Page 31 of Sold at Auction

When I finished, Marcus directed me to the shower. His gaze never left me as far as I could tell: every time I looked through the glass, I saw him looking back, tracking each movement as I washed away the remnants of the night and the morning.

By now I’d gotten used to showering in my collar. The water was warm, but his eyes were scorching, searing into me, making my skin prickle with a mix of discomfort and apprehension. I thought once, when I looked over suddenly in the middle of washing my face, that I saw a softer expression come into his eyes, but he hardened them again as soon as he saw me gazing back at him.

To my astonishment, though, Marcus had a big soft towel ready when I emerged. Without a word, he dried me off with it, his touch gentle yet firm. He hadn’t done that on previous days, instead letting me get my own, smaller and scratchier, towel from the rack. The blend of comfort and dominance disoriented me. My emotions churned into a storm of confusion, gratitude, and an impossible longing. I felt desperate to ask if he knew about my forbidden act, if he had seen me on the surveillance footage, but his inscrutable expression gave nothing away.

“You’re clean now,” he said, his tone devoid of judgment or approval, just a statement of fact. But the way he looked at me, as if seeing straight into my soul, left me trembling inside.

Marcus led me through the halls again, towards the training room. The tension he kept on my leash remained firm, yet he also seemed to take care not to pull too hard. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows, heightening the ominous atmosphere that clung to every corner. My bare feet padded silently on the cold marble floor.

We entered the training room. The mirrors on the walls reflected endless versions of my exposed form, naked but for my collar, my hair still damply clinging as it trailed down my back. In the center stood the chair, which I saw Marcus had reconfigured. He had reclined the back and fitted stirrups into it, to make it an imposing, clinical piece of equipment—one that immediately brought back memories of Dr. Demetriou’s office. Its stirrups gleamed softly in the dim light, promising further terror and humiliation.

“Sit,” Marcus instructed, guiding me into the chair and fastening my leash to its familiar post on the chair back. I hesitated only for a moment before complying, the leather straps cool against my skin as he secured my wrists and ankles.

“These restraints,” he explained, tightening the buckles with precision, “will help you understand your lack of control over what is about to happen to your pussy.”

His words sent a wave of shame and arousal coursing through me. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, my breathing quickening as the reality of my situation finally settled in. My inner monologue was a cacophony of conflicting voices and emotions—humiliation, helplessness, and an undeniable spark of need.

“Marcus,” I started, my voice barely a whisper, “Sir… did you see?—”

“Silence,” he interrupted, his tone harsh. His piercing blue eyes locked onto mine, stopping any further protest. Why did the thought of him watching me on the surveillance camera, of him knowing what I had done with my naughty fingers in the dark, make my heart race even faster?

He had made me edge myself in an utterly degrading fashion twice a day for the past two days: how could I possibly have any shame, let alone excitement, about the thought of him witnessing a furtive act of self-pleasure? Fear, yes—but the fear felt, crazily, secondary to my helpless attraction to this miles who should be my ally here and had instead become my torturer.

My torturer, my deflowerer, and the man I can’t help wanting.

He took a small vial of some clear fluid, and a fine brush, from his pocket. His hand moved deliberately and methodically as he shook the vial, as if to activate it somehow.

“This will seal your cunt, little slut,” he said. “It won’t harm you, though when Monsieur decides to open you again, you’ll be so tight that fucking will be uncomfortable for a few days—especially with a cock as thick as Monsieur’s inside you.”

My breath had started to come in ragged little pants. I watched him reach his left hand out, and I whimpered as he deftly used his strong fingers to bring my outer labia together over my clit, over the entrance to my sheath, to form a tight seam.

I watched in mortified fascination, my heart racing, as he brushed the adhesive down the seam, the sensation both strange and intimate. Every stroke felt like a declaration of my submission, binding me not only physically to the whims of my sadistic captor, but also somehow conceptually, as my mind absorbed the degrading meaning of the procedure.

“Feel this, Sophia,” Marcus murmured, his voice low and suddenly almost tender, “Understand your place.”

A tear slipped down my cheek, not from pain but from the sheer intensity of the moment. I felt laid bare, every layer of pride and defiance stripped away, leaving only raw degradation in its wake.

“Good girl,” he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork.

I looked down at the little line of my sealed pussy, hot shame shooting through my whole body as I saw how strange it looked—how… owned. With the angle into which the stirrups had put me, I could even see the wrinkled pink button of my anus, where Marcus had trained me, and used me, with such rigor. The thought that Delacroix would fuck me there tonight sent my tummy into a panicked somersault.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice breaking, “I need to—” My bladder had somehow started to act up again, as if my body wanted to ensure my total humiliation.

“All in due time,” he replied, releasing the restraints with a practiced efficiency. He took my leash and helped me up, my legs shaky and unsteady beneath me.

He led me back towards the bathroom. The journey felt interminable, each step tugging strangely on the terrible seal between my thighs, making me newly conscious of my fate.

“Relieve yourself,” he ordered once we were inside, his eyes never leaving mine. The humiliation felt unbearable as I positioned myself over the toilet, feeling the pee make its way out of the small opening he had left me. Hot tears streamed down my face, mixing with the sense of degradation that flooded my very being.

“Good,” Marcus said softly, his gaze still fixed on me. “Remember this moment, Sophia. Remember to whom you belong.”

After I had washed my hands, he took a long, flat cardboard box from his pocket, and opened it. Inside I saw white lace. He removed a bra, and then a tiny pair of thong panties.

“Put these on,” Marcus said, his voice steady and commanding as he presented me with the pretty white lingerie. The contrast between the delicate fabric and the harsh reality of my situation was jarring; the revealing panties and the pretty bra felt like both a reinforcement and a mockery of my current predicament. A bride would wear these things, and wasn’t I a perverse, degraded kind of bride tonight?

“Yes, sir,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I took the lingerie from his outstretched hand. My mind raced with conflicting thoughts. How could something so innocent-looking, so bridal be part of this nightmare? The white lace felt soft against my fingers, yet its purpose was anything but gentle.

I hesitated for a moment, glancing up at Marcus. His eyes seemed unwavering, expectant. There was no room for defiance here, only submission. I slipped the thong up my legs, the fabric clinging to my skin in a way that made me acutely aware of my own vulnerability. When I felt the gusset come up against my sealed pussy, I bit my lip and whimpered softly. The bra followed, its delicate straps digging into my shoulders as I fastened it behind my back.

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