βA director's toy.
It's mounted and aimed dead-centre like it's waiting for its next scene. Not recording, but it's posed like it could be.
Because a director is always directing.β
βNow you're suspended midair. An angel, helpless in white, strung up for her viewing pleasure.
And you gasp.
Because it feels good.
God, it feels so good, and you are so fucked.
Her purple magic kisses and binds your skin and feels better than any restraint or satin ribbon she's ever wrapped around your limbs. Because this?
This, is her.
Unfiltered and unhinged.β
βPicturing you, on your knees for her, as her sacrificial bride.
But then, with a smirk that threatens to kill, she says:
βOh no, sweetheart,β she tilts her head, βIβm going to fucking ruin you in this.β
Oh.
Oh.
And then it all hits home:
This is no reunion, reminder, or rehearsal.
This, is your reckoning.
And Agatha, ever the director, is going to capture every moment of it.β
βBut your eyes betray you. Because theyβre already lingering on what they really shouldn't:
On those stilettos.
On those fucking stilettos.
On those fucking Jimmy Choos.
Because she sees it. Instantly.
Because Agatha sees everything.
"Look at you," she purrs, tilting her ankle so the gleam of patent black leather taunts your eyeline, "Still obsessed with my heels, even after I ruined you with them."β
βThe floor tilts. The puddle of your ruin starts to ripple. A warm trickle runs from your nose again and the blood drips down to your wet lips.
That too-much feeling.
β
You look up at her like a girl possessed.
Not a good girl. Not a bad one either.
Just the kind that doesnβt know how to stop wanting.
βItβs not enough. I want more,β you say, teary and wrecked, and then, βPlease, mommy. Make me worse. Want you to make me bad.β
Agathaβs jaw drops. Blue eyes flare with something feral. Something flickers through her face like she just witnessed a miracle she accidentally created.
βSo you lick. You swallow. You moan. You sob a little into the floor as your hips jerk forward uselessly, clenching on nothing but the air and the ache.
βOh, look at you. Look at you,β she huffs, βWrecked little thing. My fucking favourite view.β
Above you, Agatha watches like a queen atop her castle.β
ββββββ π₯ πͺπβ¨ ββββββ
Agatha.
Agatha.
Agatha.
















