The same three male attendants who bathed her, oiled her, touched her seven weeks ago at the auction preparation.
I watch Scarletta's face on monitor six—the high-angle feed that captures her initial reaction. Her eyes widen slightly. Recognition, followed immediately by something that looks suspiciously like relief.
She knows them.
Which means she knows what's coming.
The dark-haired one steps forward first, taking both her hands in his, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "Welcome back, beautiful."
The blonde one moves to her other side, brushing his lips against her temple. "We've missed you."
The tall one slides his palm down her spine, fingers splaying across her lower back. "So good to see you again."
She's blushing. Hard. That telltale pink flush crawling up her throat, spreading across her cheeks.
But she doesn't pull away.
Doesn't demand answers or explanations the way she did last time, wide-eyed, and terrified, and stammering questions they refused to answer.
This time she just... lets them.
Stands there, breathing a little faster, while three sets of hands begin their work.
The dark-haired one reaches for the hem of my Harvard shirt and lifts it slowly over her head. Underneath, she's wearing a bra.
I lean forward, studying the monitor. Black lace. Delicate. Pretty.
The little slut.
I love it.
The blonde one kneels, hooking his fingers into the waistband of my sweatpants, dragging them down her thighs. She steps out of them obediently, and he runs his hands up her calves, over her knees, pausing at her thighs. He looks up at her with adoration.
Scarletta bites her lip.
Her black lace underwear matches the bra. What a good little slut.
The tall one slides the bra straps off her shoulders, trailing his fingertips along her collarbones. "May I?"
Scarletta nods automatically, then sucks in a breath.
He unclasps it, letting the black lace fall away.
Her nipples are already rock fucking hard.
I pull my cock out, wrapping my fist around the base.
This is going to be good.
They're not wasting time with the pretense of professional detachment—this time… they'reseducing her.
The dark-haired one cups her breast, thumb circling her nipple, and she makes a small sound in the back of her throat—half gasp, half whimper—that goes straight to my dick.
The blonde one is still kneeling, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her inner thighs, inching higher.
The tall one moves behind her, wrapping one arm around her waist to hold her steady while his other hand slides down her stomach toward her black panties.
She's trembling.
