Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

S ophia

I felt Delacroix's hand on the back of my head release me, and then Marcus' hand on my upper arm, straightening me back to a kneeling position. I let out a sob of relief as the tension of the leash on my wrists lessened. The agony in my bottom and upper thighs had dulled a bit since the horrible cane had stopped lashing me, but every movement of my limbs sent a gout of flame traveling through my backside and drew a pitiful whimper from my lips.

Marcus' strong hands grasped my upper arms, lifting me to my feet. My legs trembled, weak from kneeling and the ordeal of my punishment. As I swayed precariously, Marcus' firm grip steadied me. When he had made sure I could balance on my feet, his hands left my arms, and I felt them behind me, unclipping the leash from my cuffs and then the cuffs themselves from one another.

"Hands in front," he commanded brusquely.

I complied, bringing my wrists before me. Another tiny sob rose from my throat at how even that small movement awakened the pain in my bottom. The metal clinked as Marcus reattached the cuffs in front of my tummy. His fingers brushed my skin, sending an electric tingle through me despite—or because of—the agony his cane had meted out.

"Monsieur," Marcus addressed Delacroix, his voice measured and professional. "Shall I position the bolster on the bed to raise the ass for fucking?"

My breath caught in my throat at his words. I kept my gaze lowered, not daring to look at either man.

"Yes, of course," Delacroix replied, his tone thick with anticipation.

As Marcus moved to arrange the bed, I sensed Delacroix's approach behind me. My owner's hand came to rest on my bottom, cupping both of my cheeks. I whimpered, flinching at the contact. Delacroix's touch felt paradoxically gentle as he caressed my welted flesh.

"Such a pretty shade of red, these marks," he murmured, fingers trailing over the raised marks left by the cane. "You didn't take your punishment well, but then I didn't want you to."

I cried out as he changed his manner suddenly, grasping my cheeks much more firmly, kneading them roughly. The pain flared, and I tried reflexively to jump away from my owner's hand, only to come up against the edge of the huge bed.

Delacroix trapped me there, bending with my cuffed hands before me on the coverlet, and continued to fondle me. His touch changed again, back to a softness that to my distress instantly brought a helpless clench between my legs, in my lacy panties, behind the shameful sealing of my pussy. I felt my need, confined by my closed outer lips, begin to trickle from the little aperture Marcus had left me, and that mortifying feeling drew a new sob from deep in my chest.

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.

"I'm so pleased it will hurt even more when I finally deflower this tight little cunt," he murmured, his fingers tracing the edges of my sealed labia through the damp lace of my panties. "But for now, your ass will have to do."

I whimpered, squeezing my eyes shut against the sight of myself in the mirror. But Delacroix wasn't having it.

"Eyes open, whore," he commanded sharply. "I want you to watch yourself as I use you."

Reluctantly, I obeyed, forcing my gaze back to the mirror.

Delacroix's hands moved again to my panties, pulling the thin strip of lace aside to expose my most intimate places. I felt the cool air on my heated flesh and shuddered. His fingers probed at my anus, and I tensed involuntarily.

"Relax," he ordered, his voice stern. "Your widening has come along nicely, but I'll still need to prepare you properly."

I felt Delacroix's fingers probing the tiny opening, slick with lubricant. He worked methodically, stretching and preparing me for what was to come, as I bit my lip, suppressing my whimpers of discomfort. Despite my shame and fear, I couldn't help but respond to his touch. In the mirror, I saw my hips shifting minutely, pressing back against his fingers, and a hot blush flooded my face.

"Such a greedy little whore," Delacroix chuckled. "So eager for your master's cock in your ass. I'm going to enjoy using such a naughty girl's caned bottom."

His crude words sent a jolt of mortification through me, but also a helpless thrill of need. I bit my lip, trying to stifle a moan as he slid another finger inside me. The stretch burned, a mix of pleasure and discomfort that left me breathless and made me close my eyes.

"No. Look at yourself," Delacroix commanded. "See how wanton you look, spread out and begging for it with your body."

I forced my eyes open, meeting my reflection once more. The girl in the mirror suddenly looked shameless—flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes heavy with reluctant desire. I watched, my heart pounding, as Delacroix positioned himself behind me, his massive cock jutting proudly.

"Here it comes, little whore," he growled. "You're going to take it all."

I felt the blunt head of his cock press against my entrance. Despite the preparation, the initial penetration was intense. I gasped, my fingers clutching at the hard oak of the headboard as he pushed hard from the start—much harder than Marcus had when he had deflowered me there.

I cried out as Delacroix entered me fully, his hips flush against my welted bottom. The burning stretch made me feel impaled, split open on his massive length. My eyes watered as I struggled to accommodate him.

"Oh yes," Delacroix groaned, "such a tight little ass. Such a pretty whore."

He began to move, withdrawing almost completely before thrusting back in hard. Each stroke sent shockwaves of sensation through my body—pain and pleasure intertwined in a way that left me gasping and trembling.

"Look at yourself," he commanded again. "See how well you take it. See how your sweet body was made to take a man's cock."

With a sob I turned my eyes back to the mirror. Now the sight that greeted me was simply, darkly obscene. My face had contorted itself in a mix of agony and ecstasy. Each brutal thrust of Delacroix's thick, rigid penis rocked my body. Despite my shame, I couldn't look away now.

"That's right," Delacroix panted. "Watch yourself get fucked in the ass like a common whore. Your cunt sealed up tight, forced to take cock this way."

His words cut through me, degrading and arousing in equal measure. I felt utterly debased, used solely for his pleasure. Yet to my dismay, I could feel my arousal building, my sealed pussy clenching desperately around nothing.

Delacroix reached beneath me, his fingers finding my closed pussy, pressing hard precisely where my clit lay hidden behind my bare outer lips.

I gasped as Delacroix's touch found my most sensitive spot, even through the closure of my labia. The dual sensations—his massive cock plunging into my ass and his fingers teasing my sealed pussy—sent shockwaves of pleasure through me. I writhed beneath him, ashamed of my body's response, yet unable to stop it.

"Such a needy little whore," Delacroix growled, increasing the pace of his thrusts. "Your cunt may be sealed, but your ass takes cock so well. You were made for this, weren't you?"

I whimpered, unable to form words. My gaze remained fixed on the mirror, watching as Delacroix used my body for his pleasure. My pretty white lingerie yanked aside… my bottom raised high and marked with welts… Delacroix's powerful form looming over me as he fucked my ass with brutal efficiency and obvious relish… the heartstoppingly lewd glimpse of his rigid manhood connecting us as it surged in and out of my most private place.

To my horror, I felt my orgasm building. The relentless assault on my most intimate places, combined with the degradation of Delacroix's words and my own reflection, had begun to push me towards a climax I didn't want to reach. I tried to fight it, to hold back, but Delacroix seemed to sense my struggle.

"That's it, whore," he hissed. "Come for me. Come from having your ass fucked like the dirty little slut you are."

His words pushed me over the edge. I cried out, my body convulsing as the orgasm crashed over me. Waves of shameful pleasure radiated from my core, intensified by the continued thrusting of Delacroix's cock in my anus. My sealed pussy clenched and released rhythmically, desperate for penetration it couldn't receive.

"Good girl," Delacroix panted, his pace increasing. "Good little whore."

As my climax subsided, leaving me trembling and gasping, Delacroix's movements became more erratic. With a guttural groan, he slammed into me one final time, his cock pulsing as he filled me with his seed. The heat of it made me whimper, a fresh wave of mortification washing over me.

Delacroix remained inside me for a long moment, his hands gripping my hips tightly. When he finally pulled out, I felt utterly used, my abused hole clenching around emptiness.

My mind drifted unbidden to the memory of Marcus. The contrast between the two experiences seemed so stark, and I found myself longing for Marcus' touch, even as shame washed over me at the thought.

Marcus had seemed almost considerate, attentive to my reactions, despite the fervor with which he had used me. He had eased into me slowly, giving me time to adjust to the unfamiliar sensation. I recalled the fullness, the slight burn that had gradually given way to pleasure as Marcus moved within me.

In my memory, Marcus' strokes had been measured, deliberate, each one sending shivers of unexpected pleasure through my body. I had gasped, surprised by the intensity of the sensations, and Marcus had paused, his hand stroking my back soothingly.

"Are you alright?" he had asked, his voice tight with concern and restrained desire.

I had nodded, unable to form words, and he had continued, his movements gradually becoming more forceful as my body relaxed and welcomed him.

I felt Delacroix's hands parting my punished bottom cheeks to expose the little hole where he had come, the intimate opening where I could feel his seed seeping out. In the mirror, I saw him gazing down at my spread backside with a leering smile, holding me open as if to ensure I felt as much shame as possible at the way my owner had used my whipped bottom, at how thoroughly he had fucked my most private place.

In my mind, though, I defied my evil owner. With my thoughts, I claimed my body for Marcus.

Marcus. My miles . My master. My love.