Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

M arcus

Delacroix had fitted every corner of his chateau for video and audio surveillance, with the sole exception of his bedroom. I had once suggested to him that the lack of coverage there could pose a serious problem if an enemy decided to infiltrate the chateau through the window. Delacroix had scoffed.

"The window is alarmed, Marcus," he had said with his usual air of condescension, of always knowing more than everyone else. "And I have no intention of letting anyone gather kompromat on me. What happens in my bedroom stays there."

I had almost kept at it, because of course it would have helped me greatly to have precisely that kind of blackmail-ready footage to send to the Guard. The need to keep my cover intact had overruled the thought, and I had merely said, "Very wise, Monsieur."

As I opened the door to Delacroix's bedroom, I couldn't decide whether I would have wanted to watch the evil magnate's night with his new fucking piece or not. On the one hand, it might have given me important insights into Delacroix's psyche, ways to use the precise nature of his clearly strong attraction to Sophia in pursuit of my own ends. On the other, it would have probably made my private emotional torment all that much worse.

But, I told myself, if Delacroix were to go too far… Yes, I wanted to see: if only to make sure I could save Sophia if things went the way they had gone from time to time in Delacroix's bedroom, at least as I had heard about it from his previous head of security.

I stepped through the doorway, the Persian carpet muffling my footsteps. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of sex, expensive cologne, and what I thought might be the faintest trace of fear-sweat. My eyes swept the room for threats, automatically, before I turned them to the bed.

Sophia lay atop the bolster, her sweet, lithe form a study in degradation. Her wrists were still bound to the headboard by her leash, her honey-gold hair fanned out across the mattress. In sleep, her face held an innocence that belied the debauchery she had endured. My chest tightened at the sight.

The en suite door opened, releasing a billow of steam. Delacroix emerged, a towel slung low on his hips, water droplets glistening on his toned physique. His lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he saw me.

"Ah, Marcus," he purred, running a hand through his damp hair. "Excellent timing. I must commend you on your training of this new fucking piece. The naughty girl received her master exquisitely."

He sauntered closer, his eyes gleaming with predatory satisfaction. "I came in that tight little anus three times, you know. She took it beautifully—whimpering and begging so sweetly." He chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth. "You've outdone yourself this time."

I forced my face to remain impassive as my mind processed Delacroix's words. I let my hands clench at my sides for a moment, just to actualize my alpha-rage through my fists, give it a bit of ventilation safely hidden from Delacroix's view.

"I'm pleased you found her satisfactory, Monsieur," I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Delacroix's eyes glinted with cruel amusement. "Oh, more than satisfactory, Marcus. I think I'll keep this one for quite some time." He turned towards the bed, his towel slipping dangerously low on his hips. "Let's see what my little whore has to say, shall we?"

He reached out, trailing his fingers along Sophia's bare shoulder. She stirred, her eyelids fluttering. Delacroix's touch became firmer, shaking her gently.

"Wake up, my sweet little fuck toy," he crooned, his voice a mockery of tenderness.

Sophia's eyes opened slowly, confusion clouding her features for a moment before awareness dawned. She tensed, tugging instinctively at her bound wrists. Her gaze darted around the room, landing on me with a jolt of recognition. In that fleeting instant, I saw a maelstrom of emotions in those cerulean depths—fear, shame, and something else I couldn't quite decipher.

Delacroix's hand cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. "There's a good girl," he purred.

The magnate's fingers traced Sophia's jawline in a delicate, possessive caress. "Tell me, naughty whore," he murmured, his voice dripping with false sympathy, "did you enjoy your first bottom-fucking?"

Sophia's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, the blush spreading down her neck to her exposed breasts, so deliciously set off by the lacy white bra it seemed Delacroix hadn't chosen to remove. He had taken her panties down at some point, I noticed. My cock jumped a bit despite my best effort to stay dispassionate when I saw that the little thong had come to rest around her left ankle.

Sophia's eyes darted to me for the briefest moment before returning to Delacroix's face. She swallowed hard, her throat working visibly.

"Y-yes, Monsieur," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I… I enjoyed it very much."

I watched her closely, years of training allowing me to notice the subtle tells in her body language. There was a slight tremor in her hands, a tightness around her eyes that spoke of more than just embarrassment. Something about her response rang false, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

Was she simply trying to avoid punishment, parroting what she thought Delacroix wanted to hear? Or had I heard something more calculated in her response, some deeper game she was playing? I cursed inwardly, wishing I knew her better, could read her more easily.

Delacroix, however, seemed satisfied with her answer. He smiled, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Of course you did, you little slut," he said, patting her cheek condescendingly. "Your tight little hole was made for your master's cock."

Sophia's eyes flicked to me again. My heart skipped a beat, though I knew a moment later I had over-interpreted the glance. I simply wanted it too much for it to be real: I wanted to be this girl's master, rather than the monster who had bought her for his dominant pleasure.

The next five days passed in a haze of conflicting emotions and mounting tension. Each morning, I would enter Delacroix's bedroom to retrieve Sophia, my heart clenching at the sight of her degraded form. Sometimes she would be asleep, her face peaceful despite the disarray of whatever lingerie Delacroix had chosen for the previous night, and the signs of his use on her body.

The dried evidence of her need on her thighs, where her arousal had trickled from her closed pussy. The stains of his seed on her little bottom, where the marks of the caning I had had to administer faded a little further each day.

Other times, she would be awake, her eyes haunted and distant as I gently unbound her wrists and helped her to her feet.

I'd lead her back to her own room, limping a little and sometimes whimpering at every step. I leashed her for this walk, but I had her go in front of me. My hand hovered near the small of her back but never quite touched her. The silence between us seemed thick with unspoken words and suppressed thoughts and emotions.

As I closed her door each morning, I'd linger for a moment in a corner of the doorway where I knew the video surveillance didn't reach. I'd press my forehead against the cool wood, wrestling with the urge to go back inside—to comfort her, or to claim her: I couldn't decide which.

Every evening, after Delacroix had finished his dinner and brandy, I'd escort Sophia back to his chambers. She would walk with her head lowered as I'd taught her, her steps measured and graceful despite the fear I could sense radiating from her and the lingering discomfort of the previous night's use of her mouth and her anus. I'd watch as Delacroix's eyes raked over her form, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he beckoned her closer.

"Come here, my little whore," he'd purr, patting his lap. "Show your master how much you've missed his cock."

As the days passed, I found myself increasingly torn between my duty and my growing feelings for Sophia. Each night, as I escorted her to Delacroix's chambers, I couldn't help feeling a piece of my soul chip away. I told myself not to overdramatize, but the sound of her muffled cries and Delacroix's grunts of pleasure literally haunted my dreams, mingling with visions of her innocent face contorted in mingled ecstasy and agony.

On the fifth day, Thursday, Delacroix summoned me to his study. The room reeked of Cuban cigars and expensive brandy, a testament to the magnate's indulgences. He sat behind his mahogany desk, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he gestured for me to take a seat.

"Marcus, my friend," he began, his voice dripping with false camaraderie. "I've received some excellent news that I'm afraid will mean a bit of extra work for you. The Amsterdam deal is progressing even more smoothly than anticipated."

I leaned forward, not needing to feign interest while my mind raced. The information I'd been waiting for, of the progress of the Groupe Synergistique' s plans, seemed about to arrive.

"That's wonderful to hear, Monsieur." I bit back the urge to ask for more, hoping Delacroix's vanity would provide him all the motivation he needed to share the details with me.

Delacroix's lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk. "Wonderful, yes. We'll sign the papers in two weeks, here at the chateau. I need you and your team to provide security for my associates and our new partners. Some very powerful people will attend. The scope of this deal, Marcus… it's beyond anything we've achieved before."

"My team is ready," I told him. "You'll give me the list of attendees?"

Delacroix waved a hand. "Of course, my friend. I'll make sure I send it before I fuck Sophia tonight."

I kept my face impassive. "Thank you, Monsieur."

What Delacroix said next made it difficult to retain my carefully presented composure.

"I really have to compliment you on how well you trained the little whore, and in such a short time, Marcus. And the notion of closing her poor little cunt—my cock stiffens every time I look between her thighs. I think I'll present her at the signing and let the guests play with her. Perhaps we'll open her cunt then, too. I can deflower her to celebrate the deal."

Sophia

Every morning, as Marcus walked me back to my own bedroom from Monsieur Delacroix's, I decided that that night I would have to do it—or suffer the terrible consequences of discovery. The Briseis act could only take me so far: at some point the innocent-seeming observer had to become the powerful force who could change everything.

Walking gingerly in front of Marcus, my body ached with the exquisite reminders of the night's debaucheries. Each step sent shockwaves of soreness through my most intimate places, igniting embers of arousal even as I winced. The shamefully pleasurable burn in my rear spoke of Delacroix's relentless conquests, his thick member stretching me beyond my limits as I lay helplessly bound. My jaw still felt the phantom presence of his girth, the memory of his forceful thrusts making my throat constrict reflexively.

I couldn't help but recall how I had knelt before him the previous night, my lips stretched wide around his rigid cock as he used my mouth for his pleasure. The way he had gripped my hair, controlling my movements as he plunged deeper and deeper, brought a flush to my cheeks. Even in the morning I thought I could taste the salt of his essence on my tongue.

I felt the subtle tug of the closure of my pussy-lips, too, at each step, a constant reminder of my captive state. The sealing of my outer labia, meant to heighten my need and tighten me for Delacroix's use, had become a source of perpetual arousal. The slightest friction sent jolts of aching lust through my core, leaving me in a state of simmering desire.

I needed to do something. By the third morning, after spending the entire night so close to the object of my mission and yet utterly unable to do anything about it, I had started to feel as if I were in a dream. By the fifth day I had begun to wonder whether Anton Delacroix really represented the existential threat to civilization Malleus had told me he did. After all, Marcus seemed to serve the "evil" magnate faithfully, as far as I could tell. What kind of world-ending data could those blinking lights in the alcove actually conceal? They looked so harmless.

But I definitely had to do something, or I would never be able to tell Marcus who I really was. I needed to tell him, because that meant that after I escaped, and his mission had ended, we would see each other again and… I didn't know— have a shot at happiness, maybe? Walking down the hall in front of him, sensing him almost touching me, I knew I would lose myself completely, or go crazy, if I didn't do something.

That night—the fifth one, if I had counted correctly, though I had no way of knowing, here in the chateau where I had no access to any means of recording the passage of time, and there seemed no sign anywhere of a calendar—I saw Delacroix use the air-gapped computer for the first time. When Marcus led me in, clad in the black corset and stockings my owner had evidently chosen for his fucking piece that evening, Delacroix stood next to the computer, looking at the monitor. He seemed to be copying information from the screen onto his handheld, tapping the surface and glancing back and forth between the two devices.

"Ah, good evening, whore," he said, genially, looking in our direction for a moment before returning his attention to his handheld.

I felt my cheeks redden, as they always did at the magnate's casual degradation, and I demanded of my body—as I had done so many times before—why it couldn't seem to get used to it. The simple answer that always came back from the dark recesses of my mind, Because you are a whore, Sophia Larkwood , only ever made my blush fiercer.

"Marcus, go ahead and tie her to the bed, would you? I'm just finishing up my mail to you with the list of attendees. Face up, if you would. I'll fuck her face that way before I turn her over."

I blinked, and I felt my jaw go slack as I tried to absorb all the many impulses Delacroix's words had awakened in my brain and my body.

List of attendees.

Face up… I'll fuck her face that way. My owner hadn't done that before.

List of attendees.

Would he reach back, as he straddled me and drove his cock into my mouth? Would he run his fingers up and down the closed seam of my pussy the way he liked to do, as if to remind me that my virgin vagina belonged to him, and he would decide when I took his hardness there?

List of attendees.

"Yes, Monsieur," Marcus said. "Get on the bed, Sophia. On your back with your hands over your head."

I tried to keep an eye on Delacroix as I obeyed. I hoped as I always did that the note of resignation I heard in my miles ' voice wasn't only a figment of my imagination—that Marcus found it as wrenching as I did that he had no choice but to position me not for his own pleasure, but for the brutal use of another, crueler man.

Delacroix had finished copying the information on the computer screen. He stood watching as Marcus secured my wrists to the headboard. He had opened his silk dressing gown to reveal the thick manhood I had already spent so much time serving, and he stroked himself with his left hand, his eyes narrowing as he approached the bed, and his bound, supine bed girl.

On the other side of the bed, Marcus stepped away to let my owner mount atop the mattress, shedding his gown to the floor as he did. The sight of Delacroix's naked body always made my heart race: powerful, slightly stocky, covered in white-blond fur, his penis huge and jutting.

I suddenly wished Marcus had already left the room, because I felt myself begin to dampen behind the private lips my miles had closed. The idea of my owner's selfish pleasure, of the way even when he brought me to climax he did it as a symbol of his power over me, never failed to make my pussy flow shamefully with my frustrated need.

I whimpered as Delacroix made his way, on all fours, across the meter of coverlet between us.

"Hush, you naughty little slut," he growled. His hand reached out and slapped my face, hard. I cried out in surprise and pain, and to my horror I clenched down below my belly, my hips jerking and my bottom squirming over the covers. I wondered for a moment if I had heard Marcus make some sort of involuntary little noise, a sound of protest.

My owner swung his knee over my chest and grabbed my head. I looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes as he moved forward and brought his cock to my lips. His pale eyes gazed down into mine with terrible intensity, as if fascinated by my response to his utter physical domination.

"Open wider, whore," he commanded dispassionately.

With a sob, I obeyed, and he drove his hardness deep into my mouth and held himself there.

A little grunt of pleasure emerged from his chest before he seemed to remember Marcus still standing there, behind him.

"Thank you, Marcus," he said. "You may go. Please remember how crucial this deal is. In two weeks, we secure our future."