Sold at Auction – Bound for Service Read Online Emily Tilton

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62063 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
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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.


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