by Emily Tilton
From the first night at Max’s apartment, he had known that Jenny’s anus represented a very important part of her body—carrying a significance far beyond its vital anatomical function. During his inspection of her newly shaved private parts Henry had touched her tiniest hole, at Max’s suggestion, and the result had revealed much about Jenny’s needs.
Henry had pressed his forefinger there, in fact, right after she had started to climax over her trainer’s knee, following her spanking—a situation almost precisely like the one in which Jenny found herself now as a result of her prudery. That similarity constituted no accident: what Max had made clear that first night would, Henry knew, continue to lie at the heart of his erotic relationship with his young bride.
Henry had deflowered Jenny’s bottom on their wedding night, indeed, because of what he had learned about her ideas concerning her anus at the moment his finger had first entered that tight little ring and begun to train her for his enjoyment.
Jenny had cried out, and whispered, “Please. Don’t. Please.” Her voice, however, just like the little gasping breaths with which her chest heaved now in the guest room, had said a great deal more.
Max had said, “Jenny, honey, you know you need it there.”
“No,” she had protested in a sob.
“Yes,” her trainer had replied. “It’s essential that Mr. Granby know what kind of girl he’s dealing with, if he’s going to decide whether to take you home with him. Since you cannot speak about it, I must show him, must I not? Henry, the vital piece of information you need to have, in order to enjoy Jenny here as thoroughly as you ought to do—and as will be your right if you decide to marry her—is simply that her innocence and modesty and even prudery are defenses she puts up to keep from thinking about how badly she needs it in the ass.”
Then, with his finger; and on his wedding night, with his rock-hard cock; and now in the guest room with the big black dildo, Jenny’s bottom began to move when she felt the man who owned her impaling the sweet blossom of her young anus. She pushed back, and she opened instinctively, crying out in shame and arousal at the same time, and then whispering, as she took the dildo deeper, “Oh, please... please, don’t make me. Please.”
Henry definitely did feel some annoyance when Jenny made the kind of comment she had made this evening about another woman. In the six months of their marriage thus far, it had started out as a thing for which she went over her husband’s knee for a hand spanking, and it had only happened once. After the trip to Rome, though, when they had seen the Giuliani girl—another Institute graduate, and a very fine one indeed, if one liked the schoolgirl thing—display her butt plug on the plane, Jenny’s backbiting had increased greatly in frequency. Max had suggested the dildo, but he had also warned Henry that Jenny probably wouldn’t stop making prudish remarks, though the trainer predicted Henry would notice a change in the way she committed the infraction—as well as a gradual improvement in her demeanor in bed.
Henry hadn’t known exactly what Max meant, but sure enough after the first time he had put her naked over the pillows in the guest room, given her the belt, and worked her pussy and her anus on the dildo until he felt she had learned her lesson, two things happened. First, the next time his wife had mentioned with disapproval the way a colleague’s daughters dressed at the country club, she had accompanied the mildly nasty words with a sort of shy look at her husband that told him part of Jenny knew precisely what would happen. Second, the next morning, after he had disciplined her in the guest room the previous evening, a blushing Jenny had asked very demurely and respectfully if she might be allowed to suck Henry’s cock before he went to work—though of course what she had said was “May I... kiss you... down there?”
He trained her bottom firmly now, moving the dildo in long, filling strokes that kept Jenny sobbing into the mattress. Her hips bucked over the pillows, her clit seeking a pressure it wouldn’t find, the arousal from her anal need making her desperate for another climax.
“Do you think you can be a good girl in France, Jenny?” Henry asked sternly.
“Oh, please...”
“Please what, sweetheart?” Henry asked, knowing what she really meant, and that it would help her to have to say another dirty word.
“Please... f—...”
“Can you be a good girl in France?” he said, smiling as he pretended to misinterpret the f.
“Yes!” Jenny cried as he pushed the artificial penis deep inside her. “Sir... yes, sir... please... please fuck me. Please... please...”
Henry left the dildo at full length in his wife’s little bottom, and he dropped his jeans and briefs to the floor, moving behind her so that he could get up on the bed and straddle her knees with his own. An expert thrust put his rigid cock inside her well-lubricated pussy, and he instantly began to fuck the way he liked best: atop his sweet girl, from behind, holding her down with his hips and holding himself up on his well-muscled arms.
“Oh... God... Henry... sir... oh...” She moved beneath him at the filling of her holes, and his own blood pumped hot in his veins as he felt how her struggles increased her need and her pleasure.
She started to come under him, as he pounded her punished, filled backside, and that was the best part of all, for both of them, because making her feel that—the overwhelming pleasure that Jenny simply couldn’t feel on her own—brought the pleasure shooting from his balls through his whole frame, until he spurted inside her with a shout of ecstasy.
Chapter Seven
Barbara met Jules Herrier, as if by chance, on the Left Bank near the Pantheon. The leader of the Groupe Synergistique had come to speak at a conference on global energy pricing. Barbara had received her cover as an economics student the previous week, and moved into a student apartment to match, and spent mornings in class. She spent most of her afternoons at the Ostia Agency, ostensibly—and enviably, to her new student friends—modeling to pick up the cash that supported renting her own apartment and buying the fashionable, fetish-inflected clothes that attracted Herrier’s attention from the student section in the audience of his keynote.
The beauty of the cover Jean had given her, Barbara realized, was that her meeting Herrier in the square near the massive cathedral to the France’s honored dead came about through the tycoon’s own arrangement: he had taken the bait Barbara had left simply by not letting him get near her at the reception after his talk.
Her strappy black top and the leather choker around her neck had attracted his attention, she confirmed with Jean, who had observed both of them from across the room. Jean had seen him speak to one of his security detail when Barbara had left, and a man had trailed her as she walked up the Mont-Saint-Genevieve in the direction of her flat.
Her leo’s cover as a research fellow let him stay in close contact with Barbara, and had brought him to the same conference, where they could speak briefly before she went to wait for what control thought might well represent her first meet with her target. The last thing Barbara had expected, she supposed, when deciding to follow her curiosity about kinky modeling, was to end up as a student again—the whole point of coming to France had been to relax for a year and do no more than practice her French.
Really, becoming the captive concubine of a handsome Frenchman deep below Paris would have ranked higher on any list of the possibilities she might have made before leaving Philadelphia. Barbara had thought she would probably become a teacher—maybe a French teacher—and she hadn’t ever thought of economics as a field worth considering.
Knowing now what she had learned in the less erotic parts of her Ostia training, though, she had to admit she found it fascinating. Jean could and did, after all, tell her exactly why her coursework mattered, when he wasn’t restraining her in leather and fucking her masterfully in the orifice that appealed to him most that day, his strong hands turning every inch of her skin into an erogenous zone.
The sunny autumn day made the steps of the Pantheon an attractive spot to sit and be anonymous a
nd conspicuous at the same time. Enough students and tourists occupied the general area so that Barbara wouldn’t appear to be trying to catch anyone’s attention, but should Herrier or one of his minions want to find her, they would do so easily. She had gotten five pages into Mondialisation à la dérive when someone cast the book into shadow, standing over her on the step just below, his feet in shoes that Barbara knew instantly must be very expensive.
She looked up to see Herrier himself looming over her. The corona of sunlight around his head made her squint a little, and she couldn’t make out his leonine features very easily, but Jean had made her pick him and the other members of the Groupe out of photographs enough times that she would have recognized the man even if she hadn’t just sat through his admittedly fascinating speech.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he said, and then continued in English, “you were at my talk, I believe.”
Barbara answered in French that she knew—and Jean had confirmed—was almost as good as Herrier’s English. Her leo had impressed deeply upon her the need to provide that bit of apparent resistance, which the Guard’s file suggested Herrier would find, ironically enough, irresistible.
“I was, monsieur,” she said, opening her eyes wide in an ingénue’s surprise to find herself sought out and addressed by a great man. “I found it fascinating.”
“You are a student?”
Herrier had switched back to French, as if to indulge her, but he spoke very slowly and used very simple vocabulary—clearly in order to indicate a sense of his superiority and the American girl’s need for training. Barbara couldn’t help it: the little shiver his patronizing tone sent through her body was real. Herrier’s salt-and-pepper hair and his casually distinguished, emphatically wealthy air made it hard for her to keep from swallowing hard every time he addressed her.
I really am the kind of girl Cynthia and Jean told me I am, I guess, she thought, her heart beginning to race as she realized this was happening. Barbara Edwards, Ostia agent and mastered bed girl, had started to infiltrate a sinister international organization, knowing that her path to the information she needed lay straight through a billionaire’s bedroom.
“Yes, monsieur. In the faculty of economics.” She started to gush, then, both because she really had developed an interest in the subject matter and because she knew it would display weaknesses both in her French and in her knowledge that Herrier couldn’t help finding alluring.
“I just think that everyone who says unregulated energy markets will help spread prosperity isn’t taking into account what’s going on in North America, with the fake nature of the free markets and the manipulation by corporate interests...”
For one of whom, of course, I’m now working—and would never have considered doing so if Jean hadn’t shown me that Selecta and the Guard are trying to prevent the worst effects of an inevitable global collapse.
The sun’s position had changed enough, now, that Barbara could look up into Herrier’s face more easily. He wore a smile there, now, that sent another frisson through her, this one centering even more urgently between her legs, and creating an unfeigned blush in her own face that she knew would cement Herrier’s desire for her. She had seen the smile on Jean’s face just the day before: it was the expression of a dominant man who knew he would soon fuck the beautiful young woman whose panties he could dampen with the merest suggestion of his wealth and power.
Barbara put a smile on her own face, as if she had seen the smile without understanding it. She said, in English, “What?”
Herrier replied in the same didactic French. “I am merely looking at a lovely girl who, I believe, does not know what she needs.”
Despite all the training she had received from Jean, and all her progress in the discovery of the very specific needs she knew Herrier meant, the drastic increase in the heat of Barbara’s blush had nothing artificial about it. As both Jean and Cynthia—who, Barbara had learned, had herself spent several weeks as Herrier’s concubine—had warned her, the man’s dominance could exert a powerful spell. It took a great deal of the rational control her leo had instilled to keep thinking straight.
Thankfully, most of what she had to do at this stage of the operation required only that she follow the arousal Herrier had so effortlessly awoken even in a girl sent by his enemies on a mission to spy on his secrets.
“And...” Barbara swallowed hard—perhaps a little too theatrically, she realized, for a frown crossed Herrier’s features for a moment. She made her voice a bit scornful, in the special way that only Parisian French, she thought, could truly accomplish. “And what do I need, monsieur?”
“Right now,” he said, the dominant smile returning, “I believe you need to accompany me to a marvelous restaurant of which you have never heard, for a dinner you could never afford, even with the money you make as a model, Miss Barbara Edwards.”
Barbara felt her eyes widen. Nothing Jean had told her had indicated Herrier would be able to track her identity and movements so quickly—or that he would be interested enough in her to do so.
Maybe Jean wanted me to be as surprised, and as fearful, as I am?
So much of the preparation she had received from control—which meant Jean and Cynthia, as far as she knew, since she had met only them—had come in what seemed to Barbara obviously incomplete pieces of information. Not knowing the apparently very far-reaching extent of Herrier’s ability to gather intelligence only joined the greater ignorance she had concerning the actual purpose of her mission on a growing list.
Jean had said, kissing her the night before in her bed in the little apartment Barbara had grown quickly to love not just for the view of the Seine but above all because of the way it let a research fellow come fuck an undergraduate with perfect plausibility, that she would have to trust the Guard. Here, looking up at Herrier, what choice did she have?
“If you know that,” she said in English, as if startled back into her native tongue, “then you probably know I have a boyfriend.”
Herrier’s smile widened. “Bien sur, mademoiselle.” Then, in the same high-school-level French he had clearly decided put him in precisely the conversational position he liked best, he went on, “But although I do not usually deign to compete with research fellows, I have a feeling you will not object to having dinner with me. As I say, I believe I know what you need, and I think I probably know it better than your boyfriend does. And I think you will agree that it cannot hurt your career to get to know me better.”
Now Barbara had to use a little of her acting skill, but her confidence had increased, at least, and she brought it off reasonably well. Her mind scoffed at the suggestion that an arrogant tycoon could have anything like the way with her body her leo had, but she knew she had to portray uncertainty. She bit her lip and furrowed her brow, as if thinking very hard, and fighting the aroused curiosity Herrier had sparked between her thighs.
“Alright,” she said at last, in French. Herrier reached his hand down to help her up from the steps. As she rose, he put his hand on her back, where the straps left her skin exposed, to propel her gently toward the expensive black car waiting across the street. The shiver and the tiny whimper his hand there caused arose from completely authentic submissive need.
* * *
Herrier satisfied that need before dessert. The restaurant, a tiny place on the Ile-Saint-Louis that could not at any time have fit more than five tables, had a single one that night. Barbara had no doubt that Herrier had bought the place out expressly in order to do his best to claim an eighteen-year-old American as his erotic and disciplinary plaything. The notion of the trouble and expense he had gone to, with so little apparent effort, to master her, made it difficult to think while eating the exquisite quail and sipping the champagne, even before he suggested she take her panties off and give them to him.
“What?” she said, as if she hadn’t understood the French he used for panties, although culotte might very well have been the word Barbara knew best, so interesting had she al
ways found French lingerie.
Herrier took the opportunity to change to English, and the wolfish expression in his eyes told Barbara instantly that he preferred to dominate American girls in their own language.
“I think,” he said, in a soft but stern tone, “that you should remove your panties, right now, and place them on the table so I can see what sort of girl I’m going to fuck tonight.”
Barbara couldn’t suppress the little cry that came from deep in her throat at his sudden coarseness, and especially at the way it made her clench and gush, right into the culotte Herrier had demanded she show him.
“I...” she said, in English. “I don’t think...”
“Oh, I believe you do think, Barbara,” the gray-eyed Frenchman replied, sending a frisson through her limbs. “I believe you think a great deal. At the moment, however, I wish to ensure that you think only about a single thing, which is your obedience to me from now on. Take off your panties and put them on the table, or you will have one very obvious need satisfied immediately.”
Her eyes widened and her lips parted, but it took her a moment to whisper, “What? What... need?” She suddenly found it strangely easy to separate her body’s response to Herrier’s words and dominant presence from her mission. Barbara still felt her connection to Jean, but she realized she could keep that idea in her mind and heart at an abstract level, while her surging erotic desires focused on Herrier.
“Your need,” the tycoon said, “for rigorous discipline. If you do not obey me, Barbara, I am going to whip you right here, over the table.”
Chapter Eight
A Guard operative had managed to get a small sensor array into the tiny, unnamed restaurant five minutes before Herrier had arrived. Really, the array had accomplished the feat on its own, since the Confidelia drone algorithm had done most of the work in timing the opening of the door so perfectly that its fly-size camera-and-microphone assembly could waft in noiselessly and with its electronics turned off.
