Female Led Relationships - Novel: The Ghost of Agatha: Part 21
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Epilogue
Ethan stopped the engine and stepped out of the truck into the late afternoon. At twenty-three he still moved with the loose, confident stride of someone who had just cashed out of crypto at the right moment and was now standing in front of his own manor for the first time.
The building rose in front of him, tall windows catching the sun, paint faded but intact, every shutter straight. The realtor had called it turn-key; the price had been almost insulting after the previous owner dropped dead in the garden. Ethan had wired the money the same week his last wallet cleared.
He walked the gravel drive without hurry, hands in his pockets, taking in the wide lawn and the dark line of trees beyond.
Ethan pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb tapping the screen. The small plug buried in his ass hummed to life, sending steady pulses through his core. He shifted his stance on the gravel, letting the sensation settle before grabbing the two suitcases—one packed with clothes, the other stuffed with every sex toy and restraint he owned.
He carried them up the short path, the vibration inside him growing more insistent with each step. At the door he set one case down, fished the heavy iron ring of keys from his jacket, and slid the longest key into the lock. The mechanism turned with a solid click. Ethan pushed the door open, picked up the suitcase again, and crossed the threshold into the cool, dim entryway of his new house.
He set both cases on the floor and looked around. Directly beside him, a large oil painting of the original owner dominated the wall. Agatha.
She stood in full leather, crop in hand, eyes sharp and commanding. The plug in his ass suddenly buzzed harder, the rhythm shifting into deeper, rolling waves. Ethan’s breath caught.
“Damn,” he muttered, staring at the portrait. “She looks like a dominatrix. Wish you were around to dominate me.”
He didn’t notice the faint change in the painting—Agatha’s painted lips curving into a small, knowing smile.
Epilogue
Ethan stopped the engine and stepped out of the truck into the late afternoon. At twenty-three he still moved with the loose, confident stride of someone who had just cashed out of crypto at the right moment and was now standing in front of his own manor for the first time.
The building rose in front of him, tall windows catching the sun, paint faded but intact, every shutter straight. The realtor had called it turn-key; the price had been almost insulting after the previous owner dropped dead in the garden. Ethan had wired the money the same week his last wallet cleared.
He walked the gravel drive without hurry, hands in his pockets, taking in the wide lawn and the dark line of trees beyond.
Ethan pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb tapping the screen. The small plug buried in his ass hummed to life, sending steady pulses through his core. He shifted his stance on the gravel, letting the sensation settle before grabbing the two suitcases—one packed with clothes, the other stuffed with every sex toy and restraint he owned.
He carried them up the short path, the vibration inside him growing more insistent with each step. At the door he set one case down, fished the heavy iron ring of keys from his jacket, and slid the longest key into the lock. The mechanism turned with a solid click. Ethan pushed the door open, picked up the suitcase again, and crossed the threshold into the cool, dim entryway of his new house.
He set both cases on the floor and looked around. Directly beside him, a large oil painting of the original owner dominated the wall. Agatha.
She stood in full leather, crop in hand, eyes sharp and commanding. The plug in his ass suddenly buzzed harder, the rhythm shifting into deeper, rolling waves. Ethan’s breath caught.
“Damn,” he muttered, staring at the portrait. “She looks like a dominatrix. Wish you were around to dominate me.”
He didn’t notice the faint change in the painting—Agatha’s painted lips curving into a small, knowing smile.
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