Chapter 8: Dreamscape Domination
The dream was a fist.
It clenched Rio in her sleep, a visceral, graphic punch of memory and fantasy twisted together. Agatha’s hands, cold from the shower, gripping her hips. The blunt, silicone head of the strap-on, pressing against her, a ruthless, unyielding pressure. Then the single, devastating thrust, burying the entire unreal length inside her in one stroke, splitting her open. In the dream, Rio arched off the bed, a moan ripped from her throat, each subsequent slam hitting a deep, cervical wall of sensation that was pain and pleasure fused into something else entirely. Agatha’s face above her, a mask of focused possession. “Mine,” the dream-Agatha whispered, driving into her. “You’re fucking mine.”
She woke with a gasp, the morning sun cutting through the sheer curtains like a knife. Her body was taut, coiled. Her own hand was buried in her underwear, two fingers shoved knuckle-deep inside her cunt, which was clenched tight and dripping. She was fucking herself in her sleep, mimicking the dream’s brutal rhythm. She jerked her hand out as if burned, her breath coming in ragged pants. The sheets between her legs were damp.
“Bad dream?”
David’s voice, sleep-rough and oblivious, came from beside her. He was propped on an elbow, squinting in the light. He hadn’t touched her when she came in last night. Had just mumbled “long day?” before rolling over. He hadn’t noticed the shallow cut on her heel, carefully cleaned and bandaged. He hadn’t smelled Agatha on her skin.
“Something like that,” Rio said, her voice gravel. She swung her legs out of bed, the memory of the dream—the phantom fullness, the claiming—making her steps unsteady. She needed a shower. She needed to scour the feeling of that phantom cock out of her, along with the taste of Agatha’s come that she could still, impossibly, sense on the back of her tongue.
The water was scalding. She stood under the blast, letting it pound her shoulders. She scrubbed her skin with a loofah until it was pink and raw. It didn’t help. The dream-details were crystal: the sound of the harness straps, the veined texture, the way Agatha had used her entire bodyweight. It hadn’t been a gentle fantasy. It had been an annexation.
She got out, wrapping herself in a towel. David was in the kitchen, the espresso machine screaming. He handed her a cup without looking up from his tablet. “Big day. Closing arguments on the Henderson case. You prepped?”
“Of course I’m prepped,” Rio snapped, the bratty sarcasm a flimsy shield. She sipped the bitter coffee. The Henderson case was a messy divorce, a billionaire husband hiding assets in offshore shells. It was complex, dull, and miles away from the visceral, winner-take-all thrill of Agatha’s world.
David finally looked at her. “You’re on edge. Still thinking about that settlement you bullied through with Agatha’s… help?” He said ‘help’ like it was a dirty word.
“It was a good result.”
“It was borderline extortion,” he corrected, the law professor emerging. “A risky play. You got lucky. I wouldn’t make a habit of leaning on her… methods.”
Rio’s laugh was a sharp, brittle thing. “You’d prefer I lose?”
“I’d prefer you win on the law, not on whatever creepy power trip that woman is running.” He closed his tablet. “She’s trouble, Rio. My father married her six months before he died. The pre-nup she signed was a work of art. Her art. She’s a spider. You’re buzzing in her web.”
The accuracy of it was a slap. Rio set her cup down too hard. “I can handle myself.”
“Can you?” His gaze was assessing, finally seeing the shadows under her eyes, the tense set of her jaw. “You seem different.”
“I’m tired.” She turned to go, but his hand caught her wrist.
“Hey.” His voice softened. “I’m your husband. I’m on your side. Come here.”
It was an invitation, an attempt at connection. It felt like a demand. He pulled her to him, his mouth finding hers. His kiss was familiar, routine. It tasted of coffee and toothpaste. It tasted of nothing. Her skin, still sensitive from the shower, crawled. She made herself kiss him back, made her hands come up to his shoulders.
He walked her backward, through the living room, towards the bedroom they’d just left. His hands went to the knot of her towel, undoing it. It fell to the floor. He looked at her naked body, but his expression was one of general appreciation, not the devouring, specific hunger she’d known just days before. He pushed her onto the edge of the unmade bed, the sheets still warm from their sleep, still carrying the scent of her interrupted dream.
“Let me help you relax,” he murmured, kneeling before her. He parted her legs, his hands on her knees. He leaned in and put his mouth on her.
It was technically proficient. His tongue circled her clit with practiced ease. He added a finger, then two, curling them. He knew the motions that usually worked. But it was like reading from a manual. There was no madness in it. No sense of him losing himself in her taste, in her need. He was performing husbandly duty.
Rio lay back on the sheets, staring at the ceiling. She felt the stimulation, a distant, building buzz, but her mind was elsewhere. It was in a candlelit dining room, the taste of scallops and surrender. It was pinned under Agatha’s crushing, victorious weight. It was filled with the imagined stretch of silicone, the brutal, full-body fucking of her dream.
David’s fingers pumped. His tongue flicked. A moan escaped her, but it was a sound of frustration, of anguished comparison. It spurred him on. He redoubled his efforts, his free hand coming up to grope her breast, his touch somehow both proprietary and disinterested.
“Come on, baby,” he mumbled against her, his voice muffled by her flesh. “Come for me.”
The command, so similar to the one she’d flung at Agatha, felt hollow. Pathetic. But her body, trained and betrayed, was reaching its peak. The climax built, a mechanical wave. She arched her back, fisted the sheets, and let out a cry as it washed over her—a sharp, shallow release that left her feeling emptier than before.
He sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. “See? Better.”
He stood, unbuttoning his own trousers. He was half-hard. He shoved his briefs down, his cock springing free. He nudged her thighs wider. “My turn.”
He wasn’t asking. He guided himself to her entrance, still slick from his mouth and her own unwilling orgasm, and pushed in with a single, smooth stroke. He fit. He always fit. It was familiar, this fullness. He began to move, setting a steady, dependable rhythm, his hands braced on the bed by her shoulders.
Rio wrapped her legs around his waist, a habit. She matched his rhythm, another habit. She made the small, encouraging sounds she knew he liked. She was a perfect, responsive wife. He fucked her with focused, earnest thrusts, his breathing growing heavier in her ear.
“God, you’re tight,” he grunted, a line he always used.
Tight. Not filled. Not split open. Not claimed.
She turned her head to the side, her cheek against the damp sheet. Her eyes fell on her nightstand. On her phone. A silent, dark rectangle. She imagined it buzzing. Imagined a text from an unknown number. A single, devastating sentence. Dream of me?
The thought, illicit and electrifying, shot through her. A jolt of pure, adrenal heat that had nothing to do with David. Her internal muscles, traitorously, clenched around him.
“Fuck, yes,” he hissed, mistaking her spike of guilt and longing for his own prowess. His pace quickened, becoming jerky, urgent. He was close. He always came quickly after she did.
He drove into her a few final, hard times, then buried his face in her neck with a stifled groan as he emptied himself inside her. He collapsed on her, a weight of sweaty, satiated husband. He kissed her shoulder. “Love you,” he mumbled, a post-coital reflex.
Rio stared at the phone. “Love you too,” she whispered to the empty air.
He rolled off, heading for the shower. Rio lay still, feeling his come start to leak out of her, onto Agatha’s dream-sheets. The sun was higher now, bleaching the room of shadows. She felt perfectly, terribly clear.
David was right. She was in a web. But the spider wasn’t just Agatha. It was her own hunger, spinning silken, unbreakable threads around her, and the more she struggled, the more beautifully, hopelessly entangled she became. Getting free wasn’t the point anymore. The point was the thrill of the struggle itself, and the dark, knowledgeable hands that held the other end of the thread.
The point was the thrill of the struggle itself, and the dark, knowledgeable hands that held the other end of the thread. She cleaned herself up in the bathroom, watching David’s steam-clouded silhouette behind the glass. The phantom ache between her legs was a more truthful souvenir than his spend trickling down her thigh. She dressed for court: a severe black sheath, hair in a knot, armor plating. Her phone, facedown on the nightstand, remained silent through breakfast, through the elevator ride down, through the cab ride to the sleek granite canyon of her law firm. It buzzed in her hand as she swiped through security, the vibration a live wire up her arm.
The screen glowed. An unknown number. The message was devoid of greeting, a naked imperative.
IF YOU CAN GET SOME TIME AWAY. I WANT YOUR GREEDY CUNT.
Rio stopped dead in the marble lobby, a professional ghost amidst the click of heels and low murmur of deals. Her breath hitched. The words were a brand. Greedy cunt. A crude, accurate trophy from the battlefield of Agatha’s bed. She could smell the shattered wine, the saffron, the sweat. Her own fingers, sticky with Agatha, involuntarily curled. A hot, shameful flood of pure want soaked through her sensible cotton underwear. Greedy. Yes.
“Rio? You okay?” A junior associate paused, file in hand, his brow furrowed.
“Fine.” The word was sand in her throat. “Prep the Henderson exhibits. Conference room in ten.”
She walked to her office, her heels echoing with a false, controlled rhythm. She shut the door. The silence was a vacuum. She stared at the text. If you can get some time away. It wasn’t a request. It was a test. A dare. A challenge to her precious schedule, her husband, her entire constructed life. She typed a reply, her thumbs clumsy. When.
The answer was immediate. Now. The address. Coordinates followed. A building in the financial district, not the penthouse. An office.
Her body moved before her mind consented. She opened her door. “Family emergency,” she told her assistant, the lie smooth and cold as river stone. “Reschedule my afternoon.” She didn’t wait for a reply. She was back in the elevator, down to the street, hailing another cab. The city blurred. Her pulse hammered a frantic counter-rhythm to the dream-thrusts still echoing in her muscles. She gave the address. She didn’t think.
The building was a spear of glass and steel. The lobby was silent, opulent. A private elevator required a keycard. She texted Here. The doors opened silently. She stepped in. It ascended, a swift, gut-tugging climb to the top. The doors parted directly into an empty, vast anteroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city in terrifying miniature. Another door, heavy and dark, stood ajar.
She pushed it open.
Agatha’s office was a study in imposing minimalism. A monolithic desk of black oak. A single Eames chair. And Agatha, standing by the window, backlit by the hard noon sun. She wasn’t in a dress. She wore a tailored, pinstriped trousers suit, the jacket unbuttoned over a silk shell. Power, distilled. She turned. Her eyes weren’t smoldering now. They were analytical, cutting.
“You came.” A statement. A verdict.
“You texted.” Rio’s voice sounded small, swallowed by the room.
“I did.” Agatha didn’t move. Her gaze traveled from Rio’s knotted hair down to her sensible pumps, a dismissive inventory. “Take off the lawyer costume. All of it. Now.”
The command, in this sterile temple of commerce, was more obscene than any whispered filth in the dark. Rio’s fingers trembled as she reached for the zipper at the back of her dress. The sound was loud. The fabric pooled at her feet. The cool office air pebbled her nipples. She stepped out of the dress, then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her underwear and hose, pushing them down. She stood naked in the sunlight, in front of the desk, exposed.
“On the desk. On your knees. Facing me.”
Rio moved, the cold surface of the oak biting into her knees. She knelt, her back to the terrifying view. Agatha approached slowly. She unbuttoned her suit jacket, let it drop to the floor. She unzipped her trousers, pushed them and her underwear down just enough to free herself. She wasn’t wearing a strap. This was different.
“Open your mouth.”
Rio obeyed, parting her lips. Agatha’s hand wrapped in her hair, not yanking, but holding with absolute authority. She guided her cock, rigid and already leaking, to Rio’s mouth. The scent of her, clean and musky, filled Rio’s senses. “You’re going to suck me off,” Agatha said, her voice perfectly even. “And you’re going to do it like your future depends on it. Because right now, it does.”
She pushed forward. The head bumped against Rio’s lips, then past them. Rio took her in, the thickness stretching her jaw. Agatha didn’t thrust. She held Rio’s head still and began to fuck her mouth with slow, penetrating rolls of her hips. It was a demonstration of ownership. Rio’s tongue flattened, her throat working to accommodate the insistent, smooth invasion. Saliva gathered at the corners of her mouth.
“Use your tongue. On the underside.” Rio complied, swirling her tongue along the frenulum. A low groan escaped Agatha. “Good. Now deeper.”
Agatha pushed further, the tip hitting the back of Rio’s throat. Rio gagged, tears springing to her eyes. Agatha held her there, letting her struggle for air, before pulling back just enough. “Breathe through your nose. Now take it all.”
The pace increased. Agatha’s hips snapped forward, sliding her cock deep into Rio’s throat with a wet, rhythmic choke. Rio’s own cunt was dripping, a slick mess between her thighs on the cold wood. The abasement was total. She was a thing, a vessel, being used with exquisite, impersonal precision. She could see the focused blankness on Agatha’s face, the slight flare of her nostrils, the pleasure not as shared intimacy but as a resource being extracted.
“Touch yourself,” Agatha ordered, her breath hitching. “Make your cunt wet for me. I want to feel it.”
Rio’s hand scrambled between her own legs. She was already soaked. She rubbed her clit in frantic circles, the stimulation a bright, shameful counterpoint to the rough penetration of her mouth. The obscene sounds of her sucking and her own fingers working filled the silent office.
Agatha’s control began to fracture. Her thrusts became harder, less measured. “Swallow me,” she grunted, a raw, guttural command. “I’m going to come down your fucking throat.”
Rio braced, her throat opening. Agatha slammed home one last time, held, and a hot, bitter pulse flooded Rio’s mouth. She swallowed convulsively, again and again, until Agatha, spent, slid out of her with a soft pop.
Rio knelt, panting, come and saliva on her chin. Agatha stepped back, pulling her trousers up, fastening them. She looked down at Rio, a sheen of sweat on her own brow the only evidence of her exertion.
“Clean up,” she said, nodding to Rio’s discarded clothes. “Your lunch hour is almost over.”
Rio climbed off the desk, her legs weak. She dressed with clumsy, shaking hands. The taste of Agatha’s orgasm was a scar on her tongue. She couldn’t look at her.
“I’ll text you,” Agatha said, returning to her place by the window, the consummate executive once more. “Don’t make me wait.”
Rio fled. In the elevator, she scrubbed her mouth with the back of her hand. The taste remained. Her cunt throbbed, unfinished. The thread was no longer just in Agatha’s hands. It was stitched into her, pulling from the inside, and every step back toward her old life only drew the knot tighter.