Chapter 3: Ruined
The karaoke bar was a special kind of hell. Strobe lights cut through a haze of artificial fog, syncing brutally with a man in a salmon-colored polo shirt murdering “Don’t Stop Believin’.” The air tasted sticky, like spilled soda and regret.
Agatha sat wedged into a corner booth, a fortress of pressed linen and disdain. She nursed a club soda, the ice long melted. “This is a violation of the Geneva Conventions,” she stated, not for the first time.
“Oh, hush!” Wanda, a burst of floral print and enthusiasm, swatted her arm. “Look at the community! The shared vulnerability! That man is putting his whole soul into Journey.”
“His whole soul needs to be exorcised.”
“You’re just grumpy because you haven’t mingled.” Wanda scanned the crowd like a general surveying a battlefield. “Ooh, see that guy by the bar? The one with the kind eyes? He looks like a dentist. Stable.”
“I have a dentist. I don’t like him, either.”
Wanda was about to retort when her attention snagged on the elevated VIP booth across the room. It was shadowed, semi-private behind a tinted glass partition. “Now, who do you think is up there? Someone important. Or secretly famous!”
Agatha followed her gaze. Her spine straightened, a subtle shift from annoyed to alert. In the gloom of the booth, she could make out a familiar silhouette: long legs stretched out, a messy bun, the faint glow of a phone screen illuminating a sharp, amused profile. Rio. Watching.
A slow heat, unrelated to the stifling room, spread through Agatha’s chest. The memory of the stairwell was a physical imprint—the cold wall, the taste of salt and skin, the absolute, devastating silence she’d shattered. Rule one.
She hadn’t seen her since. Two days of the cruise, two days of pretending to browse the library or swim laps, every nerve ending primed for another encounter that hadn’t come. The radio silence was its own form of torture, a game Agatha hadn’t authorized.
Now here she was, on display in this absurd circus, being assessed from the shadows. Again.
“I need air,” Agatha said, starting to slide out of the booth.
“You just got here! Ten more minutes. For me?” Wanda deployed the puppy-dog eyes, a weapon of mass destruction.
Agatha was trapped. She leaned back, forcing her body to relax, her eyes fixed on the stage where a new victim was bravely attempting reggae. She felt the weight of the gaze from the booth like a physical touch. It was infuriating. It was exhilarating.
She didn’t see Rio move. One moment she was a silhouette; the next, she was winding through the crowd with that lazy, panther-like grace. People subtly made way for her, though they probably couldn’t say why. She wore simple black trousers and a charcoal grey t-shirt, a study in monochrome against the neon chaos.
Wanda noticed her approach. “Oh my,” she whispered, her matchmaking senses tingling. “Hello. Incoming. Nine o’clock. Tall, dark, and… wow.”
Rio stopped at their table. She didn’t look at Wanda. Her auburn eyes were locked on Agatha, a smirk playing on her lips. The noise of the bar seemed to fade into a dull roar.
“Librarian,” Rio said, her voice cutting through the music.
“Tech Mogul,” Agatha replied, her tone flat.
Wanda’s head swivelled between them, her mouth a perfect ‘O’.
Rio’s hand slipped into her pocket. She pulled out a small, crumpled ball of black lace and silk. Without a word, she dropped it onto the table, right into the condensation ring from Agatha’s glass. It landed with a soft, damp plop.
“You left these,” Rio said. “In the stairwell. They were… ruined.”
The world narrowed to that small, shameful scrap of fabric. Agatha could see the delicate stitching, the particular scalloped edge. Her own. Torn, she recalled, by impatient, forceful hands. The evidence of her loss of control, presented like a challenge in the middle of a karaoke bar.
Wanda stared, uncomprehending. “Are those…?”
Agatha didn’t blink. She looked from the panties to Rio’s face, which was all insolent triumph. The brat was testing. Publicly. Seeing if she could fluster her, force a reaction.
Slowly, Agatha reached out. She didn’t snatch them. She picked them up delicately, between thumb and forefinger, as if examining a rare, soiled artifact. She held Rio’s gaze, her own utterly cold.
“I wondered where these had gone,” Agatha said, her voice calm, conversational. “I’d written them off as a casualty.” She tilted her head. “It was thoughtful of you to do the laundry. Inefficient, but thoughtful.”
Rio’s smirk faltered for a microsecond.
Agatha leaned forward slightly. “Since you’re here, and apparently in a subservient mood, you can fetch me a real drink. Gin. Neat. And one for my friend.” She glanced at Wanda, who looked like she was short-circuiting. “What are you having, Wanda?”
“Um. A… cosmopolitan?” Wanda squeaked.
“A cosmopolitan as well,” Agatha said, returning her icy focus to Rio. “And then you can go back to your booth. Your watching is permitted. Your interruptions are not.”
For a long, charged moment, Rio stood there. The power dynamic, so firmly in her grasp seconds ago, quivered. The public space, her chosen battlefield, had been turned against her. Agatha saw the conflict in her eyes—the defiance, the sudden, dawning understanding of a miscalculation. And beneath it, the sharp, thrilling spark of submission being forced back to the surface.
Without a word, Rio turned and walked toward the bar.
The second she was out of earshot, Wanda exploded. “WHAT WAS THAT? Who is that? What stairwell? WHAT DO YOU MEAN, RUINED?”
“Quiet, Wanda.”
“Don’t you ‘quiet’ me! You’ve been having maritime adventures and you didn’t tell me? She’s breathtaking! And she brought you your… your unmentionables! Agatha, this is monumental!”
“It’s a power play,” Agatha said, watching Rio at the bar, ordering the drinks with stiff shoulders. “A poorly executed one.”
“It looked pretty well-executed from here! My God, the tension! I could bottle it and sell it!” Wanda fanned herself. “She’s coming back.”
Rio returned, placing the gin and the cosmopolitan on the table with precise, restrained movements. She said nothing, her jaw tight.
Agatha took her gin. She took a slow sip, never breaking eye contact. “Thank you.” The dismissal was absolute.
Rio lingered for a heartbeat, then gave a single, sharp nod and retreated to her booth, her earlier swagger subdued.
Wanda was vibrating. “You… you just… I have never seen anything like that in my life. You are a superhero. A scary, scary superhero.”
Agatha finally looked away from Rio’s shadowed booth and down at the ruined lace still in her hand. She tucked it into her pocket, a secret against her thigh. The gin was cold and sharp. It tasted like victory. And, faintly, like anticipation.
Two hours later, Agatha stood under the punishing spray of her cabin shower, scrubbing the smell of the bar from her skin. The gin’s warmth had faded, leaving a hollow, restless energy. The scrap of lace was draped over the sink, a silent accusation.
A soft knock at the stateroom door. Not Wanda’s cheerful rap. Something tentative. Final.
Agatha turned off the water. She didn’t hurry. She dried herself methodically, wrapped herself in a thick terrycloth robe, and padded barefoot to the door. She didn’t ask who it was.
She opened it.
Rio stood there, leaning against the doorframe. The arrogance was gone, stripped away. In its place was a raw, edgy stillness. She’d been drinking, Agatha could tell, but she wasn’t drunk. She was unraveled.
“You told me to go back to watching,” Rio said, her voice low. “I can’t.”
Agatha didn’t move. She blocked the doorway. “Why not?”
“Because I need you to tell me to be quiet again.”
The words hung in the space between them, a stark and breathtaking surrender.
Agatha stepped back, a silent command. Rio entered, and Agatha closed the door, locking it with a definitive click.
The cabin was dim, lit only by a single porthole light. Rio stood in the middle of the small room, looking lost.
“Take off your clothes,” Agatha said. She didn’t raise her voice.
Rio obeyed. There was no performance this time. Her hands shook slightly as she pulled the t-shirt over her head, unbuttoned her trousers, let them fall. She stood naked, the soft light etching the long lines of her body, the faint tremble in her thighs. Exposed. Waiting.
Agatha walked a slow circle around her, the robe whispering against the carpet. She was a shark assessing prey. “You wanted a reaction. You got one. Was it what you hoped for?”
“No.”
“What did you hope for?”
“I don’t know.” Rio’s breath hitched. “To get under your skin.”
“You are under my skin,” Agatha said, stopping in front of her. “Like a splinter. An irritation.” She reached out and trailed a single, hard fingernail down the center of Rio’s chest, over her sternum, down her abdomen. Rio flinched, a full-body shiver. “You don’t get to choose how that manifests.”
She placed her hands on Rio’s shoulders, turned her, and pushed. Rio stumbled toward the bed, catching herself on the edge. “On your knees. Facing the bed.”
Rio sank down. The plush carpet was rough against her skin. She stared at the grey-blue bedspread, her back to Agatha, vulnerable and open.
Agatha undid her robe. She let it fall. She approached Rio from behind, a dominant shadow. She didn’t touch her at first. She just looked, at the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist, the perfect, tense globes of her ass.
“You brought my property into a public bar,” Agatha said, her voice a cold blade. “You tried to shame me. That requires correction.”
From the nightstand, she picked up a heavy, hardback book she’d been reading—a thick history of maritime law. She ran its cool, sharp edge down the length of Rio’s spine. Rio gasped.
“This is hardback,” Agatha murmured. “Substantial. Do you feel it?”
“Yes.”
Agatha brought the book down, not with a swing, but with a firm, solid smack against the flesh of Rio’s ass. A sharp, startling crack filled the room.
Rio jerked forward, a cry caught in her throat.
“Color?” Agatha asked, her tone clinical.
“Green,” Rio breathed, the word half-moaned.
Smack. Again, on the other side. A bloom of red appeared on the pale skin. Agatha watched, dispassionate, as the redness spread. She spanked her again, and again, with the same measured, relentless force. Not in a frenzy. As a punishment. Each impact was a period to a sentence. Rio began to sway, her breath coming in ragged pulls, her fingers twisting in the bedspread. Whimpers escaped her with every blow, but she held her position.
Finally, Agatha tossed the book aside. It thumped on the carpet. She placed her hands on the heated, marked skin, feeling the vibrant heat, the tremor running through Rio’s body. She leaned down, her mouth close to Rio’s ear.
“Now,” she whispered, “you’re going to be useful.”
She nudged Rio’s thighs wider. Then she positioned herself on the edge of the bed, her own legs spread. “Look at me.”
Rio turned her head, her cheek pressed to the bedspread, eyes hazy with pain and want.
“Watch,” Agatha commanded. She let her own hand drift down her body, over her stomach, through the dark thatch of curls. She was already wet, the slow, cruel buildup having its effect on her, too. She parted her own lips, exposing the swollen, needy flesh. “Watch, and do not move.”
She began to touch herself, slowly at first, her eyes locked on Rio’s. She circled her clit, a lazy, teasing motion, letting Rio see the slickness gathering on her fingers. Rio’s mouth fell open, a silent plea.
Agatha dipped two fingers inside herself, a shallow, obscene penetration, then brought them back up to glide over her clit. Her breath began to shorten. She added pressure, her movements becoming more deliberate, her hips starting a subtle rock against her own hand. The room filled with the soft, wet sounds of her arousal.
Rio was shaking, a low groan building in her chest. “Please…”
“I didn’t give you permission to speak,” Agatha gasped, her composure fraying at the edges as pleasure built. She pressed harder, faster, her fingers working in a tight, focused rhythm. She was putting on a show, but the need was real, coiling deep and urgent. “You get to watch. This is what you caused. This is your doing.”
She was close. The sight of Rio, naked and marked and utterly desperate at her feet, the memory of her insolence, the feel of her own hand—it all fused into a white-hot point. Her back arched, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as the orgasm slammed into her, waves of clenching heat that made her toes curl and her vision whiten.
For a moment, there was only the sound of her own ragged breathing. She slowly pulled her hand away, glistening. She brought her fingers to Rio’s mouth.
“Clean them.”
Rio surged forward, taking Agatha’s fingers into her mouth with a desperate, hungry gratitude. She sucked and licked, her tongue swirling, chasing every trace, her eyes closed in fervent worship.
Agatha pulled her fingers free with a pop. She pushed Rio onto her back on the carpet. Rio looked up at her, utterly wrecked, her lips swollen, her eyes black with need.
“Now,” Agatha said, kneeling over Rio’s face, lowering herself onto that waiting mouth. “You may be noisy.”
And Rio was.
And Rio was.
Her mouth was a desperate, wet instrument of worship. She groaned into Agatha’s cunt, the vibrations making Agatha’s thighs clamp tighter around her head. Agatha ground down, riding the fierce, relentless tongue, her own cries sharp and uninhibited. This was different from the stairwell’s silent tyranny; this was a noisy, shared ruin.
“Right there,” Agatha gasped, her hands fisted in Rio’s messy hair, controlling the pace. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.” Rio’s answer was a muffled, eager sound, her tongue spearing deeper, then flattening to lap broad, messy strokes.
Orgasm hit Agatha like a sudden squall, brutal and overwhelming. Her back arched violently, a raw, guttural shout torn from her throat as she came against Rio’s mouth, shaking, dripping onto her chin.
She collapsed to the side, breathing in ragged gulps. Rio lay on the carpet, panting, her face slick and shining in the low light. She looked utterly debauched.
Agatha stared at the ceiling, the sweat cooling on her skin. The high receded, leaving a strange, hollow clarity. She could feel Rio’s eyes on her. Waiting.
“You can go now,” Agatha said, her voice hoarse.
Rio didn’t move. The silence stretched. “Was that my correction?” she finally asked.
“It was a consequence.” Agatha sat up, reaching for her robe. The fabric felt alien against her sensitized skin. “The correction was the book. This was just me.”
“Just you.” Rio pushed herself up on her elbows. Her eyes, though hazy, held a fragment of that old, sharp awareness. She swiped the back of her hand across her glistening chin. “Feels like the same thing.”
Agatha stood, tying the robe shut, a barrier re-erected. “Don’t philosophize. It’s tedious.”
Rio gathered her clothes, dressing slowly in the heavy quiet. The red marks on her ass were vivid against the grey of her trousers as she pulled them up. At the door, she paused, her hand on the latch.
“That book,” Rio said, not turning around. “Maritime Law and the Sovereign State.” A faint, familiar curve touched her mouth. “Light reading?”
Agatha didn’t answer.
Rio glanced back over her shoulder. The raw need was gone, cloaked again behind a veil of quiet amusement. She’d gotten what she came for, and a piece of her had reforged itself in the process.