Trained by the Trillionaire

by Emily Tilton

Sarah almost typed a hopeful message to Robert, then, but she stopped her fingers mid-flight. Much better to wait to be sure Addie hadn’t actually just remembered leaving the stove lit.

  A string of numbers from the phone, then, which the pattern-recognition routine flagged instantly as David Mancini cell phone.

  Sarah thought, Wait for it. Maybe he has a key to her apartment and she wants him to water the plants. But a bubble of hope for Heatsink had formed in her chest.

  “Hello?” David’s voice sounded puzzled: the location trace on the call showed him as on Manhattan, probably at one of his construction sites. “Addie?”

  “David… I…” Addie clearly had no idea what to say now that she had followed her impulse and called.

  Sarah couldn’t bear it, at that point.

  SBo6: Sparrow on the phone with Osprey right now.

  Even if this agonizing moment turned against her, surely Robert would at least give her credit for predicting the chain reaction of Cynthia to Addie to David. Won’t he?

  “What is it?” The concern came across very clearly in David’s voice.

  He’ll guess. Come on.

  “Is it Cynthia?”

  Sarah let out a long breath she hadn’t known she had held in her lungs. Who could say, especially in Sarah’s world of data and models, how he had known to ask about the girlfriend he thought had run away? But of course, she reflected, the answer lay in the much simpler realm of what the common, non-data-driven folks would say: he was in love, and it would be a long time before he got over Cynthia, if ever.

  Now the words came pouring out of Addie, in no order at all but with the theme and her emotion about that theme entirely clear.

  “Yes, oh my God, David, I don’t know what to say… I saw her, and it was definitely her even though they told me it wasn’t… and…”

  Concern in David’s voice became alarm. “What? Where?”

  “In Paris, with… with this… I don’t know, this wealthy man, going into a restaurant, and…”

  David very obviously had no idea what to say, and so let Addie find the next item in her stream of consciousness.

  “He was… he had her dress up, on the sidewalk, and he was… oh my God, you have to… I mean, I don’t know what Cynthia was thinking, but… David, I know she loves you. I don’t know what she’s doing, but I’m sure it was her and you need to get here right away and I don’t know, find her.”

  Sarah tried to control her breathing. No model could ever have helped with this moment, and Sarah wouldn’t have wanted to know what a model said, even if some genius in digital analysis could have designed it. How could you predict what a lightly repressed dominant man, in love with a girl, will do when confronted by the evidence that the woman he loves has had her submission awoken by another man, in a faraway land?

  “Where are you staying? Can I crash with you if I can’t get a hotel?” Total focus—total alpha focus.

  SBo6: Osprey just took the bait.

  Sarah felt rather guilty about phrasing it that way—after all, the intention behind Heatsink was to ensure that Cynthia wouldn’t find herself used only as bait, while at the same time putting the Guard in an even better position in their infiltration of the Groupe Synergistique.

  RBg7: Glad to hear it. Now the hard part.

  Sarah grimaced, but she knew her husband had a point.

  Deciding to focus on the success of Relegate rather than the difficulty to come, she turned to Cynthia’s feed and toggled the comm link between Greg and the Institute into her own headset.

  “Seven,” Heather said, and that made Sarah look sharply first at the video feed, which seemed to show no change from a few moments before, and then at the transcript. She toggled on the audio from the restaurant as well, to hear anything that might be affecting Cynthia’s state of mind. Now that David was on his way, the exact direction of his beloved’s thoughts made if anything more of a difference, as far as Sarah could figure them out.

  The transcript told her why the girl’s arousal had ticked up, and on the video feed she saw that it would undoubtedly shoot up at least another point in short order, for Professor Redac had casually laid his left hand on Cynthia’s bottom, and begun to work her between her legs with his fingers, as if to emphasize what the transcript had just told Sarah.

  Vulture: With that I believe we can turn to settling a schedule for costs, no? And after that, to fucking this pretty piece of yours, Herrier?

  Goshawk: But of course. You heard the slut’s promise, and her plea, did you not? Let’s make short work of the money—such tedious stuff, and so superfluous—and get your cocks inside that little bottom.

  Vulture: Very well. If we project an annual expenditure of thirty million, as has proven out from our tentative forecast last…

  That brought Sarah up to the present moment.

  “Eight,” Heather told Greg, as the professor idly wanked poor Cynthia’s glistening pussy. A muffled whimper came from her gagged mouth.

  The conversation concerning fees and rates, with which Sarah’s analysts would have a field day, didn’t take very long.

  “Time to settle this pact, my friends?” Herrier asked in French. Seeing that the rest of the men at the table appeared to have no objections, he rose from his place at the table.

  “Nine,” Heather said before Herrier said another word.

  Then, however, he spoke in English. “Cynthia, ma fille, prepare yourself. We shall each fuck your cunt and then your anus, and spill our seed as deep as we can inside your bottom. Then we shall recover with brandy and cigars for a while, and have you on the massage table after you clean our cocks. Maître Gregoire, if you please, assist me in moving her away from the table a little, so we may get into her more easily.”

  The ten in the upper right of the video window flashed as Greg came forward. Between them he and Herrier lifted up the bench, Cynthia emitting a muffled cry of alarm as she felt herself hoisted into the air, and moved it back toward the center of the room from which they had taken it before the meal began.

  The other men had already unbuttoned their flies. Each stroked a very stiff cock as they approached the waiting backside.

  “You first, Professor,” said Herrier. “Without your expertise we would never know of this opposition group we are now to defeat. Maître Gregoire, lubricate the anus as the professor instructs you.”

  “Not too much now,” the professor said, the corner of his mouth lifting into a sardonic smile. “I want her to feel it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Cynthia felt Master Greg’s fingers on the tiny hole, slick with the lube that would make her anus a pleasant, though very narrow, sheath for the professor’s hard penis.

  “That’s it,” the professor said. “I’ll fuck her now.”

  His hands on her hips, cool and refined, somehow—not the way Monsieur Herrier gripped hard but rather, it seemed to Cynthia, just to guide the head of his cock to the opening he had made so wet when he had, idly and arrogantly, played with her pussy at the table.

  “A few thrusts in the cunt,” he narrated to his colleagues. Cynthia’s face burned, and she cried out through the napkin as the professor did just as he had promised, each thrust long and slow, his lap coming up against her birched hind-cheeks and reminding her of that punishment in her seigneur’s chateau.

  “How is it?” asked one of the other diners—Monsieur Joubert or Monsieur Derian, Cynthia didn’t know, for she hadn’t known them long enough to tell their voices apart. That realization of her ignorance brought new heat to her cheeks, made her moan louder in humiliation.

  “Very sweet, my friend,” said the professor, still thrusting. “Very tight. But I want something tighter right now. I’ll fuck the bottom.”

  He withdrew and put the head of his cock there. Cynthia whimpered, but for the first time her training truly served her, she found herself pushing just as she should despite the shame of it.

  “She’s good,” said Monsieur Derian or Monsieur Joubert.
“Look at her give you that anus, like she loves a big cock in her cul.”

  The professor did not spare her: he clearly did want to make her feel it, and he pressed urgently into her bottom as Cynthia’s neglected cunt burned below. The fingers on her hips tightened just a little as he began to enjoy himself, emitting inarticulate little grunts of pleasure as he fucked, to accompany her cries of discomfort.

  “There,” he murmured. “There we go. There we go. Nice and deep. Oh… je…”

  He held himself in all the way. Cynthia cried out at the terrible fullness, at the way Monsieur Herrier had decided to subjugate her here in the City of Light, where Addie had seen her, and must have known that the girl without panties, dress lifted on the street, had her anus fucked regularly now, and would that very day serve as a receptacle for the seed of cultured Frenchmen, delivered up her bottom to mingle in amity inside a submissive bed girl’s backside.

  The cock jerked, and she felt it spurt, heard the applause of the others, felt another penis enter her pussy, heard laughter and fellowship among men who liked to come in a little American bottom when they got the chance, and would then move to brandy and cigars.

  They left her there after they had all come in her anus. She heard them speaking in amicable French, glasses clinking. She smelled the cigars.

  Once, soon after they had filled her with their seed, Master Greg came to stoop next to her, rubbing her back and speaking soothing words Cynthia couldn’t remember, her brain losing them almost as soon as her trainer said them—the way a beast of the field would be soothed by a tone of voice rather than by a meaning it could not grasp.

  At last they had Master Greg loose her from the awful bench and lead her to the table, where she knelt to clean their hardening cocks one by one with a basin and towel. They praised her in a teasing way as she worked, asking whether she felt wider back there now, whether she would sit comfortably tonight, whether she could feel their semen leaking out. To that she had to answer “Oui, monsieur,” for she could, to her shame, feel a trickle of fluid from her anus as she knelt on the Persian rug before them.

  Then Master Greg led her to the massage table. There they had her among them, each of Monsieur Herrier’s colleagues beginning in her mouth, hands in her hair to keep her still as he fucked her face, then moving behind to enjoy again the delights of her pussy or bottom. Master Greg stayed close, as this was Cynthia’s first gangbang, making suggestions to the men especially of how to reward her for the pleasure she gave their cocks.

  Her owner himself stood aloof now, watching his friends enjoy themselves inside her. When at last Professor Redac lay on his back and commanded her to ride his long, rigid shaft while Joubert/Derian had her mouth and Derian/Joubert her bottom, Monsieur Herrier suggested they pay careful attention to the practiced way Cynthia would move on the cocks that filled her much too full between her legs and her hind-cheeks.

  “She used to ride her pillow in bed at night, as if a girl like her could be allowed to pleasure herself whenever she liked.”

  She screamed around the penis in her mouth, of whose owner’s name she wasn’t even sure, and she came over and over as she rode the terrible saddle of the cocks, working her cunt, her anus, used for pleasure just as she had once used her pillow.

  “Good girl, ma fille… ma princesse,” she heard Monsieur Herrier said.

  Yes, Cynthia thought, giving herself up to the pleasure that almost stole consciousness from her, but whose? Whose good girl? Whose anal princess?

  * * *

  Only two days later, she was brought back to Paris to serve the cocks of more of her owner’s friends. Word had spread, Monsieur Herrier told her, of the delights to be found in her hipster anus. Other wealthy men wanted to try the pleasure to be had in fucking her there: with luck, Cynthia’s bottom could it seemed become a sort of fad within Paris’ most aristocratic circles.

  Monsieur Herrier confronted her with this news in the morning, in her bedroom with Madame du Gare present. Her owner told that he would not have his usual morning bottom-fuck: he would, rather, come in her mouth to let her anus rest a bit before they left for the city.

  Cynthia drew back from him with a cry of alarm, and so she received a spanking from the housekeeper as she pleasured Monsieur Herrier with lips and tongue, and it was a sore bottom over which the black corset brought by Madame du Gare arched invitingly—as the woman pointed out when she made Cynthia look at her red bottom in the mirror.

  “Zey like a red bottom, when zey fuck,” the housekeeper said simply. “You look very pretty, ma fille. Ze seigneur has said you will be in my bed tonight. I will fuck zis bottom wiz my smallest toy, but I must have my turn at last.”

  Since the afternoon at the restaurant, Cynthia had felt the kind of submissive calm she had heard other concubines discuss at the Institute. She still felt shame and fear, but from the moment she had come under her owner’s fingers, just after hearing Addie call her name, it seemed she had gained a sort of acceptance of her fate. It didn’t stop her from drawing back and getting spanked for it from time to time, but when she heard that she would serve in Madame du Gare’s bed she knew it would come to pass, and she knew that if she served well even the apparently cruel housekeeper would reward her with pleasure of Cynthia’s own.

  Still, in the car, Cynthia’s face burned as she heard Master Greg suggest, coolly, that since displaying the girl on the street had proven so helpful in securing obedience in the restaurant by the Odeon, Monsieur Herrier should try it again. Master Greg would, he said, make certain Cynthia’s owner would have enough time to bring her to orgasm up against the limo, undisturbed on this occasion by passersby, though also quite visible to them if they should decide to give up their Parisian jadedness to watch an aristocrat enjoy himself.

  “A fine idea, Maître Gregoire,” said Monsieur Herrier expansively. He spoke to the driver in French for a moment, then turned to Greg. “I’ve asked him to call ahead to the club so that the doorman won’t disturb us before we’re ready to enter.”

  It all seemed so outlandish, these serious preparations to commit an act of public indecency for the sole purpose of demonstrating to Cynthia how thoroughly her owner had tamed her, subdued her to his wildly exaggerated, wildly erotic idea of how a modern young woman might learn manners. But the car pulled up, and first Greg, then Monsieur Herrier exited. Her owner’s hand, extended, helped her out of the car, and then he had spun her around and pushed her up against the shiny black surface, the dark-tinted window.

  He raised her skirt, the dress sky blue this time, of watered silk. The air moved against her bare bottom, then between her thighs as Monsieur Herrier put his hand there. She became conscious of the sounds of traffic in the relatively busy street on the Right Bank, near the Louvre: she could actually see the Jardin du Luxembourg between the buildings at the end of this street. She cried out over the top of the car, sure that no one would hear her, that no one would notice that a powerful man had decided to demonstrate to a girl that she belonged to him and would have her intimate secrets—the bareness of her cunt, the enforced deprivation of underwear—revealed as he thought best.

  That she would be told to ride his hand in shameful movements of her hips, and that she would do it, so that she could come over his urgent, probing fingers and then be brought inside for fucking by the assembled gentlemen of French industry.

  No one would know that she needed to move her bottom that way, that she needed to come that way, that she needed her bottom fucked so very badly now…

  She closed her eyes, rode her seigneur’s hand, moaned, clutching the top of the car and willing the shame to end and to go on forever.

  “Cynthia!”

  David, in jeans and an Oxford shirt, stood in the street, clearly having just crossed from the opposite sidewalk, to see if the young woman undergoing an indecent caress were actually who he thought she might be. His dark eyes, not wide with alarm but narrow with purpose, seemed to flash fire. A neatly trimmed beard he had grown since
the last time Cynthia had seen him made him look even more handsome—even more dominant, she suddenly realized, for she had never had the word for it before—than he had seemed to her back in New York.

  Addie must have…

  Oh, no. Please.

  She bowed her head, trying to hide her face in the top of the car.

  Monsieur Herrier spoke to David, his voice cold as ice.

  “Monsieur, I would advise you to move along. I am teaching this young woman a lesson.”

  Oh, how could he just say that? Cynthia knew that David would find it utterly disgusting—that he would stalk down the street, too self-possessed even to show in his stride that he had found the spectacle disturbing. His former girlfriend being fingered up against the side of a car—what would he expect of a girl who had moved his hand away from between her legs?

  Somewhere in her mind she knew that this reasoning made no sense, but she also felt she must do everything in her power to keep from hoping. She had become infatuated with the wealthy Frenchman who had her cunt in his hand: she had let him use her in shameful ways that David would never understand. Surely the man she now understood she truly loved, who should have taken her virginity in Vermont, to whom she should have confessed it all—the spanking, the pillow riding, everything—he would want nothing at all to do with her ever again.

  But his eyes met hers for a moment, his face completely inscrutable, and then he spoke to Monsieur Herrier in French. Cynthia felt her eyes go very wide. Her owner’s hand had stilled between her legs.

  Then the seigneur spoke, in English—intending of course that Cynthia be able to understand. “I suppose I have no objection. You will be my guest here today.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Greg found it hard to believe that Operation Heatsink hadn’t already spun out of control. Of course, he reflected as he watched Herrier wipe his hand rather theatrically on his handkerchief, before extending it to David Mancini, it might well be falling apart—Sarah wouldn’t tell him, would she?