Page 38 of Sold at Auction

“Y-yes, Monsieur,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I… I enjoyed it very much.”

I watched her closely, years of training allowing me to notice the subtle tells in her body language. There was a slight tremor in her hands, a tightness around her eyes that spoke of more than just embarrassment. Something about her response rang false, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

Was she simply trying to avoid punishment, parroting what she thought Delacroix wanted to hear? Or had I heard something more calculated in her response, some deeper game she was playing? I cursed inwardly, wishing I knew her better, could read her more easily.

Delacroix, however, seemed satisfied with her answer. He smiled, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Of course you did, you little slut,” he said, patting her cheek condescendingly. “Your tight little hole was made for your master’s cock.”

Sophia’s eyes flicked to me again. My heart skipped a beat, though I knew a moment later I had over-interpreted the glance. I simply wanted it too much for it to be real: I wanted to be this girl’s master, rather than the monster who had bought her for his dominant pleasure.

The next five days passed in a haze of conflicting emotions and mounting tension. Each morning, I would enter Delacroix’s bedroom to retrieve Sophia, my heart clenching at the sight of her degraded form. Sometimes she would be asleep, her face peaceful despite the disarray of whatever lingerie Delacroix had chosen for the previous night, and the signs of his use on her body.

The dried evidence of her need on her thighs, where her arousal had trickled from her closed pussy. The stains of his seed on her little bottom, where the marks of the caning I had had to administer faded a little further each day.

Other times, she would be awake, her eyes haunted and distant as I gently unbound her wrists and helped her to her feet.

I’d lead her back to her own room, limping a little and sometimes whimpering at every step. I leashed her for this walk, but I had her go in front of me. My hand hovered near the small of her back but never quite touched her. The silence between us seemed thick with unspoken words and suppressed thoughts and emotions.

As I closed her door each morning, I’d linger for a moment in a corner of the doorway where I knew the video surveillance didn’t reach. I’d press my forehead against the cool wood, wrestling with the urge to go back inside—to comfort her, or to claim her: I couldn’t decide which.

Every evening, after Delacroix had finished his dinner and brandy, I’d escort Sophia back to his chambers. She would walk with her head lowered as I’d taught her, her steps measured and graceful despite the fear I could sense radiating from her and the lingering discomfort of the previous night’s use of her mouth and her anus. I’d watch as Delacroix’s eyes raked over her form, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he beckoned her closer.

“Come here, my little whore,” he’d purr, patting his lap. “Show your master how much you’ve missed his cock.”

As the days passed, I found myself increasingly torn between my duty and my growing feelings for Sophia. Each night, as I escorted her to Delacroix’s chambers, I couldn’t help feeling a piece of my soul chip away. I told myself not to overdramatize, but the sound of her muffled cries and Delacroix’s grunts of pleasure literally haunted my dreams, mingling with visions of her innocent face contorted in mingled ecstasy and agony.

On the fifth day, Thursday, Delacroix summoned me to his study. The room reeked of Cuban cigars and expensive brandy, a testament to the magnate’s indulgences. He sat behind his mahogany desk, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he gestured for me to take a seat.

“Marcus, my friend,” he began, his voice dripping with false camaraderie. “I’ve received some excellent news that I’m afraid will mean a bit of extra work for you. The Amsterdam deal is progressing even more smoothly than anticipated.”

I leaned forward, not needing to feign interest while my mind raced. The information I’d been waiting for, of the progress of the Groupe Synergistique’s plans, seemed about to arrive.

“That’s wonderful to hear, Monsieur.” I bit back the urge to ask for more, hoping Delacroix’s vanity would provide him all the motivation he needed to share the details with me.

Delacroix’s lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk. “Wonderful, yes. We’ll sign the papers in two weeks, here at the chateau. I need you and your team to provide security for my associates and our new partners. Some very powerful people will attend. The scope of this deal, Marcus… it’s beyond anything we’ve achieved before.”

“My team is ready,” I told him. “You’ll give me the list of attendees?”

Delacroix waved a hand. “Of course, my friend. I’ll make sure I send it before I fuck Sophia tonight.”

I kept my face impassive. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

What Delacroix said next made it difficult to retain my carefully presented composure.

“I really have to compliment you on how well you trained the little whore, and in such a short time, Marcus. And the notion of closing her poor little cunt—my cock stiffens every time I look between her thighs. I think I’ll present her at the signing and let the guests play with her. Perhaps we’ll open her cunt then, too. I can deflower her to celebrate the deal.”

Sophia

Every morning, as Marcus walked me back to my own bedroom from Monsieur Delacroix’s, I decided that that night I would have to do it—or suffer the terrible consequences of discovery. The Briseis act could only take me so far: at some point the innocent-seeming observer had to become the powerful force who could change everything.

Walking gingerly in front of Marcus, my body ached with the exquisite reminders of the night’s debaucheries. Each step sent shockwaves of soreness through my most intimate places, igniting embers of arousal even as I winced. The shamefully pleasurable burn in my rear spoke of Delacroix’s relentless conquests, his thick member stretching me beyond my limits as I lay helplessly bound. My jaw still felt the phantom presence of his girth, the memory of his forceful thrusts making my throat constrict reflexively.

I couldn’t help but recall how I had knelt before him the previous night, my lips stretched wide around his rigid cock as he used my mouth for his pleasure. The way he had gripped my hair, controlling my movements as he plunged deeper and deeper, brought a flush to my cheeks. Even in the morning I thought I could taste the salt of his essence on my tongue.

I felt the subtle tug of the closure of my pussy-lips, too, at each step, a constant reminder of my captive state. The sealing of my outer labia, meant to heighten my need and tighten me for Delacroix’s use, had become a source of perpetual arousal. The slightest friction sent jolts of aching lust through my core, leaving me in a state of simmering desire.

I needed to do something. By the third morning, after spending the entire night so close to the object of my mission and yet utterly unable to do anything about it, I had started to feel as if I were in a dream. By the fifth day I had begun to wonder whether Anton Delacroix really represented the existential threat to civilization Malleus had told me he did. After all, Marcus seemed to serve the “evil” magnate faithfully, as far as I could tell. What kind of world-ending data could those blinking lights in the alcove actually conceal? They looked so harmless.

But I definitely had to do something, or I would never be able to tell Marcus who I really was. I needed to tell him, because that meant that after I escaped, and his mission had ended, we would see each other again and… I didn’t know—have a shot at happiness, maybe? Walking down the hall in front of him, sensing him almost touching me, I knew I would lose myself completely, or go crazy, if I didn’t do something.

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