Chapter 8
Agatha
I’m still floating when Kira finishes snapping the last picture. The air feels electric, like it could crackle against my skin. My thigh is burning and raw. I’ve done scenes like this before, a little star-shaped cluster, maybe five at most, but this? This was something else. This was mine.
She moves around the space, gathering wrappers and snapping the sharps container shut.
A wicked thought takes root.
“Hey, Kira,” I say, still stretched across the paper-covered vinyl. “I’ve got an out-there idea. You down?”
She laughs from the back room. “That depends. Are you about to say something illegal or just stupid?”
“Give me a piercing.”
A pause. Then she laughs again. “I just gave you over thirty.”
“No,” I say, sitting up slowly. “A permanent one.”
She steps back into the room, eyebrow arched, gloves off and balled in one fist. “Alright, what are we thinking? A septum would look hot on you. Or a Monroe, maybe. Even your nipples. Your subs would lose their minds.”
I shake my head, a wild smile still curling at my lips. “They’d eat that up, sure. But I’ve got something better.”
She crosses her arms, smirking. “Hit me.”
“I want a VCH.”
Her brows lift. “Seriously?”
I nod once, slow and sure. “Dead serious.”
“That’s going to hurt,” she says, stepping closer. “Like, really hurt. You’re still riding the high, and you’re sore. You sure?”
“That’s exactly why I want it. This isn’t just for pleasure. It’s for me. Reclaiming my body. Putting something there I control.”
She watches me for a moment, probably waiting to see if I flinch or change my mind. But I don’t. I stay steady.
Finally, she sighs and tosses her gloves into the trash. “Alright then, you masochistic little freak. Let’s get you shiny.”
She pulls out a new tray, everything sealed and clean.
She moves with clinical efficiency, the same way she did with the needles earlier, but there’s something softer in her movements now.
Like she understands what this means. She lays out the tools, the jewelry, and a fresh set of gloves.
She tells me to strip from the waist down and lie back.
The vinyl sticks to my skin where I’m already sweating.
She parts my thighs gently and begins to clean the area.
The antiseptic is cold, sharp-smelling, and makes my skin twitch.
I watch her lean in and draw a tiny dot just above my clit, right where the tissue of my hood arches in a thin, soft line. Shows me. I nod. It’s perfect.
“You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
She clamps the skin, firm and fast.
My hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as I focus on my breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. A pointless ritual when every nerve below my waist is already braced for impact.
The needle goes through.
I don’t scream, but the noise that escapes me is primal. Half gasp, half whimper. It tears through my throat and makes my toes curl. The pain is quick but hot, like fire cutting a seam. My spine arches before I even realize I’m moving.
Then it’s over.
She slides the jewelry in, a dainty opalescent stud that catches the light like moonstone. It rests against me like a door knocker for my cunt, beautiful and dangerous.
Kira hands me the mirror again, and I lift my head to look.
I smile, breathless. “I love it.”
She chuckles as she peels off her gloves and drops them into the bin. “You’re a lunatic.”
“Maybe. But I’m a happy one.”
I dress slowly, feeling the sting with every shift of fabric. The ache is new, tender and humming. I pay her in cash, tuck the change into the tip jar, and promise to text her when I’m home safe.
“Don’t forget aftercare,” she calls after me as I open the door.
“I won’t. I’m heading home now. Ice pack, ibuprofen, and a round of thirsty selfies. You know the drill.”
She laughs again, shaking her head. “You’re the weirdest kindergarten teacher I’ve ever met.”
“Thank you,” I say, blowing her a kiss.
Then I’m out the door, walking into the night like I didn’t just let someone stab a needle through the most sensitive part of me. Like I don’t already know what I’m going to do with this new power.
Because this wasn’t for the subs.
This was for me.
I drive home slow, one hand on the wheel, the other pressed into my lap, not for relief, but reassurance.
When I get in, I don’t rush. I light a few candles.
Strip off my clothes one piece at a time.
I set up my ring light with the kind of practiced ease that comes from doing this for years, but tonight I feel different. My hands are steadier than I expected.
I sink onto the bed and adjust the angle. I spread my legs, pull the fabric of my panties aside, and expose the fresh VCH piercing. The opalescent stud catches the glow, small and beautiful and mine. I take one photo. Just one. Captioned with care.
New surprise. DM for a peek. Five bucks unlocks it.
I hit upload.
Within ten minutes, notifications roll in like rain. Message requests. Payments. Tips. Comments with emojis and guesses and crude praise. I leave them unread. Right now, I don’t want their words.
This wasn’t for them, anyway. It wasn’t about pleasure either. This was a reclaiming. A reckoning. Maybe even a punishment.
I let him touch me. I didn’t fight him off. I didn’t scream when I should have. I didn’t tell the police what I really saw. What I really felt. I left out everything that mattered. And now Jay is gone. Cold. Buried. While I sit here pretending the world hasn’t changed.
But it has.
I should’ve fought harder. Should’ve said more.
Instead, I stood in front of a badge and told half-truths like they were enough.
Like they made me innocent. The pain in my thighs is the only thing that feels real tonight.
It’s sharp. Earned. Honest. I can live with that kind of pain. It reminds me that I’m not numb.
I scroll through my phone and tap Lorna’s name. She answers almost immediately.
“Hey, babe,” she says. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got my calendar theme,” I say, not bothering with small talk. “National Horror Movie Day.”
“Oh, hell yes,” she laughs. “I love it already. What are you thinking?”
“My Bloody Valentine. Classic slasher aesthetic. The old-school gas mask. A pickaxe. Blood everywhere. Real horror house vibes. I want to shoot it myself. And off-site, if that’s okay.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “That’s fine. You want to handle the filming?”
“I do. Monty’s great, but I need control on this one.”
“Understood. Chad’s still handling the photo shoot portion, though. You cool with that?”
“Yeah. I’m still working out the look for the stills. I’m thinking me in black lace, soaked in blood. Holding the pickaxe like I just buried a body. Definitely the gas mask. Probably solo. Might add a partner. I’m undecided.”
There’s a quiet moment. I hear her inhale.
“You doing alright?” she asks. Her voice dips low, less producer, more friend.
I glance around my bedroom. The candlelight flickers. My favorite altar statue watches me from the dresser, half-lit in shadow.
“I’m pissed,” I say. “That’s all. Not broken. Not spiraling. Just… furious. My whole damn life I was raised to obey. To shrink. To take what I was given and call it a blessing. And for a while I did. But not anymore.”
“He tried to take something from you,” she says. It’s not a question.
“And I won’t let him,” I reply. “My channel is mine. My voice. My body. I didn’t survive my childhood just to break now. I’ve been through worse than some masked fuck in the woods.”
Lorna lets out a low chuckle. “You ever consider therapy?”
I scoff. “If I walked into a therapist’s office and unpacked even half of my baggage, they’d need a priest, a trauma team, and a bottle of tequila. The forest preserve isn’t the haunted part. I am.”
She doesn’t laugh, but I hear her smile. “Well, you’ve got me if you need anything. And I love the idea. Just send me the full concept by Friday.”
“I will,” I promise.
After we hang up, I stay seated for a while. I open the photo I took earlier and zoom in on the new piercing. It glints back at me like a warning. This isn’t just jewelry; it’s a talisman. A reminder that I’m in control now.
While I was on the phone with my boss, something started to take shape. It’s still forming, but the edges are solid.
I’m going to draw him out.
The one who stalked me. The one who touched me.
The one who ran into the trees after stealing something I never agreed to give.
I want to know who he is. I want to look into his eyes and ask him what gave him the right.
I want answers. I want revenge. I want to carve out the guilt I’ve been swallowing ever since I found Jay’s body.
He could have left him tied up. He could’ve written a warning. He didn’t have to slit his throat like it was a goddamn performance.
And if he thinks this is a show… then he’s going to find out what happens when I flip the script.
Let’s see how he likes it when I direct.