Using thepromptfoundry’s Ominous October list.
My Chicago Spirit OC Agatha gets her first story! She’s one of the residents of krakaheimr‘s version of the Chicago Spirit.
No CWs this time.
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Agatha laughs, smile red as blood and teeth gleaming, and leans in against the arm of the man she’s with.
Christopher Pompton Knowles promenades with her across the dance floor, and asks her to his table to dine with him after. He plies her with fine alcohol and clever conversation, and it’s easy for her to laugh at his jokes and tip close with a winsome little smile. To slip her foot out of a shoe and run it up the inside of his calf. To see the pupils in his blue eyes expand and go dark and hungry.
He’s a big, strong, handsome man, and she makes sure to tell him. He has half a foot over her, even with her in heels, and it makes him a wonderful size for her to slip in and cuddle into the crook of his arm, up against his side. He curls that arm around her waist and looks proud of himself.
She’s a pretty slip of a thing, with her slender frame and stylish bob. She moves like a sylph, if a sylph were dedicated to pouring filthy thoughts into a man’s head. She’s beautiful and polished, an enviable bauble. And she’s nothing. Just another one of the many pretty, desperate, disposable girls hunting in the dance clubs for someone like him who she can charm into letting her slip a leash on.
He has no intention of that, she knows. Instead he’s happy to let her charm him, seduce him to take her back to his place and spread her legs for him. It’s all her idea, after all. Why should he be bothered?
Fortunately for him, she isn’t here for him tonight. His father has something Chappell wants.
Christopher is innocuous trash, only problematic in the matter of being present at all. And since he was very generous with sharing his expensive wine, she decides to knock him unconscious the old-fashioned way.
More alcohol, when they reach his beautiful ancestral home. She provokes him into showing off the family stocks via a rich brandy, while he shows off the rest of the place with the thoughtless pride of a man puffing before a small, pretty woman. She meets a few of the staff, and nods with the cordial recognition of the fellow working girl. She’s introduced to the mother’s collection of Dutch masters, her little passion project, and the father’s library, all his books beautifully rebound at tremendous and pointless waste, just so the aesthetics will all match.
They don’t bother to hide their safe, standing taller than she is in an understated corner of the room.
After, she spends some time being interesting with him. With her feet slipped out of her shoes and tucked under her to lounge against his side, she encourages him to tell her all about what Chicago’s working class really needs in order to straighten them out.
She’s a little tipsy herself, just enough to be convincing, when she urges him up to lead the way a bit unsteadily up to his rooms.
His eyes gleam admiringly as the dress slips down off her body and her slim, silk-stockinged legs step out. He doesn’t quarrel when she plants her hand in the middle of his chest and pushes him back to topple on his bed, and he certainly doesn’t while he watches her prowl up over him to straddle his hips and sink down on his prick where it stands at attention.
After his first performance, she thinks in fact she might keep this one for a while. And so she urges him over onto his stomach, and whispers that she has a secret to show him. And teaches him about the prostate while she drinks in his sounds and kisses the tears off his face.
After that, she lies there beneath his arm until he’s sleeping the blissfully drugged sleep of the drunk and well-laid.
She only rises in the small hours of the morning, when bakers and farmers are stirring for their work. She dresses in the dark and leaves a note with the housekeeper, apologizing for her early day and hoping to see him again—soon <3. The two or three people awake in the house watch her retrieve her coat and slip out the staff’s side door like any respectably besotted shop girl.
When the shadows of the garden swallow her, she slips through them back around to the rear terrace.
She didn’t ask too many details about Chappell’s object: just the appearance of it and how to handle it safely. She doesn’t like to know too much about these things. But it will be in the safe.
She strips naked and bundles her clothes, stashing them in a nook. Then she places her hands flat against the wall and pushes, until the wall lets her in.
The particles of her body slip and slide, moving out of the way of the wall’s substance. It feels like becoming jelly, oozing through cracks too small to see. On the other side, she pauses and opens her eyes, waiting for the dripping stray bits of her to catch up and rejoin the whole.
In wet, slimy bare feet, she pads to the understated corner and repeats the trick, sliding her arm into the mechanisms of the safe and feeling at them, flicking them until the bar withdraws and she can open it and take what she wants.
It’s a strange little object, like a smoking pipe carved of some sort of soft stone. She turns it over in her fingers and then palms it, closes the safe, and returns the way she came, cracking a window for a moment to set the pipe on the other side and then lock it again before oozing back through the wall.
Back outside, she glances through the window. Everything is the way she left it, aside from a set of small bare footprints. But those will dry soon enough.
She wraps her coat around herself and tucks the pipe into a pocket. The bundle of her clothes, she carries. Her skin is still slick and slimy; it will take it days for it to reconstitute. She heads home through back alleys to catch up on her sleep and wait for her new suitor to call.
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