Trained by the Trillionaire

by Emily Tilton

  Herrier’s true intention, after all, as far as the Guard had been able to ascertain it, as they contemplated putting together the operation that would become Relegate, lay in employing Cynthia’s punished, pleasured, well-used body as a kind of sacrificial altar. Upon that altar, and inside it—in her mouth, her vagina, and most important her anus—he meant it seemed officially to cement an alliance among the members of the Groupe Synergistique.

  Such alliances existed all through the dark world of super-wealthy business magnates who crisscrossed the globe in search first of money and then of pleasure. This one was special, however, because of the role of Vulture: Professor Redac. A scrape of the professor’s metadata had indicated that he knew about the Pretorian Guard.

  The intelligence about to be gathered through Cynthia’s and Greg’s presence in the room, if Cynthia performed to Herrier’s desired standard, would determine whether the Guard destroyed the four members of the Groupe—at great expense of effort and resources—or would somehow find a way to use them as a cat’s paw in manipulating European energy markets.

  Old-fashioned industrial espionage, Greg thought wryly to himself as he watched Cynthia throw her head back and moan into her climax, face flushed and knees trembling, but no megacorp ever committed the kind of asset we have, here today.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Monsieur Herrier said the terrible things again, now, into her ear as he held her thighs open with his right hand and forced the shameful pleasure there. They all seemed different, though, in the setting of the restaurant, with him looming over her, controlling her body with his hands, exposing her bottom to Master Greg’s view, the doorman’s view.

  Had he really done that, on the street, just now?

  Had Addie really called her name, as Cynthia’s master raised her skirt to have his way, up against the limo?

  “I need you to understand, ma fille, how important it is to me that your anus take each and every penis I decide should enter it and spill its owner’s seed there. Do you understand that?”

  His fingers, inside the pussy he had opened in his elegant bed, had fucked over and over in the past three days. His fingers, pressing between her bottom cheeks, emphasizing the awful words. Then back to her clit, rubbing hard circles.

  Oh, no. Please don’t make me… not while you’re saying these things, seigneur, master, monsieur.

  He hadn’t repeated the worst part yet, though. Cynthia thought crazily that she could have borne it if it had just been that part, as shameful as that part was—as contradictory to the things Addie had said about anal sex.

  Addie?

  If it were only that: just Cynthia’s owner binding her to a bench and his colleagues coming one by one to fuck her bottom while her seigneur watched.

  If it were merely that, she thought she might not know the wild terror she hadn’t stopped feeling since he had announced all of it in the car. She felt it still, there in the restaurant’s staircase up against the wall, even though what Monsieur Herrier did now, with his hand between her legs and his lips at her ear, her dress raised to show her private charms, transformed some of that fear into something else, something even more powerful—so powerful it terrified her all on its own.

  But what he intended had more to it: much more, Cynthia couldn’t help thinking it though she supposed another kind of girl might have considered it of less importance than the bottom-fucking itself.

  “Oui, monsieur,” she whimpered to the wall, unable to keep herself from moving her hips in that familiar wanton motion that displayed the need, the essential naughtiness that had made her a bed girl, and then the captive anal princess of a powerful man.

  Oh, Addie. Forgive me. David, forgive me.

  “You will beg for their cocks in your mouth, and your cunt, and your bottom. Do you understand? You will kneel before each man, kiss his penis, and ask him to fuck your pussy and your anus. You will show my colleagues that your body will be their playground here today. You will humbly request that they punish you, as well, if they find your conduct wanting in any way. Do you understand?”

  Cynthia gave a scream she could not have suppressed if her life depended on it. The doorman, who was perhaps actually the owner of the restaurant, said again in mild reproof, “Monsieur, je regrette…”

  The sound of his voice, the feeling of his eyes, this man who didn’t ask to see a pretty young American girl’s bottom, didn’t ask to have her fucked in the ass by three men in his private dining room, sent Cynthia over the edge into an orgasm, hips bucking, chest jerking against the wall into which her owner had pushed her.

  “Good girl, ma belle fille. Good girl,” he murmured. Then, relentless, “You will beg. Do you understand?”

  Now, in the wake of her climax, Addie’s face, glimpsed for a moment outside on the sidewalk, seemed to swim into view in Cynthia’s mind’s eye. Her owner’s hand kept rubbing, and her poor pussy kept responding, and to her mortified amazement she came again under his fingers, seeing Addie in her imagination.

  Seeing Addie bent over a spanking bench, learning what it meant to refuse her bottom to the man who owned her. Addie begging. Addie’s anus fucked hard.

  She screamed again, came again.

  The restaurateur, growing a little angry: “Monsieur, il faut que je dis…”

  “Ne t’inquietes pas,” Monsieur Herrier said, turning Cynthia to face the stairs. Startled, she put her hands down to try to lower her hem and smooth the dress, but her owner said sharply, “No, Cynthia. Your dress will remain like that. I prefer it.”

  She felt desperate for a moment then to see what the restaurateur thought of that—what Master Greg thought about it. Master Greg who watched it all as if he were actually somewhere else. Her head turned, but Monsieur Herrier seemed to read her thoughts and put his hand to the back of her skull, twined his fingers in the hairdo that must be very unkempt now, and kept her face looking up the stairs. “Go, ma fille,” he said sternly. “My colleagues are waiting.”

  Through a door at the top of the steps lay a room just as terrible as Cynthia had imagined. By the window, a table laid for four. Closer to the door, in the center of the room, a massage table of the kind often used for sex at the Institute when other girls had to watch a girl fucked. Next to it, a wooden frame with leather straps, similar to the block over which Cynthia had received the birch: the perfect device for securing a girl to when you wanted to be able to whip her bottom and thighs or fuck her in any orifice without troubling yourself with changing her posture.

  Three men, and a waiter behind a little bar. They came to greet Monsieur Herrier with kisses upon both cheeks: Professeur Redac, Monsieur Derian, Monsieur Joubert. Cynthia’s owner let go of her to exchange the salutations, and Cynthia stood to the side, heart pounding wildly, with Master Greg behind her.

  She didn’t have long to wait, however. Professor Redac moved from his embrace of Monsieur Herrier to stand before her, saying nothing but—Cynthia felt, though she kept her eyes upon his black shoes—gazing at her with unwavering attention. She felt herself burning still between her thighs. She wished she could put her hands in front of her. She wanted to cover up the little slit Monsieur Herrier had decided should be displayed to these other men, framed in the arch of the white corset and the suspenders that ran down to matching white nylons, all crowned with the bunched hem of the beautiful dress—the dress that had made her feel so elegant that morning, before she learned what would befall her here in this awful room.

  The number of shoes grew: Monsieur Derian, Monsieur Joubert, and then her owner himself came to form a semicircle with Cynthia at its focal point and Master Greg behind her.

  “Shall we speak English?” asked the professor, his voice thick with irony.

  “But of course,” replied Monsieur Herrier. “How would my jeune fille understand your commands otherwise, and her trainer Maître Gregoire know how to arrange her for your pleasure?”

  “Lovely,” said Monsieur Joubert.

  “You opened
the cunt two nights ago, you say?” The professor’s tone made a shiver run up and down Cynthia’s spine, and she heard a tiny sound of protest come from her throat.

  “Yes, and the bottom. Maître Gregoire it seems had the pleasure of being the first to use the girl’s mouth. Is that correct, ma fille?”

  Taken aback, Cynthia hardly realized Monsieur Herrier had addressed her.

  “Answer your master,” said Master Greg behind her, his voice so calm that it seemed to anchor Cynthia to something that might, it seemed for a moment at least, be dependable in a room whose very walls seemed to shift around her. “Did I fuck your face first?”

  She felt her brow furrow deeply. “Oui, monsieur.”

  “He took her from Brooklyn, in New York City, where they spit on the old world,” Monsieur Herrier said, seeming to aim each word into Cynthia’s heart. “But today she will beg to be treated like an old-world whore, the way a girl should be treated when she rides the cock as this one does.”

  “Does she like it in the anus, then?” asked Monsieur Derian. “Is the bottom well trained for fucking?”

  “She pretends she doesn’t, but the harness she wears every day has changed her mind, I believe. Is that not right, Cynthia? You enjoy a big cock in your anus, now, do you not?”

  “Oh, please…” she whispered, knowing that it had begun in earnest. She must say that which she must not say.

  “Hmm,” the professor said. “Perhaps we should take a look. Shall we get her out of the dress and strap her down for an inspection of cunt and anus? I must say that the way she’s bare down there has already made me hard.”

  “Wait a bit,” said Monsieur Herrier. “I wish the girl to kneel and make a request of each of you in turn. Then we can strap her down, and you may inspect her for a bit before we get down to business. The girl’s bottom will be positioned, if you agree to this notion of mine, just next to the table, to inspire us. If we can conclude our affairs successfully, you may grant her the request she will now make. Does that sound acceptable?”

  “Mais, oui,” said the professor.

  “Certainly,” Monsieur Derian agreed in a pleasant tenor.

  “Of course,” added Monsieur Joubert in his more deeply pitched voice.

  Her owner spoke next, in a new, harsh tone of voice. “On your knees, slut. Professor Redac first, if you please.”

  Cynthia felt as if the very sound of his voice compelled her downward. The insane feeling of gratitude and even of affection returned to plague her, this time at a moment so horribly inappropriate that it made her feel faint. She took a step forward toward the professor, remembering the way Monsieur Herrier had pushed her up against the car, then the wall, his hand seeking out the secret of her lewdest cravings. Again she saw Addie, too, undergoing the same shameful treatment.

  Would serve you right. You should get it up your ass, just like I do. Then you’d understand.

  She knelt, her eyes fixed on the pleated front of the professor’s gray wool trousers.

  “Kiss me, slut. Show me you want my cock.”

  You would do it, Addie, if your master shared you.

  The thoughts came upon her, wild and strange, in terrible succession

  David would share me, if he knew I need ass-fucking, if he fucked my bottom the way my owner does.

  She bent forward, to kiss the wool under which she could sense the movement of his hard penis. She gasped as he reached down to unbutton himself, take his cock out.

  “Here, girl. Kiss this, now, and then make your request.”

  What kind of professor is this? Cynthia couldn’t help wondering, but he had a long, slender penis, and she kissed its head, and she started to speak the terrible words because she knew David would make her do it, too. She understood that Monsieur Herrier somehow represented the part of David she had seen in his eyes in that moment she had moved his hand, the part he wouldn’t show her because she hadn’t been ready, then.

  If somehow he should come to know, now, that progressive, countercultural, hipster Cynthia Hall had become a captive anal princess, David would know what to do with her. She would have to say the same thing to him that she now said to the professor, her eyes seeing only the long, hard cock whose head she had just obediently kissed.

  “Please, Professor, use my anus and put your seed there. Please use my bare little cunt and my mouth, and whip me if I need it, but most of all use my anus because Monsieur Herrier has trained it so that I have learned to be a good girl for him, and even though my bottom needs so much more training, my owner enjoys fucking me there regularly, and I want your cock to feel good, as his does when he fucks my bottom…”

  Her voice trailed off as she realized how much farther she had gone even than her owner had instructed. Her face burned, but of course her pussy did too.

  Oh, David. Someday, maybe.

  “You shall have your wish,” the professor said dryly.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  With Robert’s permission, Sarah tasked the drone to peer through the window of the private dining room as the interesting part of the meeting got fully underway. The sound from the parabolic mic was tinny through the window glass, but quite clear thanks to it, as well: the drone only had to set the mic’s focus on its surface, and the glass served as a sort of passive loudspeaker.

  Herrier had made Cynthia kiss the cock of each of the members of the Groupe Synergistique, including himself, and promise to each one the same service: to yield her anus, vagina, and mouth exactly as each pleased, with the plea that they all climax in her bottom and leave their seed there to mingle with the semen of their colleagues.

  Sarah hadn’t anticipated the precise nature, or the severity, of the degradation Herrier had elected to impose as the ultimate symbol of his subjugation of his eepstair fille, but it hadn’t much surprised her. Such ceremonies represented a staple of the culture of the Pretorian Guard and the Order of Ostia quite as much as they did of such rivals as the Groupe Sarah hoped now to relegate to no more than a tool of the Guard’s purposes.

  “We are agreed, then, that whoever is in control of the TEF does not have the best interests of Europe in mind.”

  The professor spoke in a French tenor: Sarah heard an English soprano thanks to the simultaneous translation by an agna seventy floors below her in the offices of the international branch of New York’s Ostia mission.

  “Agreed,” Herrier said rather grumpily. Derian and Joubert nodded and grunted.

  The moment would probably have seemed a very minor one to a casual observer—it surely seemed such to Cynthia, who couldn’t speak a word of French. Greg had more French than he had let on to Herrier or the rest of his Groupe, but the complexities of energy policy as discussed in rapid Parisian tones would, Sarah felt sure, elude him.

  To Sarah, however, what the professor had just said meant that Operation Relegate would almost certainly succeed at least to some degree. With small, precisely timed movements in the pricing of hydroelectric power, the Guard had obliquely convinced these men to declare themselves against the interests of the Pretorian Guard, who were of course in control of the secretive TEF that served as the true regulator of both energy and water for the entire Eurozone.

  Much more important, with the help of Cynthia Hall, they had now learned of that declaration and put themselves in a position to control the Groupe’s leader—or at the very least to know his movements and some of his thoughts.

  RBg7: Give me an update on Heatsink, please.

  Sarah swallowed hard. She looked at the grainy video supplied by the tiny drone that hovered invisibly above the Rue Racine. Next to the table, gagged casually with a napkin, Cynthia lay bottom up in her corset, suspenders and stockings, strapped securely to the severely angled bench. To Sarah, and to the members of the Groupe Synergistique, the girl was nothing but a well-presented backside, raised just above the level of the table upon which lay the remnants of their luncheon. They had placed her between Professor Redac, to her right, and Monsieur Joubert, to he
r left.

  Cynthia’s buttocks, which still bore the faint marks of her birching, her vagina, and her cringing anus all presented themselves readily to the eye, promising also to receive the men’s cocks when they had concluded their more technical business. Greg sat to the side of the room, just as he did in Herrier’s bedroom, his eyes discreetly on Cynthia, whose well-being constituted nearly the whole of his responsibility.

  The number in the upper right of the window read six, an adequate maintenance number, as the Institute assessors usually called it, for an episode in which the concubine’s arousal didn’t factor, and she was left to her thoughts bound over a bench or to a wall, or left to await her master in bed. That six, however, posed the problem of Heatsink all the more urgently to Sarah.

  SBo6: Coming up, sir.

  She opened a chat with Lisette and toggled off the audio feed from the restaurant to keep it from distracting her. The transcript of the Groupe’s meeting kept scrolling out underneath the video window: Sarah could read through it later, though of course her analysts would already have gleaned every possible piece of intelligence by the time she did.

  Arno: Status?

  The agna responded a few seconds later.

  Tiber: I left Sparrow at her hotel. She’s pretty shaken.

  Arno: Thanks. Please stand by for instructions for the next 24, but I think your bit is over. You have New York’s gratitude.

  Tiber: A pleasure to assist you, Arno.

  Addie must have received an even greater shock from seeing Cynthia than Sarah had anticipated, if she had already returned to her hotel. Sarah opened the video feed from the camera a Guard nymphobus had placed in the crown molding of the room, to find Addie on her cell phone, apparently—from their keystroke-logging trace on her number—trying to figure out how to turn on international roaming.