Trained by the Trillionaire

by Emily Tilton

  I’m just the guy trying to keep the girl safe, he thought rather bitterly. Go ahead and make my job impossible.

  Physical harm to Cynthia seemed unlikely, but with all the security here at this club so private it didn’t even have a name, who knew? Psychologically, though, Greg felt like Sarah’s crazy idea of bringing the girl’s boyfriend into play posed a much greater downside risk than it had potential upside.

  David took the tycoon’s hand with apparent nonchalance, not even glancing at the handkerchief that had just wiped away the private wetness of the girl he clearly loved—why else would he have booked his flight to Paris after all?

  More to the point, why else would he have consented, when in effect kidnapped by a limo sent from Guard headquarters right after booking the flight, to twelve hours of crash training in international espionage?

  “Osprey,” Sarah said over the comm link that Greg and David shared, “that’s well done. Remember, all you have to do is react naturally, here.”

  The doorman opened the discreet—really nondescript—door of the club, which led merely to stairs leading upward, only the quiet elegance of the polished banister and the crimson carpet giving any idea of what lay above. Herrier turned away from David, a look in his eye that suggested precisely the aroused interior dynamics that had made him accept David’s insane proposal that he be allowed to participate in gangbanging his vieille putain, having come across her so fortuitously, her whorishness on display for all Paris.

  Greg had to admit that that part of Sarah’s plan for Heatsink had a sort of genius to it. How could Herrier possibly decline? It didn’t matter in the slightest that he had just met David: Cynthia’s reaction to him demonstrated that the American must indeed be her former boyfriend—the man who in Herrier’s mind would have been responsible for teaching her manners, civilizing her, dressing her up… all the things Herrier now felt such alpha pride in having done to Cynthia—for Cynthia, in his dominant imagination.

  “After you,” Herrier said to David, not even paying attention to his concubine’s entrance into the club, as she looked in terrible uncertainty from her owner to her almost lover, the man to whom her dossier said she would have lost her virginity eventually, if the Order of Ostia hadn’t come calling.

  Heather’s voice, now. “Down to five.”

  Sarah, projecting confidence. “That’s fine. Osprey, follow Oriole, but not too closely.”

  Greg had to exercise extraordinary willpower not to grit his teeth so loudly Herrier might have overheard. Oh, it’s fine. Cynthia would have gone in at eight or nine, without this curveball. What the fuck is going to happen if she can’t demonstrate the kind of submission she did for the Groupe Synergistique?

  He watched David enter smoothly, casting a grateful, conspiratorial smile back at his host. Osprey clearly possessed the confidence of a natural operative for any intelligence operation: Greg certainly didn’t mind admitting that, and welcoming the man as a new colleague. Nor did he question David’s decision to sign on with the Guard with only the vaguest outline of the shadowy organization to which he had committed himself: Greg had done much the same, though under less emergent circumstances.

  “Black Bear,” Sarah said, “do what you can to get that number up. I don’t mind Oriole not being wet right now, but…”

  Greg was looking straight at David at that moment, and he saw the muscles of his jaw set hard for just a moment as he heard the distant controller of the operation talk about the vagina of the girl he loved in such a perfunctory manner. Greg could at least feel glad he hadn’t had to be present at Osprey’s initial recruitment and his first training sessions. Any dominant man would take an extreme interest in the prospect of joining an international conspiracy organized around restoring masculine erotic mastery and enjoying feminine submission. When he heard, however, that his girlfriend had been sold to a wealthy Frenchman, had been trained for that man’s pleasure, deflowered in every way, given to his colleagues, his emotions were bound to be rather mixed.

  “…we want her higher when Goshawk presents her.”

  Greg knew how to do it, but he also knew David wouldn’t like it. He tried valiantly to suppress the thought, but Serves him right floated to the surface of his brain nonetheless. It wasn’t like Greg felt for Cynthia anything more than the usual affection of a trainer for the girl he’s brought along, but he did feel quite proprietary both about her and about Operation Relegate. It wouldn’t be David Mancini’s fault if things went sideways—no, the blame would all go to Sarah, and Greg knew she would accept it, along with the severe punishment her husband would certainly mete out to her. Greg couldn’t help resenting the man just a bit anyway.

  Come in and screw up my operation just because you’re in love with her, will you?

  He followed Herrier through the door and up the stairs, only a step behind. When they had almost reached the top, he leaned forward and spoke quietly to Herrier.

  “She’s a little confused right now, I’m sure you’ll understand, monsieur. I’d like a moment with her before you put her on her knees.”

  “Fine, Black Bear,” Sarah said.

  Heather gave her two-minute check. “Holding at five.”

  But Herrier responded, as Greg had feared he might, unpredictably.

  Here’s where we go off the rails, Greg thought grimly as he watched the dominant glint gleam very brightly in the magnate’s eye. The presence of David had knocked everything off kilter, as of course it must.

  “I’ll take care of it, Maître,” Herrier said. He called to Cynthia, “Stop a moment, ma fille.”

  Greg wished he could see Sarah’s face now. Serves you right, too, he thought angrily, if Cynthia drops under five now.

  Cynthia froze. David now had to figure out where he should stand, and to his credit he did exactly what Greg himself would have done, walking by the girl as if he didn’t even see her and taking a position next to the door of the cloakroom. A young man, about eighteen, sat a little wide-eyed there, behind the bottom half of a Dutch door, ready to receive outer garments, though on this rather warm autumn day he would not have much to do but watch the most powerful men in Europe walk by him.

  Certainly Cynthia had no coat, and now her owner had obviously decided she should have no dress either. There in the little entranceway, with the discreet reception desk still twenty feet distant down the hallway, and the dark-suited man sitting there gazing curiously at them, Monsieur Herrier reached up and unzipped Cynthia’s dress, then pulled at it roughly, freeing Cynthia’s arms, so that it fell around her feet to reveal the black corset and suspenders.

  Her little nipples were bare above, offered by the demicups of the corset—directly, it appeared, to David and the young man in the coat check. Similarly offered, of course, thanks to her lack of panties and the waxing of her most intimate places, was the modest slit of Cynthia’s cunt, though Greg could see only the little bottom, from which the marks of the birch had now faded completely.

  His eyes met David’s, and Greg couldn’t help admiring how the man kept down the fury he must be feeling. Of course, here too the genius of Heatsink had something to recommend it: even if David had given way to his alpha rage to see his girl stripped and offered by a powerful, wealthy man, his reaction wouldn’t have betrayed anything but the understandable pique any man might feel. Indeed, Herrier would be drawn in further by any emotional misstep on David’s part.

  But Cynthia’s gasp and cry, and Heather’s voice saying, “Four,” represented the real problem.

  Sarah said, “Shit,” an utterly unaccustomed loss of her usually icy control.

  Greg could do nothing, he knew, that would not raise suspicion. Cynthia had covered herself with her hands, forgetting her training so thoroughly that she tried to hide her owner’s property in the classic mortified gesture that must always bring a spanking or worse.

  And Herrier didn’t hesitate: he took her around her waist and started to give the spanking with his open hand, his voice angry. �
�Don’t you dare cover that cunt, ma fille,” he said, as Cynthia cried out at the three sharp slaps to her backside that left vivid red handprints to mark Herrier’s territory.

  The man at the reception desk had stood up, and begun to move toward them. From the door behind him, too, another, older man—clearly a member of the club—had also emerged. The coat check boy’s eyes had gone very wide, his lips parted.

  The wonderful, evocative British phrase, distinctly pear-shaped, floated into Greg’s mind, because, it seemed, nothing useful would occur there.

  “Five,” Heather said.

  Well, that’s something, but what did it?

  “Six.”

  Greg couldn’t see Cynthia’s face, but he could see David’s, and he could see that David had fixed his gaze on Cynthia’s. Herrier was using his grip around the girl’s waist to move her toward the cloakroom now, but Greg could tell from David’s eyes that the erstwhile couple’s gazes had remained locked on one another.

  The X-factor. That was what the assessors at the Institute called it, usually derisively, though nothing in their data had ever been able to disprove its presence at crucial moments like this one. David Mancini and Cynthia Hall loved each other, and something entirely unpredictable, Greg knew, would now occur.

  It ended up as a moment of extraordinary simplicity, but even Herrier could sense the electricity, Greg knew from the sharp glance he gave David when the American said, “Eyes down, girl.”

  “Seven. Eight.”

  Greg saw from the angle of Cynthia’s head that she had obeyed David and lowered her eyes. Herrier said at that moment, to the coat check man, “Tenez les mains, s’il vous plait,” and the man, still wide-eyed, reached out to take Cynthia’s little hands so that her owner could easily bend her over the half door, through into the cloakroom, and begin spanking her soundly as she yelped and sobbed at the humiliating discipline.

  The receptionist and the other member arrived now, to find a howling girl in a corset, suspenders, nylons, and no panties being punished over a Dutch door.

  “Eh bien, Jacques,” said the member, continuing in English for the benefit of the Americans present, “can we not get the slut into the dining room first? What has she done?”

  Herrier stopped spanking Cynthia and turned to his friend, still resting his hand on the girl’s right hip. “Henri! She tried to cover her cunt and hide it from her former master’s view.”

  If David had a particular reaction to Herrier according him this title, he didn’t show it.

  Sarah had apparently started breathing again. “Great work, Osprey. You… you may have just saved the mission.”

  Greg found it hard to feel resentful of David’s sudden ascendancy: whether by instinct or by some newly developed skill, he had done for Cynthia what Greg himself could never have done.

  Herrier turned to David. “Monsieur, would you care to spank this bottom yourself? It was against you she committed the offense. You may as well fuck her, too, while we have her this way, if you like.”

  “Careful,” Sarah said, and Greg almost said the same out loud.

  But David’s instincts were clearly in tune with the moment.

  “I’ll spank her, certainly,” he said. “I would hate to delay her service to your friends, though. I hope I’ll have my turn in the cunt and the bottom, though.”

  “Ten,” Heather said.

  “Would you like to make her disgrace herself, though?” asked Monsieur Herrier. “In front of these men? I insist.”

  There’s the true challenge, Greg thought, for both of them really.

  “Very well,” David replied. Cynthia sobbed softly as Herrier relinquished his place to her boyfriend. Henri and the receptionist exchanged glances, as the coat check man swallowed hard.

  David put his left arm firmly around Cynthia’s waist. He stroked her bottom, and she gave a deep shudder.

  “Recalibrator,” Heather said. “Pre-orgasm.”

  “You’ve been a very naughty girl, haven’t you, Cynthia?” he asked, and began to spank her.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  How could it be real?

  “Something tells me,” David was saying, “that I never knew just how naughty a girl I had on my hands, back home.” His hand rose and fell, and made her yelp with each swat. His left hand controlled her behind, and the unknown young man in front gripped her hands tightly as if he thought his tip depended on it.

  She had her eyes closed, but she still felt like her senses received much too much information. She smelled the coats of the club members, and the cinnamon-y aftershave of the coat check man. Her brow furrowed as she smelled herself, too, because of how wet she had gotten, the way she had gushed when David just looked at her that way. Her bottom felt like it had caught fire, now, because he spanked her so hard, thought quite slowly, so that he could talk to her, too.

  But he didn’t talk to her, now, and that made her even wetter. He talked to the other men present.

  “I didn’t even think she played with herself, when we were dating.”

  The man named Henri laughed and spoke in accented English. “A girl like this?”

  “Every night and every morning, they tell me,” said Monsieur Herrier. “And the firm from which I bought her always knows these things. Put your hand down there and make her ride it, the way I do. She’ll disgrace herself, just as I said.”

  Oh, no. Cynthia found it hard enough to move her hips on the hand of the man who had bought her for the express purpose of mastering her that way, but how could she do it for David? How could she show him at last what she had done in bed, with her pillow, not even thinking of him because she didn’t dare hope he could ever help her with these shameful needs?

  But the spanking stopped, and she felt David’s hand there. He didn’t rub her pussy gently, the way she had thought he would have, if she had left his hand there, back in that other lifetime in Brooklyn. His middle two fingers found her clit and rubbed hard, and Cynthia sobbed at the feeling. She felt her wetness flow onto the palm he pressed over the opening where she had taken another man’s cock into the vagina that should have belonged to him first.

  “Does she like to take it in the ass?” David asked, in a tone of voice that suggested only mild curiosity.

  “Oh, please,” Cynthia moaned, and she began to move her hips, for she couldn’t help it, even though she rode the hand of the man she had sworn to herself would never know that her hips moved that way. She cried out at the terrible pleasure of it, as she wondered what Monsieur Herrier would say, wondered whether he would recommend her bottom for David’s cock as a suitable place for fucking.

  “She didn’t, at first,” her owner said, “but with help from Maître Gregoire over there I’ve broken her in back there. Put a finger in her anus if you’d like to see. I can’t say I think she likes it, I suppose, but I don’t have to whip her anymore to get her to spread that little bottom for me, and I’ve widened the anus enough so she’s an enjoyable bottom-fuck.”

  David didn’t stop rubbing her clit, and Cynthia couldn’t stop moving her bottom over his hand and crying out. She was almost there… disgracing herself on the hand of the man she loved, the man who knew about her now…

  “Don’t let her come, now,” said Monsieur Henri. “Cynthia, if you come, you will be whipped.”

  David’s thumb pressed between her burning bottom cheeks, against the little flower that had caused such trouble. Cynthia moaned long and low—whined really, pled for them to let her come, no matter how disgraceful she had made herself look. Suddenly she wanted to show David… wanted to let him see what she looked like when she came.

  But she wanted that when he did: she wanted David to decide when she had earned a reward.

  How could that be, though? Not here and now certainly. She shuddered as she thought of what awaited her in the dining room—like the restaurant in the Latin Quarter, except much more… and David. He, one of the men who would use her, by invitation of Monsieur Herrier.


  How could it be real, and how could she survive it?

  David took his hand away. She felt herself cooling between her legs, though the need—the emotional craving to be connected to him, to show him everything—seemed to grow. He released her waist, stepped back.

  She heard Monsieur Herrier say in her ear, “Come, ma fille. This fine young man of yours will be among those who fuck you, soon.”

  This fine young man. Complimentary and dismissive at the same time.

  “I look forward to it,” David said as Cynthia let her owner straighten her on wobbly knees.

  For the first time she saw the man named Henri, or his polished shoes at any rate, standing in front of her in the hall at the end of which she could now catch a glimpse of men milling about with drinks in their hands, in a large room.

  “Henri, let me present you with your slut for the afternoon. Kneel, girl.”

  Cynthia did, and she leaned forward mechanically, knowing what her owner wished. She kissed the woolen front of the undoubtedly powerful man’s trousers.

  “Please use me,” she began, “for your cock’s pleasure.”

  It didn’t feel the same as it had in the restaurant, with the professor and the other two. For a moment, when David had locked his eyes on hers, and then just for a flash when he had told her to lower her eyes, she had seen the whole scene differently—with him in control, with her gratitude and ambiguous affection transferred to him. In that instant she had wanted to serve all the men in the club, because she could tell it would give him the same kind of pleasure Monsieur Herrier had in lending her body to others. Indeed, she had suddenly thought of her service to Monsieur Herrier himself as a loan by David.

  But as they led her into the dining room, Cynthia felt panic beginning to take hold, in the pit of her stomach. She felt grateful for the requirement that she keep her eyes down, so that she need not see the faces attached to the sixteen shoes, but as she knelt before each and gave them her shameful promise, made her shameful plea, the fear grew—not the all-over body fear she had come to think almost pleasant, when a dominant man told her she would do something she would never have done before Master Greg had awoken her in her loft, but the stomach fear that cooled her between her thighs and made her think she would get a terrible whipping, and she still wouldn’t be able to spread her bottom-cheeks if her owner required it.