by Emily Tilton
Helen fixed her eyes on the carpet, feeling her brow furrow very deeply. She shuffled to the corner to which Mr. Veau had pointed. Mrs. Foley gave her corner time after Helen’s spankings over the housekeeper’s stool, so she knew the humiliation intimately, but the idea that Mr. Lindgren’s eyes were among those that now inspected Mr. Klee’s disciplinary handiwork made the burning in her pussy and the beating of her heart so strong that her knees seemed unsteady beneath her.
“Nice work, Jean,” said Mr. Lindgren, and a thrill went through Helen’s whole body. “Serteau will have some pretty bruises to admire tomorrow.” She couldn’t suppress a pitiful sob at that.
“Shh, sweetheart,” said Mr. Ferrers. “Our cocks will make it all better now.”
Mr. Klee chuckled. “Even Mr. Lindgren’s. A girl like you needs a cock that big to be truly satisfied, doesn’t she?”
Helen wondered with a terrible urgency what Mr. Lindgren himself thought about that idea. She felt the wetness between her thighs flow at the terrible notion, as the pain from her bottom began to lessen and to make its way forward in what felt like a glowing strand of warmth.
Part of her cried out in protest, denied even the idea that a man like Mr. Klee could know what a girl like her needed. But hadn’t the very first mention one of them had made about Mr. Lindgren’s cock sent an electric current crackling along her skin, focusing its current between her legs?
She heard furniture being moved behind her now; it sounded as if someone were pushing the big table to the side, with its chairs.
“Right there, please,” said Mr. Veau. Some other piece of furniture was placed with a slight thud. “Perfect, thank you.”
“Helen,” said Mr. Ferrers, “turn around, please, and come over here to this special table.”
With her hands still atop her head, Helen turned to see that the special table was actually something in between a table and a bench, its length and width being more like a coffee table, its padded leather-covered surface and its two-foot height more like a bench.
“Get on it on your hands and knees,” said Mr. Klee. “Right now.”
Her hands unclasped from one another, then hovered to either side of her head like a gesture of surrender in a police story. The men had taken off their clothes, even though the waiter remained, of course, in his white coat and the rest of his clothing. Clearly these men had enough leisure time to take care of themselves: their bodies were all quite fit. Mr. Lindgren, though, took her breath away: the suggestion of a six-pack at his abdomen made her feel a little faint, and when she looked down to see the nine inches of hard cock he took no effort to conceal, Helen’s heart skipped a beat.
He stepped forward, and she couldn’t help quailing back a little despite the way the desire in her tummy, and down below her tummy, had started to rage so high that she didn’t know why she hadn’t already run to the table and done as they had commanded. Mr. Lindgren reached out his hand, and spoke softly despite the threat in his words—as if the threat weren’t actually the relevant part of the message.
“You don’t want us to have to report you to Mr. Serteau, do you, Helen? You’d be punished, wouldn’t you, for not doing as we say?”
“Yes,” Helen whispered. “He’s very strict with me.”
She didn’t know, really, why she had had the urge to confide in handsome, young, hugely endowed Mr. Lindgren about her owner’s strictness, but she suddenly wanted him to know exactly how harshly Mr. Serteau punished disobedience. It felt almost as if Mr. Lindgren might do to her what he intended now to do with a sort of mindfulness of what a good girl Helen had learned to be for a man who liked to fuck pretty young women, because when she disobeyed or disrespected the man who owned her, the cane rose and fell upon her bottom until she learned her lesson—as if when the huge penis entered her it would find out her secrets and Mr. Lindgren would see that a strict owner represented exactly what a girl like Helen needed, to make her body pleasurable for a powerful man to use.
As if he, the owner of that enormous cock, needed to understand that Helen required a firm hand to keep her obedient to the demands of a dominant man’s bed.
“Then you should come over to the table,” Mr. Lindgren said. “It’s time for us to fuck you.”
She bit her lip, and watched her little hand move to allow him to enclose it in his big one—though, a part of her noted, the old idea about the size of hands and penises going together couldn’t be completely true, because then his hands would have been the size of platters, rather than of dinner plates. She felt her feet moving slowly under her, the mere sight of the four cocks awaiting her causing the feeling of floating to return that she had known under the table. The burning of her backside had subsided, but the discomfort there as she moved forward reminded her that she had been punished, but perhaps they might still reward her if she did her best on the table.
Mr. Klee, Mr. Veau, and Mr. Ferrers closed in around Helen as she approached the table, whose top had just enough room for her, so that when she had placed herself atop it both her mouth and her backside would be freely available at the proper height for their enjoyment. When she finally climbed up onto it, and got on hands and knees as Mr. Klee had commanded, they stood surrounding her, with Mr. Veau’s cock right before her face. She looked up, into his eyes, and he stroked her cheek.
“Good girl. Eyes down. Don’t look us in the eye unless we tell you to. Give her a spank for that, Jacob.”
Mr. Ferrers, to her left, brought his hand down on Helen’s bottom, right in the middle, making her cry out.
She looked down at the cock, her face reddening. Mr. Veau pumped it in his left hand, still stroking her cheek. “Open your mouth, slut. I’m going to have a face-fuck.”
Helen closed her eyes and obeyed, dropping her jaw and sticking out her tongue as Mrs. Foley had taught her, to receive the cock from which she had already drawn the seed once. Mr. Veau sheathed himself inside her mouth with a little grunt of pleasure.
“Spank her again, please,” Mr. Veau said. “Let’s keep her submissive.”
Mr. Ferrers hand fell again, hard, and Helen yelped around the cock now as Mr. Veau held her head so he could thrust in and out as he liked.
“I’m going to fuck that cunt now,” Mr. Klee said, and Helen felt his hands on her hips as the head of a penis pushed against her inner lips.
“Get the tits out of that bra,” said Mr. Ferrers.
“Leave the bra on, though,” said Mr. Veau, a little out of breath. “Are you going to come in the cunt, Jean?”
“Oh, it’s nice and tight,” said Mr. Klee. “Yes, I will, in just a moment. I have a meeting at three.”
Helen moaned under his thrusts, and the thrusts in front. She wanted to keep her eyes closed—indeed, she wished they had blindfolded her so that she wouldn’t have to worry about where to look and could concentrate on the shameful, wonderful feelings of the fucking. She found herself opening them because Mr. Lindgren hadn’t joined in the dirty talk and she felt a terrible need suddenly to know where he stood, where he must be stroking his cock as he watched and listened to Helen’s first gangbang.
“I’ll come in the ass,” said Mr. Ferrers. “I’m at that three o’clock myself.”
“I want the anus, too,” panted Mr. Veau. “Jacob, you go after Jean. I need to get home early this evening. Eric, do you mind?”
“No,” Mr. Lindgren said, from somewhere off to the right, “not at all. You gentlemen go ahead, and I’ll have some time for myself when you’re finished.”
Helen could barely understand what the words meant, because the sensation had taken hold of her too firmly, but something in the way Mr. Lindgren spoke sounded somehow both reassuring and rather frightening. What would time for myself mean?
“You’ll have her back to Serteau tomorrow?” Mr. Ferrers asked.
Tomorrow?
“Of course.”
Mr. Veau said, “Do you want the mouth while I have her bottom? Or do you want to get under her and have the cunt? That ought to make
her scream.”
“I’d rather wait until I have her to myself,” Mr. Lindgren said.
Mr. Klee chuckled. “Poor Helen.” He thrust firmly in and out, making her whimper around Mr. Veau’s penis. “You’re going to have a rough night.”
Chapter Eight
On the whole, Serteau had to account himself satisfied with Helen’s performance in the private dining room. He had watched the entire thing, abandoning any pretense of working, enjoying most of all Jacob Klee’s very sound paddling of the girl’s lovely backside.
Eric Lindgren’s declaration that he would take Helen to a hotel room gave Serteau some pause, however. Serteau didn’t feel any real jealousy—after all, the loan of the body of a girl like Helen was done so that a colleague like Lindgren could do what he pleased with it. The rules of the Friday club specifically said that the members could return the girl or girls, or call for them to be taken away, any time up to noon on Saturday. Indeed, Serteau had felt sure Helen would attract enough favorable attention from the club that she would spend the night with two or three of them, serving on her knees and in a big bed between and among strangers’ cocks until she winced as she walked into her owner’s apartment the next morning.
But the combined circumstances of everyone but Lindgren needing to depart after coming in Helen’s cunt or anus, and the way Lindgren had made his declaration, declining even to fuck Helen there in the dining room, gave Serteau a very unfamiliar feeling he had to describe—since he did his best to express such self-analysis honestly—as uneasiness. He didn’t feel sure he had ever encountered that sort of self-control in a dominant, to stand by a glorious gangbang like the one perpetrated on Helen by Veau, Ferrers, and Klee, and not to take his share of the pleasure to be had inside the girl’s bare cunt and well-lubed ass.
As he watched Lindgren bring Helen her dress—not of course, surrendering the trophy of her panties, the young man’s claiming of which seemed also to indicate that something unusual had taken place—Serteau remembered Helen’s entrance into his household, after the lovely public face-fuck in his office, when the officer had left her with him for the first time.
After the naked girl swallowed her owner’s semen for the first time, Serteau told her to stay there, sitting back on her heels, in the middle of the glass-walled corner office.
“Say ‘yes, Master,’ little slut,” he had said as she looked up at him with slightly dazed eyes, a little sheen of his intimate moisture remaining on her lips.
“Yes, Master,” Helen said softly.
“You’ll stay there with your eyes down, Helen, until it’s time to go to your new home. If you need the bathroom, let me know, and my secretary will take you there and report back on whether you were a good girl for her.”
Helen bit her lip. “Yes, Master.”
She remained there an hour, while Serteau finished his afternoon phone calls. From time to time he would look at her and smile as he watched the mingled shame and arousal flit across her face. He already felt the building in his heart of a sort of possessiveness he had rarely felt about his concubines: Helen clearly had a special way about her—a combination of ineradicable innocence and helpless knowledge of her shameful erotic needs. Serteau took longer than he meant to with finishing the work, because he so enjoyed watching his employees and colleagues stop next to the office and gaze in to see the billionaire’s new plaything, kneeling obediently on the carpet and soon to go home where most of them knew Mrs. Foley was waiting to begin the girl’s training.
Serteau had grown up in a world where such displays would never have been permitted even to a very wealthy man like himself. But with the advent of the complete domination of political life by such men, through their corporate instruments, he might have had the girl gangbanged right there, offering her to the men—and more than one woman—who stopped to look in with frank admiration, without an authoritative eye being batted. The current prevailing wisdom declared that such displays of prosperity and prestige, provided that the girls made to participate in them had duly signed away their freedom through indenture, benefitted society by giving ambitious young people motivation to rise above their current socioeconomic conditions.
He didn’t, however, because his need to see himself being recognized as the wealthy possessor of the beautiful girl kneeling naked and submissive while he worked was only getting in the way of what he really craved just then: to get her home and to watch her training get underway.
His secretary Grace did take Helen to the bathroom once, and before they turned a corner and left the range of Serteau’s vision from his office he watched in satisfaction as heads turned in cubicles to see the naked concubine go by, head hung low and face crimson. When Grace brought Helen back, she said, “She went like a good girl, even though she didn’t want me to watch her.”
Grace was cut from the same cloth as Mrs. Foley, though fifteen years younger—Serteau had picked her, of course, for that reason.
“Is that true, Helen?” Serteau asked sharply.
“Master, I didn’t know… I…”
“Kneel, slut, and then bend forward until your cheek touches the carpet, with your knees spread. Show Grace that you understand that I have authorized her to see you as she likes.”
Helen gave a little sob, but obeyed, slowly, though not sluggishly. Serteau crossed the room so that he could stand with his secretary to admire the pretty sight of Helen’s trim bottom, her dainty pink pussy, and her tiny winking anus. Serteau reached into his breast pocket to extract the little paddle he always carried there, and handed it to Grace.
“Go ahead and give her six swats, please,” he said.
A little crowd had gathered now outside the office, and they watched the very efficient Grace, stooping a little in her highly secretarial black skirt, give the spanking as Helen yelped into the carpet. Grace alternated between right and left, and despite the brevity of the punishment managed to leave Helen’s bottom bright red.
“Thank you, Grace,” Serteau said. “Helen, you will remain like that until we depart.”
Now he had only a few calls left to make, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to gaze down at his new concubine’s pretty red bottom, at her well shaved cunt, at her cringing little anus, as he spoke to the captains of industry with whom he had to deal. He might, he reflected as he told Helen to get up and get dressed, have made a few subpar deals during that time, since in the rigorous self-examination he could carry out even while hard as a rock in his trousers, he noticed—paradoxically, perhaps, but nevertheless accurately—that the distraction of his naked concubine had made him a much more lenient negotiator.
He didn’t mind adding any losses he might have accrued from those poorly driven bargains to the balance sheet that told of what he had paid for Helen. She would still be cheap at the price.
He saw the same estimation of her new charge’s value in Mrs. Foley’s eyes when they arrived at Serteau’s city apartment in the limousine he had continuously on call. The housekeeper greeted them in the underground garage, opening the door first for her employer and then for Helen, since concubines—so thought Mrs. Foley—must never be treated as ladies. As Helen stepped out of the limo, the older woman looked her up and down as if she were a housewife inspecting a vegetable at the grocery store.
“That’s a nice one, Mr. Serteau,” she said. “Helen, is it?”
Helen started to answer. “Y—”
Mrs. Foley turned severe in an instant—one of the qualities Serteau valued most in her. She proceeded to deliver the sort of tirade for which his previous concubines all said they would always remember the woman who had terrorized them and fulfilled some of their deepest desires at the very same time.
“Silence, slut. If I ask you a question, I will indicate very clearly that you are to speak. I can understand your confusion, I suppose, because it seems Helen is indeed your name, but you will I hope learn very soon that when I address you, I will call you girl or slut. Fucking pieces like you do not deserve to
be called anything else, though it is useful for them to have names, by which respectable people like your master and myself can refer to you when speaking to others. I would prefer that you not have the sort of name respectable people do, while you are indentured here for the pleasure of Mr. Serteau’s male member, and that I could call you Whorina, or Cunnia, but every arrangement in Mr. Serteau’s city residence is made for his convenience, and it will be most convenient for him to refer to you as Helen.”
Helen’s face had gone very red. She looked at Mrs. Foley with wide, wild eyes, clearly unable to sort out all the different things the housekeeper’s frightening speech had stirred up in her heart, mind, and cunt.
“Drop those eyes, slut,” Mrs. Foley said in a completely matter-of-fact tone. “You’ll be spanked for that impertinence as soon as we get upstairs.”
These words struck Helen all the more forcefully, it seemed to Serteau, for the routine they implied in the sheer ordinariness of Mrs. Foley’s tone. She gave a little whimper, and looked to Serteau, searching his face for a moment before her cheeks turned red with the clear realization that she had just compounded her offense, and she dropped her eyes to Mrs. Foley’s sensible beige shoes. Serteau had seen the fifty-two-year-old Irish beauty—who retained her blue-eyed looks despite the graying hair in which she took a certain pride—look stunning in an evening gown, but at home she preferred to dress in the homely, uniformed style of a housekeeper, though Serteau didn’t require it. Really, he didn’t think he could require anything of a woman so well suited to the role of the strict matron.
If he valued her ability to become stern at a moment’s notice most highly, it was because of the effect it had on his own relations with his concubines. Serteau was not a cruel man, though he enjoyed bestowing upon a girl like Helen the sort of severe treatment they both craved. He enjoyed dominating a pretty young woman with kindness quite as much as he did dominating her with force, whether the force came from his cock or from his cane. Mrs. Foley’s severity allowed his softer side to come out, the side that he would otherwise have felt duty-bound to keep almost entirely hidden in order to maintain discipline in his city apartment.