Shared by the Billionaires

by Emily Tilton

  Helen gave a little gasp at the words, and then another at the feeling of the waiter’s cool, smooth, and very efficient hands as her panties were swiftly lowered to the floor and lay tangled in her black pumps.

  “Step out, please, miss,” the waiter said. Then, as he stood up, with the bit of black satin and lace that she had imbued with her arousal so thoroughly hanging from his forefinger, “Which of you gentleman will be taking the panties home?”

  Helen couldn’t suppress a little cry at that: at the sight of her panties dangling there and the idea that one of these men would have this trophy of her gangbang from now on, perhaps in his desk drawer, to take out, finger, and hold to his face to sniff the lingering fragrance of her shame.

  “I will,” said Mr. Lindgren, and that brought a surge of heat down below, where the waiter had exposed her, as well as up above.

  “Eric,” Mr. Ferrers said, laughing. “I didn’t think you kept panties. I believe it’s Klee’s turn this week.”

  “I definitely don’t have a collection like yours, Jacob,” Mr. Lindgren said easily. “But I like these very much. Jean, will you consent.”

  Mr. Klee chuckled. “It’s alright with me, though I like them too, I must say.”

  Mr. Lindgren stood up and reached across the table, and Helen watched the waiter extend his arm in its white jacket, too, and watched her underwear change hands. She took a sharp, involuntary breath at the moment Mr. Lindgren took the panties, and an electric tingle seemed to travel from her clit through her belly and into her chest. Her pussy gave a terrible little clench.

  “As long as I get to give the spanking,” added Mr. Klee, as he too watched the panties disappear into the breast pocket of Mr. Lindgren’s suit.

  But why? Helen thought. Hadn’t she been doing her best for them?

  “Yes, fine,” said Mr. Ferrers. “After dessert. Waiter?”

  She felt the young man in the white coat’s hands around her waist, suddenly. She started, turned to look up at him. He looked down with the same lustful eyes. “Put your hands on the table, miss, and climb on up. I’ll lift you.”

  Something about the idea of being on the table suddenly seemed to Helen so degrading that she almost tried to get away. But the opposite impulse, to clamber up willingly, with the waiter’s help—to let him serve her body up to these wealthy men the same way he had served the salad and the entree—rose as well.

  I have no choice, she thought. They will whip me, and Mrs. Foley will spank me over the stool with her wooden spoon, and Mr. Serteau will cane me, if I don’t get on the table and let them do as they like.

  She put her hands on the linen tablecloth, and she suddenly realized that the table was now better dressed—more dressed, anyway—than she herself was, and that sent a wave of heat to her pussy. She remembered the playful look on Mr. Lindgren’s face, and the way he had immediately asked for the panties, and she started to climb up. The waiter lifted her, and though she worried because of how clearly she could see his lust in his face that he might try to touch her between her legs, he remained professional, and she found herself on her hands and knees among the silverware and the stemware, rather disoriented by the entirely unfamiliar perspective on a dining room.

  “Go ahead and bring our other dessert, too, please, waiter,” said Mr. Veau. “We’ll have the cunt and the crème caramel together.”

  Chapter Six

  Eric had to confess that he liked this part of the Friday club tradition more than he thought he should. It wasn’t that he had any qualms about the erotic humiliation of a girl whom the degradation aroused as greatly as he could see it aroused Helen. A girl like the one Serteau had lent to his friends today had a right—and thus, Eric thought, also a duty—to undergo every debasing ordeal the cocks of dominant men could dream up.

  He had a vague uneasiness, on the other hand, about how aroused it got him to share such girls, because he could sense that the subtle operation of his endowment upon other men gave him the kind of thrill that could, in the long run, make him less able to perceive the intentions of the people around him. He could feel the tug of a kind of addiction, he thought, as he watched Helen look his way while she assumed the position specified by Veau, on her back with her black-stockinged knees held open, just beyond his dessert plate so that he could dollop her pussy with custard and lick it off.

  Knowing that he had had a special effect upon her—that he had in some sense established a certain claim upon her—with the unique character of his dominance that came from the sheer size of his manhood, intoxicated his reason. Eric could sense that if he gave into the feeling too often, he might find himself working not to understand others but to make them defer to him, with the sort of submissive deference in Helen’s nervous look before she opened her thighs for this humiliating ritual and then, charmingly, closed her eyes as Veau’s tongue and lips made her brow furrow with forced pleasure.

  “Excellent cunt,” Veau proclaimed. “A rather floral bouquet, a little like a Riesling, actually, and well waxed by Mrs. Foley. The clit peeks out saucily when stimulated. Perfect coral pink color. Ninety-seven points. Helen, go open yourself for Mr. Klee.”

  Around the table they passed her, each man offering his score and his notes as to the taste and appearance of Helen’s pussy. Klee gave it a ninety-five, noting that the Norwegian cunts had smelled a little more briny, a quality he enjoyed, but that Helen’s tightness could not be faulted. Ferrers awarded a ninety-six.

  As Helen crawled across the table toward Eric, biting her lip, cheeks very red, her slightly dazed eyes looked into his, and he saw the questions he loved to see in a beautiful pair of blue eyes: What comes next? When will I feel your hardness inside me?

  Yes, a danger lay there, but with Serteau’s girl, in her lacy bra and thigh-highs lying on her back and spreading her knees for him as she had already done for the other men, his hardness argued for the full enjoyment of his natural dominance, for today at least.

  And her pussy and anus, waiting just the other side of the plate where his golden crème caramel—the dessert favored by the Friday club as pairing perfectly with young cunt—seemed the most perfect work of nature’s erotic art Eric had ever had the privilege to see. The petals of her private lips, outer and inner, spread just a little, so that the impression he received was of both daintiness—even demureness—and a hint of lasciviousness. The tiny dimple of her bottom-hole seemed to invite a naughty finger as preparation for a thrusting cock. Above, the wrinkly hood of Helen’s clit, just as Veau had said, disclosed the rosy sentinel just a little bit and made Eric’s mouth water.

  “What do you think, Eric?” Ferrers asked. “Very fuckable, no?” Again Eric sensed the effect of physiology upon his fellow men. Ferrers’ tone—almost certainly without the man knowing it—acknowledged that the fucking of Helen would proceed with the club’s youngest member at the apex of the erotic pyramid.

  “Very,” Eric said, and took a long sniff. Helen gave a little whimper at the sound—something she hadn’t done for any of the other three billionaires. But of course her pussy had now received teasing stimulation from three experienced tongues, now, and must be aching for release. “Yes, floral,” he pronounced. “Very pretty, Helen. You’ll be pleasant to fuck.”

  Another whimper came from further up the table, where Eric could just see the way her adorable little nose twitched with the arousal that made her vagina give a charming contraction.

  “Look at that,” he said. “What a sweet little clench. She needs it. You need it, don’t you, Helen?”

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered, raising her chin a little as if with the idea of trying to see Eric’s face and then settling her head back when she understood that she must lie back and accept what he did.

  “Put some custard on the cunt and taste it, my boy,” said Klee a little impatiently.

  But Eric first liked to taste a girl’s pussy without the sweetness of the dessert. He leaned down, between her slim thighs, and flicked his tongue against her c
lit. Helen gave a cry that made the other men chuckle. Eric bent his neck a little further, then, and gave a long, slow lick from the lower end of Helen’s pussy all the way up to her clit, loving the tang of her girlish wetness. She moaned and arched her back, as if trying to yield more of her private places up for his attention.

  Eric lifted his head, moving his tongue in his mouth as he would to savor a fine wine. “Ninety-eight,” he finally said. “I’ve never tasted a sweeter cunt, even without the crème caramel.”

  He watched Helen’s pussy clench again at his words, and the involuntary motion of her vagina was accompanied with a little gasp of arousal. With his spoon he gathered just a very little of the custard, then placed it right above her clit. Helen breathed rapidly through her nose, in little pants, and then she gave a sharp cry as Eric used his whole open mouth to have that bite of his dessert and then, immediately, take her clit firmly between his lips and flick his tongue against it like a tiny lash.

  Helen cried out, bucking her hips under his relentless stimulation. He felt her labia contract again and again under his tongue.

  Ferrers let out a bark of laughter. “Eric! That’s not sporting!”

  But Eric couldn’t hold himself back, now: he used his lewdest instincts to push the beautiful girl in the black bra and the thigh-high stockings right over the edge into her forbidden orgasm.

  “Please…” Helen moaned. “Oh, please…”

  The final tense motions arrived in her hips, her knees, her lovely pussy, and then she lay still as Eric lifted his head and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  “Gentleman,” he said, looking around at the other men. “I think have to raise my score to one hundred. That’s the sweetest cunt I have ever had the privilege to taste.”

  Veau chuckled. ¨Well, at least you gave us a very good reason to spank her.” He turned to the waiter, who had stood by, watching lustfully, during the entire dessert course. ¨Would you please bring the paddle that’s hanging in the closet and give it to Mr. Klee over there?”

  “Helen,” said Klee, once the long-bladed disciplinary implement with its stitched leather face had arrived in his hand. “Your friend the waiter will help you off the table now.”

  “No,” Eric said, surprising himself with what felt like an outburst. “I’ll do that.” He looked over at the waiter, who for a moment wore a look of disappointment that almost made Eric pity the young man. Eric supposed he should feel bad for depriving the waiter of the chance to touch Helen again, especially since he intended not to allow the customary participation of the wait-staff in the gangbang at the end, but to take Helen straight to a hotel, hopefully alone. He didn’t, however, feel the sympathy he thought he should: the girl had taken hold of his mind and his heart so thoroughly that as he helped her gently from the table and led her over to Klee, he almost wanted to tell the other members of the club that he would pay them each a million dollars if they would end this meeting early and let Eric get on with the possession of Serteau’s girl for the remainder of the twenty-four hours stipulated in the club’s bylaws.

  Klee had pushed his chair well back from the table, and spread his thighs in their dapper khaki suit pants into the position beloved by fathers punishing wayward daughters. He tapped the paddle on his left palm as Helen approached on hesitant feet. Eric tugged her forward very gently. Klee moved his left hand and patted his thigh. “Right here, young lady,” he said. “You were a very naughty girl to come just now, and you must pay the price.”

  Eric wondered how frequently, if ever, Serteau disciplined his girl over his knee. The look of fear in Helen’s eyes made him think that perhaps despite the cane marks and what Serteau had said concerning his housekeeper’s strict disciplinary standards, an over-the-knee spanking held some sort of unaccustomed fear for Helen.

  “Over Mr. Klee’s knee now, Helen,” he said in as gentle a voice as he could. “You know you need it.”

  Such a wonderfully ambiguous thing to say: you know you need it. It could mean that Helen had actually been naughty to come, and must learn a lesson—when of course Eric had done everything he could to bring her to that wonderful climax. But it could also, and much more truly, mean that he wanted Helen to understand that Eric had a full comprehension of the mysteries of dominance and submission that most alpha males seemed unable to grasp.

  Klee was about to spank the girl just because he liked to spank girls, and being a rich man and a member of this club, he would happily take the opportunity offered by Helen’s beautiful little bottom. Eric would spank Helen for much more complex reasons—though truth be told they had at their base the same liking for spanking girls. Atop that base, however, stood many tiers of desire—the craving to own a girl and to have her tell him she loved being owned; the yearning to find in a young woman’s heart the passions that complemented his own.

  Helen made a little sound in her throat at Eric’s words that he thought might indicate that she felt it too—the thing that seemed to be happening between them—though it could also have been simple alarm at the sight of the black paddle and the waiting knee.

  Klee decided the matter peremptorily, shifting the paddle to his left hand for a moment and then reaching out with his right arm to draw her the remaining half-step forward and to bend her over his thigh. Eric’s cock gave a little leap at the sight of the pretty backside upended, the little apples of her bottom creamy now but soon to be as red as befit the fruit they resembled held firmly in place when Klee closed his right thigh to keep her still for her punishment.

  Helen gave a little cry of alarm, but Klee heeded it not at all, because he liked to punish just the way a strict daddy does, beginning the paddling immediately, fast and hard, to make it clear to the girl that the time for discipline has arrived. Helen yelped, cried out, begged, screamed, but Klee clearly intended to redden her helplessly squirming backside deeply and evenly with the paddle, in the shortest possible order.

  “You do need it, you little slut. Yes. You. Do.” he said in a stern daddy voice. “And now you’re getting it. Take your paddling, slut. Take it. You won’t come again without permission, will you?”

  Helen sobbed, her right arm long since gripped behind her back in Klee’s left and her bottom and thighs held fast over his knee.

  Eric found the sight so arousing, and yet enraging, that he found it was all he could do to keep a smile on his face; his cock felt like an iron bar, and he regretted not having had Helen take him to orgasm in her mouth. His body’s need for hers seemed to burn from his cock into his chest, and he almost said something to stop the punishment, though he couldn’t tell whether he would have done so out of care for Helen or the terrible need he felt to fuck her.

  Thankfully, Veau said, “Alright. I think that’s enough. Don’t you, Jean?”

  With an air of reluctance Klee gave one final hard swat with the paddle.

  “Alright, naughty girl,” he said. “You may stand up. It’s time for your fucking.”

  Chapter Seven

  It hurt as much as Mr. Serteau’s cane ever had. Mrs. Foley’s wooden spoon had its own special sting that always made Helen very sorry for whatever small infraction her owner’s housekeeper had decided to punish her for, but this paddle combined that sting with a sort of heaviness that made Helen feel sure she would have marks to look at in the mirror tomorrow, for Mr. Serteau to caress and murmur over when he came to her bed.

  And Mr. Klee had paddled so hard, too, holding her firmly in place so that Helen could hardly squirm at all. It had seemed to go on and on, so long that all memory of its cause, the orgasm that she hadn’t been able to stop and for which she still couldn’t blame Mr. Lindgren, finally vanished into the agony of her punished bottom. She had tried to keep the climax from coming, but in the end the feeling of Mr. Lindgren’s skillful tongue, the knowledge of the humiliation, and above all the memory of how enormous his cock had felt in her mouth, flung her over the cliff of pleasure—and now she felt she paid a price that indicated just how uncontrollable,
how out of line was that much ecstasy between her legs.

  Helen knew men—at least men such as these, and such as Mr. Serteau—liked to spank girls, and she suspected that they would do it even without any cause at all. Hadn’t Mr. Klee announced he would spank her before she had even committed the infraction of yielding to the orgasm under Mr. Lindgren’s oral caresses? She knew that the idea that she must learn such a harsh lesson over Mr. Klee’s knee in correction of her illicit pleasure had no true disciplinary element… but she still felt somehow, as she imagined Mr. Lindgren looking on at the terrible spanking, that she had earned it, and she felt sorry that she hadn’t paid attention to what these wealthy man had said about how she must control herself if she wanted to earn their favor and the reward of pleasure they had promised.

  That feeling, as she rose now, weeping, holding her bottom because she couldn’t help it, rubbing to try to smooth away a little of the smart, began to change now. It mutated in the subtle way it always seemed to do whether the one punishing her was Mrs. Foley or Mr. Serteau or this group of powerful men who frightened Helen so. She wanted to show the ones who had taught her the lesson that she had learned it thoroughly: she burned not only in back but also now in front.

  She burned for Mr. Lindgren, though she had, she supposed, the most reason to fear him and even to resent him, for making her come and causing her to go over Mr. Klee’s knee.

  “Take your hands away, Helen,” said Mr. Ferrers sternly. “We want to see that little bottom. Hands on your head.”

  “Yes,” added Mr. Veau. “Go put your nose in the corner, Helen, and put your hands on your head as Mr. Ferrers asked.”