Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

S ophia

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.

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.

"Good," he murmured, his gaze never leaving me. "Now, let's go."

He led me at last back to Delacroix's bedroom. My heart pounded in my chest as we approached the ornate door that loomed ahead like a portal to my utter abasement.

As we stepped inside, the opulence of the room overwhelmed me in a way it hadn't before. The rich fabrics that draped the bed, the scent of expensive cologne that hung in the air… all of it seemed to strike me more forcefully because I knew what would happen here, and that I couldn't avoid it. I would be whipped. I would be used in the most degrading ways. I had no choice.

Marcus guided me to the headboard, his grip firm but not cruel. He produced a set of leather cuffs from a cabinet in the corner, and I swallowed hard, knowing what was coming next.

"Hands," he ordered, and I raised them obediently. "No," Marcus said. "Behind you."

I looked at him with knitted brows, my tummy crawling.

"Don't make this worse for yourself," he said calmly. "Turn around and put your hands behind you."

I bit my lip, feeling my little breasts heave in the lacy bra with my panicked breaths. I turned and put my hands back, offering them to Marcus.

The warm leather encircled my wrists. He buckled them into place with a finality that sent a shiver down my spine. Then, as I tried to control the shaking in my limbs, he unclipped the leash from my collar and I felt him clip it to the cuffs. I turned halfway around to see him tying the end of the leash to a post on the headboard, a fixture clearly intended for the purpose just like the post on the chair in the training room.

"You're ready now," he said in his gentle voice, as if his words could ease the fear gnawing at my insides. "Delacroix will enjoy you greatly. All you need to do is accept your place and try to obey him."

My cheeks burned with humiliation, but I forced myself to maintain eye contact with him. Marcus leaned in closer, his breath warm against my ear.

"There's something else," he continued, his tone shifting to one of disquieting calmness. "I've seen the security footage from last night."

A wave of dread washed over me. He knew. They all knew. My moment of weakness, my desperate need for release—it had been captured and scrutinized. My mind grappled with the implications, shame flooding every corner of my being.

"Your little indiscretion will make you more attractive to Delacroix," Marcus added, his words cutting through my haze of mortification. "It might even save your life."

"Thank you," I managed to choke out, though the gratitude felt hollow and bitter on my tongue.

"But," he said, his voice hardening, "there are consequences. You broke the rule. I'll have to cane you with extra severity."

His declaration hung in the air like a dark promise, and my heart seized with a mixture of fear and resignation. The anticipation of pain, the humiliation of my exposure—it all felt like too much to bear, let alone to try to resist.

"Yes, sir," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper, my fate sealed as surely as the cuffs around my wrists.

As surely, I thought with a scalding blush, as my naughty cunt.