Agatha knows that you feel awkward with speaking your mind. It's not about your thoughts itself, but more of how you believe, firmly, that you're not good at talking at all.

"Baby, it's fine," she coos, fingers running along your tightly clenched jaw, "You don't have to say anything if you don't want to, but you know—"

You hear her voice trailing off so you shoot her a questioning glance, urging her to continue. Agatha smiles and leans over to your ear, voice low and silky as her fingers tightens ever so slightly, "— Mommy just loves hearing what you think."

You jump back huffing and puffing, giving her your best attempt of a death glare in mock anger, and of course Agatha has the audacity to chuckle at the sight of you. Deep down you know and love how she is getting you out of your shell, but you're also pretty damn sure she simply enjoys seeing you all flustered like that.

On days when you’re more vocal and expressive, Agatha is more than eager to let you know exactly how much she appreciates hearing you talk.

“Yes baby, fuck, yes," she rasps into your opened mouth as you blurt out, sobbing, about how you want, no, need her deeper inside of you. "More, tell me more. Tell mommy how good you're feeling, please.”

Your eyes are stinging with tears but through your blurred vision, you can see Agatha's bare chest heaving, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. You look up to find her biting down hard on her lip, eyes ablaze with want that almost burn you alive. A pathetic whimper slips out your lips and Agatha practically growls.

“Fuck, angel, you’re so hot and pretty and mommy can’t get enough of your voice,” she grunts and pumps her fingers into you with renewed vigour. You continue to babble about how your pussy is made for her and just how much you love having her inside you.

On your quieter days, Agatha knows not to push you too hard so instead, she speaks for you. The best and worst part is, she is always so fucking good at figuring out what's on your mind.

“W-what are you thinking baby?” Agatha chokes, voice quivering from having to stifle her moans to get the words out. Sometimes you're genuinely amazed by her determination to talk— you do have three fingers buried knuckles deep in her and a thumb firmly pressed on her clit, after all.

You shake your head and lean forward to plant a kiss on her clavicle, your fingers moving leisurely in and out of her.

“Are you—" she pauses to throw her head back and let out a particularly high pitched moan, courtesy to your particularly well-timed swipe over her swollen clit, "Are you thinking about how good mommy feels wrapped around your fingers?”

Perhaps it's the way she says the word "feels", or it's how her cunt, dripping and leaking all over your hand, clenches hard around your fingers but either way, something in your head snaps. All you can do is gasp and nod frantically, your hand thrusting in almost desperate manner into her, fingers curling just right as Agatha clings on to you crying out yes, yes, yes, right on top of her lungs.

However, in some rare occasions, Agatha does make you talk.

Today you have been caught touching yourself before she can join you in bed. To be fair, she has spent a bit longer in shower than usual and you have been aching and dripping for her since morning.

Agatha claims that had you told her what you needed during the day, she would have gladly given it to you at anytime and however many times you like. So to prevent this unfortunate incident from happening again (and to help you voicing out your needs, she claims), Agatha will not be touching you unless you explicitly asks her to.

"Let this be a lesson, angel," Agatha chuckles as you grind in frustration for some relief, leaving a sticky mess all over her bare thigh. It's been over thirty minutes since you have been stripped bare and sat straddling her leg. Agatha has stayed true to her words too, not once touching you where you need her most, only holding your wrists together with one hand, as she says, "to make sure you behave properly." “Just tell me what you want, baby,” she purrs, her grip firm on your waist forcing you to stay still, drawing a irritated grunt out of you.

The offer is tempting, yet you shake your head, too proud to break so easily. It's a simple game of patience, you can wait it out. But little do you know how Agatha is set on getting words out of you.

“Use your words, baby,” Agatha murmurs, tilting her head to meet your eyes. You feel your cunt clench over nothing so you quickly look away, “Please? For mommy?”

You sheepishly glance at her but shake your head again.

“Pretty please? Baby?” She tries once more, this time slightly tilting her leg up and down. You let out a shuddered breath at the sweet, sweet friction, but then she fucking stops right as pleasure starts building up and you almost cry out from the loss.

"Think about it, angel," Agatha leans forward to kiss your temple, "You can have so, much, more! If only you could just say something."

You shake your head in defiance, even more firmly this time.

Agatha pulls back, her gaze dropping to the floor and let out a small sigh. Just as you begin to wonder if she is giving in, she looks up again, pouting with feign sadness.

“You know how much mommy loves hearing your voice, right?” she practically begs with the silkiest voice and to make matters worse, and bites down on her lip, "please?"

You're so fucked.

You break right there and then, babbling about how much you need her to fuck you hard right here, right now or else you’re so going to lose your absolute fucking shit. Agatha smirks in wicked triumph and it annoys you but you don’t care anymore because she pins you down the next second, spreads your legs wide and throws her face right to your pussy and sucks and nips and licks and it's feels so fucking good you can’t even think of anything else.

Agatha always tells you how much she loves your voice, although you never truly understand why.

Growing up, you’re used to being told by grownups and peers alike that you’re too chatty, too loud, too squeaky and even too annoying. Pipe it down, they’d tell you, nobody wants to hear it.

It might not even be true but when you hear something for so many times, a little voice within you started asking questions. Soon enough the questions became a fact, and the fact turned into your truth.

Nobody needs to hear you.

You stopped talking. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary anyway. No small talk, no chitchat, the little chatterbox died together with your childhood, buried away deep in the depths.

But Agatha is different. 

“Mama loves hearing you say my name. Please, angel, let me hear you.”

Agatha looks at you like you’re the sole reason of her existence, cupping your face in her hand and kiss you deeply and hurriedly, all the while pumping into you with her other hand and you feel your chest almost bursting.

She pulls back to look at you so intently that you have to look away, tears welling in your eyes— you’re not sure if it’s because of how good Agatha is fucking you or because of whatever the fuck that is exploding in your chest— 

Agatha notices the state of you and immediately panics.

“Angel— angel, shh it’s ok,” she scrambles to cup your face and coos. “Please, keep your eyes on mama, please.”

So you oblige, locking your eyes with her while your tears stream down your face and Agatha smiles, so soft and warm like the autumn sun and somehow it makes your core even more sensitive, your moans getting higher with her each thrust. She can tell you’re close. 

Agatha leans closer to kiss your temple, murmuring right in your ear, “please angel, please,” while carefully caressing your very sensitive clit.

You whimper at the contact. Your hands flying up to reach for her shoulders, only to find her pulling back to look at you through furrowed brows, almost begging as she mouths out another silent “please”.

You know what she wants.

It’s already near impossible not to give in to her, not with Agatha begging you like this, nor with the tide of emotions welling deep inside you, urging, pushing, tugging at your heart. So in a shaky voice, almost too quiet to be heard, you say her name.

But Agatha hears you. Her eyes widens as if taken by surprise, then there’s a flash of joy, quickly replaced by an almost feral want.

“Again, angel, please, again.” She grunts as she thrust into you harder and faster than ever, fucking you like her life depends on it.

And you hear yourself saying her name again, louder this time, over and over as your climax draws near. Agatha must have known it too, either from the way your nails dig into her back, or the way your pussy clamps down hard onto her fingers, or maybe how you’re crying out her name. 

She presses her thumb on your clit before swiping firmly, “Come for me, angel, please, come for mama.”