Page 30 of Sold at Auction

Alone in my room, the huge weight of the impending punishment and the terrible prospect of my first night with my evil, sadistic owner pressed down on me. My mind reeled, replaying the events over and over. Marcus’ face, so stoic, yet had his eyes betrayed something deeper? Delacroix’s words, dripping with malice and dark promises. And me, caught in a web of desire and dread, both helpless and aroused by my plight.

The thought of having my pussy closed sent a thrill through me, a twisted anticipation that mingled with my fear. I couldn’t help myself. My fingers found their way between my legs, trembling as they explored the slick heat of my need. I imagined Marcus’ hands, strong and unyielding, sealing my labia shut, making me his in the most intimate, excruciating way.

“Please,” I whispered into the darkness, feeling the wetness spread as my fingers moved rhythmically. “Marcus…”

I blushed furiously, my breath hitching as I pictured him whipping me, teaching me a terrible lesson. The pain, the humiliation, the raw intensity of it all—my body responded with a desperate urgency. My fingers delved deeper inside the place my real master, my miles, would seal, would forbid.

The sensation felt so overwhelming that it sent my other hand behind me, to touch the awful plug, widening me for my owner’s hardness. Would Monsieur fuck my bottom as hard as Marcus had? Harder?

“Yes… oh god, yes…” I moaned, my hips bucking between my two hands, riding my own forbidden touch in desperate search of release. When my climax surged through me at last, it left me panting and spent.

And then it hit me. The camera. I had forgotten to spoof the camera.

“Shit,” I gasped, the realization chilling me to the bone. Whoever was watching the surveillance footage would know. They would see everything.

Panic gripped me as I stared at the unblinking eye of the camera, my body still tingling from the illicit pleasure. What had I done?

CHAPTER 13

Sophia

Marcus didn’t come to wake me up, the way he’d done every day so far of my… what? stay? service? captivity? mission?… in the chateau. My mind for some reason decided to focus on that question as I waited in my locked bedroom, the hours dragging by like molasses. At least it seemed to keep me from worrying about whether anyone had watched the surveillance footage and seen my offense against my owner’s sole right to my body’s pleasures.

I didn’t have a clock, but it must have been ten in the morning when I woke up. By eleven (or whenever) I had decided on mission as the noun I wanted, freeing my mind unfortunately to become a whirlpool of anxiety and apprehension, each thought more distressing than the last.

Where was Marcus? Had he in fact seen what I’d done last night? Had he or someone else noticed that I had surrendered to my own touch, unable to resist the desperate need for release?

I looked at the unblinking eye of the surveillance camera in the molding. Delacroix’s ever-watchful vision. Marcus’ nameless guards—did they know? My cheeks burned at the thought, humiliation threading through me like an electric current. Every sound outside my door made my heart leap, only for disappointment to crash back down when it wasn’t Marcus.

Eventually, when my bladder had nearly made a yell for help, a guard arrived—a man whose name of course I didn’t know, his expression impassive and cold. He escorted me to the bathroom, his presence a stark reminder of nothing but my captivity—the thought of this as a mission, after what had happened in Delacroix’s bedroom, and the punishment Marcus had promised me, suddenly seemed impossible to recall to my mind.

“Marcus told me to watch you,” he said flatly as I sat on the toilet, my horrid training harness still awkwardly in place so that I had to perch half-off the seat. His eyes never wavered, and my face grew hotter, the mortification nearly unbearable as I relieved myself under his gaze, my eyes finally fixed on his shiny black shoes.

Afterward, the same guard brought in the lunch cart. The food looked as unappetizing as my circumstances. But I forced myself to eat, knowing I needed the strength. Each bite felt like a struggle, my thoughts incessantly returning to the previous night and the fear of discovery.

The sun began to set at last, its red face just visible through my little window if I put my face close to it. The door finally opened to reveal Marcus. He entered my tiny bedroom, his presence filling the space, commanding and intense. His usual dark suit seemed to imbue every inch of his tall, muscular frame with dominance, so that he exuded authority with every step.

“Get up,” he said, the chill in his voice sending ice down my spine even as my face blushed hot. I rose from my bed, desperately studying his face for any hint of compassion—let alone the sign I so longed for that he had figured it out, that he had concluded I was a fellow agent, and from this point on, we would work together to fulfill both of our missions.

“Sir…” I said.

He lowered his chin and regarded me with an even harder expression.

“I… I…” I sought for something, anything to say that might make things easier, or at least less frightening for me. I found nothing.

“You need to make your mind up that you’re going to be severely punished, Sophia,” Marcus said, his voice flat. “Your pussy is going to be closed, and you’re going to be whipped, and then Monsieur is going to fuck your mouth and your ass so hard, your throat will burn and you won’t walk comfortably tomorrow. You will get through it, and you will learn to enjoy it.”

My eyes had gone very wide, and tears trickled down my cheeks. I blinked at him with my jaw hanging open, once again hoping against hope that he would show me a sign of sympathy.

But, “Come,” he said simply and clipped the leash onto my collar, leading me back to the bathroom.

He made me bend over and put my hands on my knees, and he removed my training harness as I whimpered to feel my anus closing at last. The relief was immediate, but it was also short-lived.

Marcus held the harness out to me as I straightened up. I averted my eyes, but he said, “Take it. You’re going to clean it in the sink.”

A little sob escaped my throat as I extended my trembling hands to take the belt from which the black silicone plug hung. I looked only at the white-and-black tiled floor as I brought the thing to the sink.

“Thoroughly,” he commanded, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine. I scrubbed the butt plug, my face blazing hot, the shame almost overwhelming. The memory of last night’s illicit pleasure haunted me, making every moment under his scrutiny feel like an eternity.

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