by Emily Tilton
Behind her, somewhere, she thought she could hear that David and Master Greg were speaking quietly to one another. She wished she could hear their words—maybe that would help her, as she moved from one pair of pants to the next. Her breathing was quick and shallow, and she felt rather faint. At least she could do this: kissing the pants, and then kissing the cocks, even, lay in the realm of the routine a girl got used to at the Institute.
But then Monsieur Herrier said, “I was telling this young American, who it seems used to be her boyfriend, how much trouble my slut had learning to show me her anus. Cynthia, ma fille, face me and spread your bottom for these associates of mine. Show them where you need their cocks, and their seed.”
She felt her face crumple. She could turn, yes. That meant she didn’t face them, and she stood in no danger of looking them in the eye. If she were to look anyone in the eye, it would be Master Greg, or David, who still stood on that side, near the door, clearly not feeling himself part of the group to which he had so strangely—it now struck Cynthia for the very first time, really—gotten himself invited.
She had turned. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. She had never done this when she didn’t feel the need, when they hadn’t made sure to rouse her down there, make her want, even, to do the shameful thing. How could she do it now?
She could do it because she had to. Couldn’t she? She reached her hands back, touched the skin of her bottom-cheeks, warm from her owner’s spanking, warmer from David’s. She heard a whimper come from her throat.
“I have an offer for you, monsieur,” David suddenly said, in a clear voice that made Cynthia jerk her head up, fix wide eyes on his face. He looked into her eyes for a moment, and she saw kindness there—such kindness. Then he returned his gaze to Monsieur Herrier, standing also in front of Cynthia, but to the other side, closer to Henri at the edge of the semicircle of club members waiting to enjoy the bed girl’s bottom.
“Monsieur…” her owner said, with a chuckle. “The girl is not for sale at the moment.”
That made Cynthia shiver, and she felt the shiver go down, as the heat in her face grew, too, at the thought her arousal might be discovered, when she displayed herself as the seigneur had commanded. The very idea that David might purchase her—but how could he? he was secure, but not wealthy, not like these men—seemed to have eased the fear: his apparent participation in this strange economy made it possible to use the fingers she had on her spanked hind-cheeks, to start to spread them.
At the moment. He would sell her, for the right price. Of course he would: captive anal princesses could be sold on the open market, could they not, in the olden days? Surely Monsieur Herrier would tire of this one, and try to get as much for her as he could. And David… David would buy her for another reason. Wouldn’t he?
“Oh,” David said. “I’ll want the girl eventually. But right now I want to offer you something I believe you will find more valuable.”
Cynthia gasped. She had no idea how hearing that she had less value, in David’s eyes, than whatever he meant to give Monsieur Herrier—that he expected her owner would view the matter in the same way—could make a surge of heat come to her bare pussy, could make her pull her bottom-cheeks apart and arch her back and do her best to present her intimate charms as whorishly as anyone might think possible.
He’ll want the girl eventually, though. She sobbed with the shame of it, and the mingling of that shame with the wetness she felt sure all these men would see—see and think the ultimate proof of what a slut Cynthia truly was. A slut for them, here and now.
David had stepped closer to Monsieur Herrier. The movement surprised Cynthia so much that she dared again to look up at his face, and she saw there a seriousness of purpose that amazed her. Something had happened, whose nature she could hardly guess, but the strange thought came to her that whatever it was it mattered even more than sex: even more than this kind of sex, which mattered more to her than anything in the universe.
Fascinated, unable to stop looking, she saw Monsieur Herrier’s eyes go wide for just a fraction of a second, and then narrow, as he turned to look into David’s face. The Frenchman frowned, and then he nodded, once, briefly.
He turned back to Cynthia. “It appears, ma fille, that your friend David will work for me on certain projects. I have no desire to stand in the way of true love, even if the girl involved is my anal princess, and I am satisfied that I have taught you manners. I am going to allow him to have you, after you serve the club today—for sufficient payment, of course.”
Epilogue
Cynthia only found out six months later that she and David had both become double agents that afternoon. As she had received cock after cock over the bench to which Monsieur Herrier bound her, she had known only one thing. The idea she would be David’s, that in truth he had lent her to these men, made yielding her anus a shameful delight that had her wishing Addie could know what she would miss if she never let a man fuck her bottom.
These Frenchmen, it seemed, loved to come in a bottom already full of semen. Perhaps they found in it some proof of their solidarity against the forces of change. Told that the American girl had come from Brooklyn, had lived on her own and defied David’s wish to deflower her, they had reveled in plunging deep and in fucking hard.
Allowed to take her to the bathroom afterward, to gently help her clean up, kissing her all the while, David had said only that he had been approached by a group that wanted to be in contact with Monsieur Herrier. They had set up the intersection of her path with Addie’s, and the meeting of Monsieur Herrier with David in front of the club.
“But what sort of group?” she had asked.
“Someday I’ll be able to tell you,” he had said, and kissed her.
When he finally did, lying in bed in the Paris apartment where they had lived since his agreement with Monsieur Herrier, and she found out that she had unwittingly become a secret agent the night Master Greg had come to her apartment to abduct her, Cynthia didn’t believe him.
“Oh, come on.” She giggled. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”
David frowned. “Do you need a spanking, babe?”
Cynthia bit her lip. The answer to that question was always so complicated. David certainly gave her, in general, all the spanking she needed. Only rarely did he do it as punishment, the way it seemed he meant to now, for her disrespect and disbelief.
“Maybe?” Cynthia asked. “But are you serious? We’re agents of this… what did you call it?”
“You’re going to be a member of the Order of Ostia. I’m an initiate of the Pretorian Guard. In a few months, when this operation is over, we’ll go to New York and you’ll have your formal initiation, with me as your master.”
Cynthia twisted her mouth to the side. She wanted to lighten the strange mood, so she said, “Can’t I have somebody else?”
David snorted. “Out of bed and over my knee,” he said. He sat up and swung his legs around, and Cynthia, already feeling chastened got out of bed in the little pink nightgown he preferred, very much like the Institute one he said he’d seen her wear on video—which still seemed very strange to her.
They had certainly made up for lost time, she thought as she settled herself almost gratefully over his left knee, his right leg coming to enclose her lower thighs in order to keep her bottom still for her spanking. So much spanking and so much sex.
That second night in the apartment came to mind now, making her cheeks get hot even as her future husband—for he had proposed, also, that first night—began to warm her bottom to teach his girl her lesson. How David had in such a gentlemanly way insisted that he fuck her face to face for their first time, the way he would have done in Vermont. How she had to her surprise exploded into orgasm in that position, somehow finding in his eyes the dominant time traveler, Master Greg, and Monsieur Herrier.
How then he had insisted on turning her around, riding her hard, pounding his hips into her backside as if to punish her for
not telling him, and how the climax that way had been so much greater that she thought she might pass out.
Then the riding of his cock, as he told her to look into his eyes and show him how she had humped her pillow, every night and every morning.
And then at last her bottom, his fingers and then his cock, taking the pleasure she wished him to own forever.
“We. Are. Saving. Civilization,” David said as he spanked her. It did seem the silliest thing in the world, but Cynthia supposed sometimes the world needed nothing as much as it needed some hot, shameful silliness.
The End
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Additional Books in the Bound for Service Series
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