Page 35 of Sold at Auction

All the while, on the other side of the bed, Marcus had seen to the bolster: a big, oblong cushion covered in ancient-looking dark leather. Marcus had fetched it from a splendid lacquered cabinet, and the very sight of it, as Delacroix occupied himself with his dismayingly skillful treatment of my whipped backside, made my heart race. It looked like the sort of thing that had seen use in this nearly royal bed over a span of decades—centuries, even. I wondered, swallowing hard, how many punished bottoms of naughty concubines the baronial masters of this castle had raised with this bolster’s help.

Marcus laid it in the middle of the bed. Delacroix’s hand on my bottom changed its pressure again, urging me forward, and upward.

My face burning with shame, I clambered awkwardly onto the bed. The softness of the luxurious coverlet soothed my knees almost mockingly—especially when I looked at the dark leather of the bolster. My heart pounded so forcefully, I feared it might burst from my chest. Each movement sent fresh waves of agony through my punished flesh, eliciting tiny gasps and whimpers I couldn’t suppress.

“Lie over the bolster, whore,” Marcus instructed, his voice firm, the casual slur brutal. “Stretch your arms out in front of you and spread your knees.”

I hesitated for a moment, my breath coming in quick, shallow pants. The posture rose in my mind’s eye, the picture of myself that way, so exposed, so degraded.

I have no choice. Innocent… Briseis…

Swallowing hard, I lowered myself onto the bolster, feeling it press against my belly and hips. I felt my welted bottom, clad in the lacy thong that only rendered it more alluring for my owner, rise high. I felt my most intimate places presented at once shamelessly and shamefully for whatever use my owner desired. The cool air of the room whispered across my heated skin, and I shivered at its touch.

As I extended my arms, I felt a surge of conflicting emotions wash over me. Fear coiled in my stomach, a cold, heavy weight. What new torments awaited me? The shame of my position—bottom raised, thighs spread, my most intimate parts on display—was nearly overwhelming. Yet beneath it all, to my horror and alarm, I felt an insistent throbbing between my legs. My treacherous body responded to my helplessness, my submission, with a new surge of arousal behind the seal of my smooth labia.

I felt Delacroix’s eyes on me, as if he had trailed his fingers down my spine. Even the imaginary touch sent a shudder through my body. I saw him, in my mind’s eye, his gaze pausing at the small of my back, just above where the lacy waistband of the thong nestled against my skin.

Then, as if I had somehow gained clairvoyance, I felt his hand exactly there, but—worse—moving lower, cupping my bottom once more. I tensed, expecting pain, but his touch remained gentle and teasing, almost reverent.

“Look, Marcus,” Delacroix said, his voice thick with satisfaction. “My little whore enjoyed her punishment more than she’d like to admit.”

His fingers dipped between my thighs, and I felt a jolt of mortification as he brushed against the dampness there. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear into the luxurious bedding.

“It seems the closure has left just enough of an opening for her arousal to escape,” Delacroix continued, chuckling. “How delightful.”

I heard Marcus clear his throat before he, too, gave a low laugh. But there was something off about the sound—a hesitation, perhaps, or a hint of reluctance. My heart leapt at the possibility, even as I chided myself for hoping. Marcus had caned me with such savagery. In the end, even if I couldn’t help thinking of him as my miles, he had to play his part in Delacroix’s cruel game. Didn’t he?

He had fucked me because he needed to train me, I told myself. He had deactivated the camera before fucking me because he knew Delacroix wanted to deflower me himself, obviously—that meant Marcus liked to fuck submissive, innocent young bed girls. Not that he felt anything for me.

“Turn your face to the mirror, whore,” Delacroix commanded suddenly. “I want you to see yourself.”

A sob caught in my throat as I slowly obeyed.

I turned my head, my eyes blinking open to meet my reflection in the ornate mirror. I told myself that I obeyed because I couldn’t stand any more punishment, but part of me knew that as a falsehood. The sight that greeted me made my tummy flip.

I saw my hair disheveled, my face flushed with a mixture of shame and arousal. The still-pristine white lingerie looked terribly provocative against my reddened skin. What drew my gaze inescapably, though, was the obscene arch of my back, bottom raised high on the bolster, the lacy thong doing nothing to hide the angry welts crisscrossing my flesh.

“Look how pretty your backside is with the marks of your little lesson,” Delacroix purred, his hand ghosting over the raised lines. “Such a naughty girl, to need such strict correction.”

I whimpered, unable to look away from my reflection. The girl in the mirror looked wanton, desperate—the innocent virgin made shameless by her master’s discipline and his lewd touch. As if reading my thoughts, Delacroix’s fingers dipped between my thighs again, brushing against the damp gusset of my panties.

“Your body betrays you, little whore,” he murmured. “So wet, so needy, even with your pussy sealed tight.”

Delacroix straightened, his gaze meeting Marcus’ in the mirror. “You may go now, Marcus. Thank you. I’ll keep her here all night and you can come release her in the morning.”

I felt a stab to my heart at the words. Where would Marcus go? How did he feel about Delacroix fucking my ass?

I watched in the mirror as Marcus nodded curtly and turned to leave. Our eyes met for the briefest moment, and I thought I saw a flicker of… something. Regret? Desire? Before I could decipher it, he had gone, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft thud that seemed to echo through my very bones.

Delacroix wasted no time. He climbed onto the bed, straddling my thighs. His weight pressed me further into the bolster, and I felt the wiry hair of his thighs and the silky fabric of his sumptuous dressing gown against my sensitive skin. His hands roamed my body, alternating between gentle caresses and rough gropes that made me gasp and squirm.

“Such a pretty little fuck toy,” he murmured, his fingers running the length of my curved spine. “So naughty, so needy.” His hand came to rest on my bottom again, kneading the tender flesh. “I love taking my fucking pieces this way, you know. There’s something so deliciously degrading about it, don’t you think?”

I whimpered, unable to form words. My mind reeled at the casual cruelty of his statement, at being referred to as a “fucking piece.” Yet my traitorous body responded, a fresh wave of arousal dampening my already-soaked panties.

“Your caned bottom looks so sweet,” Delacroix continued, his voice thick with lust. “And this sealed cunt… oh, it makes me so hard, you little whore.”

Delacroix’s words sent a shudder through me. I felt it, his hardness, pressing against my thigh, confirming the truth of his statement. His hands continued their relentless exploration of my body, lingering on the welts that crisscrossed my bottom.

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