by Emily Tilton
But Xavier Serteau hadn’t gotten to this beautiful office through self-deception: often his edge in business dealings came from his ability to see his own motives more clearly than others saw theirs. He knew his desire to hear the action in the private dining room didn’t originate in a need to make sure Helen performed as submissively and pleasingly as she should.
He had developed an affection for her that his more rational self—a portion Serteau liked to estimate at approximately ninety-five percent of his complete composition—told him he needed to extinguish. Helen had come to Serteau’s city apartment as his third concubine. Her predecessors, though nearly as lovely, had not found their way into his heart, though Mrs. Foley had trained them just as well as she was training Helen now. Something in Helen’s honest desire to please him and even to please Mrs. Foley despite the terribly degrading, terribly arousing circumstances of her indenture had affected a heart Serteau took a good deal of pride in calling cold.
Spanking Helen felt much more like actual discipline ‘for her own good’ than punishing his first two girls. He spanked her just as often, on the general principle that a concubine needs frequent reminders of her place in the household. When Helen lay weeping, bare bottom up, over his lap, though, and when she cried out under the cane, bent over her bed receive her strict lesson, he could feel her submissive soul reaching out for reassurance that her master found her bright pink or red-striped backside pleasing.
Mrs. Foley had remarked on it, too, from time to time.
“She’s a good girl, Mr. Serteau,” the housekeeper had said only the previous week. “I almost hate to put her over the stool for little things like not folding her clothes neatly, though I know I must.”
“Yes, you must, Mrs. Foley,” he had replied, and she had nodded. Serteau had concealed, of course, his complete agreement: part of him hated to spank Helen and to flog her as often as he did, though of course another part of him couldn’t do without it. He had spent a very large sum on her, after all, and he would get what he had paid for: a girl to whip and to fuck whom the corporate psychologists had verified needed it to feel safe and sexually satisfied.
How ironic, though, to spend that much money and develop ‘feelings’—to buy heartache and, consequently, headache at such a price. Given his friends’ experiences with indentured girls he had probably gotten off easy; Jean Klee had fallen in love with both of his, though of course he was French and the idea clearly meant something different to him.
But Serteau, after his highly successful ownership of his first girl, Victoria, who now ran the marketing department at an enormous tech company, had allowed himself to claim bragging rights for his cold heart. Grace, his second girl—married now to a distant relation of Serteau’s, to whom he had loaned her for a week when he had had to take his wife to Europe—had seemed to him to prove that Serteau was immune to ‘feelings.’
It just seemed so inconvenient to be forced to think about Helen even at home on the weekends, when he had to manifest the signs of a prosperous suburban life, as women at the country club wondered behind their hands whether Xavier Serteau was one of those city men.
He was indeed one of those city men. He got home to the suburbs late not because he worked until all hours but because he had a beautiful young woman to take to dinner and then bring back to his pied à terre for discipline and dominant sex. He and his wife, the great friend of all country club women, had not slept in the same bed for seven years, now, but the women at the country club apparently still wondered, for reasons Serteau had some difficulty determining. He occasionally considered asking his wife whether she had told her friends about their arrangement, but really what business of his was it, any more than Victoria, Grace, and Helen were any business of his wife’s?
With a sigh Serteau picked up the headset connected to the laptop and put one of the earbuds in his right ear.
“Is she good, Jacob?” George Veau was asking. Serteau noticed that Henry Potter had left already—he generally came in the girl’s mouth and departed, if he felt satisfied, so Serteau supposed Helen had done well in her first duty.
Jacob Ferrers’ face had turned a little red, and he had his left hand on the table, clutching a bit at the cloth. His right hand seemed to be in his lap, though the angle of the camera high in the corner of the room prevented anything like a good view. It seemed highly probable, though, that that hand was in Helen’s hair, guiding her mouth up and down on his cock.
“So good,” Ferrers said, managing with highly apparent difficulty to crook a suave smile.
Serteau scanned the face of the other men at the table; Veau and Klee had finished their salads and were looking at Ferrers, clearly waiting their turns to feel Helen’s mouth on their probably rock-hard erections. Eric Lindgren, however, was placidly and slowly finishing his last few bites of romaine.
That young man presented an interesting puzzle. He clearly belonged at this table of alpha males—none of the members of the Friday club had shown any doubt about that when Lindgren’s name had come up—despite his youth. The club liked to admit a new member every two years or so, and hadn’t done so for the previous four. When Ferrers had suggested the new hotshot from the West Coast, the agreement to invite Lindgren had come almost instantly.
After all, he had already, famously sent the top predator of city society, Tanya Pulliam, packing, bearing stories of bedroom bad behavior that earned Lindgren dirty looks at fancy restaurants. Serteau had no doubt, of course, that many of the dirty looks were accompanied down below by very damp panties. Nor did reports of Lindgren’s subsequent bedroom exploits do anything but confirm that impression: he had that apparently irresistible air of the prosperous playboy. Serteau should know, since he had had it himself, once upon a time.
Only with the revelation, at the first meeting of the Friday club attended by their newest member, of his impressive endowment, did Eric Lindgren become anything like a mystery to Serteau. At first the enormous size of the man’s cock had seemed to explain his magnetism and his dominance. Serteau considered himself a sophisticated man, and he knew that penis size didn’t have any truly magical effects, but surely—so his first impression of the matter had run—when you owned a cock like Lindgren’s you would live a dominant life.
Size might not in itself count for everything, or even very much at all—though the beneficial effect on a submissive girl of a hard fucking by a large penis should not, Serteau thought, be discounted—but subliminal phenomena were very real. A cock as big as Eric Lindgren’s stirred the front of his trousers in a way other men’s didn’t. Men who had seen Lindgren in the locker room at the Century Club would—Serteau felt sure—give the man a slightly wider berth, and would to a certain extent follow in his wake, like a pack of wolves trailing their natural alpha.
Even women not in the habit of inspecting men’s crotches would feel the effect at second or third hand. The story had got out, of course, from Tanya Pulliam, and then Jenny Reed, and then Rebecca Westing, of where the center, so to speak, of the bedroom eccentricities of Eric Lindgren, was to be found. Serteau supposed more women had peeked at his crotch, after that, but the real magnetic attraction would come from a more subtle source: hearing what kind of sex Lindgren liked to have. Hearing with what a magnificent tool for the creation of female pleasure and submissive discomfort Lindgren had been endowed, women would find themselves attracted to him despite themselves—as Serteau saw it, at least.
None of that seemed mysterious—rather, the puzzle lay in Lindgren’s attitude toward his dominance and his naturally superior equipment for expressing it. The man, Serteau thought, wasn’t embarrassed by it, exactly. For one thing, Lindgren certainly took the envious ribbing he got from the rest of the club very much in stride.
For another, when the time came for fucking, Lindgren laudably showed no shame and no compunction. Serteau had on several occasions now watched the man’s massive shaft take away the breath of the girls on offer Friday afternoons; both on first sight and
when he entered them and began to enjoy himself. As refined as Serteau thought himself, he knew he would have said something a little arrogant at those times, had he been endowed like Lindgren: “You’ll take all of it, and like it, slut,” or something of that nature.
But Eric Lindgren just smiled, and stroked the girl’s cheek as she knelt before him. He nodded, to show he knew she felt anxious, but also to show that she must open her mouth to receive him, and to show him how well her owner had trained her. When Anne Ferrers had been the girl who must have her face, and then her cunt, and then her anus fucked by the enormous cock, her husband had of course supplied the necessary degrading bit of dialogue:
“You don’t get that at home, do you, sweetheart? Lindgren, I want you to make her walk funny tomorrow.”
Lindgren himself, however, had just gone on smiling—as he was smiling now, in the private dining room, down at the place where the tablecloth moved slightly up and down at his lap. Helen had begun to suck the cock of the club’s newest member, while the waiter put the main course on the table.
“How is she doing?” Ferrers asked. Serteau wished he could hear the wet sounds of Helen’s service over the waiter’s noises, but he had no doubt his indentured girl was pleasing Lindgren greatly, since he seemed a little distracted—and now even closed his eyes, as if to shut out the mundane scene and focus on the pleasure given him by a beautiful, unseen girl in seatless panties and thigh-high stockings.
“Very well,” Lindgren said, though, opening his eyes and smiling at Ferrers. “Let’s put her on the table.” He looked down again. “Helen, sweetie, you may stop. That felt wonderful. Come on out, and we’ll tell you about what’s going to happen next.”
Self-control, Serteau thought. I have it, and it’s my greatest advantage, in life as in business. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone with more of it than Eric Lindgren.
Helen crawled out next to Lindgren’s chair, her eyes watering and her face flushed. Mrs. Foley had made certain the girl wasn’t wearing mascara that would run, but the effects of her lewd service were charmingly noticeable. Above all, she had obviously passed into the zone of submissive experience that Serteau knew took hold of girls whose mouths have just been thoroughly enjoyed: her dazed eyes showed that her whole body now pulsed with submissive need.
“Come here, girl,” Veau said. “Stand by me and show me that beautiful ass close up.”
Chapter Five
Helen looked at Mr. Lindgren. She felt like her mind had floated completely free of her body, as she came back up into the light after sucking his enormous cock. He had a little smile on his face that seemed to her a greater compliment to the skill she had so desperately wanted to show him than any wolfish grin, or even any flushed look of masculine need. He reached a hand down, to help her up.
“Thank you, sweetie,” he said, as she got to her feet, stumbling a little, her head very light. “Careful. Take a moment before you go over to Mr. Veau.”
His words seemed so polite—so truly polite, as opposed to the politeness of Mr. Serteau, who said please but accompanied the word with other words, of the coarsest kind, to describe her body and her role in his household. But the sense memory lingered, of his huge manhood in her mouth, as she tried to take it all the way to the back of her throat the way Mrs. Foley had taught her, though even Mrs. Foley’s training dildo wasn’t as big as Mr. Lindgren’s cock. The sheer masculine force of Mr. Lindgren’s body seemed to remain inside Helen now, even though he hadn’t let her bring him to orgasm that way, despite the other men all having come in her mouth.
Gently now, with his hands on her waist, he turned her toward her destination. What would happen now, part of Helen wondered? The enormous penis she had sucked was still hard; it would have to go inside her, in her other holes, as Mr. Serteau, called them, wouldn’t it? The idea that somehow she must satisfy Mr. Lindgren seemed to grow within her as she shuffled around the table toward Mr. Veau. Fear and arousal vied in her chest almost as a physical sensation, her heart pounding a staccato rhythm as she thought about how that would come about, and how it would feel to have him take his pleasure inside her pussy, inside the bottom Mr. Serteau had recommended be well fucked today.
Sweetie. He had called her sweetie, and he had helped her up. And the endearment didn’t sound to her like the condescending, degrading way a man would use to put a woman in her place, but like Mr. Lindgren actually thought her sweet.
But he had also said, Let’s put her on the table. What did it mean?
She reached Mr. Veau, a red-headed man in his mid-forties, with a handsome face that now bore the kind of grin she had expected on Mr. Lindgren’s face, but hadn’t seen there.
“Turn around and grab your ankles, slut. Spread your feet. I want to see how wet it got you to suck that huge cock.”
Helen felt her face go red at the awful command, but she had known even before Mr. Potter had mentioned it that she must not have a bad report sent about her to Mr. Serteau. The thought of the caning she would get if any of these men said she had not pleased them properly made the fear grow until it almost blotted out the arousal. At the same time, the little voice inside her—the source of all the thoughts responsible for bringing her here, an indentured concubine—cried out that she must be punished anyway for what she did, for sucking four cocks under the table, for Mr. Veau’s inspection of her pussy as she bent before him, for the terrible things they planned to do on the table.
“How wet is she?” one of them asked, maybe Mr. Klee. Helen couldn’t tell because her face was between her knees now. She cried out as Mr. Veau probed her with one finger, then two.
“She’s pretty wet,” he pronounced. “And you won’t believe how tight this smooth little cunt is. That housekeeper of Serteau’s must know special exercises.”
At these shameful words, Helen felt herself grow much warmer and wetter, and her pussy gave a spasm of need. Knowing that Mr. Veau would see—that he would understand that she had gotten aroused by the degradation—made the problem much worse.
Sure enough, the red-haired billionaire chuckled. “Look at that. She’s gushing when she hears me talk about her cunt.” He worked the two fingers in deeper, and Helen moaned. “Let me show you something, slut,” he said, and pressed at the place inside where Mrs. Foley sometimes did, when she felt like rewarding Helen for pleasuring the housekeeper’s lightly furred pussy.
Helen gave a sharp cry. She struggled to stay upright in the awkward, humiliating position.
Another man laughed. “G-spot?”
“Mm-hmm,” Mr. Veau responded. “Should she come?”
“No,” said Mr. Lindgren immediately. Helen felt her eyes grow wide. He hadn’t said anything since he had sent her to Mr. Veau. What did it mean that he wanted to refuse her a climax now? She felt a burning need to know what he intended—was he a cruel man, then? or did he want to spare her the degradation of displaying her helpless, forced pleasure at the lewd Mr. Veau’s command?
Or… did he want to own that pleasure himself? Helen knew—she told herself she knew—that it couldn’t be true, but she found herself moving her lower jaw a little, as if trying against her will to remember how she had managed to receive as much of Mr. Lindgren’s huge cock as she had.
Mr. Veau moved the fingers inside Helen again, and she gave another cry.
“Really?” he asked. “This slut seems like she’ll perform better if we keep her hungry pussy satisfied.”
“No,” Mr. Lindgren said again, a little more casually, as if he felt he had given himself away with his initial quick response. “I think she’ll do better if she doesn’t get to come until we’re through with her.” His words sounded humiliating, but something in his tone seemed to tell Helen that he meant them in a different way from the way they sounded.
“I’m with Eric,” said Mr. Ferrers. “Let’s get her on the table. She doesn’t get a reward until she’s taken our cocks everywhere they can go.”
“Alright,” Mr. Veau agreed. His hand lef
t her, and Helen gave a frustrated whimper. “Waiter, could you help this young lady get up on the table? Helen, you’d better take the panties off so we can see everything a man likes to see.”
He spoke so matter-of-factly and brusquely that the humiliation in his words didn’t even hit Helen until she had fully processed what he had said. The waiter had reached her by the time she had figured out that she must take off the seatless panties, and she looked up at the young man’s leer without knowing what she must do first: lower her shameful underwear or let him lift her onto the table.
“Miss,” the waiter said in that voice that conveys the superiority of the employee of a fine restaurant over young women who have clearly been brought there by well-heeled men who intend to take them to a hotel room and fuck them afterward, “do you need help lowering your panties?”
Helen felt her face go bright red, and she looked from face to face among the four men at the table, all of them smiling. Mr. Veau, Mr. Ferrers, Mr. Klee: their smiles were all rapacious—to tell her how thoroughly they approved of the young waiter’s enforcing their wishes as to Helen’s underwear, and their wishes as to seeing the bare pussy and anus Mr. Serteau had loaned to them for the afternoon.
But Mr. Lindgren’s face was different, just as he had been different about her mouth’s service under the table. He smiled, but his expression as a whole—his bright eyes and his slightly raised eyebrows—seemed to tell her, reassuringly, that it was all a game. A very serious, shameful, grownup game, but one Helen knew she liked to play as much as these men did, even if they had the right, and the intention, to thrust their hardness savagely into her and Helen must receive their penises gratefully, without thought of resisting or withholding any part of her beautiful young body.
She turned back to the waiter, cheeks burning, and swallowed hard. His look of wolfish arrogance made her turn to find Mr. Lindgren one more time and make sure she had seen what she had thought lay behind his eyes. She did see the same reassuring expression, but Mr. Lindgren said, “Take down those panties, please, waiter.”