Danni

You knew you were in trouble the second Rio walked in.

No one said anything — they didn’t have to. The look on her face did all the talking. That little tilt of her head, the cocky smirk that said oh, you thought you were getting away with that, and the slow drag of her thumb across her bottom lip, eyes already on your legs like they were her property.

Then came Agatha. Unbothered, in silk. She didn’t even glance at you as she sat, long legs crossed, wine glass in hand like you were something she’d come back to when she was ready. She was always the scariest when she was quiet.

Nat leaned against the wall next. Smirking. Arms crossed. “Look who suddenly remembers we exist,” she said, low and dry. “Should we clap? Or make her beg?”

And Wanda? Oh, Wanda just smiled.

Not nice.

Not sweet.

But pretty. Dangerous. The kind of smile that meant she already had a plan, and it was going to wreck you in the prettiest way possible.

“Get on your knees,” she said.

You opened your mouth — maybe to sass, maybe to plead — but Nat was already behind you, one hand in your hair. Not hard. Not rough. But firm. Enough to make your breath catch.

“You don’t get to talk, baby. Not yet,” she whispered against your ear.

And just like that, you were back in your place. Right where they wanted you.

Natasha's hand stayed in your hair. Gentle, but immovable. “Aw. Look at her. Already squirming.”

Wanda crouched in front of you, like she had all the time in the world. Her manicured fingers skimmed up the side of your jaw, tilting your face toward her. “I think she forgot the rules,” she murmured, mock-pouting. “Didn’t we say no touching yourself without permission?”

“Three times,” Agatha said from behind her glass, voice like ice water down your spine.

You shivered. Not from fear. Not exactly.

Wanda’s smile widened. “So we agree,” she said lightly, eyes still locked on yours. “She doesn’t deserve to be touched. At least… not until she’s worked for it.”

Natasha leaned in, breath hot against your neck. “How many does she owe us?”

“One each,” Rio said, bored, like this was just an agenda item on her list. “Make her earn it.”

And that’s how you found yourself on your knees, flushed and shaking, while Wanda pressed two fingers to your bottom lip and cooed, “Open, sweetheart.”

You did. Of course you did.

“Good girl,” she purred. “Now let’s see if that mouth is good for more than just pouting.”

Natasha laughed. Low and dark. “Spoiled little thing,” she said, unzipping her jeans. “Bet she thought one kiss and a few whines were gonna get her off tonight.”

“Not tonight,” Wanda whispered. Her fingers eased past your lips, and she dragged them slow over your tongue — not because she needed to. Because she could. “Tonight, she serves.”

And baby, you served.

Wanda fucks your mouth with her fingers, Natasha touches you all over. They whisper threats between kisses, their hands dragging down your back to keep you still. Natasha was all bite and bruises, Wanda was all heat and simply knowing. Together, they unraveled you like they’d written the manual.

Your knees ached. Your mouth was raw from Wanda's fingers. But the ache between your legs? Unmatched.

You moaned against Wanda’s fingers as Natasha gripped your jaw and said, “You don’t come. Not until Rio says so.”

And from the couch, Rio finally looked up. Eyes heavy-lidded, almost lazy.

“She’s not even close to earning me,” she said. “Keep her begging.”

You were trembling when Wanda pulled her fingers out of your mouth. All these feelings, and none of them have even been inside you yet.

Your thighs were slick, and you couldn’t remember the last time someone let you breathe. Every nerve felt raw. Every moan you'd let out around Wanda's fingers before they left you felt like a scream that didn’t quite make it out.

Wanda kissed the corner of your mouth, smug and sweet. “You did so good for us, honey,” she whispered. “Didn’t she, Nat?”

Natasha tilted your chin up again, eyes scanning your face like she was deciding whether to let you live or make you cry one more time. “Not bad for some brat,” she said, and tapped your cheek twice before backing off.

That’s when you felt it — the room shift.

You didn’t have to look to know Agatha was standing.

You felt it in your spine. That sharp, electric awareness that something untouchable was finally coming down from her throne.

Your head turned when Natasha and Wanda backed away from you, sitting themselves on separate armchairs in the center of the room.

Agatha. Still in silk. Still in heels. Still composed like nothing in the last hour had even grazed her. Her eyes roamed over your body like you were a piece of art she hadn’t decided if she wanted to buy or destroy.

And then she spoke.

“Crawl.”

The room went still.

You blinked.

She didn’t repeat herself. She didn’t need to.

You moved.

Agatha didn’t move to meet you — she waited. Perfectly still, hands at her sides, letting the sound of your palms on the floor echo in the silence. You reached her feet and sat back on your heels, chest heaving.

She leaned down, finally touching you — just two fingers under your chin.

“I don’t like sloppy girls,” she said. “And you’re a mess.”

You didn’t even flinch.

“I could walk away,” she said, eyes sharp. “I should. But…”

Her fingers slid down your throat, slow, and she smiled like she was enjoying a private joke.

“…you want me too much, don’t you?”

You nodded. Barely.

Agatha tilted your head, leaned in, and kissed you. Slow. Controlled. Not hungry — not yet. Just enough to remind you that if she gave you anything, it was a gift.

When she pulled back, your lips were shaking.

She smirked. “Get on the couch.”

You obeyed — legs weak, stomach tight. And when you turned to face Agatha from your kneeling position next to Rio now, you nearly gasped.

Rio was laid out. Legs crossed. One hand resting on the arm of the couch like this was a business meeting, and you were the deal on the table. The woman was staring into your soul as you sat there watching Agatha from beside her.

Her eyes didn’t leave yours as she said, “Take your clothes off and fuck yourself for us.”

You froze.

Not because you didn’t hear her.

But because you did.

Agatha’s voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t have to be. It landed like a slap. Soft. Sharp. Final.

“Take your clothes off,” she repeated, one brow arched, “and fuck yourself for us.”

Your heart stuttered. Your fingers didn’t.

You stripped — slowly. Not seductively. Not confidently. Just—naked. In the truest sense. Every inch revealed felt like another layer of control you were handing over, and the four of them? They didn’t blink.

Wanda watched with parted lips like she’d already memorized the shape of your thighs. Nat’s arms were back over the couch now, legs spread, gaze dark, jaw tight.

And Rio?

Fucking terrifying.

She hadn’t moved.

One leg still crossed. Fingers still grazing the rim of her glass like she didn’t care — like she could look away at any moment and wouldn’t lose a single ounce of interest.

But she didn’t look away.

She watched you with that unreadable expression, and somehow that was worse than anything Nat had done. That silence made your skin burn more than Wanda’s touch ever had.

You sank onto the couch.

Open. Exposed. Your own fingers hovering like even you weren’t sure you deserved this.

Rio sipped her drink. “Do it right,” she said, without a hint of heat. “Or don’t do it at all.”

Your hand dropped between your legs like a command had moved it.

You didn’t rush.

You couldn’t. Not with four pairs of eyes on you—not when you could feel how every breath, every twitch of your fingers, every choked sound you made was being dissected. You persevered because you could be punished worse: They could just stop everything and ignore you.

Wanda exhaled like she was the one being touched. Nat adjusted her seat, legs bouncing slightly. Agatha’s smile deepened, cruel and beautiful.

But Rio? She just watched. Still.

And that did more to you than your own hand ever could.

Your thighs trembled. Your lips parted. You were close already — you had been since Wanda first touched you — but you couldn’t come yet. Because it just wasn't enough. You needed them. All of them.

“You’re not gonna come yet,” Agatha said simply, as if reading your mind. “That’s not up to you.”

You whimpered your fingers stuttuering in your pussy slightly.

Wanda giggled.

Natasha smirked. “Think she can hold it?”

Agatha tilted her head. “She better. Or she won't get anything else.”

You whimpered a whine again — louder this time.

And Rio finally spoke.

“Let her get close.”

A pause.

“Then make her stop.”

You were panting.

Sweat-slicked and flushed, back arched off the couch in helpless little jolts, fingers still thrusting — desperate, frantic, fucking pathetic.

And still.

Still…

Not enough.

Your fingers were soaked. Your thighs were trembling. Every time you edged close, your body tensed, ready to fall—and then stalled. Like something inside you knew better. Like you didn’t have permission. Like your body refused to finish without being told it could.

Wanda leaned forward with her chin in her hand, watching you squirm with stars in her eyes. “Poor thing,” she cooed. “She’s trying so hard.”

Natasha snorted. “Look at her,” she said, tilting her head. “Doesn’t even know how to make herself come anymore. That’s what happens when you get used to being spoiled.”

You whimpered — because they were right.

You weren’t ruined. Not properly. And now you couldn’t be, not without them.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” Agatha added lazily, crossing her legs the other way. “You’re lucky it’s cute.”

And then you heard it — the soft sound of a buckle.

You blinked through the haze of frustration and heat to see Wanda already standing, one strap in hand, humming to herself as she began securing it low on her hips like she was getting ready for brunch. Natasha was next, tossing hers onto the cushion beside her like it was just part of the decor.

Wanda caught your eye as she pulled the straps tight.

“Aw, don’t cry,” she said, mocking-sweet. “We’re gonna take care of you.”

“Eventually,” Natasha muttered.

And then — like it wasn’t a big deal at all — Wanda turned to Rio, holding something in her hand.

“Want one too?” she asked, casual. Like she was offering gum.

Rio didn’t look up right away. Just finished the last sip of her drink, set the glass down with a soft clink.

Then she reached for the harness.

Didn’t say a word.

Just slid it from Wanda’s fingers and began buckling it on like it was her birthright.

You let out a soft, broken sound.

The kind that wasn’t a moan, wasn’t a whimper — just surrender.

Because Rio in a strap? That wasn’t just a threat. That was prophecy.

Agatha’s smile curled slow.

“Oh,” she said, lifting her chin with a stupid grin on her face. “Now she’s scared.”

Rio looked at you — finally — as she tugged the strap into place.

Not hungry.

Not cruel.

Just... decided.

“You wanted this,” she said.

And you did.

God, you did.

But not like this.

Not like them, hard and waiting.

Not with her, silent and strapped.

Not with every inch of you already trembling from nothing at all.

And yet here you were — ruined before they’d even touched you.

Suddenly Agatha pulls your hand away from your cunt, your back arching immediately when her own hand rubs at your clit. Moans are ripped out of you, now getting close enough to the edge in a way that you can finish. But then it all stops. Again. And it reminds you that this is a punishment, not a reward.

You're sobbing by the time her hand leaves you.

Not crying — not exactly — just wrecked and shaking, with your mouth open in some twisted, breathless moan that doesn’t land anywhere.

You could’ve come.

You would’ve.

If she hadn’t stopped.

Again.

Agatha stands behind you now, fingers still damp, eyes sharper than they’ve ever been.

“This isn’t about you,” she says against your ear, tone cold and clean and final. “It never was.”

And then she drags you up.

Not gently. Not rough, either. Just unrelenting.

You scramble to follow, legs trembling, chest rising fast, and Agatha doesn't even flinch. She walks you forward by the wrist like you’re weightless — like you're nothing more than a spoiled brat in need of redirection.

She stops in front of Natasha.

Natasha spreads her legs.

Smirking.

Waiting.

You think — yes, finally, — and then Agatha turns you around.

Pushes you down into Nat’s lap, facing her, and it takes everything in you not to moan out too loudly.

Straddling. Mounting. Placed.

Agatha’s hands don’t leave your body. One on your lower back. The other at your throat, holding you steady like a doll.

“Ride her,” Agatha says. “Slow.”

You whimper. Your hips twitch.

Natasha’s hands grip your waist immediately, ready, eager, cocky.

But nothing happens.

Not yet.

You’re still frozen — breath shaking — waiting for permission to move.

Agatha leans in behind you, lips ghosting over your jaw.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

So you move.

Down. Just enough to feel it — thick and hot and finally where you need it.

Natasha groans under her breath. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

You moan. High and broken.

But Agatha’s grip tightens on your throat — not to choke, just to remind.

Slow.

You do as you’re told. Hips rolling, dragging yourself down inch by inch, every second an ache. You’re not fucking Natasha — you're being fucked by obedience.

“Look at her,” Wanda purrs from beside you, already palming herself through her harness. “She’s falling apart already.”

Rio’s watching again. Silent. Still.

And somehow worse.

Because her hand rests lazily between her legs now, her strap waiting, fingers drumming softly over the base like she’s bored.

Like she’s wondering if you’ll even survive long enough to take her.

Agatha leans closer.

“You want her next?” she whispers, voice just for your ears.

Your moan turns into a plea.

And Agatha smirks, satisfied.

“Then show me you deserve her.”

You don’t know how long it’s been.

How many times your hips have rolled, or how many shaky breaths you’ve taken between moans that barely even sound like you anymore.

Your body’s done. Every nerve is frayed. Your thighs burn, your hands are slipping, and Natasha — beneath you, strong and steady — is the only reason you’re still upright at all.

But it’s not about her.

It’s about you.

Because you're the one who’s been left chasing — over and over — so fucking close, so right there, and still denied like it's a game. Like they’re just watching you crumble for fun.

(And maybe they are.)

Agatha’s still behind you, whispering cruel little things in your ear. Wanda’s on the floor now, hand between her legs, strap forgotten, just watching you fall apart. And Rio?

She hasn’t moved.

But she’s staring. Silent. Intense. Like she’s watching your soul try to claw out of your body.

And then—

You feel it.

That low, pulsing coil finally snapping.

No permission.

No warning.

You come.

Hard.

Messy.

Loud.

It crashes through you like punishment and reward all at once, your whole body shuddering, vision gone white at the edges. Your hips buck, your mouth falls open in a soundless cry, and then—

Wet.

You soak Natasha’s strap.

Her thighs.

Her stomach.

You don't even realize it at first — not until she curses under her breath, gripping your hips tight to keep you steady as your body jerks and grinds through it.

“Fuck,” Natasha mutters, voice low and stunned. “What a mess.”

That’s all it takes.

The room explodes.

Wanda bursts out in a chuckle, head thrown back, eyes lit up. “Oh my god, baby, you squirted for her?”

“Desperate little thing,” Agatha croons, voice full of mockery and pride. “Look at you. Finally came and still can’t stop shaking.”

Rio doesn’t say anything.

Just tilts her head.

And smiles.

That small, terrifying little smile that says she’s already thinking about what happens next.

You’re panting. Collapsed. Broken. Still trembling as you press your forehead into Natasha’s shoulder, too wrung out to speak.

And still — even now — every eye in the room is on you. Because you finally finished. But not by yourself. Not on your terms. You came because they let you. And they’re never going to let you forget it.

You barely had time to breathe.

Your chest was still heaving, thighs trembling, slick still dripping down Natasha’s skin when Agatha’s hands returned — sharp, certain, and not remotely gentle.

“Up.”

You whimpered, your body twitching like it didn’t know how to move anymore. But Agatha didn’t wait for you to obey.

She grabbed your hips and lifted.

You yelped, half-sliding off Natasha’s lap, your overstimulated body struggling to keep up. But Agatha was already moving you — across the couch, across the room, like you weighed nothing at all.

“Was that satisfying for you?” she asked, cool and amused. “Was that enough?”

You couldn’t answer.

Didn’t matter.

She didn’t want an answer.

She dropped you — unceremoniously — onto Wanda’s lap.

Wanda let out a surprised breath, arms catching you by instinct.

“Well hello again,” she purred, laughing softly. “Miss me?”

You were still shaking.

Still wet.

Still open and aching and too fucked-out to think.

But Agatha was already behind you again, hands on your shoulders, nails just sharp enough to leave little warnings down your skin.

“Get to work,” she said.

You straddled Wanda with legs that barely worked.

Everything in you felt undone. Raw. Used too much. And it wasn’t fair — it wasn’t — because usually by now, someone was holding you, whispering sweet things, letting you collapse after coming that hard.

Usually, there were hands pulling you close.

Mouths kissing your temple.

Bodies letting you rest.

But not tonight.

Tonight you were expected to keep going. Alone. With four sets of eyes still on you like you were just getting started.

Your breath hitched as you sank down onto Wanda’s strap, your body jolting at the first stretch. It hurt. Not bad. Not really. Just enough to make your thighs twitch and your lip wobble.

And no one even moved to help you.

Agatha stood behind you, arms crossed, utterly still.

Natasha wiped her stomach off with the corner of a blanket and didn’t even look at you.

Rio was still lounging, perfectly composed, like you weren’t even in the room.

And Wanda?

Wanda… cupped your hips.

Warm. Steady. Supportive.

“There you go, sweetheart,” she murmured, tilting her head like she was watching something fragile grow. “That’s it. Just like that. I’ve got you.”

You whimpered — not from the stretch, not from the ache — but from that.

That voice.

That softness.

She shouldn’t be soft. She wasn’t supposed to be soft.

Not when you were this tired. Not when your hands were gripping her shoulders like she was your only anchor. Not when Agatha was behind you, cold and expectant.

“Don’t slow down,” Agatha said.

You jerked upright.

“I said ride, not cling,” she added, her voice slicing through the air.

You tried.

God, you tried.

Your hips moved in shaky little rolls, your breath stuttering as Wanda’s strap hit all the right places but nothing was helping—because no one was guiding you like they usually did.

You hated it.

You hated that you needed them.

You hated that they weren’t giving you what they always did — praise, rhythm, fingers in your hair, hands on your thighs — all of it. Gone. Withheld.

And yet—

“You’re doing so good,” Wanda whispered, almost like she was afraid Agatha would hear. “You’re taking it all, baby. Look at you.”

You whined again.

Louder this time.

Your eyes burned. Your legs trembled. But still you moved. Because that was the only way out.

Work for it. Take it. Earn it.

You buried your face in Wanda’s neck, trying not to cry as she whispered, “You’re so pretty like this. They don’t deserve to watch you fall apart.”

But they did.

They all did.

And they were.

Agatha leaned down just enough to murmur, “Don’t you dare come without permission again.”

And your whole body tensed. Because you were close. And they knew it. And they weren’t going to help you.

You didn’t mean to chase it.

Not really.

Your hips were moving — slow, shallow, tired — more like survival than sin. Every bounce was a breath, every grind a silent prayer. You weren’t even trying to come.

You were just… trying to last.

But Wanda’s hands never left you.

One on your hip, one splayed across your lower back, holding you there — not controlling you, just steadying you. Like she could feel the shake in your thighs. Like she knew you were breaking and just wanted to keep the pieces from falling too hard.

“That’s it, baby,” she whispered. “Just like that.”

You moaned. Quiet. Guttural.

Not because it felt good — not just that.

Because it hurt now. The ache in your legs. The heat between your thighs. The pressure building again, again, again, like your body hadn’t learned from the last time.

“Doing so well,” Wanda murmured, voice like warm honey in your ear. “Taking me so deep. I know it’s hard.”

You gasped.

Her strap hit just right — high, deep, good — and your vision blurred for a second. Your hands clenched against her shoulders.

Wanda shifted under you, tilting up just a little, helping you ride it — breaking the rules in the smallest, softest way.

“Fuck,” you breathed, forehead falling against hers. “Please…”

You didn’t even know what you were asking for.

A break?

Forgiveness?

Permission?

Wanda didn’t answer. Just kissed your cheek. Barely there. Tender and quiet and wrong.

And that was it.

That did it.

Your body clenched around nothing, everything.

You came.

Not with a scream, not with a bang — but a sob.

A whole-body, high-pitched cry you couldn’t swallow down in time. Your thighs seized, your back arched, and your mouth dropped open as your orgasm ripped through you so sudden, so deep it felt like it had been waiting in your bones.

You tried to stop it. You really did.

But it was too much.

Too gentle. Too denied. Too good.

Wanda held you through it — hands firm, voice low and proud.

“There you go,” she whispered. “That’s my good girl.”

And somewhere behind you, you heard Agatha’s voice.

Sharp.

Cold.

The last of it shuddered out of you — trembling, raw, soaked and slack against Wanda’s body, thighs twitching with every breath.

You were still panting when Agatha’s fingers wrapped around your arm.

She said nothing at first.

Just pulled you up — slow, effortless, uncaring of how boneless and ruined you were — and off Wanda’s lap like you were a toy being passed around.

You didn’t resist.

You couldn’t.

But your stomach dropped the second she leaned in and said, soft and deadly:

“You’ll pay later.”

Your heart stopped.

You didn’t even have the strength to protest. You barely had the breath to think.

But Agatha kept going, dragging you across the room with the same clinical detachment she’d had all night.

You caught Natasha’s eyes as she approached.

And for one fleeting second, you thought—

Maybe—

Maybe Agatha was giving you back. Letting you fall into Natasha’s arms, letting her hold you, soothe you, fuck you slow until the dread faded and the ache dulled into something bearable.

Natasha even opened her arms, one leg already spreading like she was ready for it.

“Come here, baby,” she murmured, voice so soft it didn’t feel like a trick. “You’re okay.”

You moved toward her. Limp. Heavy.

And then—

Agatha pulled you back.

Hard.

Your body snapped upright with a gasp, blinking through the haze, just as Agatha’s fingers slid under your chin and tipped your face up to hers.

“You don’t get comfort,” she said. “You get consequence.”

Then she turned.

And you saw where she was taking you.

Rio.

Still untouched. Still reclined like a goddamn sculpture. Her strap gleamed in the low light, her fingers now resting on the couch beside her like she was finally ready.

Your mouth went dry.

No one said anything.

Not Wanda.

Not Natasha — who only watched with a quiet, wicked smile pulling at her lips.

Not even Rio.

She just looked at you.

And patted her thigh once.

Agatha’s hand curled tighter at your waist.

“Let’s see how long you last this time.”

Rio didn’t say anything when Agatha dropped you in her lap.

Didn’t touch you.

Didn’t adjust you.

She just let you settle — sore, shaky, overstimulated — your thighs barely managing to straddle her, her strap hard beneath you like a threat you hadn’t earned the right to avoid.

She looked at you like you were… tired.

Not in a soft way.

In a pathetic one.

You didn’t realize you’d started trembling again until she tilted her head, eyes sliding up your body like she was evaluating damage.

“Already falling apart?” she asked, voice calm. “You’ve barely moved.”

Your jaw clenched. You tried — hips rocking forward, dragging yourself slowly along her strap — but your body was so far gone it felt like begging for something you weren’t built to survive.

Rio still didn’t touch you.

Didn’t help.

Didn’t guide.

She just watched you struggle.

Watched the way your knees buckled and your rhythm stuttered, the way you bit back your moans like you could pretend this wasn’t wrecking you in a whole new way.

“Pathetic,” she murmured — not cruel. Just… observant.

You whimpered, chest caving.

“I don’t even have to touch you,” she said. “You’re doing it all yourself. Look at you. Struggling to fuck me right and still trying.”

You tried to speed up.

You shouldn’t have.

She caught your hips — not with help, but with force — holding you still mid-thrust.

You gasped.

She raised a brow.

“I didn’t ask for faster.”

She let you go.

You moved again — slower, deeper, biting your lip until it nearly bled.

Behind you, Wanda was laughing softly into Natasha’s mouth. The two of them tangled together on the couch like they weren’t even part of this anymore, Natasha’s hand sliding up Wanda’s thigh while they kissed, slow and open-mouthed, like your ruin was background noise.

Rio’s eyes flicked toward them. Then back to you.

“Even they’re bored,” she said.

You whined — not out of protest, but need.

You tried harder.

You started riding her like your life depended on it — every drop of wet heat dragging against her strap like an apology you didn’t have words for.

And Rio?

Smiled.

Finally.

And said, “Don’t stop until you cry.”

You didn’t know how you were still moving.

Every part of you hurt.

Your legs ached. Your cunt throbbed. Your lungs burned with every broken gasp you tried to hold back. You were soaked — not just wet, but ruined — thighs slick, strap messy, heartbeat pounding in your ears like it was trying to get out.

And Rio was still watching you like you hadn’t done a single thing right.

Like you were still falling short.

You’d already come once on her.

It wasn’t graceful.

You didn’t even mean to — it slammed into you so hard, so sharp, that you nearly collapsed in her lap with a sob you couldn’t swallow. It was ugly. Wet. Unforgivable.

And she didn’t say a word.

Didn’t praise you.

Didn’t stop.

She just held you steady — one hand on your hip, the other resting on your thigh — and said, low and plain:

“Again.”

You cried.

Not loud.

Not messy.

Just… quiet tears sliding down your cheeks as your body kept moving because you had to. Because she was still hard inside you, and no one said you could stop, and your thighs were shaking so badly now you didn’t know if the tremble was from pain or pleasure or panic.

“I can’t—” you whispered, voice cracking.

Rio hummed.

Not amused.

Not sympathetic.

Just acknowledging.

“You can,” she said simply.

And you hated her for it.

You hated how calm she was. How still. How she hadn’t broken a sweat while you were falling to pieces on top of her.

You hated that your own orgasm — the one building again — felt ugly. Too much. Too fast. Like your body was betraying you just to please her.

You whimpered, hips stuttering as the heat built again — that sickening, overwhelming pressure that told you this was going to be worse than the last one.

“No,” you breathed. “I can’t—please—”

She gripped your jaw.

Finally.

Made you look at her.

“Then cry for it.”

That was it.

You shattered.

The second orgasm hit like a wave slamming into a broken body — there was no grace, no rhythm, no sense to it. Just noise. Just wet. Just a desperate, humiliated collapse as you came for her again, harder than before, harder than you thought you could.

Your mouth dropped open in a sob that never became a word.

Your nails clawed at her shoulder.

Your body gave out mid-thrust, cunt pulsing wildly around the strap as your second orgasm wrung you out like a rag.

You couldn’t see.

You couldn’t speak.

You just broke.

And Rio?

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t comfort.

Didn’t care.

She only tilted her head and said, cool and quiet:

“There she is.”

Then the room was quiet.

Not silent — just… quiet.

You were still in Rio’s lap, crumpled and boneless, her strap miraculously out of you now, your arms slack, your body trembling from the inside out. The only sound was your breathing — high, broken, trying to slow down but never quite catching.

And then you felt it.

A shift.

Not physical.

Energy.

Like something in the air had changed. Like everyone had taken one collective breath and remembered that you were still a person.

Wanda sat up first, gently peeling herself away from Natasha’s mouth, eyes finding yours with a soft crease of worry.

She said, voice warm. “You alright?”

Natasha blinked, then nodded slowly, echoing her tone. “Still with us?”

You tried to speak.

You really did.

But it came out as a whimper — not from pain, not from panic — just a soft, tired little sound that said yes in a voice you didn’t have anymore.

Rio shifted beneath you. Let go of your waist to caress the top of your head.

Agatha stepped closer, running her fingertips down your back lightly.

“You’re done when you say you’re done,” she said plainly-softly. “You want to stop?”

You didn’t answer at first.

Because stopping sounded… safe.

It sounded warm. It sounded like soft blankets and praise and water.

But it didn’t sound right.

Because your body still ached. Your skin still burned. Your thighs were still slick. And even with your chest heaving and your eyes stinging — you weren’t done.

You shook your head.

Once.

Small.

Agatha raised a brow. “Say it.”

Your lip trembled.

“Don' wan' stop,” you whispered.

Agatha smiled — slow, almost kind. She leaned forward, her fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your head back to face hers above you.

“You sure?”

You nodded.

She kissed your cheek.

Then let her hand drift lower.

Between your legs.

And her fingers — two of them — slid through your soaked folds like a sigh.

You gasped, eyebrows furrowing as you stayed looking into Agatha's eyes.

“Good girl,” she murmured.

The pressure was immediate. Rhythmic. Precise. She didn’t tease. Didn’t build. She just pushed — fingers rubbing circles into your clit like she already knew exactly how to undo you all over again.

You cried out — not from pain, not from surprise — but because you were still feeling everything.

The ache.

The need.

The shame.

The pleasure that hadn’t gone away, just buried itself under layers of obedience.

You shouldn’t have wanted more.

But you did.

You wanted this.

Her.

All of them.

You moaned — louder now — as Agatha’s fingers picked up speed, her mouth brushing your ear like a kiss and a threat.

“You’re gonna give us one more,” she whispered. “A real one. The kind that makes you beg.”

And you did.

You begged.

And then you came.

Hard.

Again.

And finally, this time — they all watched you break with pride.

Your body was moving on its own.

Or maybe you weren’t moving at all — maybe Agatha’s fingers were just dragging the pleasure out of you, curling against your clit in slow, cruelly perfect circles. It didn’t matter. Everything else was gone.

There was only this.

Only her hand between your legs, the weight of everyone’s gaze still on you, the raw burn of overstimulation curling deeper, sharper, tighter.

You sobbed into it.

Breathless. Needy. Silent. Every moan caught in your throat like you were choking on the sound of your own pleasure.

Your hips twitched against her palm. Your body tried to get away — and failed. Again. And again.

“You’re so close,” Agatha murmured, her voice a low hum against your temple. “One more. Give it to me.”

And you did.

It broke through you like fire.

No warning this time. No control.

Just raw, unbearable release — a high, desperate moan tearing from your chest as your whole body seized, clenching down around nothing, legs shaking violently, slick soaking down your thighs, your cunt pulsing so hard you thought you might pass out from the effort of it.

Agatha held you through all of it — one arm braced around your waist, her fingers still stroking you through the aftershocks until your hips jerked too hard and your voice cracked into a whimper.

And then, finally—

It stopped.

She let go.

Your body folded forward.

And this time, when you fell, they caught you.

Wanda’s arms wrapped around your shoulders first, warm and strong, pulling you into her chest like she’d been waiting. Natasha was beside her, hand already cupping your cheek, brushing damp strands of hair away with the softest touch you’d felt all night.

“You did so good,” Wanda whispered, kissing your temple. “So good for us.”

You couldn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

You just let yourself be held — body trembling, brain floating, chest rising and falling in little aftershocks as they anchored you back to yourself.

Someone — you didn’t know who — was tugging a blanket around your shoulders. Natasha’s voice was murmuring something into your ear, something low and comforting. You felt her press a kiss to your forehead.

Rio knelt beside you next, one hand on your thigh, gentle now. Thumb stroking softly over the same place she'd bruised earlier.

“You’re alright,” she said — not teasing. Just true.

Agatha leaned in last, crouched in front of you now. She looked at you for a long moment — no cruelty, no smirk — just quiet pride.

Then, finally, she reached out.

Wiped a tear from your cheek.

“Good girl,” she said. “We’ve got you now.”

And you believed her. Your legs barely worked when they finally stood you up.

Wanda was on one side, Natasha on the other, both of them steadying your weight like it was second nature — like carrying you was something they’d do again and again without question.

Agatha trailed behind, a protective shadow at your back, her hand never leaving the small of your spine.

Rio led the way.

The hall was quiet. Cool against your flushed skin. Every step felt slow, underwater, your body boneless, wrapped in Wanda’s blanket and Natasha’s touch. You weren’t even sure your feet were on the ground.

The bed was already turned down.

Soft sheets. Heavy pillows. A dim light casting a golden halo over everything.

Rio sat first, back against the headboard, calm and still as ever — but her arms were open now. Waiting.

You didn’t hesitate.

You let them guide you into her lap, your cheek resting against her chest, her fingers threading gently into your hair.

Wanda climbed in behind you, curling herself around your back like a second heartbeat, her hand tracing light circles over your stomach. Natasha followed, settling on your other side, lips pressed to your shoulder, murmuring quiet praise that barely made sense but filled your chest like breath.

Agatha stood at the edge for a moment.

Watching.

Then, finally — slowly — she crawled in beside all of you.

She didn’t say anything.

Just slid her arm over your waist, fitting herself into the space between Wanda and Natasha, her hand finding yours under the blanket and squeezing.

No one moved for a while.

Just silence.

Warmth.

Breathing.

You were held. Buried in touch and comfort, in their bodies and their care, like your whole purpose now was just to rest — like you’d been used, yes, but never discarded.

You weren’t alone.

You weren’t forgotten.

And for the first time in hours — maybe longer — you felt your body let go.

Safe.

Anchored.

Loved.

Agatha’s voice was the last thing you heard, a whisper against your ear just as your eyes fluttered closed.

///----------/// Wanda Maximoff | Elizabeth Olsen ///----------/// → Masterlist

///----------/// Natasha Romanoff | Scarlet Johansson | Zora Bennett ///----------/// → Masterlist

///----------/// Billie Eilish | Eva Swarm ///----------/// → Masterlist

///----------/// Renee Rapp | Regina George | Leighton Murray ///----------/// → Masterlist 1