indelible.
Agatha looked down at her, a sheen of sweat on her upper lip, her eyes glazed with triumph. She reached out and cupped Lucy’s cheek, her thumb smearing wetness. “See?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “You’re not Patsy’s pretty accessory anymore. You’re my beautiful, filthy thing. And you love it.”
Lucy said nothing. She just stared through Agatha, towards the locked door, the truth of the words settling in her bones like a terminal cold. The hollowness was gone. It had been filled with something far, far worse.
The hollowness was gone. It had been filled with something far, far worse, a dense and shameful awareness that now pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Agatha’s thumb remained on her cheek, a grimy benediction. Lucy didn’t pull away. The fight had metamorphosed into a heavy, cellular acceptance.
“Up,” Agatha said, her voice gravelly with spent effort. She pushed at Lucy’s shoulder. “Off. I need the bathroom.”
Lucy moved numbly, sliding off the woman’s damp body and onto the cold strip of floor beside the bed. Her legs were unsteady. Agatha heaved herself up with a grunt, naked and utterly unselfconscious, her large body swaying as she walked to the door. She unlocked it and disappeared into the hall without a backward glance. The implication was clear: running was not just pointless, it was unthinkable.
Lucy sat on the rough carpet, hugging her knees. The taste of Agatha was a greasy film on her tongue and lips. She could still smell her on her own skin, that rosewater-and-sweat signature now mingled with the salty, intimate tang of the woman’s come. Her own body felt alien, a weapon that had been turned against her. The silent, dark house pressed in. From down the hall came the sound of a toilet flushing, pipes groaning in the walls.
Agatha returned, filling the doorway. She hadn’t washed. She held two glasses of water, the condensation beading on the cheap tumblers. “Drink,” she said, handing one down to Lucy. “Dehydration is undignified.”
Lucy took the glass. The water was tepid and tasted faintly of metal, but she drank it all, the liquid a dull echo of the vodka from hours before. Agatha watched her, then drained her own glass. She set them both on the dresser with a soft click, next to the small key.
“Back on the bed,” Agatha instructed, her tone that of a technician resuming work. “On your hands and knees this time. I want to look at the other part of my purchase.”
A fresh tremor, fine and cold, started in Lucy’s hands. The position felt even more vulnerable, bestial. She climbed onto the mattress, the rough quilt texture biting into her palms and knees. She kept her head down, her blonde hair a messy curtain obscuring her face. The room was silent except for the sound of her own breathing and the creak of a floorboard as Agatha approached.
Agatha didn’t speak. Her hands, warm and dry, settled on Lucy’s hips, holding her in place. A callused thumb rubbed over the curve of Lucy’s ass, an appraising gesture. Then one hand left her hip. Lucy heard a drawer on the dresser open, the rustle of something being sought.
“Synthetic lubricant,” Agatha said conversationally, as if identifying a wine. “Practical. You’ll need it.”
The cold, slick gel hit the small of Lucy’s back, a shocking dribble that made her flinch. Agatha’s palm spread it, a coarse, clinical smear over her skin, lower, over the tight furl of her anus. The intrusion was implicit, inevitable. Lucy’s breath hitched, her knuckles bleaching white where they gripped the quilt.
“Have you done this before?” Agatha asked, her voice close now. A blunt, slick finger pressed against the puckered ring of muscle, not entering, just asserting pressure.
Lucy shook her head, a frantic little motion.
“Patsy was too polite,” Agatha murmured, almost to herself. The finger began to work in small, insistent circles. “Too preoccupied with treating you like a porcelain doll. I don’t have that limitation.” The circling became a focused, penetrating push. Lucy gasped as the tip of Agatha’s finger breached her, a sharp, burning fullness utterly foreign to her body. “This is how you learn your true place. Through the back door. It’s honest.”
The finger slid deeper, a slow, inexorable invasion. Lucy’s body fought the intrusion, muscles clenching involuntarily around the invading digit. The burn was intense, a rip of pain that felt surgical. Agatha held it there, letting Lucy feel the full, violating stretch.
“Breathe out,” Agatha commanded, her voice low. “You’re fighting it. You’ll tear yourself.”
Lucy exhaled a shuddering breath. As she did, Agatha pushed the finger to the knuckle. The feeling was one of profound, internal violation, a occupancy that scraped at the core of her. Agatha began to move it, a slow in-and-out that was less about pleasure than possession. The lubricant made wet, ugly sounds. “See? Your body accepts it. It accepts anything I decide to put in it.”
After a minute of this, Agatha withdrew the finger. Lucy sagged with relief, but it was brutally short-lived. She felt the thicker, blunter pressure of two fingers, slick and cold, pressing against the same strained entrance. A jagged sound, half-whimper, half-scream, tore from Lucy’s throat.
“You can take it,” Agatha said, her voice devoid of comfort. It was a statement of fact. She leaned her weight forward, using the leverage of her body to force the two fingers inside. The burn eclipsed pain, becoming a white-hot tear that liquefied Lucy’s spine. She cried out, her forehead dropping to the mattress, her body bowing under the assault.
Agatha worked her fingers deeper, stretching, scissoring them slightly. The pain was blinding, a scalding brand being pushed into her very center. Yet, beneath the razor-edge of agony, a forbidden signal flickered. Her clit, untouched, throbbed insistently against the empty air. Her own wetness, proof of her earlier forced orgasm, slicked her inner thighs. The juxtaposition was soul-rending: her backside was being brutally opened, while her cunt ached with a humiliating, empty hunger.
“You’re dripping,” Agatha observed, her voice thick with dark amusement. She hooked her fingers inside Lucy, a cruel curl that made Lucy sob. “All this pain, and your pretty little pussy is weeping for attention. You’re a natural fuckhole, aren’t you? Every part of you just wants to be used.”
She pulled her fingers out with a slick pop. Lucy braced for the next violation, her entire body tensed. But Agatha just climbed onto the bed behind her. Lucy felt the heavy, soft press of Agatha’s stomach against her upturned ass, the coarse hair of the woman’s mound against her tailbone. Agatha’s hands gripped her hips again, nails biting.
“Now we finish it,” Agatha breathed. “Now I take what’s mine.”
The pressure that replaced the fingers was different—blunter, hotter, more alive. It was the thick, fleshy head of Agatha’s strap-on, now harnessed to her hips. The toy had come from the dresser drawer, another piece of clinical equipment in this transaction of ownership. Lucy had seen nothing, heard only the rustle of leather and plastic, but she knew. The realization was a final vaporization of hope.
“Please,” Lucy whimpered, the word a broken thing smothered by the quilt.
“Please what?” Agatha asked, pushing forward so the silicon tip pressed insistently against Lucy’s ravaged entrance. “Please stop? Or please fuck you?”
Lucy couldn’t answer. Her mind shattered into prismatic fragments of sensation: the rough fabric against her cheek, the smell of their mingled sweat, the sharp, medicinal scent of the lube, the unbearable, promise of fullness at her back door.
Agatha didn’t wait for an answer. She pushed.
The stretch was catastrophic. It felt like being split up the middle, a searing, ripping expansion that stole the air from Lucy’s lungs. She screamed, a raw, open-mouthed sound that Agatha swallowed with the flat of her hand, clapping it over Lucy’s mouth. The scream became a muffled, desperate vibration against the clammy palm.
“Quiet,” Agatha snarled, her own breath coming in hard grunts. She shoved forward, burying the strap-on to the hilt in one brutal, relentless thrust.
Lucy saw white. Her vision pinwheeled. The pain was a universe, total and annihilating. Agatha held herself there, fully sheathed, letting Lucy feel the grotesque, complete fullness. Then she pulled back and thrust in again, setting a slow, deep, punishing rhythm.
Each inward stroke was a violation that scraped her insides. Each withdrawal was a ghost of relief that only made the next invasion more terrifying. Agatha fucked her with a methodical, grim purpose, her hips slapping against Lucy’s ass with a meaty, rhythmic sound. The leather of the harness creaked. The bedframe knocked a dull tattoo against the wall.
“This is it,” Agatha panted, her voice strained with effort. “This is your worth. You’re a sheath. A warm, tight place for me to fuck. Nothing else.” She leaned over, her sweaty breasts pressing against Lucy’s back, her mouth at Lucy’s ear. “Tell me what you are.”
Lucy shook her head, tears and saliva soaking the quilt beneath her.
Agatha’s hand tightened on her hip, and she drilled into her harder, angling the toy with a vicious precision that made Lucy see stars. “Say it!”
“A sheath,” Lucy choked out, the words mangled against Agatha’s hand. “A warm place.”
“A worthless, fuckable thing,” Agatha corrected, pounding into her. “Say it!”
“A worthless, fuckable thing!” Lucy screamed the confession, the admission tearing something fundamental loose inside her. With its release, a dam broke. The scalding pain began to mutate, transformed by sheer overwhelm and abject surrender into a perverse, all-consuming sensation. Her body, traitor to the last, began to move back against the thrusts, meeting them.
“Yes,” Agatha hissed, feeling the shift, and her rhythm changed. It became faster, more frenzied, her own gratification now driving the pace. She was chasing her climax, using Lucy’s brutalized body to get herself off. “Come on, you worthless thing, take it. Milk it.”
The slap of skin, the creak of leather, the wet, filthy sounds of the act filled the room. Lucy’s mind detached completely. She was just a collection of sensations: the brutal fullness, the sweat stinging her eyes, the ache in her knees, the terrifying, mounting coil of another orgasm brewing in her cunt, untouched and screaming for release. She reached a hand between her own legs, fingering her clit in rough, frantic circles, sobbing with every stroke.
Agatha saw, and it drove her wild. She fucked into Lucy with abandon, her thrusts becoming irregular, jagged. “That’s it, you filthy angel, finger your little cunt while I wreck your ass,” she grunted, her voice breaking. “Come for me. Come on my cock, you beautiful slut.”
The words, the pain, the total degradation, they formed a perfect, dark circuit. Lucy’s orgasm detonated, a silent, convulsive event that locked every muscle in her body, her internal spasms clenching violently around the rigid object violating her. A split-second later, Agatha slammed home one final time, her body rigid, a raw, guttural cry tearing from her throat as she found her own climax in the act of domination.
They collapsed together in a heap of slick limbs, Agatha’s weight driving Lucy flat into the mattress. The strap-on remained inside, a final, absurd flag of possession. For a long time, the only sounds were their shattered attempts to breathe.
Slowly, Agatha shifted, withdrawing the toy with a soft, wet slide. She unhooked the harness, letting it fall to the floor with a dull thud. She didn’t clean either of them. She simply rolled onto her back beside Lucy’s broken form, pulling the girl’s limp body against her.
She arranged them with a kind of gruff finality, winding an arm under Lucy’s neck, slinging a heavy leg over Lucy’s thighs, pulling her back tight against her own soft, sweaty front. It was a posture of absolute ownership, sleep as containment.
Lucy didn’t resist. She was a hollowed shell, packed with sand and shame. Their sweat covered bodies entangled, Agatha’s breath slowing into deep, satisfied sighs against the nape of Lucy’s neck. The last thing Lucy felt before the exhausted, black nothingness of sleep claimed her was the rough, possessive knead of Agatha’s hand on her stomach, holding her in place.