“A 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.”
“Now 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.”
“Picturing you, on your knees for her, as her sacrificial bride.
But then, with a smirk that threatens to kill, she says:
“Oh no, sweetheart,” she tilts her head, “I’m going to fucking ruin you in this.”
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.”
“But your eyes betray you. Because they’re 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."”
“The 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.
—
You look up at her like a girl possessed.
Not a good girl. Not a bad one either.
Just the kind that doesn’t know how to stop wanting.
“It’s not enough. I want more,” you say, teary and wrecked, and then, “Please, mommy. Make me worse. Want you to make me bad.”
Agatha’s jaw drops. Blue eyes flare with something feral. Something flickers through her face like she just witnessed a miracle she accidentally created.
“So 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.
“Oh, look at you. Look at you,” she huffs, “Wrecked little thing. My fucking favourite view.”
Above you, Agatha watches like a queen atop her castle.”
—————— 🎥 🪄💜✨ ——————
Agatha.
Agatha.
Agatha.
