Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62063 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62063 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
“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.