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warpdrive-witch · 1 month ago

Text

It Worked (15/?)

Words: 30.k. Sumbissive Agatha. Dom Rio. Fuff. Smut. Strap. Oral. MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT.

Summary: The nursery gets its color. So does your shirt. So does the space between their thighs. But beneath the soft green and the laughter, something waits.

AN: Let me know what you all think of the chapter. I'm not sure if you all would like this or not 💜

Pairing: Agatha x Rio x Reader

Love Painted Over Lace

The morning started with chocolate on your pillow. Not the cheap kind—Agatha would never allow that—but one of the fancy truffles from the tiny shop on Elm Street, the kind that had to be ordered in advance and came in a velvet box. Wrapped in gold foil, tucked next to a handwritten note. Just your name. No message. Just your name, in Agatha’s looping script.

Rio, on the other hand, left her trail in the kitchen. Heart-shaped pancakes. Strawberries carved into roses. The scent of coffee already steeped into the woodgrain of the table she built with her hands the year before.

Your belly had grown firm and round now, the center of gravity around which the whole house seemed to orbit. They were careful with you, but not precious—not treating you like glass, but like fire. Steadying hands on your hips when you wobbled. Soft jokes whispered into your shoulder when the world still felt too heavy.

And still, even in the laughter, you were grieving. The news of your mother’s death had only been a couple weeks ago. The letter was still in the drawer beside the bed, unopened since Rio read it aloud. You hadn’t dared touch it since. But they hadn’t pushed you. Not once. They only held you when the sobs came, and held you tighter when they didn’t.

Today, though… today was about them. The way Rio’s fingers threaded through your hair without even thinking. The sound of Agatha’s voice, dry and velvet-sweet, as she read the paper beside you on the couch. The way they made you feel like home hadn’t been taken from you—it had just changed names.

The living room was already sun-warmed by the time you padded out, the soft cotton hem of Rio’s old T-shirt tugging over your belly, and your fingers curled around two small envelopes like offerings. You found them where you knew they’d be. Rio was on the couch, legs kicked up and one hand curled around a mug that had long gone cold, her hair still wet from the shower, a cozy sweatshirt pushed to her elbows. She looked up the moment you entered, and her face—gods, her face lit like it always did when she saw you. That grin full of trouble and sunlight.

Agatha stood at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled, an apron cinched around her waist like something out of a 1960s fantasy—but with her, it was sharp and elegant, a vision in deep navy with her silver streak pulled into a high bun. She was plating something onto porcelain with methodical care, like each item had been interviewed and selected for the honor.

“Good morning,” Rio purred, voice thick with affection. “Feliz día de San Valentín, mi amor.”

“Happy Valentine’s,” Agatha echoed from the kitchen, her voice already filled with a knowing smile. You didn’t say anything at first. Just grumbled, eyes narrowing slightly as you circled toward them with the envelopes in hand.

“I didn’t like waking up to an empty bed,” you muttered. It came out more petulant than intended, but it earned the right kind of reaction.

Rio was already moving before you finished. She stood up from the couch with a soft sound, her hands sweeping down to rest over your belly with the ease of someone who had learned your rhythm long ago. “Sorry, honey,” she murmured, low and warm, kissing the corner of your mouth once, and then again—deeper this time, until you felt it in your knees.

You exhaled into her, grounded by the pressure of her palms on your stomach, the silk of her voice, the way your breath caught between you and didn’t feel so sharp anymore.

From the doorway, Agatha’s voice drifted through. “Breakfast is served, my loves.”

She stepped into the room, elegant and composed, carrying a small tray like a queen disguised as a professor. On it: croissants still warm from the oven, slices of cheese, a fig jam in a tiny bowl with a silver spoon, soft-boiled eggs with cracked pepper, fresh fruit kissed with honey. Your favorite tea waited for you in the ceramic mug Rio made last fall, the one glazed in the colors of dusk.

She crossed the space slowly, eyes only on you now. Agatha set the tray down with gentle precision—but then, without hesitation, she reached for you. Her hand found your cheek. The other came to rest beside Rio’s on your belly. And she kissed you, softly and fully. No performance, no duty—just her, pressed to you like gravity itself, like she'd waited all morning to feel you breathe against her mouth.

You let out a quiet sound, some stitch in you pulling loose. “Sit,” you said gently as her lips left yours. “Both of you.”

They obeyed without question, settling beside each other on the couch, eyes still flickering over your features like they were trying to memorize you in real time. You placed the envelopes down with care. Wax-sealed. One with a pressed daffodil tucked delicately inside—the flower Agatha always pointed out to you in the wild, quiet and golden like a spell blooming against the odds. The other held a piece of a soft, star-patterned ribbon. Navy and silver. A piece of the same ribbon Rio had tied around the nursery door a week ago, a galaxy of tiny constellations printed across the fabric. She’d called it a blessing for safe passage. She hadn’t explained it further, and you hadn’t asked.

Now, it was repurposed into something sacred. Something offered.

You hadn’t written much—just a few words in each. But your voice trembled when they read them anyway.

To Agatha: You taught me that love could be safe and sharp at the same time. That I didn’t have to be perfect to be protected. Thank you for claiming me.

To Rio: You taught me to breathe again. And when I couldn’t—you did it for me. Thank you for staying.

Their hands stilled. Eyes darted up to meet yours. You saw it—the moment the words landed. But you weren’t done. From your pocket, you withdrew one last envelope. A slightly larger one, scalloped at the edges. The ink on the front shimmered faintly in the light like it had been kissed into being:

To: Mommy & Mamì. Rio took it first, her fingers trembling just slightly. She passed it to Agatha once she’d read it, lips parted, gaze unfocused, like she was holding her breath through time. The leaned in to open it and read it together. Inside, a single folded card, written in your script—but signed with a different voice. Smaller. Sweeter. Still-becoming. A heartbeat that wasn’t born yet:

Hi Mommies, I love you both so much already. Next Valentine’s Day, I’ll be here with you. With tiny giggles. Cartoons. And maybe a mess or two. Thank you for loving me before I even took my first breath. Love, Your daughter, Bean Sprout.

Agatha’s throat worked. Her mouth parted like she might say something—but instead, she pressed the card against her chest. Rio reached for you again, fingers curling slightly like she wasn’t sure whether to stand or just pull you closer where you stood. You didn’t have to decide—because they both moved at once. She shifted first, sliding to the edge of the couch and taking your hand, guiding you down slowly, carefully, like you were porcelain—but beloved, not breakable. Agatha followed without a word, reaching for your other side. And just like that, you were seated between them. Agatha’s kiss landed at your temple, soft and anchoring. Rio pressed hers to your shoulder, to the corner of your jaw, before resting her forehead against your hair. Her hand found Agatha’s across your belly, and there, beneath their palms, your daughter stirred—just once. A quiet little hello.

You felt them both exhale when she did. You sat nestled between them like the living answer to a question they hadn’t dared ask aloud: Could love really be this full? Agatha was the first to pull back, just far enough to sweep a strand of hair from your face. Her fingers trailed across your cheek like they couldn’t bear to leave. “You’re going to undo me,” she murmured.

“You say that like it hasn’t already happened,” Rio said, grinning against your shoulder. You smiled—genuinely, finally, in a way that felt like something springing up through frost. “I believe you promised breakfast,” you whispered to Agatha, nudging her lightly.

She sniffed, haughty and amused, and reached behind you for the tray she’d set on the coffee table. “A feast,” she said dryly, “fit for my two Queens.”

“And their daughter,” Rio added, rubbing one slow, reverent circle over your belly. “Don’t forget, Sprout.”

The next few minutes passed in warm silence—the kind that only comes when a room has been saturated in love long enough to hum with it. You leaned into them as they each filled a plate for you, Agatha slicing open the croissant and layering it with jam, Rio carefully peeling back an orange like she’d practiced just for this. And then, almost without thinking, you reached down and plucked a strawberry from the bowl—one of the good ones, sweet and firm and already sliced at the tip. You turned to Agatha and held it up to her mouth. She looked at you, startled just for a second, then her lips parted delicately. You placed the berry between them. Her teeth closed slowly. Her eyes didn’t leave yours. The look she gave you afterward was so quiet, so full of affection, that it left a pressure behind your eyes—warm and sacred, the kind of look people used to write prayers about.

You cleared your throat gently and looked between them. “So. What are the plans today?” Rio set her tea down, wiping her hands on the leg of her sweatpants with a mischievous glint. “Well,” she said, “I was thinking... it might be a good day to paint the nursery.”

Your whole body straightened at once, that lovely electric pulse of anticipation flaring through you like sunshine behind your ribs. “Seriously?” you asked, voice pitched just above a breath.

Agatha leaned in with a slow smile. “I was going to suggest the same. We picked the color last week, didn’t we?”

“That soft green?” you asked, eyes lighting. “The one that looked like sage?”

“Exactly that one,” Rio nodded, her hand gliding down to press at the underside of your belly just as your daughter gave a low, languid stretch. You gasped softly, your hands flying to where Rio touched. “She likes the idea,” you whispered.

“She’s got good taste,” Agatha murmured, reaching for her tea. Rio chuckled. “Well, she is ours.”

You all laughed at that—quiet and content, the sound folding in on itself like a shared secret. You could already see it: the three of you in paint-splattered clothes, the windows open to let in the early spring air, brushes dipped in warm green and tiny handprints pressed into the corners like a blessing.

“Are there more plans later?” you asked coyly. “Oh, definitely,” Rio said, lips curling as she popped a grape into her mouth. “But I figured we’d start the day with something productive. Then maybe... bath time, candles, something sweet after dinner.”

“And if you behave,” Agatha added, plucking a piece of cheese from the tray with a raised brow, “we might even let you pick the movie tonight.” You grinned, stretching your legs across Rio’s lap and resting your head against Agatha’s shoulder. Your body felt heavy but soft, cherished. The tea still steamed gently in your cup. Their hands moved constantly—always adjusting the blanket over your lap, rubbing slow patterns into your hip, brushing stray crumbs from your collarbone.

-----

After breakfast, you pushed yourself up from the couch with a soft grunt, swatting away the hands that instinctively reached for you.

“I’m fine,” you huffed. “Just full of croissants and baby.”

You made your way down the hall, the hardwood warm under your bare feet, one hand pressed absently to the curve of your belly as you moved. The door to your bedroom stood open, sunlight stretching across the sheets like an invitation.

You changed slowly, pulling on a pair of worn cotton shorts that clung low on your hips, the waistband stretching tight beneath your belly. The tank top followed—white, ribbed, and just snug enough to reveal every curve and angle your body had become. Your clothes hugged every curve now, the bottom hem of your shorts stretched tight across your belly, sitting low, barely hooked over your hips. Your daughter shifted beneath your skin, a small ripple moving under the surface of your skin like a wave caught in sun-warmed shallows.

You looked at yourself in the mirror for a moment—your hands resting on either side of the swell. Thirty-two weeks. This body had changed everything. Your skin glowed in the light. The fullness of your belly, the softness of your thighs, the curve of your breasts rising with each breath—every inch of you felt touched by purpose. A body remade by love. By time. By her. They adored you like this.

Rio emerged from the bathroom first—her dark curls still a little damp, cheeks flushed from the warmth of the shower. She wore an old white shirt with the sleeves rolled, and a pair of paint-smeared jeans that hugged her thighs just right. There was a smudge of old navy-blue streaked across one pocket, a relic from painting the kitchen years ago.

Agatha followed close behind. Her hair was up in a high ponytail, several strands already beginning to fall loose, neck bare and flushed slightly from the warmth of the room. Her shirt was ancient, a soft charcoal thing with tiny flecks of teal and ochre near the hem. Stains old enough to be considered historic.

You turned to them slowly. Took in the sight.

And then—wordlessly—you crossed to Rio first. She watched you approach like she was bracing for impact.

You kissed her slow. Deep. Your hands framed her jaw, and her fingers slipped to your waist, settling low. Her breath caught as she melted into it, like you'd stolen the air from her lungs and replaced it with something better.

When you pulled away, she didn’t speak. Just stared, wide-eyed and a little unsteady.

Then you turned to Agatha.

She was already watching you like she knew exactly what was coming—and still, when you kissed her, her lips parted like it had taken her by surprise. You pressed into her with soft certainty, one hand rising to cradle the back of her neck. Her breath hitched. She kissed you back with the kind of reverence that made your chest ache.

When you stepped back, both of them stood still—stunned in the best way. No words. Just stunned silence and flushed skin.

“Well,” you murmured, grinning as you adjusted your tank, “guess I still got it.”

You turned and left the room, barefoot and smug, trailing heat in your wake like perfume, hips swaying, the tight stretch of your tank and shorts leaving little to the imagination. You didn’t have to see it—you could feel the effect you’d left behind.

The nursery door creaked open as you stepped down the hall. Light pooled across the floor. The pale green paint cans waited near the wall, brushes laid out like an offering. The space felt full already—your daughter’s presence pulsing beneath your skin, your hands sweeping gently along your belly like a blessing.

A beat later, you heard the thud of movement. The unmistakable sound of someone being pressed against a wall. Another sound followed—a soft, startled moan. Soft. Subtle. The unmistakable sound of someone being pressed against a wall, losing control. Quiet, restrained.

Agatha.

You paused in the doorway.

You didn’t need to look. You could see it clearly in your mind—Rio crowding into her, hands on either side of her waist, mouth at Agatha’s neck. Agatha’s body pinned between drywall and desire, her body arching into her wife, her fingers twisting into the front of Rio’s paint-stained shirt. A kiss that burned.

You leaned against the nursery doorway. You let out a low laugh, your hand sliding protectively over the curve of your belly as you stretched your arms above your head.

“Ladies,” you called, tone honey-sweet, “if you need a moment, let me know so I can torture myself in the living room while listening.”

There was a pause. The sound of someone gasping. A quiet thud as something knocked the wall again.

“You’re evil,” Rio called, her voice deliciously breathless. Agatha, ragged and wrecked, didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t stop.” You grinned, brushing a hand over the firm swell of your belly as your daughter gave another little stretch. “I’ll give you five minutes,” you offered, “then I’m opening that paint can and choosing the wrong brush on purpose.”

No answer. Just another low moan. And maybe, maybe a muffled laugh.

-----

You had barely left the room before Rio was on her. One breath. That’s all it took.

Agatha turned slightly, adjusting the hem of her shirt, fingers smoothing down the old paint-smeared cotton—and then Rio was there.

No warning. Just motion.

Her hands caught Agatha by the hips and moved her back with a soft, firm insistence. Her body followed, pressing in, guided by something deeper than thought. Agatha’s back hit the wall with a low, startled sound, her breath catching as Rio stepped in close and filled the space between them completely.

“Rio—”

“God, Aggie, I can’t—” Rio breathed. “You—look at you.”

Agatha’s chest rose hard beneath her old shirt, her breath shaking as Rio’s mouth found her throat—hot, dragging, open-mouthed and reverent. Her fingers clutched at Rio’s waist, knuckles tightening in the fabric of those ruined jeans. Then Rio kissed her. Not soft. Not slow. Hungry. Agatha moaned—high and throaty, the kind of sound that made Rio's body tremble with restraint.

“You still make that sound,” Rio whispered hoarsely, lips brushing the corner of her mouth, “and I forget everything else.”

“Then take it,” Agatha rasped, her voice wrecked and velvet. “Take all of it.”

Rio did.

She kissed her again, rougher now, hands braced on either side of Agatha’s hips, her thigh sliding between Agatha’s legs. Their bodies moved together like memory—like instinct honed by years of touch and silence and wordless understanding.

Agatha pressed into her, every part of her aching for more. For more.

Her head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut. “More, Rio. Please—”

And that’s when they heard it.

“Ladies,” your voice floated down the hallway, sugar-sweet and knowing, “if you need a moment, let me know so I can torture myself in the living room while listening.” There was a beat of stillness. Then the soft thud of Agatha’s back hitting the wall again as she let out a breathless laugh—half desire, half disbelief.

Rio pressed her forehead against Agatha’s collarbone, chest heaving. “You’re evil,” she called out, voice wrecked and soaked in heat. Agatha didn’t even look up. Her lips were parted, breath shallow. “Don’t stop,” she whispered.

Rio didn’t lift her head from where it rested against Agatha’s chest, her breath still hot, her fingers twitching with restraint. “You think you can cum in five minutes?” she murmured, her voice dark with promise. Agatha’s breath hitched again, her nod was barely a breath, but Rio saw it. Felt it. And then she moved.

There was nothing slow about it—not this time. No coaxing. No teasing licks across her stomach, no feather-light brush of fingers. Just need—raw and immediate—as Rio dropped to her knees with the weight of someone surrendering to gravity itself.

Her palms slid up the backs of Agatha’s thighs, curling beneath the hem of those soft cotton pants. She pulled them down in one swift, practiced motion, the fabric whispering to the floor and pooling around Agatha’s ankles. The air hit bare skin—and Rio froze for just a second, breath catching in her throat.

There it was.

The soaked-through spot on Agatha’s briefs, dark and shameless, clinging to her.

Rio exhaled like she’d been punched.

“Fuck, Aggie…” she breathed, jaw tightening as her hands rose to frame her hips again. “Look at you.”

And she didn’t wait. She pressed her mouth directly to that damp heat, her tongue sliding up against the thin cotton with slow, devastating pressure. Agatha arched—body slamming against the wall with a moan that cracked right through her chest. Her hand flew to the back of Rio’s head, fingers tangling, her other palm bracing hard against the wall behind her.

“Oh my god—”

Rio didn’t let up. Her mouth worked through the fabric, tongue dragging across the soaked cotton again and again, each stroke precise, merciless, pulling helpless, broken sounds from Agatha’s lips. She mouthed at her like she’d been starving—like this was what she needed to breathe. Agatha gasped, hips rolling forward, chasing contact, chasing everything.

“You need to be aware of the time,” she gasped, her voice high, wrecked, and unraveling.

Rio growled into her. Her fingers hooked into the briefs, dragging them aside without a word, without ceremony, revealing everything. And then— She devoured her. No teasing now. No slow build. Just Rio’s mouth on her—wet, warm, consuming—with the kind of mastery that came from knowing her wife’s body as intimately as she knew her own heartbeat.

Agatha’s knees buckled. She gripped Rio’s shoulders, fingers digging in, her head falling forward as every ounce of her control dissolved into heat and pressure. “More,” she breathed. “Please, more—”

And Rio gave. Her tongue curled, her lips wrapped, her rhythm relentless. One hand held Agatha steady by the thigh, the other slipping between her legs to press in tandem—mouth and hand moving in perfect tandem, coaxing her closer, closer, closer—

Agatha gasped—loud, sharp, shattered—her head thudding softly against the wall.

“God—yes—”

Her thighs trembled where Rio held them apart, wide and open, her hips rolling forward instinctively, grinding into the mouth that had ruined her more times than she could count.

Rio groaned low and deep, the sound vibrating through her lips as she licked harder, deeper. Her jaw flexed. One arm slipped behind Agatha’s thigh, holding her firmly in place while her other hand gripped her ass, pulling her in, anchoring her.

Agatha was already panting, fingers knotted in Rio’s curls.

“You need to—” she tried, voice breaking, “Rio, we don’t have time—”

Rio didn’t stop.

She tilted her chin, tongue dragging in slow, brutal strokes against Agatha’s clit, lips sealed around her like a promise. Her nose pressed into skin, her breath warm and damp.

Agatha’s breath was unraveling fast, her hips rocking against Rio’s mouth with increasing desperation. Her hands fisted in Rio’s hair, not guiding—pleading. Her thighs trembled on either side of Rio’s head.

“Hurry,” she gasped, voice thinned to air.

Her grip on Rio’s head tightened, fingers digging in, her head falling to the side as every ounce of her control dissolved into heat and pressure, her hips trying to move in tandem with Rio’s mouth.

“Baby,” she breathed. “faster—”

Rio didn’t ease. If anything, she slowed, pressing in deeper, firmer, holding Agatha’s hips flat to the wall with unrelenting strength.

When she pulled back just enough to speak, her voice was low, breath hot against soaked skin.

Then she looked up, lips slick and swollen, and said darkly, “You’re not the one in control today.”

Agatha shuddered.

And that’s when your voice rang out, sing-song from down the hall:

“One minute!”

She went back in hard, mouth slick and reverent, sucking now, tongue dragging in tight, practiced circles. Agatha’s hands flew to her own mouth to muffle the scream that nearly tore out of her.

“Thirty seconds!”

Agatha’s fingers gripped Rio’s shoulders like anchors, her knees shaking, her chest rising and falling with desperate, broken gasps. Her release hovered at the edge of her body, coiled and ready, a tide swelling in her core.

And then—

“Ten...”

Agatha arched hard, hips jerking forward as Rio’s tongue dragged across her clit with devastating precision. The heat that flooded through her legs was molten, wild. Her body knew—it was time, she was there.

“Nine...”

Rio groaned against her, the vibration setting off a twitch so sharp Agatha nearly cried out. Her hands twisted in Rio’s curls, hips rolling forward, chasing friction that was blinding.

“Please—” she whimpered, “don’t stop—don’t stop, I’m right there—”

“Eight...”

Rio didn’t stop. Her tongue flicked again, then again—tight, purposeful strokes that made Agatha see white behind her eyes.

“Seven...”

Agatha’s breath came in harsh pants. Her head hit the wall with a dull thud, and her free hand slapped against it, fingers splayed, bracing herself as her thighs trembled violently.

“Six...”

Rio’s hand slid around the back of her leg, gripping tight, holding her in place as she sucked harder—wet and noisy, relentless, obscene.

“Five—”

Agatha’s body seized. Her stomach clenched. Her toes curled inside the bunched fabric at her ankles.

“Oh my god, I’m—Rio—”

“Four...”

A cry tore from her lips. “Three...”

Her whole body lurched forward, her orgasm crashing against the walls of her control, nearly breaking through— “Don’t you dare—” she hissed, wild and helpless. “Two...” Her thighs snapped around Rio’s head, involuntarily, desperately.

“Rio—please—please, I’m—” “One.” And Rio pulled back.

Agatha’s orgasm snapped like a frayed wire. The pleasure ripped from her at the very peak, shuddering and unfinished, echoing through her body like the aftershock of an earthquake that never landed. Her whole body sagged forward. Her hand slammed into the wall again to catch herself, and her breath came in frantic, open-mouthed gasps.

She stared down at Rio—eyes wide, lashes wet, mouth parted in disbelief. Rio sat back on her heels, flushed and glowing, her mouth wet, chin shining with slick. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and looked up with a smile that was far too pleased.

“Come on, my love,” she said, voice still hoarse from breathlessness. “We had a time limit.”

Agatha blinked at her like she could kill her with a thought. “You are unholy.”

Agatha didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her whole body hummed with the sharp ache of denial. Of being unraveled and left right there. Her hands twitched at her sides, clenching once before she forced herself to breathe. Agatha’s jaw clenched. Her breath was still ragged. Her thighs still trembled. “You owe me,” she hissed, voice low and dangerous, eyes burning up at Rio with fire and unfinished ache. “Tonight.”

But Rio didn’t flinch. Instead, she stepped in close again—so close Agatha’s breath caught—and took her jaw in one hand, firm but not cruel. Her fingers curled beneath her chin, tilting her face up until there was nowhere left to look but directly into Rio’s eyes.

“You’re not in control,” Rio said softly. Darkly. Each word slow and carved from granite. “Not tonight. Understood?”

Agatha’s pupils dilated. Rio leaned in closer, their foreheads almost touching. “You’ll remember that tonight. Or you won’t cum at all.”

Agatha didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her whole body shivered under the weight of it—wrecked, breathless, and bound by nothing but command. And from down the hall, you called again: “I swear if you two aren’t in here in thirty seconds, I’m naming the baby Crayola and painting the trim hot pink.”

Rio kissed Agatha’s forehead with surprising gentleness. “Come on, Professor.”

Agatha glared as she righted herself. “I’m walking into that nursery with soaked briefs, trembling legs, and rage in my veins.” Rio just grinned, grabbing the paint-stained rag from the dresser and tossing it over her shoulder.

------

You were already on the floor by the time they walked in—legs splayed out in front of you on a folded blanket, your back pressed to the wall just under the windowsill. A soft flush had crept up your throat and settled just below your collarbone, the pink tint catching the light like a secret you weren’t trying very hard to hide.

You had, after all, heard everything.

Rio entered first, cheeks faintly pink, but with the smug calm of someone who had just made a point and made it well. She crossed the room like she belonged there—like this was what she'd been made for: messy homes, sacred mornings, and women she loved flushed and trembling.

She leaned down and kissed you slow.

You hummed into her mouth, lips parting just slightly in that way that said yes, I forgive you for being a menace.

Agatha followed behind, and before she could speak, you reached up and pulled her into a kiss too—one hand sliding into her shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin at her waist. She gasped softly, her body still humming with residual heat.

A little moan escaped against your mouth, involuntary, and when you pulled back, her eyes were still slightly dazed.

“Paint,” she said hoarsely, clearing her throat like it might restore her dignity.

Rio chuckled as she moved to the corner and slid the rocking chair out into the hallway. She did it one-handed, carefully dragging it across the floor so it wouldn’t scuff the wood. Then she reached for the folded drop cloth leaning against the wall and unfurled it in one smooth motion, letting the thin layer of plastic glide into place across the nursery floor.

“There,” she said, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Contain the chaos.”

Agatha stepped forward and uncapped the gallon of soft green paint—the color you’d picked weeks ago. She poured it into the tray slowly, precisely, like it was a potion.

You shifted forward on your blanket, reaching out like you were going to help pour—but the moment your hands touched the floor to lift yourself, a shadow crossed Agatha’s face.

She arched an eyebrow. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping—”

“You’re thirty-one weeks pregnant,” she said calmly, not moving, just watching. “You may assist in spirit.”

You grumbled, and she reached out her hand.

You took it. Let her pull you upright, your knees cracking with the effort. She didn’t comment on the sound, just steadied you with a hand beneath your elbow, her touch grounding, familiar, quietly protective.

Rio walked back in just as you found your balance. She scanned the room once, then walked to the window and pushed it open. The fresh spring air flowed in, soft and clean.

“There,” she said, hands on her hips. “Fumes out. Baby safe. Mama’s ready.”

She turned and looked at you directly.

“Now listen.” Her tone was playful, but the command beneath it was real. “If you get dizzy, thirsty, tired, hungry—or even slightly annoyed—you go sit in the rocker. Deal?”

You tilted your head at her, suspicious. “What if I want to help?”

“You can supervise. Or…” Her voice dipped into mischief again. “We can surprise you with another color.”

You blinked.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Agatha dipped the roller in the tray and turned just enough to smirk. “We did pass a shade called ‘Electric Lemonade’ on the way to the greens.”

You groaned. “Fine. Rocker. Supervising. No citrus walls.”

Rio leaned in, brushing a kiss to your cheek. “Smart wife.”

You sank slowly into the rocker as they got to work—Agatha starting in the corner by the window, Rio humming low as she unwrapped the edge of a second brush. The plastic rustled underfoot. The first swipes of green appeared on the wall like moss climbing toward morning.

Your daughter kicked once beneath your skin. You pressed a hand to your belly and smiled.

By the time two of the walls had been covered in that warm, soft green—somewhere between sea glass and sage—the nursery had already begun to change. Not just in color, but in spirit. It smelled like fresh air and fresh beginnings, the paint glistening slightly in the soft afternoon light.

You had just finished sipping the little bit left of your tea when Rio stepped back from the wall and turned toward you, her eyes catching yours across the room. She didn’t say anything. Just smiled, slow and soft and a little crooked—like she couldn’t believe you were real.

She crossed the room, careful not to track the edge of the roller across the drop cloth, and leaned down to kiss you. It was gentle, familiar. A brush of lips that landed on your mouth, then your cheek, then your shoulder like she couldn’t help herself.

Then she knelt—carefully, making sure not to bump the rocker or smear anything against your legs—and pressed a kiss to the side of your belly. Her breath warmed through the fabric of your tank top, and when she spoke, her voice went low and sing-song, like she was telling a secret just to the two of you.

“Okay, little Sprout.” She kissed your belly again. “So far, we’ve got two walls done. One looks like sunlight touched a forest. The other looks like peace.”

Another kiss. “Your Mama is supervising like a queen. Your mamì made sure the window’s open because she loves your little lungs. And in just a few weeks, this room is going to hold you. We’ll read you books. Sing to you. Nap in this chair.”

You blinked against the sudden blur of tears. “We’re getting it ready for you,” Rio whispered. “Everything’s for you.”

From behind her, Agatha approached with a water bottle in hand, her expression softened into that familiar maternal mix of affection and command. “Drink, please,” she said, offering it to you like it was a spell. You took it with a grateful smile, the cool plastic grounding you as the moment pressed close around your ribs. One sip. Then another. Your daughter kicked once, slow and curious, and Rio looked up and laughed.

“She likes hydration.”

Agatha hummed in approval and walked back to the tray, dipping her roller and resuming her rhythm with elegant swipes, while Rio followed behind, blending the edges in soft arcs.

You watched them, heart heavy and full—until an idea bloomed behind your ribs like a spark catching breath. You sat up from the rocker slowly, your palm bracing your belly as you stood. You made your way quietly down the hall, into the office where the old leftover paint samples still sat on the shelf: purple, soft orange, and that dusky moss green you hadn’t used yet. You cradled them in your arms like treasure.

By the time you returned to the nursery, Rio was standing in front of the third wall, just setting her brush down. Paint trays sat half-full in the corner, rollers resting in silence, the air thick with that clean scent of something new. The walls gleamed in soft green—fresh, living, almost luminous in the late afternoon light. But the final wall remained untouched.

The one Rio had promised would be a surprise.

You stepped forward, your arms full of color, sitting them on the table outside the nursery. “Hey,” you called gently, and both women turned toward you.

Rio turned first, her brow lifted in curiosity. Agatha straightened, paintbrush still in hand, the faintest crease in her forehead that softened the moment she saw the look on your face.

You smiled. “Can I see both of your hands, please?”

They glanced at each other, something wordless passing between them, then walked over in tandem, offering their palms without hesitation. Their skin was smudged with green and laughter, flecks of paint dried in the creases of their knuckles, like proof they’d built something here with you.

“Here.” you murmured,

You slid their palms around the side of your belly, over your tank top, snug and slightly stretched, the fabric soft and pale from too many washes. Their fingers curling slightly as you moved their hands around, the little bit of wet paint still on their skin settled into the cotton like brushstrokes. Their touch was reverent. Slow. Anchoring.

The little smears of green they left behind bloomed like wild things—marking the moment they held both of you at once. You wanted it this way. You wanted the paint on the fabric. A memory you could keep.

You gave their fingers a gentle squeeze, then lifted both of their hands away—carefully, deliberately—freeing the fabric with a soft tug that left the imprint of their fingers behind like ghost-light in wet paint. You took a slow step toward the table, one hand on your belly for balance, and picked up the first.

Purple. Agatha’s.

Deep and rich, somewhere between dusk and royal ink. A color that looked like intention. Of power worn quietly. Like something ancient and sacred that still knew how to love. You turned to her, reaching for her hand again.

She held it out, open and steady. You dipped the brush and painted her palm in long, smooth strokes—making sure to cover each finger, every crease. The ridges of her hand caught the pigment like they’d been waiting for this. Agatha watched without blinking. Then you brought her hand forward, cradled it over your belly. The print bloomed dark and bold on the fabric, left of center, fingers curved like a protective cradle.

“That’s for the stories she’ll grow up hearing,” you whispered. “The books. The poems. The strength.” Agatha’s throat moved like she was swallowing down something thick.

You reached for the next jar. Green.Rio’s. Not the green of the nursery walls. No. This was deeper. Wilder. Like the heart of a forest untouched by time. The kind of green that grounded you in the middle of chaos and joy.

You painted her hand with quiet focus—watching the way her knuckles flexed slightly, the way her breath shallowed when you turned her wrist gently to cover the edge. The brush gliding between her fingers, catching in the callus at the base of her thumb. She watched you do it like you were anointing her. Then you pressed her hand to the right side of your belly, slightly overlapping Agatha’s. “This is for the hands that will catch her,” you said softly. “For the home she’ll land in.” Rio exhaled hard through her nose, like it had taken something from her to hear that. She didn’t speak, just touched her forehead to your shoulder briefly, grounding herself before stepping back.

The colors bled into each other softly, edges imperfect, beautiful. Intimate. And then—finally—yours.

Soft orange. It wasn’t bold. It was quiet. Warm. The color of marigolds, of sunset in the fall, a quiet glow across your favorite coffee shop. A hum in your chest that never stopped saying you were loved.

You painted your own hand slowly, using a folded towel beneath your forearm to steady yourself. You took your time—each finger, the inside of your palm, the base of your wrist. It glowed softly against your skin.

Then, with care, you pressed it just above theirs—your palm nestled like a lid, your fingers framing the prints they’d left behind. “And this…” Your voice broke for just a moment. “This is for her beginning. For the heartbeat she’s known from the start.”

Three hands. Three shades. One origin. You looked down. The paint soaked gently into the cotton. Purple. Green. Orange. Three handprints, slightly blurred at the edges, slightly smeared from weight and warmth. But perfect.

Your shirt would never be the same again. And that was the point. Inside you, your daughter shifted—low and sure. Not a flutter, but a press. A soft stretch like she could feel the moment settle around her. Agatha gasped under her breath. Rio stepped in close again, brushing her fingers down your wrist. “There she is,” she whispered.

You smiled without looking away from the fabric. “I want to keep this,” you said. “When she’s older, I want her to see how we built this. That we were here, together, waiting for her.”

Agatha nodded once, fierce and full. “We’ll frame it.” Rio kissed the back of your hand. “Right next to the wall she’ll ruin with marker someday.” You laughed—wet and soft, your body swaying slightly from the ache of too much love.

The nursery was starting to become her room. You looked around and took in the sight, the evolution of the room in only a few hours felt right. The final wall stood untouched, just as promised. Not forgotten—reserved. You turned toward it with a soft smile, your fingers resting lightly on your belly, the fabric of your shirt still damp with three overlapping handprints.

“You’re not painting it today?” you asked, tilting your head. Rio stepped beside you, arms crossed over her chest, eyes fixed on the blank wall with something warm and steady behind her gaze.

“Nope,” she said. “It’ll be done by the end of the week.” You raised an eyebrow. She looked over at you and smiled, slow and sure. “It’s my gift to her. Something just from me.”

Her fingers brushed your wrist. “Always the artist.” You swallowed hard, your throat catching with that kind of ache that only love can cause. Agatha came up beside you, slipping her hand into yours.

You looked around one last time. The soft green walls glowing in the golden light, your shirt forever marked in purple, green, and orange. Their hands still tingled against your skin, even after they'd left. “It’s perfect,” you said. Your voice barely above a breath. “She’s going to love it.”

Your daughter kicked then, low and certain, as if the word yes had a rhythm and she had learned it. Rio laughed under her breath. “She agrees.”

You stood there a moment longer, just watching. Breathing it in. Then, slowly, you all turned toward the hallway, the last threads of sunlight slipping across the wood floor. Your arms brushed as you walked. Agatha’s hand settled low against your back. Rio lingered a moment behind, casting one final glance into the room like she was sealing it in her mind.

The window remained open, letting in the soft hush of late afternoon. And just before she closed the door, Rio reached for the light switch. The room dimmed into silence. Paint drying. Air stirring. Memory settling.

Waiting.

And the nursery, marked now with color, handprints, and a promise yet to come, held your daughter’s space like a cradle already shaped.

------

The house had gone quiet.

Not the kind of silence that pressed in with absence—but the golden, weighted stillness that followed intention. A silence full of meaning. The brushes were soaking in the sink, little bursts of green clouding the rinse water like watercolor dreams. The nursery door was shut, its soft green walls still breathing through the cracked window. That space—newborn and waiting—seemed to hum with memory already.

The hum of effort had settled. Everything had softened.

You lay stretched across the couch, the curve of your spine eased into the cushions, one leg tucked loosely beneath the other. A folded throw covered your calves, but your thighs were bare to the evening light, flushed and freckled, streaked faintly with paint. A smear of sage green marked the side of your knee, another faint trace lingered on your calf where Agatha’s hand had steadied you earlier.

Your tank top—damp with effort hours ago—had been peeled off and left on the kitchen table to dry. Its cotton clung to memory now, speckled with fingerprints and love. But what you wore instead was something far more sacred.

Rio’s hoodie.

The old gray one, oversized and soft at the edges, the one she always tossed over the back of the couch like it belonged to the house itself. It smelled like her—like cedarwood and clean cotton, like warmth after a long day. You’d pulled it over your head on instinct one morning nearly seven months ago, back when your belly was still flat and your nausea had just begun to whisper. Before you’d even known.

And somehow, even after you knew, it had stayed.

The fabric never left your side in those early, trembling weeks. When the world felt too sharp, when your chest felt too fragile to hold what was growing inside you, the hoodie had wrapped around your body like armor. A shield over your girl. As if, even then, it understood the task—protect her.

It wasn’t just cloth. It was Rio. It was the memory of her hands and voice. It was the silent promise that they’d both protect this little life before she ever had a name. Before you ever had the words.

Now, the sleeves slipped past your wrists, the hem rising over your belly as your daughter turned slowly beneath it, pressing up as if she still remembered how it had cradled her in those first flickers of existence. It didn’t fit the way it once had. But it held you. Still. As if it had decided long ago that you belonged inside it—and nothing had changed.

Your hand rested lazily above your navel, fingers moving in slow circles. A small kick met your touch from within, like your daughter was stretching, too. Reaching for that last bit of the day.

The bathroom door creaked open down the hall.

Then came laughter—soft and low, still damp with steam. Bare feet whispered against the wood.

And then, her.

“Hi, love.”

Rio’s voice curled around the doorway like smoke, low and knowing, worn smooth by affection.

You looked up.

They were glowing. Damp and flushed from the shower, hair curling in fresh waves from the heat. Agatha’s curls had been combed back, her cheekbones tinged with warmth, her cotton T-shirt sticking slightly along the curve of her ribs. Rio wore clean sweatpants, a dark shirt, a towel tossed over one shoulder like she’d forgotten it was there. Her skin shimmered, droplets catching in the dip of her collarbone.

They looked like the aftermath of something sacred. And they walked to you like you were the center of it.

Agatha reached you first. She didn’t hesitate. One hand found the back of the couch as she leaned in and pressed a slow, anchoring kiss to your temple. Her lips lingered, breath warm, grounding you with nothing but contact.

Then Rio knelt, slipping one hand to your cheek as she kissed you softly on the mouth. Just once. A question tucked into that kiss—You okay while I was gone?

You answered by melting into her hand.

“You look cozy,” Agatha murmured, her fingers ghosting across your knee, brushing the faint green smudge there like it was sacred.

“It’s mine,” Rio said, tugging at the hoodie with a little smile, her tone somewhere between smug and adoring. “I knew that thing would end up yours.”

You smirked, eyes fluttering shut again as you leaned into her.

“It was never yours, babe,” you murmured, voice dusted with fondness. “It just stayed on your body longer than it should’ve.”

Rio laughed, shaking her head in defeat. Agatha grinned.

And then she tilted her chin, voice soft and steady. “Are you hungry?”

“Do you want to pick a movie?” Rio added, nearly overlapping.

There it was—that rhythm again. That instinctive, unrehearsed harmony. They offered things in tandem the way you’d seen people pass dishes at a family table: without needing to ask what the other was doing. Just knowing.

You opened your eyes slowly and looked at them—at your wives.

Their skin glowed with heat, smelling of soap and lemon and faint paint still clinging beneath their nails. They were beautiful in the way only people are when they’ve spent the whole day building something for someone they love.

You sank back into the couch, hand over your daughter again.

“I could eat,” you said quietly. “And maybe something with a happy ending.”

Agatha’s smile softened. “We’ll bring snacks.”

Rio pressed another kiss to your forehead, letting it linger longer this time.

Agatha returned first, balancing a tray in both hands like it was an offering laid at the feet of something sacred. Apple slices glistened with honey, popcorn still warm in a cracked ceramic bowl, and a few squares of dark chocolate nestled beside a folded napkin. The scent of butter and cinnamon sugar lingered like the last spell of the evening.

“I didn’t forget,” she said as she set it on the coffee table. Her voice was casual, but her eyes sparkled. “Just because you didn’t ask doesn’t mean I didn’t know.”

You blinked drowsily, your head sinking back against the throw pillow beneath you. “Telepathy?”

“Proximity,” Agatha murmured, brushing her fingers lightly along your calf. “Also, years of study.”

Rio came next, dragging the quilt from the armchair and claiming her place beside you like she had always belonged there. You shifted instinctively, your body finding her like a compass finds north—nestling into the cradle of her side, your cheek sinking into the pillow she arranged in her lap. Her legs curved around you, the throw blanket cocooning the three of you in warmth and the smell of clean cotton and home.

Her hand found your hair instantly.

Long strokes. Slow. Reassuring. The kind of touch that didn’t just soothe—it rewrote your whole nervous system to the rhythm of love.

Agatha folded herself neatly at the end of the couch, drawing your legs across her lap, her palms warm and reverent against your skin. She took one foot in her hands like it was something delicate—an offering all its own—and began to rub slow circles into your arch with her thumbs.

You sighed, eyes fluttering closed as the movie began. The sounds on the screen were soft and full of color, laughter mixing with distant dialogue. You barely registered it. Your whole world was beneath this blanket, in the hands that held you.

“I missed this,” you mumbled, the words drifting like steam from your mouth.

Agatha looked up. Her eyes found yours, full of that quiet gravity she never had to force. “We’re always with you.”

You smiled faintly and let yourself drift. Not fully asleep. Not fully awake. That golden in-between, where sound melted into breath and breath into touch.

Your daughter kicked.

“Hey there, Sprout,” she murmured under her breath. “You cozy in there too?”

Another kick. This one lighter, like she was answering.

You sighed through a smile. “She’s been at it all day.”

“She takes after her mama,” Rio said, her voice barely above a hum. Her hand never stopped moving through your hair. “Doesn’t know how to sit still.”

Agatha’s hand began to rub slow, rhythmic circles across the place your daughter had kicked, and you felt your body sigh beneath her touch. She shifted slightly, settling her chin in her palm, elbow resting on the arm of the couch as she watched your belly with quiet amusement.

“You’ve been throwing elbows all day, huh?” she murmured with a grin. “I know because I’ve been watching. Every time your Mama sat down, you started practicing gymnastics.”

Another kick—a little bump under her hand like your daughter knew she had an audience.

“Mhm. That’s what I thought.” Agatha rubbed the spot a little firmer, thumb sweeping gently in slow circles. “You’ve got good timing, I’ll give you that.”

You exhaled a soft laugh. “She was doing it while I was trying to nap, too. I swear she has a sixth sense for when I’m horizontal.”

“She’s just making sure we know she’s involved,” Rio said, her voice light and fond as her fingers wove through your hair again. “We paint the nursery, she supervises. You lie down, she performs.”

“Very hands-on,” Agatha added. “She takes after both of you.” She kissed the spot just above your navel, where the movement had been strongest, her lips soft and unhurried.

“Not you?” you murmured, teasing.

Agatha smirked. “I’m the calm influence. Obviously.”

Rio snorted, then leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. “You’ve yelled at three paint rollers today.”

“Because they betrayed me,” Agatha replied with perfect seriousness, then leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the curve of your belly. “But it’s okay, Sprout. Your walls look amazing. One perfect shade of green. Very elegant.”

“We’re raising a little design critic,” Rio said. “She’s going to come out expecting clean lines and hand-selected lighting.”

“And honeycrisp apples,” you murmured.

“And popcorn,” Agatha added.

Agatha chuckled, smoothing her palm again over your belly. “Well, we are excellent snack providers.” She leaned closer, whispering like it was just between them. “And don’t worry, Sprout. You’ve got the comfiest hoodie, a five-star nap schedule, and two moms with zero chill. You’re all set.”

Another kick answered her.

Rio shifted beside you, her hand still stroking through your hair, slow and steady. Then, quietly, she reached out with her other hand again—finding Agatha’s fingers across your middle, lacing them together without looking away from you.

“Do you know how much I love you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, but thick with something heavier than air.

Agatha glanced up, her brows knitting ever so slightly at the tenderness in it. Rio met her eyes.

“I love you so damn much.” The words landed gently, like a stone in a still pond—rippling outward through everything that had come before. “I’m so happy,” Rio continued, her hand tightening slightly around Agatha’s. “I still can’t believe I get to be here… like this. That I get to have this. You. Her.” She glanced down toward your belly, where Agatha’s hand still rested. “All of it.”

Agatha looked like she might speak, but Rio wasn’t done yet. Her eyes shimmered, wide and full, not with tears but awe—like she was still staring at something too beautiful to make sense.

“I think about that first time I saw you across the quad,” Rio murmured, her thumb brushing Agatha’s knuckle. “You had that leather satchel, and your hair was a mess, and you were furious at someone on the phone.”

Agatha huffed a laugh, low and fond. “It was a conference call. They forgot my name—again.”

“I know,” Rio said, smiling. “And I thought, there she is. Just like that. Like something clicked into place.”

Agatha’s eyes softened. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently to Rio’s, her fingers tightening between hers. “I love you too,” she said, breath catching on the words. Then she kissed the corner of Rio’s mouth—brief, reverent. “Every dream I ever dared to dream, even the ones I never said out loud… they all look like this.”

Their joined hands shifted lower without thinking, settling over your belly again, as if drawn there by instinct. And right then—like she’d been waiting for her cue—your daughter moved. A little stretch, a slow turn, the gentle pressure of a heel or elbow brushing just beneath Rio’s palm. Rio froze for a moment, breath caught in her throat. Then her face crumpled into the softest grin, one that cracked right down the middle with joy. “She heard you,” you whispered, voice thick with sleep and wonder.

Agatha’s hand curled a little tighter against your skin. “Of course she did.”

And for one long, golden moment, no one spoke.

There was only the movie flickering on the screen. The weight of the blanket over your legs. Your body nestled safely in the curve of Rio’s lap, your head heavy with comfort. And the feeling—deep, unshakable—that the three of you had already built something eternal. The child inside you turned again. The life you made together. The love that had always been waiting. And the dream that had, somehow, come true—right here. All around you.

------

Hours had passed in a hush of warmth.

Dinner had come and gone, candlelight flickering low along the edges of the table while the last of the dishes sat soaking in the sink. Plates had been cleared, glasses rinsed and set aside, but no one had rushed to leave the table. There was something sacred about lingering—about full bellies and flushed cheeks and the weight of your daughter stretching lazily beneath your ribs.

The candles had burned halfway down by now. The light was amber and soft, shadows pooling along the curve of Agatha’s collarbone as she tipped the last of her water to her lips, her other hand resting idly over yours beneath the table. Rio sat beside you, posture loose, but eyes sharp. Watching you. Watching her. You had long stopped pretending you weren’t waiting.

Your thoughts had begun slipping toward upstairs the moment dessert was finished. Maybe even before then—when Rio’s hand brushed your lower back as you passed behind her, the heat of her fingers firm, intentional. Or when she caught Agatha’s gaze mid-meal and said, calm as ever, “You’re not in control tonight, remember?” A line dropped like a match onto dry kindling. Agatha’s breath had caught. Just briefly. But you saw it. Felt it. And now, hours later, that promise sat thick in the air between the three of you, blooming like smoke beneath your skin.

You’d excused yourself casually, just a whisper of “be right back,” but you saw the way Agatha followed you with her eyes, like she already knew. Rio hadn’t even looked up—just reached for her wine glass and said softly, “Take your time, baby.” You walked down the hall barefoot. The floor was warm beneath your soles, the air thick with candle smoke and the faint trace of dinner—garlic, herbs, a memory of chocolate on your tongue. But deeper beneath that: your own heartbeat, low and steady, echoing beneath your ribs.

The candles you’d placed earlier—simple white pillars, each tucked into a crystal holder—had been lit with a whispered incantation, their flames steady and warm. Their glow shimmered against the bedspread, already turned down. The air smelled faintly of rosewood and something sweeter—like cinnamon bark steeped in cream. You’d left the windows cracked just slightly, letting the winter night sigh gently through the curtains. Your fingers trembled slightly as you adjusted the lingerie.

The robe swayed around your thighs as you walked. Black, sheer, delicate as moth wings. It caught the low light with each movement, fabric parting just enough to reveal the lace beneath—soft cups cradling your breasts, the satin band tucked beneath the curve of your belly. You’d chosen it carefully. Not for modesty. For revelation.

The lingerie didn’t hide your body—it framed it. The stretch marks glowing like silver thread. The swell of your breasts full and heavy with promise. The gentle curve of your stomach, firm with life, pressing out against the fabric like your daughter was reminding everyone that Agatha and Rio had claimed you in more than one way. It gave them a view of everything. Of the way your body had changed. Of the life you were carrying. Of the softness they’d touched earlier on the couch with such reverence you’d nearly wept.

It made you feel beautiful. Powerful. Like something blooming beneath the surface of skin and silk. You checked your reflection in the mirror. Not to adjust—just to look. Just to feel the way the evening had been slowly, reverently building toward this. Toward you. The way they’d watched you all day like you were something holy.

You exhaled, slow and steady, the weight of candlelight behind you, the echo of your heartbeat humming in your wrists. And when they didn’t come—when the sound of their footsteps never reached the bedroom door—you realized something else:

You didn’t want to be revealed. You wanted to arrive. So you moved.

The robe slid against your skin like breath, barely tethered by the loose tie at your ribs. Each step down the hallway made it shift more—your thighs brushing together, the soft swell of your belly rising and falling with each inhale, your breasts heavy beneath the sheer lace cups. The shadows stretched ahead of you. The warmth of dinner and wine still lingered on your tongue.

You padded silently toward the dining room, the faint scent of rosemary and wax hanging in the air like the memory of a kiss. And then— You reached the corner. Paused. And stepped into view.

Agatha’s breath caught audibly, her lips parted around a gasp she didn’t manage to suppress. Her spine straightened in the chair like she’d been struck—not hard, but reverently. Her eyes moved slow, almost reverent, as if she couldn’t decide where to land.

The soft curve of your breasts. The darkened outline of your nipples beneath the lace. The way your belly curved beneath the silk band, skin glowing in the dim light. The parting of your thighs where the robe swayed open just enough to reveal bare skin and the suggestion of more. You leaned one shoulder lazily into the doorframe, pretending not to notice the way their gazes devoured you.

“Still hungry?” you asked, voice warm and sweet as fruit left to ripen on the windowsill.

The words settled over the room like silk. Agatha looked completely undone. One hand gripped the edge of the table, the other still holding her napkin, clenched and useless. Her throat worked around a sound she didn’t speak aloud.

Rio didn’t move. Not at first. She sat back in her chair, legs wide now, one hand wrapped around the stem of her wine glass, the other resting over her knee. Her gaze traveled the full length of you—slow and deliberate, taking her time. She didn’t rush. She wanted you to know how she was looking.

Like you were a gift she hadn’t even let herself dream of unwrapping yet. And then, with devastating calm, she set her glass down. The sound was soft—a whisper of crystal against wood. Her voice, when it came, was low and steady.

“Starving.”

The smile she gave you wasn’t sweet. It was possessive. Dark.

Like she’d already decided what she wanted—and was just letting the moment linger a little longer before she claimed it. You held her gaze for a moment longer, your fingers tightening slightly against the doorframe. Your body pulsed with heat, with the weight of being watched like that—not just with desire, but with intent.

Then Rio turned her head, her gaze cutting to Agatha like a blade honed on heat.

“Bedroom.”

Agatha’s eyes widened—not in defiance, but in something softer. Her spine straightened instinctively, but her breath caught, and you saw it—that flicker of surrender breaking through the calm she wore like a second skin.

“On the bed or by the bed.” Rio’s voice was smooth. Lethal in its certainty. “On your knees.”

Agatha nodded once. Silent. Her chair pushed back with a scrape far too loud for the hush that had fallen. And then she was moving—heels quiet across the floor, robe brushing her legs, the hallway swallowing her up in the space of a heartbeat. She looked back only once. And in that single glance, you saw her unraveling.

Then Rio stood. The room seemed to shift around her, candlelight catching on her shoulders, shadow dipping beneath the curve of her jaw. Her movements weren’t rushed. They never were. She approached you with the kind of quiet confidence that made your skin burn before she even touched you.

You stood in the doorway, legs loose, breath caught in your chest like something you didn’t know how to hold. The robe fluttered slightly at your sides, catching the faint pull of air from the hall. Your belly curved outward—proud and high, firm and undeniable. It kept you from folding fully into her the moment she stopped in front of you.

But that didn’t matter. Because Rio filled the space between you without needing to press forward. Her presence alone took up every inch. Her gaze dragged over you—slow, unyielding. Not polite. Hungry.

One hand reached out, brushing the edge of the robe aside, fingertips grazing over the soft lace at your sternum. She trailed them up—higher—her knuckles barely grazing your skin until she reached the curve of your breast.

“Mira nada más…” she murmured, eyes dark with wanting. Her fingers splayed out, tracing over the lace, circling the nipple through the fabric in slow, deliberate rhythm.

“Estás tan hermosa…”

Your breath hitched.

“…tan jodidamente sexy.”

Her other hand slid low, tracing the underside of your belly like it was a blessing she’d been given. Reverent. Possessive. She leaned in, her lips barely grazing the shell of your ear.

“Tan mía.”

You arched, chest rising into her touch, body taut with anticipation. But your bump kept you from fully pressing against her—and Rio noticed. Her eyes sparked. She shifted closer, then dipped her chin, whispering— “Turn around.”

You did. Slowly.

The robe swayed with your movement, your thighs brushing, your heart galloping. You turned to face the wall. Felt the soft breath of candlelight behind you. And then—her.

Rio pressed up behind you, her body flush against your back, hands sliding over your hips. She didn’t care that your belly curved between you, didn’t treat it like a barrier. She let her hands follow the new shape of you—all of you—until her palms framed your waist and she drew you gently back against her.

You gasped.

The warmth of her chest against your spine. The soft edge of her breath at your neck. The way her hips pressed forward—owning the space you’d left open for her. Her lips found your throat. Open-mouthed. Slow. Trailing down, she kissed beneath your jaw, then lower, to the place where your pulse beat strongest. Her tongue flicked against it as she exhaled. “You don’t even know…” she whispered between kisses, “…how badly I want you.”

Her fingers moved beneath the robe now, curling over your stomach, cradling it with a possessiveness that was both tender and claiming. Her other hand moved higher, slipping beneath the lace cup to find your breast, cupping the weight of it, her palm calloused and warm.

“Look at you,” she breathed. “Filling out my fantasies, giving me everything I never knew how to ask for.” You pushed back against her then—hips rolling instinctively, searching for more. Rio growled low in her throat, her grip tightening. Her hand splayed over your belly, grounding you. Holding you. “I want you just like this.” Her voice darkened. “Swollen. Glowing. Full of our girl.” You moaned, the sound quiet but desperate.

And behind you, Rio just smiled against your neck.

Because you were trembling in her hands.

You melted back against her, the heat of her chest warming your spine, her hand cradling your belly like she’d been born to do it. The lace strained over your breast where her fingers teased gently, lovingly, just enough to make your knees threaten to bend. But then—she paused. Slowed. Her grip softened, her mouth brushing lightly over your shoulder now, lips parting to release a breath, not a command. She stilled her movements—just enough to draw your awareness back to something quieter. You felt it in the way her hands steadied.

“Mi amor,” she murmured, low and close behind your ear. Her voice had shifted—still dark, still edged with hunger, but now threaded with something more grounded. “You feeling okay?” Her fingers traced gentle patterns along the underside of your belly. “Everything feel good? Are you up for it? Feel safe with me tonight?”

The questions landed soft, but solid. Anchored in the way only Rio could be when everything else burned around her. You nodded, forehead tipping down slightly, the robe slipping off one shoulder like it, too, wanted to be bare.

But Rio didn’t move. She reached up and turned your face with her fingertips, gentle but insistent, guiding your chin until your eyes found hers. The intensity in her gaze was immediate. Her irises burned dark and searching, scanning every inch of your expression—your parted lips, your breath, the blush blooming high on your cheeks. But mostly your eyes. She didn’t rush it. Didn’t let you look away. You met her stare fully, and the warmth in your chest swelled. The love. The want. The trust. It filled you up.

And then, your smile bloomed slow, certain. “Green, my love.” The color of consent. Of readiness. Of go. Rio didn’t breathe for a moment. And then she did—but it was you who took her air. You turned in her arms and kissed her.

Not softly. Not shyly. But deeply—like your mouth had been crafted just to remind her of who she belonged to. Your hands slid up her chest, the curve of your belly pressing into her front, separating you—but not stopping you.

Your kiss curled heat low and hot between you, the force of it pushing a quiet, startled sound from the back of Rio’s throat. You felt her hands tighten, anchoring herself to you. Her body rocked forward, lips chasing yours even as you pulled away. When you finally opened your eyes, Rio’s were wide. Wrecked. Your lips were still parted when you whispered against hers, breath mingling.

“Aggie is waiting.” The words were still warm on your lips, the echo of your kiss still blooming across Rio’s mouth when she grinned—slow and devilish.

“And she can wait as long as I want her to,” Rio said, the smirk curling one side of her mouth as she gave you a wink that should’ve been illegal.

It made something flicker low in your belly. Not just arousal—though that hummed like a lit fuse—but something deeper. That pulse of safety and surrender, of knowing exactly whose hands you were in.

You laughed softly, breathless still, and took her hand in yours. Fingers laced.

The walk down the hallway felt quieter now. The air had thickened around you, the golden warmth of dinner and laughter replaced with something darker, more charged. The soft pads of your bare feet kissed the floorboards with each step, the candlelight growing dimmer as the bedroom came into view, a low fire of anticipation burning behind your ribs.

You reached the door first. And when you stepped inside, your smile deepened. Agatha lay on the bed. Still dressed. Still waiting. Her legs were folded beneath her, spine tall, hands resting on her thighs exactly as Rio had told her. Her chest rose and fell with slow, practiced breath—but her eyes? Her eyes were molten. Fixed on you the second you entered. Devouring. Wanting. But she didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Obedient. And still visibly wrecked from what you’d stirred in her that morning.

Your gaze drifted over her—the flush in her cheeks, the tension coiled in her shoulders, the quiet plea in her restraint. You could see how badly she wanted to reach for you. To say something. But she stayed still. Exactly as she’d been told.

Good girl.

The thought curled behind your smile. Then— Rio stepped in behind you. And everything shifted.

Her hand touched the small of your back, guiding, firm, warm through the sheer robe. She walked you to the center of the room, slow and deliberate, like placing something precious where it belonged.

You stood now just a few feet from the bed—between them. You felt the weight of both their eyes. Agatha, sitting perfectly still, breathing you in. Rio, behind you, her presence a wall of steady heat. Her voice brushed the air like smoke, low and deliberate as her hand returned to your waist.

“Look at her,” she said, voice velveted steel. “Still desperate for what she didn’t get this morning.”

You didn’t have to look to know Rio was smiling. But you did anyway. And when you turned toward her, that smirk was already waiting—lazy, confident, just a little dangerous. It curved across her mouth like a promise and a threat wrapped in silk.

You stepped closer, eyes never leaving hers, and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck—right beneath the strong line of her jaw, where her skin ran hot and steady. You nipped her lightly, teasing with your teeth, lips brushing that sensitive place just below her ear.

“Play nice,” you murmured, the words landing soft as a warning.

Behind you, from the bed, came the softest sound. A moan. Quick. Breathless. Barely there. But it pulled at you like gravity. Agatha.

Still kneeling on the edge of the bed, exactly where Rio had told her. Still dressed, spine straight, hands folded tightly in her lap like she was holding herself together with the barest thread of discipline. Her knuckles were white. Her jaw clenched tight. Her eyes never left you—not for a second.

You didn’t turn fully. But you smiled. Then your fingers found the front of Rio’s shirt—the one she’d changed into before dinner, dark satin beneath your fingertips, each button a slow tease. She’d worn it to make the night feel special. Elevated. Intentional. You remembered how her sleeves had been cuffed just below the elbow, her collar open slightly to reveal the curve of her collarbone and the hint of a chain tucked beneath.

And now you were unfastening it. Button by button. The fabric parted slowly, your hands steady as your pulse raced. You expected bare skin beneath. You were wrong. Your breath caught.

Black lace. Semi-sheer. A bra cut low and sharp, supportive but unapologetically seductive, built to highlight the strength of her body—not soften it. Her breasts sat full and high in the cups, her nipples visible through the delicate mesh. The contrast between that and the crispness of her shirt—

You nearly whimpered. She hadn’t dressed this way by accident. Rio watched your reaction with something smug and fond behind her gaze, her hands never leaving your hips. She let you take her in. Let you stare. And when your eyes finally dragged back up to meet hers— She winked. Devilish.

From the bed, Agatha inhaled sharply. You heard the hitch in her breath before you saw the tremble move through her. Her thighs pressed together. Her shoulders locked. But she didn’t move. She didn’t dare.

You stepped closer to Rio, your hands sweeping down her sides, tracing the lines of her waist and hips with aching care. Her muscles tensed beneath your touch—subtle, restrained. But she let you guide the moment. For now.

Your fingers reached the waistband of her pants. You hooked them with deliberate slowness. Looked up at her. “Off.” Your voice was low. Firm. A dare laced with heat. Rio raised a brow.

Then—smiled. She didn’t obey. Not immediately. Instead, her hands curved around your waist, guiding you back—one slow step at a time, until the back of your knees kissed the edge of the mattress. You looked up at her, your robe parting around you like petals beginning to fall, the lace over your belly tight and beautiful in the candlelight.

Her voice came low against your ear, all heat and mischief.

“Now, who said you get to make the rules tonight?” And then she laid you down.

Gently. Your body met the mattress with a sigh, hair spilling in waves over the pillow, robe slipping open just enough to reveal the stretch of your thighs, the slope of your hip, the place where you were soft and ready and radiant. You reached for her instinctively—but she didn’t follow.

Not yet. She stood there for a moment, shirt open, lace bra exposed, watching you like you were the most exquisite thing she’d ever touched.And to the side—Agatha. Still on the bed. Still perfectly still.

Her eyes were glassy now. Lips parted. Breath shallow. She hadn’t moved an inch. But every line of her body trembled. She was breaking for you. And she hadn’t even been touched yet.

Rio didn’t speak at first. She just looked at you—hair fanned out over the pillow, robe parted, lace clinging to the swell of your belly like it had been stitched to worship you. The soft rise and fall of your breath. The flush already high in your cheeks. Then she turned her gaze to Agatha. “Lie down,” she said softly. Agatha moved immediately. Not rushed. Not frantic. Obedient.

She shifted from her upright position, body trembling just slightly as she turned and lay down beside you, her hands folding over her stomach, legs stretched out straight, face angled toward the ceiling—but her eyes never left you. Her lips parted. Her chest rose and fell. But she didn’t touch. Not herself. Not you. Not Rio. Waiting.

“Don’t move,” Rio murmured. Agatha nodded once.

Then Rio’s attention returned to you. She moved toward the foot of the bed and climbed up, one knee sinking into the mattress, the other following as she stalked up the length of your body like she’d been called there by gravity itself. Her hands braced beside your shoulders. Her mouth dipped to yours.

The kiss was slow. Firm. Possessive. Her tongue traced the seam of your lips before her mouth slid lower, pressing kisses down your jaw, your throat, the hollow just beneath your collarbone. Each one left heat in its wake—tiny, glowing imprints of where she’d been.

You gasped when her hand finally moved. It slid down over your belly, reverent in the way it curved around the full, round weight of it. Then lower, over the lace stretched tight across your hips. Her fingers skimmed the edge. Then traced outward. You opened for her without thinking. Your knees falling to the sides. Your body offering.

She moved between your legs with slow precision, her eyes lifting once to your face. Then her hand followed the curve of your hip, down, around— Her fingers cupped you through the lace. Warm. Intentional. Claiming. She didn’t press. Not yet. But you were soaked. Her fingers stilled for half a second. You saw her smile. Then came the laugh—low, amused, pleased.

“Just like Aggie,” she murmured, voice curling dark against your skin. “I don’t even have to touch, and you’re desperate and ready for me.”

You exhaled hard. Your thighs twitched, pushing gently against her wrist, needing more.

Agatha whimpered beside you.

Rio’s fingers never stopped moving.

Even as her mouth descended, even as she began to kiss her way lower—down the column of your throat, across your collarbone, her lips parting around the swells of your breasts—her hand stayed firm between your legs, cupping the heat of you through soaked lace, her thumb grazing slowly, rhythmically across your center.

You gasped. “Rio—” She didn’t answer with words. She just hummed softly against your skin, the vibration sending a shiver through your ribs as her fingers hooked into the edge of your lingerie. She pulled the cup of the lace bra aside with maddening care, just enough to expose your nipple, the cool air brushing over it for only a moment—

Before her mouth closed around it. Warm. Wet. Possessive. “Ah—” Your cry punched out of you, your back arching as she sucked gently, tongue flicking against the tight bud, then circling slow, deliberate. Her free hand curved around the underside of your breast, holding it steady as she worshipped. You couldn’t stop moving—hips shifting, thighs tensing, your whole body rolling helplessly into her rhythm. The steady pressure of her fingers at your core made you feel like you were melting from the inside out.

Beside you, Agatha made a sound. A quiet, shaky breath—held too long, now breaking. Rio pulled her mouth from your breast with a soft pop, your nipple glistening in the candlelight. Her hand didn’t leave your body. Not even for a second.

She didn’t turn her head—didn’t need to. Her voice was low, edged in command. “Agatha.” The name alone made her shiver. “Take your clothes off.” Agatha swallowed audibly. “Leave the bra and briefs on.”

There was a rustle of movement to your side—subtle, reverent. You didn’t look. You didn’t need to. You could feel Agatha’s energy shift beside you—her obedience a slow, aching pulse in the air. The sound of fabric sliding over skin. A zipper. A breath sucked through her teeth as she peeled away everything but the essentials.

You felt her eyes on you again as she settled—now bare-legged, stripped of everything but the sheer black bra and matching briefs she’d worn beneath her clothes. The same ones you remembered from mornings after long nights—thin, clinging, worn soft by time and desire.

Rio’s mouth began to move again. Down. Slower now, like she had all the time in the world to taste every inch of you. She left kisses as she went—wet and open-mouthed against your ribs, your sides, the soft curve where your belly met your waist. Her lips pressed reverent heat into the stretch of your skin, her tongue flicking along your side, teasing, tasting the salt of you.

Then a nip—right beneath the swell of your belly.

You gasped. “Fuck—” But Rio just smiled against your skin, her lips moving lower still, trailing toward the waistband of your lace. Her fingers followed. Sliding up over your inner thighs. Teasing along the edge of your underwear. Dipping just enough to make your hips rise from the bed in a slow, uncontrollable roll.

Her fingers brushed lightly over your center—through the soaked lace this time, pressing just enough to feel the heat of you, the undeniable wetness there. She made a low, delighted sound in her throat. Then her voice cut through the tension again—low, measured, wicked. “Agatha.” To your side, a sharp inhale. “You can touch your breast now.” Silence followed for a beat. Then— “Only there.”

You didn’t need to look to know that Agatha was obeying. You felt it. The quiet moan that broke from her lips. The rustle of her hands as they moved—slow, trembling, reverent—to her breasts, still caged in sheer lace. Her thumbs rubbing over the peaks beneath the fabric, her hips twitching, desperate for more but unwilling to break the rules.

Her breath grew louder. Shaky. She was watching you. Watching Rio peel the lace aside, exposing your soaked center, her mouth just inches away from where you needed her most. Watching your legs fall wider. Your fingers curl in the sheets. Rio made no move to rush. Her fingers had pushed the lace aside fully now, baring you to the low candlelight and her mouth. But instead of diving in—instead of giving you what your body was begging for—she took her time. She lowered herself further. And began kissing the inside of your thighs. One. Then another. Open-mouthed, wet, slow.

She kissed just above your knee first, then higher, her lips dragging against your skin as her tongue followed in little teasing licks. You twitched beneath her, the muscle in your thigh jumping with every graze of her teeth. The closer she got, the more your hips lifted, your body chasing her mouth, desperate for contact.

But Rio only chuckled low. “You’re so greedy when you’re this wet. I’ve wanted to taste you all fucking day.” You whimpered, your hands clutching at the sheets, legs spreading wider. Her teeth nipped again—sharper this time, right at the sensitive skin near the crease of your thigh. You cried out, your body jerking as she soothed it immediately with her tongue, the heat of her breath flooding over your skin.

And then—finally— Her tongue licked a single, hard stripe through your center. “Ah—fuck!” Your hips bucked off the bed. The groan that ripped from your chest was raw, unfiltered, electric. Your thighs widened instinctively, spreading open for her as far as they would go, your belly tight and high between you. Behind you, Agatha gasped. “Don’t stop,” Rio murmured against you, her voice like velvet-dipped command. Her lips pressed a kiss just above your clit before her tongue flicked again—longer now, firmer. “Let her hear what I do to you.”

And you did. You couldn’t help it. The sound that spilled from your throat was thick and needy, cracking as your body jolted beneath her tongue. It wasn’t a cry—it was a surrender, a moan pulled up from somewhere low and sacred, trembling through the walls and straight into Agatha’s lungs.

Rio licked you again—slow and deliberate, the kind of pressure that knew exactly how to part you, how to make you tremble. Her tongue worked through the slickness she’d already coaxed from you, dipping down and then dragging upward in one smooth stroke, stopping just shy of your clit.

She did it again.

And again.

You writhed, hips rocking instinctively, thighs straining wider. The muscles of your stomach fluttered, the tight round of your belly rising and falling with each breath as she devoured you like she had all night.

She flattened her tongue then, the heat of it broad and hot as she licked from the bottom of your entrance all the way to the top—and then finally circled your clit.

Your cry was sharp. You fisted the sheets. Your head fell back. Your whole body arched. “Fuck, Rio—please—” Behind you, Agatha moaned. Louder this time. Desperate. You turned your head just enough to see her.

Her knees drawn up now, thighs pressed together, her hands still on her chest—just her chest—rubbing her nipples through the lace of her bra. Her lips were parted, red and wet, her face flushed, her eyes fixed on your body as if she were starving. And still—she hadn’t moved lower. Because Rio hadn’t said she could.

Rio moaned into you then, as if feeding off your sounds, your trembling. She suckled your clit once, slow and controlled, and then flicked her tongue faster, drawing tight, wet circles around the bundle of nerves that had you keening. Her hand slid up to your hip, holding you down. Keeping you open. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. You were burning alive for her. For both of them.

“Rio—”

Her name broke from your lips on a moan, ragged and full, torn from the pit of your stomach as her tongue circled your clit with maddening precision. The way she moved—slow, then fast, then slow again—had your thighs trembling, the heat coiling low in your belly tightening into something that felt like it might shatter you.

“God, Rio—please, please—”

Your hands tangled in the sheets, trying not to come undone too fast, but the pleasure was building—mounting—with every flick of her tongue, every rumble of her moan as she fed on your body like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. She was groaning against you, low and rough, like the taste of you wrecked her just as much as you were falling apart beneath her.

“Fuck—please—please, don’t stop—”

The words slurred into the air as your hips lifted, thighs shaking, your hand reaching out blindly—gripping the nearest edge of the sheets, the mattress, anything to anchor yourself. You were trembling now, legs parted wide, hips twitching every time she flicked her tongue across your clit, every time she moaned against you like the taste of you was wrecking her from the inside out. Your fingers twisted into the sheets, mouth falling open on a cry that barely sounded human. And beside you—so close, so still—

Agatha lay on her back, just as Rio had placed her. Her body was a study in restraint. Her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles white. The rise and fall of her chest was sharp, her breathing ragged, her eyes glassy with want. She watched every shudder of your thighs, every roll of your hips, every twitch of your belly as Rio devoured you.

And still—she hadn’t moved. Her lips were parted. Her face flushed. She looked like she was holding back a storm. Rio lifted her mouth for just a moment, her breath hot against your skin. She pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another—before glancing up with a dark, breathless smile.

“Agatha.” Rio’s voice was low but absolute—cutting through the room like silk-draped steel. Agatha’s head turned instantly, breathing hard, chest heaving, her hands clutched into the bedding like they were the only things holding her together. Her face was flushed, lips parted, pupils blown so wide her eyes looked nearly black.

Waiting. “You can kiss her,” Rio said, her voice rough now, thick with possession and reverence. Then a pause. “And you can touch her chest.” Another beat, her mouth still pressed hot to your thigh. Her fingers tightened on your hip. “That’s all.”

The permission landed like a spell. Agatha gasped—sharp, involuntary. And then she moved like she’d been released from something. Her body shifted, rolling onto her side with a desperation that bordered on frantic, but her hands were careful. Delicate. Worshipful. She didn’t rush. Her palm came up first—hovering, trembling—before finally settling against your cheek. The way she touched you felt like prayer. Like awe.

Her fingers traced your jaw, cupped your face as if it might vanish, her thumb sweeping slowly across the flushed curve of your cheekbone. And then—she kissed you. Not softly. Not sweetly. With need.

Mouth crashing to yours like she’d gone days without it. Like she needed your breath to live. Her kiss was soaked in hunger, all tongue and aching reverence, her moan cracking in her throat as she finally—finally—got a taste of the sounds Rio was tearing out of you. And beneath you, between your thighs, Rio groaned.

Her tongue circled your clit again—tight, fast, focused. Every flick sent lightning bolts through your core. She sucked it into her mouth now, not gently, but with purpose, her hands gripping your hips to keep you grounded as your whole body lifted from the bed. You moaned into Agatha’s mouth, the sound helpless, broken. She kissed you harder. Her other hand found your chest, sliding under the lace. Moving it out of the way as she pulled it down, your skin spilling out. She didn’t go lower—she wouldn’t dare—but her palm molded to your breast, thumb circling your nipple with slow, aching worship. You arched. The pressure inside you was no longer building—it was surging, a tidal wave bearing down on you from all sides. And then Rio’s voice— Right against your cunt, low and full of dark praise.

“That’s it, baby,” she breathed, the words dragging hot across your skin. “Let her taste what I do to you.” You shattered. Agatha’s mouth swallowing your cry, her hand tight on your breast. Your legs jerked. Your toes curled. You sobbed. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t quiet. It tore out of you, your whole body seized in the grip of something too big to name, too perfect to survive. Your thighs snapped shut around Rio’s head—but her grip on your hips tightened, keeping you spread, her mouth still devouring.

She didn’t stop. Not when you whimpered. Not when your body arched like a bowstring pulled to breaking. She kept going. Slow now. Deep, dragging strokes of her tongue, her lips sealing over your clit, pulling, sucking, flicking again—making sure you felt it, that every aftershock cracked through your spine and pulsed out into your fingertips. Your voice broke. “Fuck—Rio, I—” Another wave hit. Not a full climax—a quake. A raw, drawn-out contraction of muscle and pleasure and fire beneath your skin. Agatha kissed the corner of your mouth now, her breath rushing, her lips brushing your jaw, whispering into your skin like she couldn’t stop herself. “So beautiful like this.”

Her thumb rubbed your nipple again, slower now, in sync with Rio’s tongue. Your back arched into both touches, your body no longer your own—offered, stretched between them like a lit cord about to snap. Rio groaned into you. The vibration hit straight through your core. And that-that—made you sob again. You didn’t know if it was a third orgasm or the echoes of the second stretched into oblivion—but your legs trembled violently, your stomach tightened hard, your hands clawed at the sheets— And Rio held you there. Pinned open by her mouth. Owned by her rhythm.

Her hand slid up to your belly, holding you, grounding you, as her mouth moved faster—her lips slick and hot, tongue swirling tighter, tighter, tighter, each flick more devastating than the last. You could hear Agatha panting beside you. Could feel her hand sliding down your breast now, cradling it, squeezing it, her body curled toward you like gravity had dragged her to worship. She was shaking. But neither of them stopped. And you—wrecked, soaked, trembling—could only take it.

------

Laid out in the aftermath, your skin flushed and slick, your breath ragged in your chest. Agatha kissed your cheek once more, lips soft and reverent, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from your damp forehead like she couldn’t stop touching you—even now.

And then—

Rio rose.

Her mouth glistened with your release, her chest rising slow and controlled as she licked her bottom lip and looked up between your thighs—then higher—past your body.

To Agatha.

Agatha froze.

You felt her beside you—her breathing, the weight of her stillness, the way every muscle locked tight beneath her skin.

She knew.

The moment had come.

Rio wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, slow and deliberate, then crawled up over your body—not kissing, not pausing—until she was between you and Agatha, straddling the space between.

Her voice was low.

Dark.

“Look at you,” she murmured, eyes sweeping down Agatha’s trembling body. “You’ve been such a good girl tonight.”

Agatha swallowed hard, her hands still tucked against her chest, fingers curled tightly like if she let go, she might break into pieces.

Rio leaned in closer, her body hovering now, all restrained power and focused attention.

“You followed every word.”

Agatha nodded—quick, desperate.

“You watched her fall apart.”

Another nod.

“And now you think you’ve earned me?”

Agatha’s breath hitched. Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Her jaw flexed with effort, her thighs twitching beneath the lace of her briefs, her bra visibly damp with sweat and arousal.

“Say it,” Rio said softly, tilting her head. “Tell me what you want.”

Agatha’s eyes finally met hers.

“You,” she whispered. “I want you, Rio. Please.”

Rio smiled. Not kind.

Possessive.

Predatory.

She leaned forward, lips brushing Agatha’s ear.

“Then be still.”

Agatha had gone utterly still beneath her. Her hands rested at her sides, curled into the sheets, and her eyes were wide with anticipation, already glassy with need. The lace of her bra barely contained her, her nipples hard and straining beneath the fabric, her briefs soaked dark where her thighs pressed together.

Rio sat over her hips, not straddling fully, just enough to press her down, a hand braced beside her head as her other trailed slowly down her sternum.

You could see the way Agatha’s body reacted—every inch of her tense, trembling, waiting for the next command.

And Rio gave it.

“Hands over your head.”

Agatha obeyed instantly, arms rising, wrists crossing above her head like it was instinct. Her breath hitched—a caught sound—as her body arched beneath the command, chest pushing up into Rio’s palm as it traced down, down, over the dip of her stomach.

“You’re so good like this,” Rio said softly, but there was steel behind it—domination wrapped in velvet. “All that control you wear like armor… stripped away.”

She leaned in then—just enough for her breath to brush Agatha’s jaw.

“Look at you now.”

Agatha whimpered.

You moaned softly at the sound, your thighs pressing together as you watched, content to stay exactly where you were—languid, warm, owned—while Rio turned her full attention to Agatha.

Rio sat back slightly, letting her eyes drag over Agatha’s chest.

“Keep your hands where they are.”

She gripped the center of the lace bra with one hand and pulled it down—not torn, not rushed—peeled, like she wanted Agatha to feel every second of exposure.

Her breasts spilled free, flushed and soft, nipples tight from neglect and anticipation.

Rio exhaled like she’d been waiting to see them all night.

“Perfect,” she murmured. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Agatha let out a choked sound—half whimper, half laugh—but she nodded, breathless. Rio’s hand came down—not hard, not gentle—just firm, cupping one breast and squeezing until Agatha gasped, her hips bucking up.

And Rio pushed her back down.

“I said still.”

You watched as Agatha’s whole body trembled with effort, her wrists flexing above her head, but she didn’t move. Not again. Her chest heaved beneath Rio’s palm, her mouth falling open.

“That’s it,” Rio purred. “You don’t have to be in charge tonight, baby. Just take what I give you.”

Agatha whimpered, her lips parted, head tipped back into the pillow like she couldn’t bear to look anywhere but the ceiling. Her arms stayed exactly where Rio had told her to keep them—wrists crossed above her head, fingers curled tight into the sheets to keep from reaching. You could see her whole body vibrating with tension. With need.

She wasn’t used to this. Not like this. She could take control in any room, command a storm with the flick of a wrist or the cut of her voice. But here—beneath Rio—she was bare. Quivering. Made soft and silent by nothing more than permission.

Rio leaned forward again, slow, predatory, dragging her mouth just along the edge of Agatha’s jaw. Her voice dropped, breath ghosting warm across her cheek.

“That’s my good girl.”

Agatha shuddered.

Your own breath caught as you watched—heat curling low again, slow and thick, as Rio pressed a kiss to Agatha’s neck. Then another. Open-mouthed and wet, just below her jawline, tongue teasing along the vein there, her hand still cradling one of Agatha’s breasts like it was something meant to be claimed. Agatha moaned, her hips bucking up involuntarily.

Rio caught them with hers. Pressed her back down. “Did I tell you to move?”

“N-no,” Agatha breathed, her voice shaking with restraint, with surrender.

“Then stay still,” Rio murmured. “Or I’ll stop.”

You could see the war inside Agatha’s body—every nerve lit with wanting, but her hands stayed where they were. Her legs flexed beneath Rio’s hips, but didn’t rise again. She bit her lip. Swallowed hard. And she obeyed. Rio smiled. Dark. Devastating. “Good girl.”

Then—slowly, deliberately—her mouth descended. She kissed the top of Agatha’s breast first. Then lower. She sucked at the soft swell just above her nipple, her teeth grazing lightly—not enough to mark, just enough to remind. Agatha moaned, a sound so raw it hit straight between your legs, and your breath stuttered out in response.

Then Rio’s tongue flicked over the tight, flushed peak.

Agatha cried out. Her body arched—just barely—but her hands stayed above her head, white-knuckled, trembling. “Please…” You heard it. Barely more than a whisper.

And Rio answered by closing her mouth around Agatha’s nipple—hot, slow, possessive—sucking deep, her hand pressing firmly to Agatha’s other breast, her fingers spreading wide to claim every inch.

She lingered—tongue circling, lips pulling tight around the sensitive peak as her fingers rolled and squeezed Agatha’s other breast, each movement slow, sure, and deliberate. She wasn’t teasing.

She was claiming.

Agatha’s gasps had turned to whimpers, her wrists still locked above her head, knuckles bone-white from how tightly she was gripping the sheets. Her chest arched upward, offering more, even as her thighs trembled beneath the weight of staying still.

You could see it—how close she was to breaking.

And Rio knew it too.

She drew back slightly, letting Agatha’s nipple slip from her mouth with a soft, wet sound. Her breath was warm as it ghosted across the damp skin, and her voice, when it came, was low and rough with satisfaction.

“So responsive,” Rio murmured, dragging her hand trailing lower—down the line of her ribcage, the soft rise of her belly, the curve of her hip, slow as honey. “And we haven’t even gotten to the best part.”

Agatha was flushed, her skin glowing under the flicker of candlelight. Her breath trembled in her chest, her eyes fluttered half-shut. She hadn’t moved once. Arms still stretched above her head, hands gripping the pillow, every tendon in her arms pulled taut with effort. She was obedient, open, waiting.

And Rio—God, Rio was slow.

Cruel in how gentle she was.

She dragged her fingertips down the inside of Agatha’s thigh, hovering above where the lace still clung damp to her skin. She leaned down, close, nose brushing just along the edge of Agatha’s bra, her breath hot against flushed skin.

“You’ve been so good for me,” Rio murmured, almost cooing. “Keeping still. Staying quiet.”

She kissed the center of Agatha’s chest, right between her breasts.

“I think it’s time you got something back.”

Agatha choked on a gasp, her fingers flexing once—but not moving—her whole body caught between discipline and the frantic ache of wanting more. Her hips twitching involuntarily, but her hands—miraculously—remained in place. Obedient. Desperate.

Rio shifted down.

Kissed the space just below Agatha’s navel. Then lower. A trail of heat that left Agatha shivering beneath her, her breath catching in her throat.

Rio hooked her thumb into the waistband of the briefs. Pulled them down. Slowly. Peeling them away inch by inch until Agatha was bare—open and glistening and utterly wrecked without being touched.

Your breath caught.

You could see the shine of her arousal against her inner thighs, the desperate clench of muscle as she fought to stay still, her arms shaking from the effort of not reaching for you. For anything.

Rio smiled. Admired her. Then looked over her shoulder—back at you.

“You can kiss her.”

You blinked, surprised. Your body still ached pleasantly from your own release, but the heat was stirring again. Your legs shifted, heart thudding.

Rio’s voice darkened.

“Just her mouth.”

She turned her attention back to Agatha.

“Her hands stay where they are. And if she moves…” Rio’s lips brushed Agatha’s thigh, “…I stop.”

Agatha let out a sound that wasn’t quite a word. Her lips parted, her hips twitching once—barely—and then stilled again.

You moved.

You leaned in slowly, watching Agatha’s face the whole time. Her eyes were wide, lips parted, chest heaving. She looked spent already, her body slick with sweat, flushed from the inside out. You cupped her cheek gently and kissed her.

And at the same moment, Rio slid two fingers into her.

Agatha cried out into your mouth, the sound muffled but raw, her whole body jolting beneath you. Her walls clenched instantly around Rio’s hand, her thighs shaking with the effort to stay still.

Rio groaned low—approving—as her fingers began to move, pumping slow and deep, curling expertly with each stroke.

Agatha kissed you like she needed your breath to survive.

Her lips moved over yours hungrily, tasting the echoes of your release, her moans vibrating against your mouth as Rio’s fingers worked her open—slow, deep thrusts that made her body tremble with every stroke.

But she kept her arms above her head.

Barely.

Her fingers gripped the sheets like lifelines, her wrists taut, arms quivering from the effort of obeying. Her whole body shook, breasts rising into the air as her hips twitched in helpless surrender. But she didn’t move. Not in the ways that counted. Not in the ways Rio had forbidden.

Your hand brushed her cheek, thumb stroking just beneath her eye as her brows pulled tight and another moan fell into your mouth.

God, she was beautiful like this—wrecked and trembling, submissive under Rio’s hand, and still trying so hard to be good.

You felt her pulse in the kiss. The want. The ache. The tears that hadn’t yet fallen. Agatha moaned into your kiss, her hips trembling, her body pulled taut with tension.

And between her legs, Rio groaned—deep, pleased.

“She’s close.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see her.

Agatha’s lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed deep pink, eyes glassy and half-lidded. Her chest rose in shallow bursts, breasts heaving with every breath, nipples peaked and untouched now, the ache in them matching the one between her thighs.

Rio’s fingers didn’t let up.

They pumped harder now, her palm snug against Agatha’s cunt, thumb grinding slow and tight over her clit as her fingers curled inside her again.

Agatha cried out.

“Please—please, Rio, I—”

But her wrists never moved.

And Rio leaned in, kissed the top of her thigh, then the inside.

Then—

“You don’t cum until I say.”

Agatha whimpered. Shook. Her thighs twitched like they wanted to clamp down, to move, to do anything—but they stayed open. Obedient. Her body was burning. Her eyes darted to you—pleading.

You leaned down again, kissed her softly now, whispering into her mouth.

“You’re doing so good, Aggie.”

And beneath your lips, she sobbed.

Rio’s fingers never stopped.

They pumped deep inside Agatha, steady and devastating, the curl of them perfect, practiced. Her palm pressed against Agatha’s mound, her thumb dragging slow, ruthless circles over her clit—tight and unrelenting.

Agatha sobbed beneath your lips.

Her thighs quivered violently now, her entire body trembling with the effort it took to obey. Her hands were still clenched above her head, fingers twisted in the sheets, shoulders locked. Her arms shook with the strain.

She wanted to move.

She wanted to cum.

But she didn’t. Because Rio hadn’t told her she could.

And God, it was beautiful.

“That’s it, baby,” Rio murmured against the inside of her thigh, her voice warm and razor-sharp. “Feel how close you are. Feel what I’m giving you.”

Agatha gasped, her head rolling to the side, her lips brushing yours again as she struggled to keep from breaking.

You kissed her—softer now, soothing—your hand coming up to stroke her hair, to anchor her, to praise her.

“You’re doing so good,” you whispered again, your voice trembling with awe. “So good for her. So good for me.”

Agatha whimpered—a broken sound, high in her throat.

Her whole body strained now, hips twitching, her stomach clenching with the threat of release.

And Rio—still fucking her with that same measured, deliberate rhythm—curled her fingers again. Hit just right.

Agatha cried out—loud—and her legs started to close, instinct kicking in.

Rio’s free hand shot up.

Pressed her knees apart.

“No.”

Agatha froze.

Her hands stayed up. Her legs fell back open.

Tears gathered in her lashes, her chest heaving as she shook her head, helpless.

“Please,” she choked out. “Please, Rio, please—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Rio’s voice was low, steady. Absolute. “You don’t cum until I say.”

Another thrust. Deep. Curling. Her thumb never left her clit.

And Agatha was sobbing now—eyes wild, mouth open, body shivering so hard you thought she might unravel right there.

You pressed your forehead to hers.

“Almost there,” you breathed. “Just hold on, baby. Just a little more.”

And Agatha—your strong, sharp, unshakeable Agatha—nodded.

Tears clung to her lashes, her breath catching in her throat with every thrust of Rio’s fingers, every cruel, perfect circle of her thumb. Her body trembled violently, the effort of staying still pulling her so tight you thought she might crack open from it.

And then—finally—Rio’s voice came, low and steady and full of command.

“You can move.”

Agatha broke.

Her hands flew down instantly—desperately—as if they’d been waiting to fall all along.

One hand tangled in Rio’s hair, clutching it tight, pulling her closer in a rush of instinct and gratitude and lust. The other found you—shaking fingers curling behind your neck, anchoring you as if your skin were the only thing keeping her grounded.

“Please—please—”

She wasn’t asking for permission anymore. She was begging for release.

And Rio gave it to her.

She didn’t say another word—she lowered her mouth to Agatha’s center, fingers still pumping deep, thumb never losing its rhythm. Her tongue flattened against her clit, hot and relentless, licking with the kind of focus that could obliterate.

Agatha screamed.

Her hips lifted off the bed, knees buckling, thighs locking around Rio’s head, but Rio held her there—groaning into her, licking harder, faster, her fingers curling just right with every thrust.

And you—

You leaned in, lips brushing Agatha’s jaw, then lower, your kisses featherlight and reverent against the salt-warm column of her throat. You trailed down slowly, your breath trembling as it fanned over her flushed chest.

Your lips closed around one peaked nipple, and Agatha wailed.

Her hand tightened on the back of your neck, not pulling—just holding. Holding like she needed you as much as she needed Rio’s mouth between her legs.

“I can’t—I’m—”

Her voice broke.

And Rio didn’t let up.

She moaned against Agatha’s clit, her tongue flicking in rapid, devastating circles, fingers pounding into her with precision, her free hand gripping her thigh to keep her open, wide, ruined.

You kissed her breast, sucked gently, then trailed your tongue back up her sternum, whispering through your own rising breath—

“Let go, baby.”

Agatha shattered.

Her body seized, then surged forward—hips bucking, chest heaving, voice rising into a sharp, fractured cry as the orgasm ripped through her like a wave pulled taut and finally unleashed. Her hand yanked at Rio’s hair, her other fist curling against your skin as she sobbed, the pleasure too much, too full, too deep.

But Rio didn’t stop.

And neither did you.

You kissed the tears from her cheek as she came—loud, shaking, her thighs clamped tight, her whole body shaking between the two of you.

And she had never been more beautiful.

Agatha was still trembling.

Flat on her back, eyes dazed, lips parted in the warm hush that followed her release. Her body glistened in the candlelight—chest heaving, thighs twitching, the slick sheen between them catching the soft gold glow. One of her hands was still tangled in your hair, fingers loose, the other lay limp at her side, every muscle in her arms gone soft from the sheer effort of staying still.

She looked undone. Not just from the orgasm, but from obedience.

And Rio—

Rio rose slowly from between her legs, shoulders rolling back, her mouth slick with Agatha’s release. Her chin shimmered with it. Her lips parted, breathing deep and even as she took Agatha in from above. She looked wrecked herself, in the most gorgeous way—hair tousled, cheeks flushed, a dark calm blooming behind her eyes.

Her fingers flexed absently at her side—those same fingers that had pulled every sob, every twitch, every broken moan from Agatha’s throat.

She looked down. At Agatha. At you. “Open.”

Her voice was low. Measured. Absolute. Agatha didn’t hesitate. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes damp, mouth parting immediately. There was no question in her obedience, no pause for thought—just a quiet, desperate kind of hunger.

Rio brought her fingers to her lips. And Agatha took them. Sucked them in deep—no teasing, no hesitation. Her mouth sealed over Rio’s knuckles with reverence, her tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing as she cleaned them, licking every trace of herself from Rio’s skin like it was holy.

A moan slipped from your mouth, quiet but shaken. Just the sight of it—Agatha on her knees now, her hands folded neatly against her stomach, her mouth wrapped around Rio’s fingers—was enough to make your thighs press together. She looked like she was being fed communion. Like Rio was her altar. Her offering. Her god.

You reached out, brushing Agatha’s damp hair back from her face, fingers trembling slightly as they traced her temple. You watched her jaw work around each digit, watched her throat move with every slow, deliberate swallow.

When Rio finally pulled her fingers free, a string of spit connected them. Agatha’s mouth stayed open, her lips red, her eyes glassy and dark. She looked wrecked. And Rio smiled. Her voice, when it came, was low and warm—deep, grounding. Possessive. Affectionate. Proud.

“You did so well for me, baby.”

She cupped Agatha’s cheek, thumb stroking the flushed skin along her jaw. Agatha leaned into the touch instantly, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting on a soft exhale like she could dissolve into it.

She inhaled shakily. Then opened her eyes again—dark, dilated, and utterly wrecked. And Rio smiled. Then she turned to you.

Her hand moved with purpose—trailing along your breast, slow and firm, before gliding down your stomach and curving around the swell of your hip. Her palm lingered there, fingers spreading wide. Her voice purred behind your ear, thick with want and command.

“On your knees.”

Your breath caught. And you moved. Instinct took over—your body still flushed from earlier, still thrumming with the memory of pleasure—but now filled with new heat, heavier, hungrier. You shifted to the center of the bed, legs parting as you braced yourself, hands sinking into the mattress. Your belly hung full and beautiful beneath you, your body glowing in the low light.

Rio knelt behind you.

You heard her breath catch. She moaned low in her throat—a sound of reverence, raw and aching—as her hands moved over your hips, grounding you, claiming you. Then she reached forward. Her hand brushed over your thigh, knuckles grazing your skin, before curling around the base of the strap she had laid aside earlier.

Black. Sleek. Familiar.

Worshiped.

Rio didn’t rush.

The harness whispered against her hips as she adjusted it lower, tightening it with practiced ease. Her hands grazed your sides, firm and grounding, thumbs stroking soft circles into the skin just above your hips. She moved like she had all the time in the world—and every inch of your body belonged to her.

She leaned in close, her chest pressing to your back, warm and steady, her breath skating over your shoulder as her palm slipped down between your thighs.

The tip of the strap touched you. You inhaled sharply. It wasn’t just contact—it was possession. A soft kiss that said I know you. I own this. She dragged it slowly through your folds, collecting the slick already gathered there, teasing your entrance but not yet pushing in. Not yet giving you what you needed.

Behind you, Rio moaned. Deep and guttural.

Her hand came to rest on the underside of your belly, cradling it, reverent.

You were full already—full of life, full of heat—and the angle of your hips made every touch bloom outward, slow and trembling.

“So ready for me,” she growled, her voice thick against your skin. “You always open up like this. Like you were made for me.”

You whimpered, rocking your hips back into her touch without meaning to. Your hands fisted the sheets. Your thighs quivered as the weight of your belly shifted slightly, your body bracing instinctively for what was coming.

Below you, Agatha trembled. She was laid out beneath you now, exactly where Rio had placed her—back against the pillows, lips parted, breath stuttering. Her eyes were locked on your body, on the strap poised at your entrance, on Rio’s hand possessively wrapped around the base.

She looked wrecked. Her hands twitched against the sheets, fingers curling. Her eyes shimmered—not just with lust, but with something deeper. The ache of not being allowed to touch. The reverence of being made to watch.

Her voice cracked open in a whisper.

“Please…” Not a demand. Not even a request. Just need, given voice. Rio heard it. And smiled.

One hand still holding the strap, she reached forward with the other—placed it flat against Agatha’s sternum, firm but gentle, pinning her down again. “Not yet,” she murmured. “Not until I say.” Agatha whimpered. And her hands went still. Above her, your body trembled. The candlelight poured across your skin, golden and soft, casting shadows across the round curve of your belly. Your breasts swayed slightly with every shallow breath, your moan catching in your throat as the tip of the strap circled your entrance once more—slow, deliberate, claiming.

It glistened. Slick with you. And Agatha watched—eyes wide, lips shaking, her breath quickening with every second. “She’s watching how you fall apart for me,” Rio purred, and then—

She pushed inside. The stretch was slow. Full. Your moan cracked the air as the tip slipped past the edge and filled you, the pressure blooming with a depth that made your thighs tremble and your arms lock tight to stay upright.

“That’s it,” Rio whispered. “Open up for me, honey. Let me in.”

The weight of your belly shifted forward. Your hips arched reflexively, and your breath came in ragged bursts as the strap sank deeper—inch by slow, burning inch.

It was too much and not enough.

You gasped.

And Agatha—beneath you, eyes locked on the point where you were joined—sobbed.

Her hands had curled into the sheets again. Her chest heaved. And that sound—that sound—it was the same one she’d made the very first time you kissed her in her office, years ago.

That same shuddering breath. That same surrender. That same willingness to fall.

Rio grunted low behind you, her hands gripping your hips as she bottomed out, the full length of her now buried deep.

And for one breathless moment—

The three of you formed a perfect line. You—open and glowing, belly suspended above the woman you loved. Agatha—gasping, pinned beneath you, tears in her eyes. Rio—behind you, inside you, in control of all of it.

Sacred geometry.

A shape that radiated.

And Rio—voice raw, feral with tenderness—breathed against your neck:

“Now let her watch you take it.”

Rio didn’t move at first.

She stayed fully pressed inside you, her hands wide and firm over your hips, her pelvis flush against your ass. The strap throbbed inside you—not with vibration, but with presence. The pressure alone made your breath stutter, made your cunt flutter greedily around it, already aching for more.

Behind you, Rio exhaled.

“God, you’re so fucking tight like this,” she murmured, her voice dark silk against the back of your neck. “Still soft from coming. And still trying to take me like you can’t help yourself.”

You whimpered.

Your body was already responding—thighs trembling, back arching, your walls clenching around the strap as if trying to draw her even deeper. But Rio didn’t move.

Instead, she rocked. A small motion. Subtle. Her hips ground forward just enough to make the strap shift inside you. It dragged along your inner walls, angled just right to brush every sensitive point—but it wasn’t enough.

It was on purpose.You gasped, trying to press back, but her grip held you still.Beneath you, Agatha moaned.She was still pinned by the weight of your body above her, her eyes locked to where you and Rio met, her hands visibly shaking against the mattress. Her thighs rubbed together, her lips parted in a soft, helpless pant.

She looked like she was going to cry again—but from the pleasure of watching. From the need of it.

Rio noticed. “You like watching her take me, baby?” she asked, her voice dripping with praise and power.

Agatha nodded fast, swallowing hard. “Yes, Rio. Please… she looks so—” Her voice broke. “So beautiful.” Rio hummed low in her throat. And then—a single thrust. She pulled halfway out. And slammed back in.

You cried out, loud and high, the motion punching the breath from your lungs. Your hips jerked, your arms nearly gave out as your body rippled with pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. And Agatha gasped beneath you, her head tipping back like your moan had hit her just as hard.

“You take my cock so well,” she whispered, her lips brushing the back of your shoulder. “So fucking full, mama. You think Aggie sees how deep I am?”

You tried to speak—tried to say yes, or more, or please, but all that came out was a broken sob as she rolled her hips again, dragging the strap out in one slow, soaking glide before easing it back in, inch by devastating inch.

Beneath you, Agatha was squirming now. Not moving toward touch—just trembling, thighs clenched, chest flushed. You glanced down at her. Her eyes met yours—and in them, there was something raw. Wrecked. Tears brimmed again. Her lower lip quivered. Her fingers dug into the sheets as she whispered—

“Please, Rio.”

And Rio chuckled low behind you, her hips grinding once more as she fucked you slow, deep, claiming every inch of you again and again.

“Be patient, baby,” she purred. “And keep watching.”

Rio’s rhythm slowed again.

She stayed deep inside you, her hips pressed flush to yours, the strap buried to the hilt. You could feel every inch of it, throbbing heat radiating outward, your body clenching again and again, desperate for friction, for movement, for more.

But Rio didn’t give it. Not yet. She curled forward over your back, her chest warm against your spine, her mouth brushing the side of your neck.

And she asked—soft, grounding, herself again: “You okay?”

The question cut through the heat like balm.

And you nodded—frantic, breath trembling as you gasped out, “Yes—fuck—yes, I just please—”

Your moan broke the last word in half, your voice pitching higher as your hips twitched beneath her, trying to grind down, to take more than she was giving.

But Rio held you still.

“Use your words,” she whispered, her lips warm against your skin.

Your hands tightened in the sheets. Your whole body arched—bowed back into her—and the motion pressed your swollen belly forward, heavy and full, until it touched Agatha’s stomach beneath you.

Agatha gasped. And you— You cried out. “More—please, Rio, I need it—”

Your voice cracked as the strap shifted inside you, and you felt your core seize with the edge of it, the ache rolling through your hips, your spine, your ribs. You collapsed forward, forehead dropping to Agatha’s shoulder. Your lips grazed her skin, breath coming fast and shallow as Rio rocked behind you—deep, slow, grinding. Not fast.

Devastating.

Agatha sobbed beneath you, her body stiff with tension, her hands still pinned at her sides. She felt your weight now—your belly pressing warm and full to hers, your breasts grazing her chest, your moans pouring against her skin like prayer.

Behind you, Rio groaned.

“Fuck, baby,” she breathed. “You’re so full—so soft like this—God, I can feel how much you need it.”

Her hands flexed on your hips. Then she rolled into you again—deep, slow, the kind of thrust that knocked the air from your lungs, your face burying deeper into Agatha’s shoulder.

Your teeth grazed her skin. Your hands scrambled for the sheets.

And Agatha? Agatha was shaking now, her thighs clenching together, her breath quickening to sobs as she whimpered beneath you—

“Please, Rio—please let me—please—”

But still, she didn’t move.

And Rio’s voice was velvet over your spine.

“Not yet, baby.”

Then another thrust. And this time, you moaned loud enough to echo. Rio shifted her grip. Her hands slid lower, curving under your belly, then back to your hips—tightening. Anchoring. The change in angle pulled you back just a little, your knees sliding wider apart on instinct.

And then— She started to move. Not just a grind. Not a tease. She thrust. The first one hit deep and clean—so deep your voice cracked as it spilled from your throat, your mouth still pressed to Agatha’s skin. The next was harder. Faster. A rhythm beginning. Her hips smacked against your ass, the sound thick, wet, echoing softly in the candlelit room.

You moaned into Agatha’s shoulder, your mouth open against her skin, your breath hitching with every push forward. Each thrust rocked you against her body—your belly rubbing firm and full against hers, your breasts pressed tight to her chest. Her skin was hot. Slick. Trembling beneath you.

“That’s it,” Rio groaned behind you, her voice dark and ragged. “Take me, mama. Let her feel how good I fuck you.”

Your hands slipped. Your chest pressed harder into Agatha as your strength faltered, overwhelmed by the drag of pleasure, by the way the strap filled you—over and over again, every stroke deeper than the last.

And then— Rio’s voice again, breathless now, low and indulgent: “Go ahead, baby. You can touch her.” Agatha gasped. And then she moved. Her hands rose immediately—shaking, reverent—and she cupped the back of your neck, her thumbs sliding along the damp line of your spine. Her palms curved over your back like she was cradling something sacred. Then she pulled you in.

Her lips found yours with a sound just shy of desperation—wet and aching. She kissed you through your moans, swallowing each one, pressing her mouth to yours like she was trying to feel what Rio was doing to you.

And your body—

Your body arched.

Back bowed deeper, hips lifting into Rio’s grip as her hands held you open, your spine pulling taut as your upper body sank more firmly into Agatha’s.

Your belly pushed flush to her. Your breasts smeared slick between you. Her hands clutched your shoulders, her kiss growing frantic as you moaned again—louder, sharper.

Behind you, Rio growled, the sound breaking low in her throat as she drove in harder, your angle giving her everything—every inch.

“Fuck, look at you,” she rasped. “So deep like this—both of you shaking for it.”

Agatha whimpered into your mouth. And you—opened, shaking, held between them—could only take it. And want more. Rio’s thrusts grew sharper.

Each one struck deep, the sound of her hips meeting yours slick and rhythmic, echoing in the thick candlelit air. Her grip around your waist tightened, fingers digging into your skin as she held you there—guiding your body forward again and again.

And with every thrust, your body rocked into Agatha’s.

You were pinned against her now—your belly pressed tight to hers, your chest flattened to her ribs, your moans muffled into the soft curve of her neck. But there was no space between you. No stillness. Rio was driving you forward, again and again, her motion dragging your body across Agatha’s, forcing her to feel it.

The strap pushed deep inside you—again. Again.

And Agatha felt everything.

Her breath hitched. Her thighs squeezed together. Her hands clutched at your back—and she whispered, her voice wrecked, trembling against your cheek:

“Fuck—I can feel it—she’s so deep in you—”

You moaned in response, a high, shattered sound, your body arching helplessly into each push.

“Rio—please, more—don’t stop—”

Behind you, Rio groaned.

“You hear that, baby?” she growled, breath hot against the back of your neck. “That’s what you do to her. You feel how she breaks when I fuck her just like this?”

Another thrust.

You cried out, loud and unrestrained, your body sliding harder into Agatha’s now—your stomach pushing firm and warm into her belly, your pelvis grinding down from the force.

And Agatha—she moved.

Her hand slid down your back, slow but certain, her fingers tracing over the dip of your spine, past the curve of your ass, then gliding around to your belly. She spread her palm there first—cradling it, reverent, trembling.

Then her hand dipped lower.

Her fingers found the soaked space where you and Rio met—wet, pulsing, open.

Agatha gasped at the heat, at the way the strap moved in and out of you—so slick, so full, so steady. Her fingers danced just beneath the stretch, her touch featherlight, teasing, almost nervous with how reverent she was.

And then her lips were at your ear.

“You’re dripping,” she whispered. “She’s fucking you so deep, I can feel it through you.”

You sobbed against her.

Her fingers teased your clit now, slow little circles that made your hips jolt in Rio’s grip. Your whole body stuttered between them, breath breaking into moans, thighs twitching as sensation spiraled.

Behind you, Rio cursed.

“God—look at you both—fuck—this is mine,” she growled, snapping her hips forward, driving deep enough to make you scream into Agatha’s throat. “Every inch of this—mine.”

Agatha’s fingers moved faster now, her touch more sure, her own body shifting beneath yours, hips rolling as if she could feel each thrust inside her too.

“Please—don’t stop,” you begged, lips dragging across Agatha’s jaw, your breath hot, wrecked. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

And neither of them did.

Agatha worshipped. Rio claimed. And you—you were taken.

Rio’s thrusts lost their rhythm.

She was still deep, still controlled—but the control was slipping. Each push snapped forward harder now, hips slamming into yours with a growl that started low in her chest and tore free of her throat.

You sobbed her name, your moans growing louder, rawer, body jolting forward with every thrust—and Agatha was beneath you, breath catching on every movement, her fingers still teasing your clit in slow, reverent circles, even as her eyes stayed locked on where Rio was fucking you.

And then Rio snapped.

“Míralas,” she groaned—Spanish cracked and low, choked with heat. “Mírame… esta mierda—this is mine. Both of you.”

She thrust deep, hard, and your cry turned sharp, your body arching like you’d been struck by lightning. The angle dragged the strap against everything, made your stomach flutter with the sudden tension, made your knees quiver from the pressure.

“That’s it, mamá—take it—take every inch.”

Her hand slapped your ass, not cruel, but hard enough to make you gasp—and Agatha moaned underneath you like she felt it too.

“Qué rico suena—” Rio’s voice fell into that gritted, breathless growl, her words thick and trembling. “La forma en que gimes—cómo aprietas alrededor de mi polla—fuck, you were made for this.”

You whimpered into Agatha’s neck.

“Please—please, I can’t—”

Rio grabbed your hips tighter, pulling you back against her with every thrust now, wet, obscene slaps echoing as she fucked you harder, her voice unraveling in your ear.

“You can. You fucking can. Look at you—so desperate. So open. You love being filled, don’t you?”

“Yes—yes, I—” you cried, voice shattering.

And Agatha—beneath you, her lips against your temple—moaned.

She was panting now, her fingers quickening over your clit, her thighs squeezed tight, her body moving against yours with each slam of Rio’s hips. “She’s so deep—” Agatha gasped. “I can feel her in you—feel the way you give her everything.”

Rio was close. You could hear it in the way her breath stuttered. In the way her thrusts grew meaner, grinding so deep the strap pushed you up onto your toes, your belly pressing harder into Agatha’s, your breasts dragging slick between you.

And then— Her mouth dropped to your ear, her voice a wrecked growl of heat and reverence:

“Tú eres mía. Las dos. Mine. This cunt—this body—you both belong to me.” Your body broke around her.

You screamed her name. You bucked. You begged. And Rio—behind you, hips snapping, breath a fevered chant in Spanish—owned every inch of it. Rio's grip tightened.

One hand slid up your spine, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of your neck—not cruel, but firm, pulling your head back just enough to expose your throat. Her breath hit your skin like fire, ragged and thick with the weight of control teetering at its edge. “Mine,” she growled, voice cracking into your shoulder. “Look at you—fucking mine.”

The strap pushed deep, grinding with a rhythm that knocked your breath loose, your moan torn straight from your chest the second Rio’s groan spilled out behind you.

You didn’t just hear her—you felt her.

That sound—low, possessive, breaking—ripped a moan from your own lips, and Agatha gasped beneath you, her body jolting in response, thighs trembling. Her hands were still on your skin, her lips at your cheek, but now she was shaking with need. Her breath stuttered into your mouth as she whimpered— “She sounds so—oh God, she’s gonna—” But Rio didn’t let her speak. Didn’t let either of you take the moment.

She snapped her hips forward—harder, deeper—the sound of your bodies colliding echoing wet and fast, the slap of skin meeting skin now rhythmic, relentless. Rio didn’t let up. Her thrusts turned savage—no longer calculated, no longer anything close to control. She drove into you with the force of obsession, hips snapping with punishing rhythm, the strap grinding so deep you could feel it everywhere. Your spine. Your womb. Your throat.

The bed shook beneath the three of you, every bolt trembling in time with her relentless pace. Your moans came in gasping, broken waves, each one ripped from your chest as your body jolted forward again and again—slamming into Agatha’s trembling frame beneath you.

“Fuck—look at you,” Rio growled, breath ragged, her chest slick and burning against your back. “So fucking full for me. So close—I can feel it.” And she could. Your body was drawn tight like a bow—every nerve strung to the breaking point. You were soaked, thighs shaking, arms trembling with the weight of your own need. Agatha whimpered beneath you.

Then—she bit you. Her mouth clamped at the base of your throat, lips shaking, breath hot. Her teeth sank in—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to claim. Enough to ground you in the wet heat of it, the way her entire body shuddered beneath yours.

You screamed. Your hips twitched. Your core fluttered around the strap, so close to breaking that even the bite of teeth pushed you toward it. “Beg me,” Rio hissed behind you, voice feral, eyes no doubt burning. Her hands slammed into your hips, holding you open as she pounded into you, wet, loud, relentless. “Beg me to let you cum.”

You sobbed, the sound raw and cracked.

“Please—please, babe—I need it—need you—please let me—”

“Louder.”

“Please!” you screamed, your voice ripped raw. “Rio, please let me cum, I need it—I need you—I need you—”

Your words broke into sobs, your body rocked forward with every brutal thrust, the sound of your bodies slapping together thick and soaked and filthy. “God—look at you,” Rio snarled. “So fucking perfect like this. Begging. Dripping. Made to take me.”

You moaned again, desperate, your face buried in Agatha’s shoulder. You could feel every breath from her, every quiver—her fingers clutching at your back now, nails digging into your waist, her own voice reduced to high, gasping whimpers. And then—another bite. Harder. A mark. A tremble. Your scream cracked the air, body jerking as pain met pleasure in a blinding wave. Behind you, Rio growled—feral. Her hand fisted into your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat like an offering. Her mouth found your skin in an instant, lips dragging over your pulse, breath hot and burning.

“You want to cum?” she snarled. “You want to fall apart with my cock still in you? With your wife beneath you, watching you lose it, because she knows you belong to me?”

“Yes—yes, please—” you sobbed, “I need it—I need you—”

“Say it.” Her thrusts grew ruthless, every slap of her hips a brand. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours—fuck—I’m yours, Rio—”

Agatha whimpered beneath you, breath catching. Her nails dug in. “You are—she is—we’re yours—”

Your body gave.

Rio slammed into you again, the angle perfect, brutal—and her voice dropped into a low, guttural command:

“Cum. Now. Let me feel you fall apart.”

Your orgasm detonated.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t quiet.

You shattered.

Your body arched violently, snapping back so hard your belly dragged across Agatha’s, your breasts smeared against her chest, your throat exposed as your scream ripped through the room.

You clamped down around the strap, spasming hard—again, and again, and again—hips jerking wildly, unable to stop, unable to breathe.

“Fuck—fuck—Rio—”

Your body convulsed in her arms, every muscle locking and releasing in waves, slick dripping down your thighs, pleasure so sharp it burned.

Agatha sobbed against your cheek, her hands holding you like she could keep you from floating out of your skin. “I’ve got you—I’ve got you—”

And behind you—Rio broke. “Take it—take all of it—fuck, you’re mine—tú eres mía, mi amor, mi vida—fuck—”

Her grip on your hips bruised as she snapped forward one last time—deep, desperate, breaking. Her whole body shook against yours, breath catching on a ragged cry as she ground deep,

“I’m close,” Rio snarled, the words guttural, spoken against your neck as she buried herself inside you again. “Fuck, mama—I want to finish in you.”

You sobbed—wrecked, open, your body trembling in her grip. “Please—do it—please, fill me—” The image hit her like a match to gasoline.

You, knees spread, pregnant and wrecked, moaning into Agatha’s mouth. Agatha, desperate and soaked, watching every thrust from beneath you. Rio, losing control with your name in her throat, her cock inside you, her hands bruising your skin with how hard she held you together.

She slammed into you again. Then again. Her pace snapped into something frenzied—fast, brutal, perfect—the sounds obscene now: soaked, loud, a chorus of hips and breath and need.

Her hand at your waist gripped tighter, nails dragging down your hip, her chest slick against your back. “Fucking mine—mine, both of you—. She was groaning now, a chant of your name and Agatha’s between curses in Spanish, hips slamming faster, harder, until your moans blurred into cries and Agatha was shaking beneath you, her thighs wet, her voice cracking—

And Rio held you down. Her body slammed forward, burying the strap deep inside you—so deep it knocked a sob from your throat. Her hips jerked, losing rhythm, losing control, every muscle in her stomach and thighs tensing hard behind you. Her breath shattered. “Fuck—yes—fuck—look at you—taking it so good—mine, all of this—” You cried out, your body still pulsing, still shaking from your own climax, but Rio wasn’t stopping. Her hips rocked hard and fast, desperate, the sound of your bodies slapping together wet and heavy and filthy. “I can cum in you as much as I want—” she growled, breath catching in her throat, voice breaking at the edges. “Anytime. Anywhere. You’ll take all of it—’cause you’re mine. You’re fucking mine.”

Her hips snapped again—harder, deeper—her cock grinding inside you as her moan ripped from her chest, guttural and wrecked.

“God—te sientes tan bien,” she gasped in Spanish, mouth dropping to your shoulder as her body convulsed. “Tú me haces venir tan duro—I can’t—I can’t stop—”

You felt her stomach clench against your lower back. Felt the wild, frantic tension rip through her. Felt her snap. Her hands clamped down on your hips, dragging you back onto her cock with one last, punishing thrust—and then she came. Hard. Loud.

Her voice was a feral, broken roar, her words no longer coherent, torn between English and Spanish as she slammed into you again and again, her whole body jerking, twitching as wave after wave of release ripped through her. She was still grinding through it, still possessing you with every breath, every pulse, every thrust. And then—her body locked behind you. Full weight collapsing into you, forehead pressing to your shoulder, her breath burning against your skin. She was trembling. Broken. Still holding you inside and out. And below you, Agatha sobbed. Not from pain. From watching. From feeling you be loved like that. Her hands clung to your back. Her lips pressed to your temple.

Rio was still panting, her breath hot across your shoulder, body twitching in the aftermath of her release.

But she didn’t stop.

She grunted softly as she pulled her hips back, the soaked length of the strap slipping free from your body with a wet sound that made all three of you gasp. You whimpered at the sudden emptiness, hips trembling. But Rio’s hands were already moving—shifting you gently forward, guiding your body to collapse more fully against Agatha’s, your belly pressing warm and heavy into hers, your breasts slick where they dragged across her skin.

Agatha moaned—wrecked, desperate—her mouth searching blindly for your jaw, your cheek, any part of you to kiss.

And then— Rio thrust forward. The strap pushed into Agatha in one brutal stroke, slick from you, buried deep in one hard snap of hips that made her scream beneath you. “Oh—God—Rio—” Her back arched beneath you, body jolting, thighs twitching violently as the sudden fullness hit her all at once. Rio growled. “You’ve been so good,” she hissed, already thrusting again, brutal and fast. “So fucking patient. Watching me fuck her. Not touching. Begging like you deserved it—”

Another thrust—deep, unrelenting—your bodies bouncing together as Rio slammed into her again.

“Now you get what you wanted.”

Agatha was shaking beneath you now, hands clawing at your back, nails dragging down your sides as her mouth opened wide in a moan that never fully ended.

You held her face, trembling fingers brushing hair from her sweat-drenched forehead as you gasped, “She’s so deep in you, Aggie—she’s inside you.”

Agatha sobbed—“I know—I—oh fuck—I feel it—” Rio slammed into her again, the sound wet and sharp, hips meeting thighs in fast, punishing rhythm. Her voice snapped through clenched teeth, commanding, praising, devastating: “Take it. Just like that. You begged for it—now take every inch like the good girl you are.”

Agatha’s hands clutched at your waist. Her body writhed beneath yours, her breath breaking into sharp, desperate whimpers with every thrust. And Rio didn’t slow. She fucked her through it—fast, punishing, perfect, dragging Agatha to the edge with no mercy.

“You feel her against you?” she growled, one hand pressing down between your shoulder blades to pin you both together, “You feel your wife’s body shaking while I ruin her?” Agatha screamed into your neck. Pinned beneath your body, legs spread wide, slick and trembling, every muscle in her body locked tight around the strap as Rio fucked her—hard. There was no slow now, no tease. Just the brutal rhythm of hips slamming into hers, again and again, wet and loud and perfect.

“Fuck—Rio—please—” she gasped, voice already breaking.

You could feel her twitching beneath you, her whole body jolting with each thrust. Her hands clawed at your back, then cupped your face, desperate for something to hold as the pleasure overwhelmed her.

You kissed her—soft and trembling—countering Rio’s brutality with reverence.

“You’re doing so good, Aggie,” you whispered, your forehead resting to hers, both of you slick with sweat, breath shared between trembling lips. “You waited so long. Look at you now.” Behind you, Rio groaned—feral, her body pounding into Agatha with raw, aching hunger.

“That’s right, baby,” she growled, her voice low, commanding, praise turned to thunder. “Take it. You begged for it—took your punishment—now you come when I say.” Agatha sobbed beneath you. Her hips tried to jerk, but Rio pinned her, thrusting deeper, faster, dragging that orgasm from her whether she was ready or not.

You kissed her temple, your voice breaking with love and heat. “Come for her, baby. Let go. You’re safe. You’re held.”

“You’re mine,” Rio growled again, her voice full of fire. “Fucking come for me, Agatha—now.” And Agatha shattered. Her scream tore out of her as her body seized, thighs clamping around Rio’s hips, her hands grabbing your shoulders, clutching you like she’d fall apart without you there to catch her.

“I—I can’t—oh fuck—I—”

She clenched around the strap, soaking wet, body spasming uncontrollably as Rio fucked her through it, never slowing, never letting her go. Her voice cracked into sobs. Her nails dug into your skin. Her entire body writhed beneath you, broken open, ruined in worship. “Good girl,” you whispered against her ear.

“So fucking good,” Rio echoed, breath harsh and reverent behind you. “So beautiful when you cum for me.” Agatha moaned through her tears, her thighs still twitching, the aftershocks wracking her in waves. The room was humming—bodies wrecked, breath still ragged, the air thick with sweat and the scent of everything you’d just given and taken. Your body trembled as you collapsed forward, your cheek resting on Agatha’s collarbone, your chest pressed to hers, limbs limp and slick with heat. She was still beneath you, soft now, her body still spasming in small, residual waves, hands brushing gently across your back in soothing, broken strokes.

Behind you, Rio was kneeling, her thighs spread wide, hands still firm on your hips, strap buried deep in Agatha beneath you. Her breath gusted across your shoulder in raw, guttural bursts. You felt her heartbeat through her hands, the way it thrummed at your lower back—still climbing.

But she hadn’t let go yet. You felt it—her restraint, her body still so close to breaking. She’d held you through your peak. Held Agatha through hers. But now— Now she needed to be held. And you would give that to her. Your fingers curled into the sheets beside Agatha’s waist as you shifted—slow, careful, every movement dragging a moan from your own lips. You pressed a kiss to Agatha’s cheek. Soft. Grateful.

Then, gently, you started to rise. Your knees slid against the sheets. Your thighs ached as you tried to lift yourself off of Agatha’s trembling body. But before you could sway too far, Rio’s hands caught you. “Easy, mama,” she breathed behind you, voice frayed at the edges. Her arm looped around your waist, steadying you as your muscles trembled. And then—she guided you. She slipped the strap from Agatha in one slow, wet motion that made Agatha whimper beneath you, her legs twitching. Then Rio pulled your hips gently back toward her, repositioning you in her lap, turning your body carefully until your knees framed her thighs, until you were facing her, straddling her—your belly cradled between you, your chests slick with shared heat. Her hands stayed on your hips. Your forehead pressed to hers. And for a second, she just breathed. You could feel her trembling—held together by will alone.

From the bed, Agatha slowly sat up, hair damp and tangled, eyes heavy-lidded and soft. She looked at the two of you and moved without hesitation, rising to her knees and slipping behind Rio, wrapping her arms around her waist from behind, lips brushing her shoulder like a prayer. And between them—between the arms that held you and the warmth behind her—Rio finally let her head drop forward, lips parting around a moan that said everything she’d been holding back. You stayed like that for a moment—forehead to forehead, your breaths mingling, your hands resting on Rio’s chest where her heart pounded like it was trying to break free. Her skin was flushed, damp with sweat, her jaw tight, her lips parted—but her eyes…

Her eyes were glassy. Shaken. Open. And she wasn’t speaking. She didn’t need to. You kissed her. First her cheekbone. Then the soft curve just below her ear. Then lower—your mouth tracing a path across her collarbone, slow, deliberate, your tongue brushing salt and skin and power. She twitched under your touch—her hips shifting, her breath catching—but she didn’t pull back. She let you take your time. Let you worship. Behind her, Agatha pressed closer, her arms tightening around Rio’s waist, her body molded perfectly to hers, chin resting on her shoulder. She kissed a line across the base of her neck, whispering in the hush:

“You were incredible, baby. You held us through everything.” Rio’s lips parted on a breathless moan, her throat working like she was trying to swallow something deep and thick. “No one—” Agatha’s voice broke, soft and hoarse. “No one takes care of us like you do. You’re… you’re everything, love.”

You felt Rio’s stomach flutter beneath your palms. So you kept going. You kissed down the center of her chest, your hands sliding to her thighs—strong, quaking beneath you. Your fingers stroked gently over the muscle, tracing lines you knew by heart.

“We love you so much,” you whispered against her sternum, “let us show you.” She was silent, but her hands—still resting at your sides—gripped harder. Not possessively now. Not with command. With need. Agatha’s mouth brushed her ear again. “You’ve given us everything. Let us give it back.”

And Rio finally nodded. Just once. Tiny. Fragile. Like a dam cracking. And beneath your mouth, her breath hitched again. You shifted lower between Rio’s thighs, your knees finding the sheets as your hands steadied you. But your center of gravity had changed—all of you had changed. Your belly, full and round, pressed gently into the top of her thigh as you lowered yourself, your breath catching slightly as you adjusted. You rocked back just a little to compensate, the movement slow, careful, reverent—not because you couldn’t move, but because you carried life inside you. And Rio saw all of it. Her breath caught. Her eyes flicked down, landing on the curve of your belly where it met her leg. Her hands twitched at her sides, and you saw it—that look in her face. Not just hunger. Not just love. Worship. You tilted your hips back just enough to show her everything—the way your body moved, the way you shifted your weight to stay balanced, how pregnant you looked kneeling there between her thighs, your skin still glowing, sweat-dampened, hers.

Behind her, Agatha whispered, “Look at her for you. Carrying everything. And still wanting to take care of you.” Rio whimpered. Her thighs tensed. And you kissed the strap. You leaned in again, your belly resting soft against her leg, your hand stroking up her inner thigh as you mouthed along the soaked leather—over the place she’d been inside both of you, over the place that was still dripping from your bodies.

Her hips jumped beneath your hands, instinctive and desperate. “I—fuck—I can’t—” Her voice cracked as the words fell out of her, guttural and breathless, like she was trying to hold onto a cliff’s edge that no longer existed. Her thighs trembled on either side of your face, muscles twitching with restraint.

“Yes, you can,” you whispered, your voice low, molten, and certain, lips brushing against the heat of her skin—right above where she pulsed, right at the base of the strap still wet and gleaming from the two of you.

You pressed your hand to her stomach—her abs still trembling—and kissed her just above the harness. Then lower. Your lips dragging over the top of it, the leather warm with the heat of her, your tongue slow as your fingers slid beneath it again.

You adjusted—carefully—the weight of your belly making you shift your knees farther apart, grounding you deeper into the mattress, your thighs burning slightly from the stretch. It didn’t matter. You leaned into it—into her—your softness a balm against her unraveling.

And Rio looked down—eyes wide, dazed, reverent—and saw your pregnant body between her thighs, back arched, lips against her, hair clinging to your cheeks from sweat, glowing from afterglow, and still worshipping her.

It undid her. “You’re so good,” Agatha whispered behind her, her lips brushing Rio’s temple. Her arms tightened around her waist, and one hand trailed lower, stroking Rio’s ribs with the gentleness of someone calming a storm. “You gave us everything. Now let us have you. Let us watch you come.”

Your fingers slid deeper beneath the harness, stroking her with gentle, deliberate pressure, your thumb circling where she throbbed. Your other hand rested on the inside of her thigh, your palm flat and firm, holding her open for you as your mouth followed.

Your lips sealed over the base of the strap and lowered, pressing kisses to her—through the leather, around it, beneath it.

Rio’s hips twitched beneath your mouth, her thighs trembling where they framed your shoulders. You kissed just below the strap again—soft, teasing, reverent—but you could feel her pulse there, just beneath the surface, the need aching, just out of reach.

She whimpered above you, her hand tightening in your hair.

“Please—”

The sound of her voice—so raw, so wrecked—made something shift inside you. She deserved more than friction through leather. She deserved your mouth on her. You lifted your head just slightly and pressed your hand to her hip.

“Can I…?” you asked, already sliding your fingers along the waistband of the harness. Rio moaned. Her answer came in the form of a desperate nod, breath ragged. Behind her, Agatha murmured, “Let her see you. Let her feel all of it, baby.”

Your hands moved slowly but sure—undoing the buckles, tugging the strap just low enough to bare her fully to you. Your pregnant belly shifted against her thigh as you adjusted, leaning back slightly to create the room you needed, your hands spreading her thighs gently, reverently, until she was completely exposed.

Glistening. Quivering. Beautiful. You looked up—and caught her eyes.

Rio was shaking, her lips parted, chest heaving, pupils blown wide as she watched you. Watched you kneel for her.Watched you look at her like she was holy. And then you leaned in. And put your mouth on her.

The first press of your tongue to her folds made her scream—high and wrecked, her hips jerking forward uncontrollably, one hand fisting the sheets, the other buried in your hair.

Your lips sealed around her, your tongue parting her slowly, tasting everything she was, everything she had held back. She was soaked—slick with want, with all the tension that had been building inside her, all the dominance she’d carried for both of you.

And you devoured her like a thank you. Your tongue moved in soft, languid circles, then deeper, pressing inside her just enough to make her cry out again, her thighs twitching around your cheeks.

“Oh—fuck—oh my God—yes—”

From behind her, Agatha held her tight, whispering everything she needed to hear:

“Let her taste how perfect you are, my love.”

You moaned into her, the sound vibrating against her core, and Rio broke.

Her legs snapped tight. Her hips bucked. Her hand yanked your hair as her moan spilled into a scream. “I—fuck—I’m cuming—I’m—”

And then she was gone. Her entire body locked up—tensing, shaking, bowing between the two of you—as her orgasm crashed through her. She wailed, hips grinding hard into your mouth, thighs trembling violently as she came in your arms, against your tongue, your name falling broken from her lips. You didn’t let go. You licked her through it—soft, slow, steady, your hands grounding her hips as she shook. And Agatha kissed her temple, her cheek, whispering over and over:

“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Let her take all of you.”

Rio collapsed forward—moaning, panting, her body shaking as the last waves of her orgasm crested and fell. Her hands were still in your hair, but looser now, her fingers slipping gently free as her body slackened.

And then she opened her eyes.

And saw you. Still on your knees, lips wet, breath uneven, your body swaying just slightly where you knelt. The tremble in your thighs had deepened, your belly rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. Your hands had drifted to the mattress for support.

You were glowing—but you were spent.

She sat up fast. “Oh—shit, mama—” Her voice cracked as she reached for you, the last of her orgasm still pulsing through her body, but her instinct to hold you overriding everything else.

Her hands slid under your arms, warm and firm.

“Let me—baby, I’ve got you,” she whispered, already guiding you upright.

You let out a soft sound, more sigh than word, as your body folded into her. Your legs shook, and you stumbled just slightly as you tried to shift your weight.

“Too much?” she asked quickly, her arms tightening.

“No,” you breathed, smiling. “Just… my legs. They forgot how to exist.”

She laughed, soft and breathless. “You’re carrying half the universe in there. Of course they did.”

You looked up at her. And kissed her. Your lips found hers—slow and open, your tongue slipping gently into her mouth, still tasting of her, and now sharing it. She moaned into you, her arms sliding around your waist, pulling you close, her hand splayed over the side of your belly.

Then, slowly, she helped you turn.

And lowered you—gently—onto the bed.

The sheets were still warm, still damp from where Agatha had trembled and you had collapsed, but none of it mattered. Rio eased you down with reverence, one hand behind your back, the other guiding your hips until you were on your side, body cushioned, belly settled.

And then she reached for Agatha. Agatha was already watching, her lips parted, eyes soft and glassy. Rio leaned in, kissed her cheek, and whispered something too low to hear.

And then she pulled you both in. She settled back into the pillows and gathered you, arms folding around the two of you, one hand tucked beneath Agatha’s shoulder, the other smoothing tenderly across your belly, your back pressed to her chest.

The silence lingered for a long moment, filled only by the sound of your breathing—the steady rise and fall of three hearts slowing in unison.

Then Rio let out a long, ragged exhale and tightened her arms around the both of you, one hand spread across your belly, the other slipping beneath Agatha’s ribs.

And she murmured—voice wrecked, still hoarse, but smiling so wide you could feel it against your shoulder:

“Best. Valentine’s. Day. Ever.”

You snorted softly, your cheek buried against her bicep.

Agatha laughed too, quiet and breathy, her face nuzzled into Rio’s collarbone. “We’ve definitely raised the bar.”

Rio leaned over, pressed a kiss to the top of your head—slow and sure—then turned and kissed Agatha’s temple just as tenderly. “I don’t know what the hell I did to deserve either of you, but I am never letting go.”

“You didn’t let go once tonight,” you teased, your voice rasped and warm.

“Mmm,” Agatha hummed, still half-draped across you. “I can’t feel my thighs, so that checks out.”

You all laughed—soft, sleepy, sore.

Rio leaned in and kissed your cheek again, her hand smoothing gently over the curve of your belly, feeling your daughter twist, kick, live beneath her palm.

“You okay?” she asked, voice lower now, brushing damp hair from your forehead with careful fingers.

You turned your face toward her, your body sinking deeper into the shared heat of them.

“More than okay.”

Agatha exhaled into your shoulder, already curling around you. “We should probably hydrate. Or shower. Or something resembling adult responsibility.”

Your belly shifted beneath Rio’s hand. A slow stretch at first—then a long, unmistakable push that rolled beneath your skin like a tide. Not flutters. Not light kicks. Your daughter was making herself known.

Big, stretching statements.

You felt the shift ripple from one side of your belly to the other, warm and taut beneath Rio’s palm. She had been resting her hand there for the past few minutes, her fingertips tracing idle circles without realizing. Now, they stilled—then followed.

You let out a low sound—half breath, half laugh—as the tension rolled through you again. It wasn’t pain. It was presence.

“And someone wants to party,” you murmured, voice softened by the weight of warmth, of the ache in your back, of how heavy your body felt now—limbs loose, belly full, lungs open from the stretch of shared pleasure.

Rio stilled. Then smiled, her lips brushing your temple.

“She’s up?”

Before you could answer, another push—deliberate. A tiny heel or elbow pressed up beneath your skin, lifting it in a slow wave. You inhaled deeply as your muscles tightened around the sensation, your core flexing with instinct and awe. “She’s throwing bows,” you whispered, breath hitching with affection. Your hand joined Rio’s, palms warm where they met over the round of your belly. Her thumb followed the motion without question, like it was something she’d always known how to do.

Rio snorted, soft and sleepy. “She really does have your timing.”

“My timing?” you scoffed gently, nudging your hips into the mattress beneath you. “I haven’t moved in ten minutes.”

From behind Rio, Agatha stirred—her breathing already slow, but her voice sharp with fondness.

“She’s announcing her peer review.”

The bed dipped slightly as she shifted closer, the weight of her body pressing into Rio’s back, wrapping around her. Her arm draped across Rio’s waist, reaching under the blanket until her hand settled beside Rio’s on your belly.

Both hands there now. Two sets of fingers following every shift.

Their touch grounded you.

“Of what, exactly?” you asked, eyes fluttering half-closed.

Agatha’s voice came low, warm, her lips brushing the back of Rio’s shoulder. “The methodologies of maternal cuddling. Current findings: insufficient blanket coverage and inconsistent thigh support.”

Your body was sore. Gloriously so. Your thighs throbbed with the echo of movement, your lower back was tight, your breasts heavy and sensitive where they rested against your chest. The curve of your belly rose between you and Rio like the moon—unmistakable. Beautiful.

You nestled into her chest a little more, feeling her breath rise and fall, slow and steady. She’d caught her breath a while ago, but something about her exhale still matched yours—like she was syncing with you, matching your rhythm as instinctively as she traced the curve of your belly.

“Well,” Rio murmured, “if we’re submitting feedback, someone better mention the structural stress on my ribcage.”

The baby kicked again—harder. Rio’s palm jumped slightly, and Agatha laughed behind her.

“She disagrees.”

“Vehemently,” Rio added. “That’s a rebuttal if I’ve ever felt one.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, your hand now resting atop both of theirs, fingers spread wide. The baby rolled again, and you felt your skin tighten with the stretch.

“She’s going to have notes for my defense,” you murmured.

“She already thinks she’s on your committee,” Rio whispered, her mouth soft against your hairline.

Agatha tucked her body more firmly around Rio’s, her fingers tracing small circles near your ribs.

“If she could hold a pen, she’d be grading my undergrads’ papers.”

You laughed—exhausted, glowing.

“Baby girl, you gotta keep growing another few weeks,” you whispered, rubbing over the kick still echoing near your side. “Mama still has to format her citations.”

“You’re seven months pregnant and defending a dissertation,” Rio said, her voice low with something close to awe. “She already knows you’re a legend.” You grinned. “I am a legend,” you whispered. “Currently a very naked legend, but a legend nonetheless.” Agatha hummed, her voice low and amused. “Sprout’s going to start kicking every time we cuddle. Like a little built-in drumline.”

“A percussionist,” Rio added with a kiss to your temple. Your belly rolled again—a full sprawl this time, wide and stretching beneath all three of your hands. The motion arched your back just slightly, your body instinctively adjusting to make room for her movement. Their hands moved with her, following the arc of motion, like they were reading stars.

You groaned—warmed by it. Anchored by their touch. “She gets that from you, Rio.” Rio gasped, mock scandal soft and breathy in your ear. “Better than the Zills. She’s got stage presence.” Agatha’s lips brushed against Rio’s bare shoulder. “She takes after her mom.” You arched an eyebrow, too tired to open your eyes but still full of grin. “Which one?”

“Statistically?” Rio said, breath hitching slightly as Agatha curled closer. “All three of us. Baby girl BeanSprout has all the best options.” Your daughter stretched—a full-bodied starfish sprawl beneath your skin. Then settled again, curling inward, her movement quieting to soft flutters beneath your skin. The room went quiet with her. The air was thick with warmth—body heat, blankets, candle-warm air still lingering from earlier. Your head rested beneath Rio’s chin. Agatha’s breath spilled softly against Rio’s back. One of your legs draped over Rio’s, and Agatha’s foot hooked loosely behind both of yours.

Your hands remained—all three—on your belly. It was Agatha who whispered it first, voice low and warm against the stillness. “Your back could use some heat, baby.” You didn’t speak—just nodded, your body heavy, hips sore, belly tight with the residual effort of everything that had come before. There was an ache deep in your spine, the kind that made your whole frame feel swollen with weight and meaning. Your skin still hummed where their hands had touched you. Your daughter had stilled, but her presence felt closer than ever. Agatha leaned in and kissed your shoulder, her hand smoothing gently along your side. “Just ten minutes. Let me take care of you.” You moved slowly, letting her help you sit up. The air was warm but cooler now against your skin, and the low flicker of candles made shadows stretch long across the floorboards.

From behind you, Rio shifted upright with a soft groan. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks still flushed, but her smile hadn’t left. “I’ll change the sheets,” she murmured, already swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. “Be in soon.”

Agatha helped you up, her arm looping around your waist as she walked you toward the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind you, steam already beginning to drift outward from the edges, curling like breath along the baseboards.

In the bedroom, Rio exhaled and stretched, bare feet brushing the cool wood. The bed was a mess of twisted blankets and warmth. She stripped it quickly, fingers practiced, pulling clean linens from the cedar chest. The scent of lavender oil drifted faintly through the room, mingling with sweat and candlewax and something unmistakably yours.

She smoothed the new sheet down with a sweep of her palm, then reached for the water bottle from the dresser—cold, beaded with condensation—and placed it neatly on your nightstand. A small, domestic gesture. Done without thought. Done with love. She opened the top drawer. Only looking for your phone charger.

But her fingers paused. The envelope was still there. Tucked against the edge of the drawer like a bookmark no one had touched. The ivory paper had yellowed faintly, its edges slightly curled. It had been weeks. It hadn’t moved. Hadn’t needed to.

But tonight—beneath the soft golden light of the lamp—the back of the envelope caught the glow differently. Something shimmered. A second line of text. Not your mother’s return address.

Not her handwriting. Just a small, almost imperceptible stamp—a line of typeface so faint it might have been a printing error. An address. Tiny. Quiet. Hidden in plain sight. Rio stared at it. The hair along her arms prickled. She didn’t reach for it. She pulled out her phone, her thumb already moving before she’d even finished drawing a breath. One quick photo. The camera shutter clicked softly in the hush.

The address blinked back at her from the screen—clear now, sharp in the glow. She stared at it for a beat too long. And then— “You can join us now,” your voice called from the bathroom, rich with steam and sleep-laced mischief, “or you can suffer the consequences of showering alone. Without the mother of your daughter…”

Rio smiled despite herself. “I’m coming, my loves.” She tucked the envelope back into place, fingers careful, the paper sliding softly against wood. The drawer closed with a quiet click. The light followed her for a moment as she turned toward the bathroom, then faded as she stepped into the fog of steam curling from beneath the door.

“Hey,” she called out, her voice already warm again, “I thought I was still giving the orders.” And behind her, in the dark hush of the room, the envelope waited. Undisturbed. Unopened. But no longer unseen.

---

It's getting good. As always, tell me how much you loved the chapter. Any theories yet?

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