by Emily Tilton
“My ancestors used to birch the peasant girls this way,” her owner had said, and begun to birch her. As she had screamed out her penitence, begged to be spared the whistling of the twigs and the terrible bite of them into her bottom-cheeks and thighs and even her pussy, she had found herself unable to keep her mind from going back to the previous night: the night of her defloration, when she had begun to realize into what danger she had actually come.
Monsieur Herrier pulled his softening cock from Cynthia’s bottom, telling her with his hands that she must remain in her submissive position, face in the rug and backside raised and offered.
“I’ll have you there again tonight, ma jeune fille,” he said. “Once more at least. Now, however…”
She heard his footsteps recede, and then a strange swooshing sound that she realized must be Monsieur Herrier pulling the bell rope she had noticed by his bed. Part of her—the modern part of her, she thought—felt desperate to know what would befall her now. Another part of her—the captive princess, now that other kind of princess, too… the… the anal kind—felt content to remain like that, in a not-uncomfortable posture that offered the seigneur of this magnificent chateau, who had spent so much money on her, the charms he had purchased and had just now begun forcefully to enjoy.
“Maître Gregoire,” he said in a voice that sounded so ironic, so dominant in a cultural and intellectual way that Cynthia had never even imagined, that she felt her bare pussy clench just at those two words of address.
“Yes, monsieur?” asked the trainer from the shadows. Cynthia’s face was turned in that direction, away from the fire, and she could just make out Master Greg’s face, above his dark suit and crisp white Oxford shirt, his features flickering with the firelight’s illumination.
“Have I trained my girl’s bottom properly so far?”
Cynthia’s cheeks blazed, and she felt another humiliating flutter between her legs, sure that her owner had his eyes fixed right there, so he could see her react with helpless arousal to his degradation.
“Oui, monsieur,” Master Greg said simply.
A knock came at the doors, and they opened immediately: the entrance of a servant who has received a summons. Madame du Gare’s gravelly voice said, “Oui, monsieur?”
“Isn’t she lovely, madame?” asked Monsieur Herrier. “She took the penis well in that little bottom.”
Oh, please. Please. Cynthia clenched again, down there.
“I am very glad to hear it,” the housekeeper said. “Shall I bring the basin, then, so that she may cleanse you, to ready your penis for her cunt?”
How could the woman just… say that? They said those things at the Institute all the time, but it now seemed to Cynthia that setting meant everything. She remembered Master Greg talking about her cunt in so many terrible words, in her apartment in Brooklyn. She had thought the shock came solely from no one’s ever having used the word in her hearing before—but now she understood that a great part of it had come from her expectations of how a man talked to a hipster girl in her Brooklyn loft.
How David had talked to her. Oh, David. You would never, ever understand, would you? If you could… maybe…
“Exactement, madame,” said Monsieur Herrier.
Madame du Gare must have had the basin, the towel, and the soap ready to hand, for only a minute or two later she returned. Monsieur Herrier sat in his ornate chair (Second Empire?) in front of the fire, and Cynthia had to kneel on the rug before him and clean his cock, which grew under the touch of the warm towel, until he told her to stop and instead to take him in her mouth.
“Get me ready for that sweet little cunt of yours, princess,” he said roughly, and enforced his command with his hands in Cynthia’s hair.
His thick cock got hard in her mouth, filling it, pushing, until just as in his car he held himself in deep, and thrust up, as Cynthia struggled to give pleasure to the stiff phallus that commanded her with all the arrogance her owner had demonstrated from the moment he laid eyes on her. How could that brusque, possessive manner possibly make her feel that she wanted him to hold her, lie with her, cuddle her? As he murmured, “Ma belle fille,” and held himself in balls-deep so that her entire world was the musky, thrusting lap that demanded her shameful service, she thought she must have lost something essential in her reasoning.
He told her to get up and go to the bed, and lie on it on her back, with her knees up and spread, and she couldn’t find the way of thinking that seemed to have gone missing. She obeyed, because she knew she would be whipped if she did not, because she had no choice, because she wanted to yield her cunt to a man’s cock and have him say that she had given him pleasure and he would give her pleasure in return, as a reward… they all represented reasons that existed in her together despite the contradictions between them.
She looked at the ruins of the beautiful nightgown on the rug as she went to the bed, and she looked down at her naked body, her pussy bared for him because he liked to fuck a bare cunt. She climbed on the bed, from which Madame du Gare had removed the silken coverlet to leave a crisp white sheet.
The housekeeper stood watching, still, and Cynthia felt the heat return to her face as she realized that the woman wanted to see how she would react to the whiteness of the sheet, to its contrast with the way it would look after the seigneur had taken her virginity and ripped through the modest barrier nature had placed in the way of a girl’s first fucking.
She bit her lip and turned to the bed, not wanting to give the housekeeper any satisfaction. She got onto her back.
“Knees nice and high now,” said Monsieur Herrier. “Your bottom at the edge of the bed so I can get into you standing up.”
Cynthia had closed her eyes as she adopted the posture he commanded, and she kept them closed as she tried to comply with this additional instruction, but her owner spoke sharply to forbid it.
“Look at me, ma fille. I wish to see your eyes as I fuck you.”
Oh, please. But she opened her eyes, feeling herself warm down there at the strange affection in his voice, in the thought that he wanted to see her surrender herself that way: a cruel affection, though the idea made no sense at all—a cruel affection for which Cynthia felt desperate.
She looked down to see him put his cock there, rub it up and down, push it in as he looked straight into her eyes, until she gave a little cry at the breathtaking stab of pain. And then he didn’t delay, the way a tender lover would have. He wanted to fuck a tight virgin pussy, his blue eyes said, and now he would: he took hold of her raised thighs and he thrust his hard penis all the way in, as Cynthia cried out over and over at her defloration.
She bit her lips, felt her forehead furrow with discomfort and then the strange mingling of discomfort and pleasure. Monsieur Herrier’s eyes roved from her face down to his bloodstained cock surging in and out of her newly opened vagina, to the nipples with which he played from time to time, back to her face. He took his time inside her, thrusting hard and then slowing, enjoying her, using her to the fullest, pounding against her whipped bottom to make it smart anew as if he meant this fucking to be a punishment for her as much as a pleasure for him.
“So tight, ma fille. Such a sweet cunt, my anal princess,” he murmured, and then with a final thrust that made her scream at its breathtaking depth inside her he came, his hips jerking and a grunt of pleasure coming from her chest.
For a long moment he held himself in, still looking into her eyes, and then he withdrew and turned aside.
“Maître Gregoire, my compliments. She is a lovely fuck. Come and reward her, please, while I watch. Let’s make her ride one of my pillows, in fact, so that she can see how different her cunt feels now that it belongs to me like her bottom.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Greg racked his mind for anything he might do that would create a delay in the street without casting suspicion on himself. The limo pulled up in front of the discreetly marked restaurant—the sort of place diners never wandered into but rather reser
ved a table at a year in advance. A doorman emerged to open the car door.
Stepping out of the limo first, Greg tried, as covertly as he could, to see whether he could locate Tiber and Sparrow—presumably, he thought, Cynthia’s friend Addie, but who knew. He caught a glimpse of two women at the end of the street, walking toward them. They would miss Cynthia by a minute or two unless Greg could figure out an effective way to delay their entry.
Maybe they could wait for the other members of the Groupe? But the doorman said to Greg, clearly thinking him some sort of consigliere, “Messieurs Redac, Derian, et Joubert sont ici.”
“Bon, merci,” Greg responded, not wanting to disabuse the man of his impression that confidences could be shared with Greg. Every advantage could help.
He looked up the street: Tiber and Sparrow had come close enough that Greg recognized Addie now. They would still take another minute to arrive level with the restaurant door. He extended his hand to help Cynthia, wearing a lovely dress of pearl-gray moiré silk, out of the car.
She moved stiffly, clearly still shocked by Herrier’s calmly informing her in the car of what awaited her in the upstairs room.
“Still four,” Heather said over the comm link, giving him the two-minute update.
Then Greg had it: he knew exactly how to cause the confluence of Addie and Cynthia, and how to make it occur under precisely the right circumstances for the advancement of Operation Heatsink. He almost laughed at the perfection of it, its sheer congruence with the setting here in the Quartier Latin.
On Cynthia’s face he read all the tension caused by the wrong kind of fear, made much worse by the infatuation with Herrier that had developed so quickly over the last three days. Her mind was desperate to find some justification for what felt to her like affection and gratitude—for the man who had fucked her in his stately bed, deep into each night, and come to her room to wake her with his cock each morning.
The slightest affection from Herrier would make Cynthia utterly his servant: to hear instead of how he would display her, share her, degrade her this afternoon… her cheeks burned, and her heart obviously jumped, behind the downcast eyes that she fixed on the doorman’s shoes, but no warmth had spread to the parts down below upon which Operation Relegate now depended.
Cynthia stepped onto the sidewalk, took a pace toward the open restaurant door, beyond which Greg saw a dim space with a very few tables, caught the glint of bottle glass on the wall. He had a split second in which to enlist Goshawk in his own destruction: even if he could interest the magnate in the little moment he thought might make the difference, unless that moment occurred right here and now, outside the restaurant, it might still help the operation by arousing Cynthia, but Addie and Tiber would walk right by.
Greg let Cynthia move past, and lingered right next to the car. As Herrier emerged, he spoke directly into the trillionaire’s ear.
“Make her climax here on the street, monsieur. She needs some, let’s say, encouragement, to perform as you wish her to, for your colleagues.”
Herrier looked at him skeptically, and Greg had to make a heroic effort to keep a small, crooked smile on his own face, and then to wink, as if everything didn’t depend on Goshawk seizing this bait. He winked, and he saw Herrier’s answering smile and a glint in his blue eyes.
“Ma fille,” he called out. “Wait a moment, please.”
Cynthia froze. Herrier stood looking at her back, and Greg, to his relief, saw the man’s appreciation of the moment grow along undoubtedly with the hardness of his cock.
“Five,” Heather said.
“Nice work, Black Bear,” came Sarah Bennett’s voice, and Greg almost smiled too broadly to hear the relief in his boss’ tone.
“Come here, Cynthia,” Herrier said in the voice he used when telling her to lie on his bed with her knees up and parted for him to taste her and then to enter her in his preferred masterly style.
“Six.”
When Cynthia turned, Greg saw in her still lowered eyes, under the beautiful chignon into which the hairdresser summoned by Madame du Gare had styled it, that she, too, had taken the bait he offered: to have Herrier stop her and call her back, even for what would prove a terribly shameful reason, fed her infatuation, allayed her fears, and let her arousal build again. The terror that had suppressed the heat between her thighs had certainly come from learning Herrier’s intentions for her as to the colleagues she had never met: now, to have her master decide to take this moment with her for himself had begun to resolve that problem.
“Tell her,” he said in a low voice to Herrier, meant to convey confidentiality while still allowing Cynthia to overhear it, in hope of lessening her fear further, “why you wish her to serve your business associates.”
He glanced up the street. Now he would have to hurry things along, for the moment he had planned to unfold in the best way: Addie was fifty yards away now, and might recognize Cynthia at any moment.
“Up against the car,” he said to Herrier, and saw the notion catch fire in the man’s libidinal imagination.
Herrier reached out his hand and seized Cynthia’s shoulder.
“I don’t think you understand, ma belle fille, how important your service here today is to me. I’m going to remind you right here, in the center of my culture, what your place is in the world to which I’ve brought you.”
Sarah’s voice came over the comm link. “Black Bear, Arno. We’ve got a mic over you, on a drone. That’s fine work, baiting Herrier that way.”
Greg didn’t need to fight the smile, now, because it would present a perfectly appropriate reaction to watching a lovely nineteen-year-old in a beautiful silk dress spun around by an older man and pushed up against the side of a limousine, her hands balled into little fists at the side of her face as she felt the dress raised to demonstrate that she wore a white corset, suspenders, and stockings—but no panties.
“Monsieur…” said the doorman a little reproachfully, though Greg could tell he didn’t mind the sight, which really no one would see, even the two women who would walk right by on the sidewalk, since the doorman, Greg, and Herrier himself would shelter the little moment of mastery from view.
Unless Greg shifted his position, and moved in such a way, with a flick of his head and a subtle flourish of his hand, to call a young American woman’s attention to the strange spectacle of a tall man with his hand under the girl’s skirt, between her thighs, caressing her boldly and arrogantly as she cried out softly into the black metal of the car.
Addie gasped, and then gasped again. Greg could almost hear the conflicted thoughts in her head, now that she had not just seen a nakedly sexual moment in the Paris street but had then recognized her best friend as the recipient of it.
“Cynthia?” she said, as if the name had been jerked out of her despite her countervailing wish to forget she had seen what she had just seen.
Cynthia tried to turn her head, but Herrier used his left hand to prevent the movement, twining his fingers in her hair and disheveling the beautiful coiffure. “Eyes front, ma fille,” he growled, clearly reckoning Addie’s recognition of his concubine as a trivial matter.
Sarah said over the comm link, “Well done. Tiber, get Sparrow out of there, please. Black Bear, a little assist would be nice.”
Cynthia gave another cry, as Herrier’s hand worked her, made her ride his hand.
Greg moved so that he blocked Addie’s view of the scene, while the doorman, mortified, turned to Addie and said in heavily accented English. “Can I help you, mademoiselle?”
“That’s…” Addie said, but Greg could hear the doubt taking hold in her voice. “That’s my friend.” She turned to Greg. “Monsieur, that’s Cynthia Hall, isn’t it?”
“Non, mademoiselle,” Greg said, trying to make himself sound as French as he could.
Herrier had had enough of this, though. Greg heard him growl in Cynthia’s ear, “We’ll finish this inside, ma fille.” He lowered the gray dress, turned the girl toward the open restau
rant door with his arm tightly around her waist, and ushered her across the sidewalk and through into the dim interior. Greg saw the dazed expression on Cynthia’s face, seemingly only half-aware of Addie’s presence, if that.
“Pardon, monsieur,” the strikingly beautiful Tiber said to Greg. “Mon amie a pense que…”
But Greg hastened to reassure without reassuring. “Pas de probleme. She’s a striking girl, I know.” At the English words, he saw Addie’s eyes go very wide: she would not be able to say why exactly, Greg felt sure, but she now had no doubt that she had just seen Cynthia Hall lewdly caressed by a wealthy Frenchman up against his limo, and then ushered into an elegant restaurant.
Then he followed Cynthia and Herrier into the restaurant, to find that the magnate had shoved Cynthia up against the wall at the base of the stairs, and had her dress up around her waist. She whimpered as her owner’s hand moved urgently under her perfect little bottom, forced pleasure on her without regard for anything but making her come as swiftly as possible.
“Nine,” Heather said. “Ten. Pre-orgasm.”
Greg wished he could hear what Sarah was saying to Tiber, or see what had happened on the sidewalk they had just left, whether Addie were now craning to see if she could peer through the frosted glass at what was happening to the girl she must now feel sure was in fact her best friend.
Not my responsibility, now, he thought, with mingled relief and regret.
He certainly had enough to worry about right here, as he listened to Herrier’s second narration to Cynthia of what he wished to occur once they reached the private dining room at the top of the stairs. The first had caused only terror: this more intimate one wouldn’t take away the fear, especially with the recent impression of seeing her best friend from her countercultural life in Brooklyn. It would nevertheless bring Cynthia’s arousal cycle back into play, making the successful consummation of Operation Relegate once again a possibility.