Chapter 95: Nathan
Her body was still humming, a tuning fork struck hard and left vibrating in the cool air. Sandi lay sprawled across Marco’s chest in the grand chair, his softening cock slipping from her as she shifted. The scent of their sex filled the sunlit space, a stark contrast to the clinical assessment he’d just delivered. She turned her head, her cheek against the soft wool of his sweater, and looked up at him. His face was calm, composed, already distant.
“So,” she said, her voice husky from exertion. “What’s the verdict? Do I pass?”
Marco’s fingers, which had been absently tracing her spine, stilled. He looked down at her, his earth-brown eyes unreadable. “There’s only one problem,” he replied, knowing exactly what she was asking about – his assessment of her.
A thread of anxiety, cold and fine, slipped through her post-coital warmth. “What?” she demanded, pushing herself up on an elbow. The movement made her aware of the slick mess between her thighs. “Tell me. Tell me. We can fix it...”
He held her gaze, his voice level. “You have to be prepared to have sex with anybody. Any man the system deems suitable. Not just men you find attractive. Not just men you choose. That is the foundational principle of this progression.”
The words landed like a physical blow. She recoiled, scrambling off his lap, her bare feet hitting the cool parquet. “No.” The word was a bullet. “No, no, no. That’s not negotiable. I told you. It has to be real. I have to want the man.”
“I understand,” said Marco, standing and calmly adjusting his clothing. He did not try to touch her. “I really do. Your need for authentic desire is… refreshing. And it complicates the profile.” He fastened his trousers, his movements efficient. “But you might feel differently after you’ve had sex with Nathan.”
The name hung in the air. A new variable. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly conscious of her nakedness in the vast, elegant room. “Nathan?”
“You'll meet him this evening. For now, you should rest.” Marco’s manner shifted back to the gracious host. “Come. Let me show you to your room.”
He led her up the sweeping stone staircase to a suite on the first floor. It was magnificent. A vast canopied bed draped in ivory silk, a fireplace with a marble mantel, windows offering yet another breathtaking view of the valley softening in the late afternoon light. It was a room for a consort, or a captive princess.
“Rest until evening,” he instructed, his hand on the door handle. “I will return at seven.”
The heavy door clicked shut, leaving her in profound silence. She didn’t rest. She paced. The phrase have sex with anybody echoed, clashing violently with her core condition. It has to be real. She stood at the window, watching the shadows lengthen, a war of principles simmering in her gut.
At precisely seven, a soft knock preceded Marco’s entrance. He had changed into a dark suit. Without a word, he went into the adjoining bathroom and began to run a bath, pouring in a generous stream of scented oil that released the aroma of sandalwood and vanilla. Steam curled in the air.
“In,” he said, not as a request.
She sank into the near-scalding water with a gasp. He knelt beside the tub, took a razor and a bowl of soap, and with a surgeon’s focus, began to shave the fine auburn stubble from her pubic mound. The drag of the blade was incredibly intimate. She watched his concentrated face, the set of his jaw.
“I like this,” she said quietly, breaking the silence. “A man watching me, getting me ready for another man. It feels… correct.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “It is preparation. All of this is preparation.”
After the bath, he wrapped her in a thick, warm towel and sat her at the delicate dressing table in the bedroom. He sat in a chair nearby, observing as she towelled her hair dry. “Put it up,” he said. “And your make-up. Eyes extra dark. Lips extra red.”
She complied, feeling a peculiar thrill at being dressed and painted to his specification. In the mirror, her reflection transformed. The subtle, friendly mother from Wimbledon was gone, replaced by a woman of stark, theatrical allure. Her hazel eyes, rimmed in smoky kohl, looked larger, more knowing. The crimson lipstick was a bold, wet slash.
As she blotted her lips, she caught his eye in the glass. “The things Francois mentioned before,” she ventured. “Having my head shaved. The piercings. The tattoos. The… branding.” She said the last word slowly. “When does that happen?”
“When you want them,” he replied, his voice even. “You have to want them.”
She turned on the stool to face him. “Oh. I thought they’d be imposed. Or forced.”
“They usually are,” Marco acknowledged, a dark flicker in his eyes. “Because what woman would want to be branded? But I think you’ll come to want it. I think you’ll ask for it. It will feel like the final, true signature on the canvas of this new self.”
The idea, instead of horrifying her, sent a dark, delicious shiver through her core. A wanton, visible claim. She turned back to the mirror, unable to hold his gaze.
Next came the dressing. He laid the items on the bed like sacred vestments. An open-cup bra in black lace that did nothing to contain her breasts, merely framing them, presenting the nipples as outright offerings. A pair of sheer black hold-up stockings with intricate lace tops. He knelt to help her roll them up her legs, his fingers cool against her thighs. Then, the shoes: eight-inch stiletto heels, patent black, lethal-looking. She stood, swaying, feeling her posture forced into a primal arch. He fastened a black velvet choker around her throat, then dangling jet earrings that brushed her neck.
She was a parody of elegance, a high-class whore assembled for a single, explicit purpose. She felt powerful in her powerlessness.
Marco produced a condom from his pocket. “Can I get you properly ready?” he asked, his voice low.
Sandi was only too thrilled. He bent her over the end of the vast bed, her stockinged knees sinking into the deep pile of a Persian rug. He entered her from behind, his thrusts slow and deep at first, a deliberate re-stretching, re-filling of the emptiness left from their earlier coupling. She came quickly, a vaginal orgasm that ripped through her with a choked scream, her hands fisting the bedding.
Before the echoes faded, she felt his fingers, slick from her own juices, pressing against her other hole. “This one, too,” he murmured, and he pushed a thick, lubed finger into her arse. She gasped, the intrusion sharp and shocking. He worked her open with meticulous patience, adding a second finger, scissoring them, until the initial burn melted into a deep, radiating fullness. When he replaced his fingers with his cock, pressing rhythmically against her inner walls, while his other hand found her clit, she shattered again. This orgasm was different, darker, a seismic event that seemed to originate deep inside and flood her entire nervous system. She sobbed into the bedspread, her body convulsing around his invading hand.
“Good,” he said softly, withdrawing and cleaning his hands with a cloth. “Now you are ready.”
They went downstairs. The grand dining room was a cavern of shadows and candlelight. Only three places were set at the long, ancient table. The château was utterly silent, a sleeping beast around them.
Nathan stood as they entered.
He was tall, impeccably dressed in a midnight-blue suit, his bearing regal. His skin was the colour of polished ebony, his head clean-shaven, his features refined and handsome. He took her hand, not to shake it, but to lift it to his lips. His kiss was a whisper on her knuckles. “Sandi,” he said, his voice a warm, cultured baritone. “A pleasure.”
He treated her like a princess, even as she stood there in her bra, stockings, heels, and choker. The dissonance was intoxicating. He held her chair for her—a heavy, high-backed throne of dark wood. As she moved to sit, she glanced down.
A large, sleek black dildo was fixed to the seat, rising from the intricate carving like a bizarre, obscene growth.
Her breath hitched. She said nothing. She didn’t react in any way. She simply allowed Nathan to slide the chair in towards the table as, with perfect control, she lowered herself. The cool, firm silicone nudged at her entrance, still loose and slick from Marco’s preparation, and then slid steadily up into her vagina. She took it all, until the broad tip nestled firmly against her cervix. A soft, unstoppered sigh escaped her lips as she settled her weight onto it.
Nathan took his seat opposite. Marco sat at the head. The meal began—some exquisite concoction of foie gras and figs. The conversation was animated. Nathan spoke of his past in high-stakes finance in London and New York, of the spiritual emptiness it fostered. “I retired not to idle, but to seek,” he explained, his eyes holding a disarming warmth. “To dedicate myself to a more spiritual life, to understanding connection beyond the material.”
Sandi listened, engaged, even as the dildo inside her was a constant, outrageous presence. And she was disappointed. Disappointed because he was so compelling, so handsome, so interesting, that she wanted him—wanted his cock, his skin, his weight—with a desperation that made the silicone phallus feel like a crude, inadequate placeholder. Magically, as her mind and desire focused on the man, her body adjusted. The initial invasion became a familiar fullness, a warm-up. Her cunt, responding to his voice, his intelligence, his calm power, began to pulse gently around the fake shaft, preparing for the real thing.
At the end of the meal, Marco excused himself with a small, knowing nod. Sandi and Nathan rose. She extracted herself from the chair with a soft, wet sound, immediately gravitating towards Nathan.
“Would you like to know more about my spiritual practices?” he asked, his gaze deep and searching.
“Yes,” she said, without hesitation.
“In my room,” he warned, his tone gentle but serious. “The practices are… intimate.”
“It’s okay,” she said, placing her hand on his offered arm. “I trust you.”
His room was another suite, similar to hers but decorated in deep blues and golds. It felt like a sanctuary. He did not immediately touch her. He poured two small glasses of amber liquid and invited her to sit on a plush divan.
“I believe the divine is experienced through the vessel of the human body,” he began, his voice low and hypnotic. “The most profound spiritual connections can be forged in the act of sex, when the ego is surrendered and two energies become one conduit for something greater.” He studied her. “This doesn’t scare you?”
“No,” she whispered. It sounded like a purification, a justification for the abyss of need within her.
“Then perhaps we can practice,” he said. “We can have spiritual sex. But it requires total surrender. No kissing. No fondling. No exploratory, hesitant touches. You must simply surrender yourself to the feelings I will arouse within you. Your only task is to feel, and to allow.”
He began to approach her, his hand lifting slowly towards her face, as if beginning a slow seduction.
“It’s not necessary,” Sandi breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs. “All that. I’m ready.”
“Are you?” he asked. He stood and turned his back to her, beginning to undress. His movements were graceful, unhurried. “Are you ready for this?” he said, and turned.
Sandi’s mind went blank.
His cock was… monumental. As thick as her wrist, a heavy, dark shaft that curved slightly upwards, leading to a broad, smooth helmet. It had to be ten inches long, perhaps more. It looked less like a part of a man and more like a ritual object, a primal idol. A wave of pure, animal terror washed over her.
“Oh my God,” she groaned, her voice strangled. “I’m… I’m never going to be able to take that.”
“You will,” Nathan said, his voice infused with a calm, unshakable certainty. A smile touched his lips, not of cruelty, but of deep experience. “Don’t worry.”
In that moment, Sandi realized this was his expertise. He had taken many a daunted woman through this exact process. He was not a brute; he was a master guide.
“The mind is the first gate,” he explained, sitting beside her but not touching. “You must relax your emotions. Release fear. It is only fear that tightens the second gate—the pelvic floor.” His words were a balm. “I will help you. We will go very slowly. As you become more and more physically aroused, you will feel a physical shift inside. Your womb will lift and tilt, creating space. Only when that happens will I begin any deeper penetration. Your body will set the pace. The last thing I want is to force myself on you, or hurt you in any way. This is about union, not conquest.”
He had her lie back on the divan. He began with his hands, but not on her sex. He massaged her feet, her calves, the insides of her thighs, his touch releasing tension she didn’t know she held. He used oil, warm and fragrant. He spoke softly, guiding her breathing. When his fingers finally brushed her outer lips, she was already floating, pliant. He touched her clit with a reverence that felt religious, building sensation in slow, relentless waves. He entered her with one finger, then two, stretching her with a patient, circular motion. The dildo had been a blunt impostor; this was a live, intelligent mapping of her interior.
It took hours. The candles burned low. He moved over her, his massive cock resting against her thigh, a persistent, daunting reality. When he finally, tentatively, guided the broad head to her entrance, she was dripping, her core throbbing with an empty ache that now craved him, specifically him.
“Breathe,” he whispered, and pressed forward, an inch.
The stretch was immense, unbelievable. She cried out, a sound of shock and effort.
“Breathe,” he repeated, holding perfectly still, letting her body absorb the invasion. He retreated slightly, then advanced again, gaining another half-inch. It was a negotiation of millimetres. He worshipped her with his stillness, with his patience, with the absolute focus he gave to her every flinch and sigh.
And then, deep inside, she felt it—a subtle, internal unlocking, a space opening up that hadn’t been there before. Her womb tilting, making room.
“There,” he breathed, his own control visibly straining. “Now.”
He pushed deeper, a slow, inexorable slide that filled her beyond any precedent. She felt stretched to her anatomical limits, a full, burning, incredible fullness that touched something deep in her soul. When he was finally fully sheathed in her, and his hips pressed against her, she was impaled, speared complete, and thus totally immobilised. Tears of sheer sensation leaked from the corners of her eyes.
He began to move. Slowly, at first, just rocking into that profound depth. Then with deeper, sliding strokes. There was no frantic pounding. This was a deliberate, soulful fucking, each thrust a conscious communion. The fear was gone, burnt away by a sensation so intense it bordered on pain but never tipped over. It was a conquering of her own limits. She came around him in rolling, endless waves, not the sharp climaxes of before but deep, body-quaking tremors that felt like spiritual purges.
She loved the state of body, mind, and emotion he’d gotten her into. She realised she had never felt so good, so utterly feminine, so accomplished as a sexual creature. This was her full potential: not just to take a man, but to be reshaped by him, to become a vessel for this staggering, transformative energy.
Nathan smiled warmly at her, his face sheened with sweat in the candlelight. “Turn over,” he said softly.
She obeyed, lying on her front. He straddled her thighs. She felt the broad, slick head of his cock press against her anus, already loosened from Marco’s earlier attentions but still a tight, forbidden portal.
“I’ll be just as gentle,” he promised.
She surrendered. The penetration was a slower, more burning ordeal, but the memory of his earlier patience and the overwhelming fullness in her cunt made her open to him. He worked his way into her with the same infinite care, until he was fully buried in that second, tighter channel. Then he began to move again, a different, more brutal intimacy, fucking her with a slow, devastating rhythm that owned both of her holes.
Their sex went on all night. He took her in every position, always with that controlled, spiritual focus, driving her to peaks of pleasure that blurred into a kind of ecstatic suffering. By the time the first grey light of dawn touched the windows, Sandi was delirious, spent, transformed.
Nathan finally pulled out of her, both of her openings gaping, lax, and wonderfully sore. She lay ravaged on the rumpled sheets, a map of bite marks and sweat. He kissed her shoulder, a tender gesture amidst the devastation.
She felt proud. Proud of the wreck he had made of her. Proud of the hungry, slackened state of her body. She had taken him. All of him. And in doing so, she had crossed a threshold into a new realm of her own desire.
Marco’s words floated back to her. You have to be prepared to have sex with anybody.
Lying there, aching and glowing, the idea still seemed like a violation, and she just couldn't see how her encounter with Nathan had done anything to lessen her opposition to it.
The two weeks that followed were a deep, slow river of sensation.
Nathan’s method never changed. He approached her each time as a sacred practice, his monumental cock a tool for transcendent fucking. He fucked her cunt until she was sobbing with fullness, then her arse until her thoughts dissolved into a white noise of surrender. He made her come in ways that felt less like pleasure and more like exorcisms, shuddering events that left her vacant and cleansed. She existed in a permanent state of delicious soreness, her body an instrument he tuned daily to a higher, sharper pitch. She loved the focused silence of it, the spiritual veneer that made her total physical submission feel like an achievement.
But a hunger, a different one, began to gnaw at the edges of her sanctified state.
It was a purely numerical, visceral need. However profound, each session with Nathan had a beginning and an end. He would spend himself inside her, twice, sometimes three times in a night, and then he was done. Spent. He’d hold her, speaking softly of energy channels and spent vessels. And she would lie there, still throbbing, still electrically alive, feeling the wet, open emptiness he’d left behind and wanting it filled again. Now. She never voiced it. To ask for more from a man who had given her so much, who had reshaped her very capacity, felt grotesquely greedy. So she swallowed the need, let it ferment in her gut.
She woke one morning to cold, empty sheets. The indentation from his body was still on the pillow beside her, but Nathan was gone. No note. No sound. The suite was hollow. A sudden, childish panic clenched her chest. She pulled on a silk robe, her body feeling oddly light, unused, and went searching.
She found Marco in his office, making notes on a clipboard. The sterile white room felt like a rebuke after Nathan’s sanctuary of dark blues and golds.
“Where is he?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
Marco looked up, his expression unreadable. “Nathan’s work here is complete. He’s moved on.” He set the clipboard down. “Do you miss him?”
Sandi wrapped the robe tighter, considering. The man? His soothing voice, his intelligent eyes? Those were memories. The feeling was a phantom limb.
“I miss how he made me feel,” she said, the truth stark. “The… spaciousness. The deep, full ache.”
“The sex,” Marco stated, watching her.
“Not the sex so much as the state he had to get me into,” she clarified, her words precise. “With him being so huge. It was a process. It was an event. I miss the territory he could make my body occupy.”
A faint, knowing smile touched Marco’s lips. “The truth is, Sandi, you wore him out. Physically, mentally. The energy output required to guide you that way… it’s immense. He’s recuperating.”
Sandi shrugged, a casual gesture to mask the flare of pride and the darker, unspoken thought: He hadn’t been able to give her all the sex she needed. The spiritual master had a finite capacity. Her need, she was beginning to suspect, did not.
Marco leaned back against a stainless steel cabinet. “Would you like two black men?”
The question was so blunt it stole her breath. “What?”
“Two men. Not spiritual like Nathan. Nowhere near as refined. But just as physically well-endowed. And eager to please you. Their only focus would be your physical satisfaction.”
Her mind recoiled at the idea of crude substitutes. Then her cunt, remembering the breathtaking stretch, pulsed with a traitorous, empty throb. The principle—it has to be real, I have to want the man—wavered.
“If they can get me into that state,” she said, her voice low. “The deep one. The full one. Not just a quick fuck.”
Marco’s smile widened, genuinely pleased. “They can. I’ll set it up.”
They arrived that evening. Their names were Leon and Kofi. Leon was bulky, with a shaved head and a quiet, watchful demeanour. Kofi was taller, lankier, with a quick, easy smile that didn’t reach his eyes. They wore expensive tracksuits. They were handsome in a generic, athletic way, but they lacked Nathan’s gravity, his haunting depth. When they spoke, it was about football, about cars. Sandi felt a cold plummet of disappointment. This was a degradation.
Marco, observing her stiff posture, took her elbow and guided her into a shadowed alcove off the hallway. “You’re not impressed,” he murmured.
“They’re boys,” she whispered back, venom in her tone.
“They are tools,” he corrected, his voice flat. “Exquisitely designed for a specific function. They will get you into the same state Nathan did. I assure you.”
“Really?” she asked, scepticism warring with the hungry ache that had been building for days.
“Really.” His confirmation was absolute.
She surrendered. Not to them, but to the promise of the feeling. She led them to her suite, her heart a dull stone in her chest. She undressed mechanically, standing before them in just her stockings and heels. Leon approached first. He didn’t speak. He kissed her, his tongue thrusting into her mouth without finesse. His hands grabbed her arse, kneading the flesh roughly. It was nothing like Nathan’s worship. It was a claim.
But then his pants came down. His cock, springing free, was indeed a weapon. Thick, veined, only slightly shorter than Nathan’s. The reality of it cut through her disdain. Kofi behind her pushed her head down onto the bed, his own erection pressing against the cleft between her arse cheeks. There was no spiritual guidance, no breathing exercises. There was only the urgent, silent pressure of two large, hard cocks and two strong bodies.
Leon spat into his hand, slicked himself, and without ceremony, drove into her cunt from behind. The stretch was immediate, brutal, and breathtakingly familiar. She cried out, a sound of shock that melted into a groan as he began to piston into her with a steady, muscular rhythm. At the same time, Kofi, using the spit from his own mouth, pressed against her other hole. The double invasion was overwhelming, a violent physics that banished all thought of their personalities, their voices, their lack of spirituality. Her world collapsed to the simultaneous, pounding fullness in her front and back.
They worked in a wordless, efficient tandem. When Leon tired, he withdrew, his place immediately taken by Kofi, who fucked her cunt with a different, longer stroke. Leon would then force his way into her arse, still slick and loose from Kofi. They swapped her, used her, filled her with a relentless, mechanical precision that never allowed the deep, clinging emptiness to return. They didn’t make love to her; they fucked a state into her. And they did it untiringly. They found that same deep, internal territory Nathan had mapped, but they reached it through sheer, repetitive force rather than mindful ascent.
Over the days that followed, Sandi forgot their faces. She forgot their mundane conversations. She thought only of the schedule of filling. She would wake with one already moving inside her, would eat meals with one’s cum leaking down her thigh, would fall asleep with the weight of the other pinning her to the mattress. The feeling was constant. The sacred had been replaced by the industrial, and her body responded not with less pleasure, but with a more addictively consistent one.
After two weeks, Leon and Kofi moved with a familiar fatigue. Their sessions grew shorter, their recoveries longer. Marco found her soaking in the bath, her body a map of faint bruises and tooth marks.
“They’re wearing thin,” he observed, not unkindly. “Would you like four men?”
Sandi looked up, water streaming from her auburn hair. A flicker of her old self asked a final, fading question. “Black men?”
Marco tilted his head. “Does it matter? If they are able to take you to the special place that Nathan and these two took you to?”
She held his gaze. The last vestige of a requirement—aesthetic, racial, intellectual—dissolved. It wasn’t about the man. It was about the effect. The state.
“No,” she said, the word definitive. “It doesn’t matter. I realize now that as long as a man can take me there, nothing else matters. Looks, physique, intellect, personality. It’s the sex that I want. Only the sex.”
Marco’s smile was a victory. He crouched by the tub, his eyes gleaming in the steam. “Good. That is very good. You have risen above your previous capricious demands, your excessively particular requirements. Now we can proceed.” He took her hand, his grip firm. “I’m going to be able to have you inducted. The men you will be serving… they won’t just want to be fucking you, Sandi. They will be wanting to take you even higher than Nathan did.”
A shiver ran through her, part dread, part electric anticipation. The peak with Nathan had felt like a spiritual summit. “I don’t think that’s possible,” she breathed.
Marco stood, looking down at her water-slicked, used body with the satisfaction of a sculptor viewing his finished clay.
“Well, it is,” he said, his voice leaving no room for doubt. “Believe me.”