Page 28 of Sold at Auction

“Excellent,” Delacroix purred, his tone gratifyingly full of approval. “I trust you’ve kept her properly disciplined?”

“Of course,” I affirmed. My mind involuntarily drifted to memories of Sophia’s submissive eyes, her face flushed with arousal as she lay on her bed before me, her lips wrapped around my cock. I remembered fucking her face, driving deep into her throat until she gagged, tears streaming down her cheeks. And later, taking her ass—her muffled cries through the gag mingling with my own soft grunts of pleasure as I claimed her fully.

Part of me wanted to regret those moments, but my dominant instincts wouldn’t allow it. I knew I had done the right thing for Sophia, guiding her through her submission, showing her the depths of her own desire. I knew it would help her tomorrow night to remember her connection to a real, caring dominant—nor did I have any false modesty on that score. I was a Guardsman, trained to master a young woman for both our pleasure. Delacroix… Delacroix fell just shy, I thought, of being a monster.

“Her training harness has made her anus quite ready for you,” I continued, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. The memory of my overwhelming orgasm inside her bottom lingered, a potent reminder of the control I wielded over her.

“Perfect,” Delacroix said, a cruel smile spreading across his face. “I look forward to deflowering her tomorrow night. Dress her in something that highlights her fuckability but still allows easy access to all her holes.”

“Understood,” I said, pushing down the uneasy feeling that rose within me. “Her pussy was waxed this morning.”

“Very good,” Delacroix nodded. “I know you will prepare her suitably. You always do, with my fucking pieces.”

“Should I do my usual security sweep of your bedroom before you retire, Monsieur?” I asked, needing to shift the focus away from the unsettling task ahead.

“Yes, please do,” Delacroix agreed, waving a dismissive hand. “I’ll pour myself a whisky in the study before I head upstairs.”

“Very well,” I said, turning towards the grand staircase. Each step up felt heavier than the last, weighed down by the conflicting emotions swirling within me. Reaching the top, I moved down the corridor, the ornate decorations blurring together as my thoughts remained fixed on Sophia.

I opened the door to Delacroix’s bedroom and stepped inside.

As I began my sweep, I heightened my senses, staying alert for any sign of disturbance. Silence reigned, but suddenly I thought I could feel something off, a movement in the air that shouldn’t be there.

My hand reached for the light switch, flooding the room with brightness. A faint rustle caught my attention, pulling my gaze towards the alcove where the air-gapped computer was located.

There, with her delicate fingers reaching towards the CPU, stood Sophia. Her posture was tense, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and determination. She wore nothing but her collar and the training harness that left her most vulnerable parts exposed. The sight of her standing there, so brazenly defiant yet exquisitely submissive, sent a jolt through me.

“Sophia,” I breathed, struggling to keep my voice low and steady as I crossed the floor towards her. “What are you doing?”

Her face turned pale, then flushed a deep crimson as she met my gaze. The look in her eyes was one of pure panic, mingled with something else—perhaps shame or regret. I couldn’t be sure.

My mind raced. Could she be an Ostia agent? The thought seemed absurd. In this world, the culture of the Groupe Synergistique and its associated criminal organizations, countless enemies might send a honeypot like her to hack Delacroix’s prized machine. Yet, the memory of her submission, her willingness, her unmistakable arousal under my command, left a lingering question.

“Explain yourself,” I commanded, my voice low and urgent. “Why are you here, and what do you think you’re doing?”

Sophia’s lips trembled, her words seeming stuck somewhere between confession and denial. I stepped closer, needing to hear her answer, needing to understand this betrayal—or perhaps, uncover another layer of her complex nature. The desire to save her from what would happen if Delacroix learned she had somehow gotten out of her bedroom and entered his warred with my absolute need to maintain my cover.

“Marcus, I—” she began, her voice barely a whisper.

“Well, what have we here?” Delacroix’s cold, menacing tone cut through the tension, freezing us both where we stood.

Sophia

I watched in terror, my eyes going from Marcus, a meter or so away from me, to Delacroix, just inside the doorway, and back again. I had pulled my left hand—my download hand, Dr. Demetriou had taught me to call it—back as soon as the lights had gone on, and now I held both hands balled in fists in front of my naked hips.

Had Marcus seen me reaching towards the computer? I felt sure he had, though whether he had understood represented a different question. As I replayed the last few moments in my mind, though, I felt certain at least that Monsieur Delacroix hadn’t arrived until after I had changed my posture.

“Put your hands on your head, slut,” Marcus commanded in a voice so cold, it sent ice down my spine.

With my forehead working in fear and shame, I complied. I tried to see any hint of mercy or fellow-feeling in his eyes, and failed.

“And don’t look me in the eye, you misbehaving cunt. Eyes down.”

Oh, God. The reaction between my thighs to his brutal words, as if something in me could tell that he meant it all somehow affectionately, made my cheeks burn. I found his feet with my eyes, and I saw them advance towards me.

I sensed the movement as Marcus’ hand moved with calculated precision into his inside pocket and retrieved the leash. Then I felt his hand at my neck, and the soft, metallic click of the clip resonated in the silence of Delacroix’s opulent bedroom. I felt the weight of it immediately, the stout leather a tangible symbol of my captivity.

“On your knees,” Marcus commanded. “This instant.”

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