Page 24 of Sold at Auction

Gathering my courage, I began my descent down the grand staircase. Each marble step required careful navigation, the butt plug an ever-present torment threatening to break my concentration. I kept my steps light and deliberate, my senses hyper-aware of every sound and shadow. The opulent surroundings, the walls with their gilt molding and erotic art, seemed to mock my clandestine mission, as if the heroes and gods regarded me as no more than another nymph in need of a sound whipping and a hard fucking.

At last, I reached Delacroix’s study, the door yielding to my tentative push. Instantly I moved my wrist in the pattern that activated my cybernetics, and I heard the tone indicating success. If Dr. Demetriou could be believed, the camera spoofing would reach back to cover even my entrance into the study.

The room exuded power and decadence just as it had that morning, the polished surfaces reflecting the moonlight seeping through the heavy drapes. I moved with methodical precision, my fingers tracing over the antique desk, the bookshelves, the hidden compartments I knew had to exist. The room had struck me that morning as entirely without technology other than the glint of the camera lens in the crown molding, but I had felt certain that as my hands moved across the desk’s polished surface, I would hear another tone—the one that meant I’d found a computer processor with a storage device attached.

I had hardly dared hope that I might get yet another tone, as well: the special beep that would mean I’d found the correct storage device. That, Malleus had told me, would take a few seconds, as the processor installed at the base of my skull matched certain tell-tale pieces of data. And, he had said, it might not come at all, if Delacroix had changed certain things about his data strategy: when I found a storage device of any kind, I was to initiate the download whether or not I’d verified that it held the data the Guard needed.

But I heard nothing at all.

Come on… where are you? I demanded silently of the thing, the crucial air-gapped computer. My frustration mounted as my search yielded nothing but dust and disappointment. Every second spent here increased the risk of discovery, yet I felt desperate not to leave with nothing gained but the idea that maybe the obvious place to put my objective didn’t hold it after all.

Despite the discomfort gnawing at my resolve, I pressed on, examining every inch of the study with meticulous care. My eyes darted across the room, scanning for any sign of the thing. The urgency of my mission thrummed through my veins, pushing me to dig deeper, search harder.

Think, Sophia, I urged myself, recalling the lessons drilled into me by Malleus. Stay calm, stay focused. Observe.

But no matter how thoroughly I combed through the study, trying to see everything, the computer remained hidden, a phantom just out of reach. Desperation clawed at my insides, mingling with the physical discomfort to send me into a reason-destroying cycle of agony and renewed determination.

I stopped and closed my eyes for a moment. I breathed in and out, calming myself as Malleus had taught me.

I can’t fail. Not now. Not when so much is at stake.

But it wasn’t, was it? I had three days before Delacroix came back. I felt my brow furrow as I sorted out my thoughts and feelings, and I realized where much of my desperation came from.

Marcus. His effect on me, and the danger it posed. Part of me felt in terrible, terrible need, though of what didn’t seem entirely clear. Just that it had to do with him: I needed his approval. I needed him.

That meant I needed above all to finish this mission and to get the hell away.

Please, let it be here, I thought as I opened my eyes and looked around the study again. But the books on their shelves offered no answers, only the glitter of embossed, unreadable titles in the cold glow of the moon.

With a final, frustrated sweep of the room, I knew I had to return. My time was running out, and the risk of being caught grew with every passing moment. Reluctantly, I turned to leave, my mind already racing with plans for my next move.

I retreated from Delacroix’s study towards the staircase. With the unsuccessful search weighing heavily on my mind, I slipped back into the shadows of the chateau, moving silently but as swiftly as I could.

The harness between my legs rubbed uncomfortably with each step, a constant reminder of my submission, my vulnerability. I paused in a pool of shadow at the foot of the stairs, straining to hear any telltale signs of approaching footsteps. Silence. Taking a deep breath, I began my ascent up the marble steps.

The moonlight filtering through the tall windows painted the hallways with a ghostly glow, casting long, eerie shadows. My destination now was Delacroix’s bedroom, a place I had not yet dared to enter. Reaching the door, I hesitated for the briefest moment before pushing it open just enough to slip inside.

The room was vast, dominated by an enormous bed draped in luxurious fabrics. A large mirror hung on the wall opposite, glittering with a cold, impersonal gleam. My breath caught in my throat as I imagined what would transpire here when Delacroix returned. His innocent new bed girl—his fucking piece—would be thoroughly deflowered atop this bed, every brutal thrust mirrored for his pleasure.

The vision sent a shiver down my spine, mingling dread with an involuntary surge of arousal. I remembered the way he had fondled me, the feeling of utter abasement under the touch of the billionaire who had purchased me for his pleasure.

I shook off the troubling vision. I scanned the room quickly, noting with suddenly wide-eyes that what looked like a small office space—an alcove, really—opened out from the main area, through a small arch. I could see a desk, atop which something rose half a meter or so, and on that something a red light softly blinked.

That had to be it. If the air-gapped computer was anywhere, it would be there—and that red light seemed like it might represent the end of my search.

I started to move towards the alcove, my pulse quickening with renewed urgency. Just as I reached the bed, the sound of footsteps echoed up the staircase outside. Panic surged through me, sending a jolt of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath. There was no time to waste.

Abandoning my search, I dashed out of the office and back into the hallway, my footsteps light but hurried. The discomfort of the harness became secondary to the need for survival as I made my way back to my own bedroom. Heart hammering in my chest, I slipped inside, closing the door softly behind me. I relocked it with my cybernetics and quickly deactivated the camera-spoofing protocol.

I had barely settled back into my bed and pulled the comforter up, the lingering discomfort of the harness pressing into my flesh, when I heard the slight creak of the door opening. My heart skipped a beat, and I forced my breathing to remain slow and steady, feigning sleep.

Marcus entered the room with unsettling quietness, his presence a mix of comfort and dread. The mattress dipped as he sat beside me, and through slitted eyes, I observed his face. His expression made my tummy flip: his face seemed a complex tapestry of desire, calculation, and an unexpected care that sent a confusing rush through me.

I felt his hands pulling the comforter away. I fought the urge to hold onto it, to keep myself covered—not because I didn’t want him to see me, or even to touch me, but because I wanted those things too much. He drew the covers all the way down, and I fought to keep my breathing deep and even.

He leaned closer, and I felt his fingers brush against my exposed skin, sending shivers of both fear and arousal rippling through me. His touch traced along my collarbone, down the valley between my breasts. He moved the gentle pressure around the curve of my waist, tracing the edge of the belt that helped secure the humiliating training plug in my anus.

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