Chapter 39
Agatha
I hate the way the “go live” button makes my stomach flip.
Like it’s stage fright even though I’ve been doing this long enough to know better.
My subscribers aren’t strangers. They’re mine.
They’ve watched me through enough orgasms, meltdowns, and everything in between. I should feel at home by now.
But I’ve been MIA since taunting them with the ring, but I had the crypt shoot and the Ghostface shoot. They haven’t seen those yet—but they will, once the calendar drops—and I can’t wait for their reactions. Now the chat is already rolling in with notifications before I even sit down.
I fix the last braid over my shoulder, tugging it forward so the silver-gray shines against the black corset I’ve stuffed myself into.
My lipstick is matte black, sharp against my pale skin.
I shoved everything against the wall, dragged out candles, draped blood-red fabric behind me so the camera sees nothing but drama. Boudoir horror Barbie.
“Alright, alright,” I mutter under my breath, clicking the button. The red light comes on. I paste on the smile.
“Hi, creeps.” My voice comes out lighter than I feel. “Yeah, I know. I disappeared. I’m sorry. Calendar shoot for Behind the Lens ate my whole life. But—” I lean closer to the camera. “I promise it was worth it. You’re going to cream your screens when you see it.”
The chat explodes.
ChurchofAgatha: WHERE U BEEN BABY GIRL?
GoreSlut420: We missed those tits.
Ghostface69: Make it up to us. LIVE request show rn.
BloodPetal: Can we be added to the mask que?
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. “God, I missed you freaks.”
I grab a prop from the floor and open the old grimoire I bought at a thrift store for ten bucks. The ink’s fake Latin, chicken scratch nonsense, but they don’t care. I drag my black-polished nail down the column of words, pretending to read.
“Anyone want to be cursed?” I purr. “Say the name. Offer me something in return. That’s how it works.”
NotACopIPromise: CURSE MY BOSS. I’LL OFFER YOU
MY SOUL AND 50 TOKENS.
GutterPrince: Curse my ex-wife. I’ll offer you my cock.
CryptCummin: Curse me. I wanna be ruined by you.
I grin. “Tempting. Very tempting.”
Then I lean close to the mic, whispering like a prayer. “By candle’s flame, by smoke and ash, I bind your cock to limp and crash.”
The comments explode.
CasketCase: LMAO DEAD
SnackPackSlut: OMG! Mommy, please curse me next.
PurpleTights: Say their names. Make it real. Make it hurt.
I close my eyes, chanting nonsense syllables, hips swaying as if the rhythm belongs to me. The boa of smoke, the low light, the open book—it’s all theater. Camp. Sexy horror chic. And they eat it up.
I trail a finger down my chest, over my corset, smearing ash across my skin like war paint. “Do you feel it?” I ask, voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “Do you feel me owning you through the screen?”
Sk8rSlut97: YES GOD YES
QuietintheBack: I’m hard. Ruin me.
TonyFromAccounting: Hex my dick so it only works for you.
PurpleTights: That pussy is already owned by us
I laugh. “See? You beg, I cave. Alright. Request show. Let’s go. What do you want first?”
DarkRoomDoll: Show us all the piercings.
NotACopIPromise: Say you’re sorry for being a bad girl, bend over when you do it.
CasketCase: Lick the screen like you’re talking dirty into it.
I roll my eyes, but my chest warms. God, I’ve missed this. Missed the control of it. Even when they’re bossy, it’s still me pulling the strings.
“Fine, fine,” I murmur, standing to spin, bare feet against the floor. “Forgive me, gremlins. I’ve been such a bad girl leaving you alone.” I bend at the waist, sticking my ass toward the camera, letting the corset bite into my ribs.
The chat blows up.
JasonWasHere: YES YES EXACTLY
DaddyVoid: Wiggle that ass, baby.
SoftlySadist: Spit on the floor and crawl in it.
I snort, straightening. “You’re insane.” My black lips pull into a grin, anyway. “But I love you for it.”
I grab the vintage phone prop from the nightstand I stole from my shoot with Chad and drag the cord across my body. “Mmm, hello? Yeah, I’ve been bad,” I say into the receiver, lowering my voice to a purr. “Are you gonna punish me?”
CreepCreepCreep: Bite the cord.
CasketCase: Choke yourself with it.
Heat spikes through me. Not because I want them. Because they want me.
I loop the cord around my throat, tug until it digs into my skin. My voice comes out strangled when I moan into the receiver. “Yes. Harder. Please.”
The chat scrolls so fast it’s a blur.
ThroatCandy: Put on a mask and ride the chair.
PurpleTights: Say you’re ours.
Ghostface69: Call me father while you choke
My throat dries. That one hits too close. But I smile through it, swallowing the shiver.
“Alright, alright,” I say, dropping the phone. “You’re greedy tonight.”
My gray braids slide forward when I straddle the chair, pulling a Jason mask down over my face. The red backdrop flickers in the candlelight as I grind against the seat, the Pleasers digging into the rug.
“You like that, you little sickos?” My voice is muffled under the mask, but the chat lights up like fireworks.
Ghostface69: FUCK YES!
BloodPetal: Ride it harder.
PurpleTights: Scream for us.
I freeze for a second, because PurpleTights, of all goddamn names, is in the chat and keeps commenting.
My stomach flips. Not a random username.
Not tonight. I know that handle. Heat runs right through me, a stupid, dangerous warmth that has nothing to do with the camera and everything to do with them.
It’s like being watched through a window you left open on purpose.
My pulse picks up. My breath goes shallow.
My fingers curl on the edge of the chair without meaning to.
It should make me want to run. It should make me panic. Instead, it turns me on in a raw, ridiculous way. The knowing that they’re here, waiting for me to unravel. The idea makes my skin slick.
I moan, low and needy, because the cameras and the chat and the horror-of-it-all blur into one thing: them.
I rock harder. The chat floods with emojis and caps.
I come like a fist to the chest, loud and ugly and glorious.
The sound I make is half animal, half human.
The chat erupts, a thousand little fires popping all at once.
I ride it out until my legs give and my breath stutters back into something that looks like normal.
Hands shaking, I yank the mask off and laugh. “Show’s over, horrors,” I tell the camera, spreading my palms like a trickster. “You’ll get your next fix soon.” I let the grin sit there for a second, let them keep wanting, then I click the button.
Red light goes dead.
My heart finally slows, pulse kicking down like I just ran. I stand, knees wobbling, and pad down the hall to my bedroom. I pull out a weekender bag from under my bed and start getting ready for this adventure.
Jeans, hoodie, socks—shit I can shove into the bag without thinking. I jam a knife in, just in case, tucking it down under the straps. A change of underwear—plain black, practical; pretty’s a joke when we’re doing this.
Before I zip the bag shut, I thumb a text.
Me: Hope you enjoyed the show
The dots bubble.
Garron: Wish I was there
Evander: Stunning as usual
Corwin: I’ll burn that chair next time I’m inside your house
I laugh at the craziest of my trio and heft the bag before setting it by the door, ready for the trip. Then I stand in the middle of the room for a second. There’s a bright, dangerous little thrill in my chest that tastes like ruin and a weird kind of relief at the same time.
I head to shower and then bed because there’s work tomorrow. Because there’s always work. Because Friday’s coming, whether I’m ready or not.