Shared by the Billionaires

by Emily Tilton

  An idea occurred to him, to bridge the gap at least for a little while. “Growing up there,” he asked softly, “did you know that you needed to be a concubine some day?”

  “N-no?” Helen stammered. Her head twitched, as if she had to fight the impulse to turn and look at him again. “I didn’t even know that concubines existed.”

  “When did you find out?” Eric began to concentrate his fingers’ work again on the wonderful place where thigh met bottom-cheek, and the tender crease led inward to the velvet sheath where he meant, so soon, to put his cock—but not yet. First things first: the beautiful submissive girl he had seen gangbanged must be made to come, again, under his dominant touch. She must be rewarded, and taught to crave the mastery of the man to whom her owner had loaned her.

  He rubbed firmly, in a two-fingered circle, loving the way her smooth skin yielded and pressed back against his lewd caress. Helen responded with a sweet little whimper of erotic need that made Eric’s heart skip a beat and his cock give a tiny leap in his pants.

  “When I turned eighteen,” Helen murmured. The story came out almost in a rush, and Eric had the sense that she had told it to herself many times without having anyone else with whom to share it. “We had moved to the city, after my father got arrested, and so I took the tests at the indenture center, when my corporate high school referred me there. They took a few girls aside and brought them to a special room for an inspection.”

  Eric had heard of these inspections, and even seen a video of one, at another man’s house. Wealthy executives could easily get hold of them, and some collected their favorites—as well, of course, as owners of concubines receiving a copy of their prospective girls’ inspection and defloration videos. The videos helped them decide on the purchase and represented a perk of being part of the ownership program, for which men like Serteau had to pay a steep membership fee just to have the right to buy girls like Helen.

  “What was the inspection like?” Eric asked nevertheless, wanting to hear about it from her perspective. His fingers moved inward, and found Helen very wet, just as he had hoped. Gently he began to spread her arousal forward, to make her delicate inner petals and her rosy clit slick with the musky private liquor a girl makes to ease a man’s passage inside her.

  Helen gave a whimper. “We had to take off our clothes,” she said, “and they strapped us down to examination tables, even though they made us sign something saying we had willingly entered the concubine program as… probationers, I think they called it.”

  “That’s right,” Eric said. “They strapped you down in case you tried to get away before they demonstrated to you why you needed to be there—and also as part of that demonstration. Did any of the girls resist?”

  “No,” Helen whispered. “I… I kind of th-thought about it, b-but…”

  Eric’s naughty fingers ran up and down the length of her sweet pussy, now, pressing firmly at her clit with each forward movement. Helen’s hips moved helplessly in time with his caress, and she gripped the ottoman more and more firmly as the tiny moans came from her chest. Her head hung low, and Eric thought he could tell that that submissive posture echoed in the present the memory he had called up in her from the past.

  “But you could already tell,” he said softly. “You could already tell you needed it.”

  Her head seemed to sink another half inch, the golden locks stirring on her right shoulder and seeming to catch a gleam from the sunset rays filtering now into the gilded honeymoon suite. “Yes, sir,” she whispered.

  “Like you need this.” His fingers worked upon her clit, then around it, and Helen cried out.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come for me, sweetheart,” he said. “Come for me right now. Show me how good a girl you’re going to be for my cock.”

  She gave a long, long moan, and she came, almost as soon as he had finished speaking. The orgasm, despite its quickness of arrival, went on and on, her beautiful bottom clenching and her hips bucking, her head thrown back now. Eric gave her no quarter, knowing that Serteau’s Mrs. Foley would certainly have brought out Helen’s multi-orgasmic capacity. He kept rubbing, gently pushing his thumb inside her to find her g-spot as well, and making her wail with the suddenly renewed, and now relentless, pleasure.

  If she could have spoken, then, he would have asked about her defloration, which the indenture center separated from the main part of a girl’s service, and which new girls in the program had whether or not their hymens were intact. The policy simplified matters by presuming that every new concubine needed the experience of a first night with a dominant man to introduce her to the full scope of her submissive needs. Deflowering a new concubine didn’t cost anywhere near as much as buying her indenture contract, and so selling girls’ prima nocte privilege also served as a way to cultivate the market for concubine ownership.

  As Helen came, and came again, over the ottoman, though, he couldn’t help picturing her in the little rooms at the center where girls stayed while they waited to be told who had chosen them for a life of luxurious, if shameful, service. Dressed only in white bra and panties, her mind still in a turmoil from the inspection, she sat on the little bed, until the door opened and a man in a bathrobe stepped inside.

  It would not have been Xavier Serteau, but Eric pictured him nonetheless, for it certainly would have been a man like him, with an arrogant face and a crisp manner that showed he was accustomed to getting what he wanted.

  Had he comforted her, before he told her to bend over the bed, and had taken her panties down? Men who deflowered the new concubines, who were fitted with IUDs at the end of their inspection, were permitted to come twice inside the girls. One of them must be in her vagina, to rupture the hymen if it were intact; the other might, after a wash which the man was permitted to require of the girl, be in her mouth. The anus was off-limits, since owners had a strong preference for training a girl there thoroughly before making use of that path of pleasure, so as not to frighten her with regard to bottom-sex.

  Had the man who deflowered Helen taken his second climax in her pussy, or had he made her wash him, and then suck him? For some reason, as he brought Helen to her third orgasm, Eric found that the question made a difference. He wanted, he found, to know everything about her submission. Something in his mind told him that the urge had a dangerous quality to it—that something had begun to happen in his heart that he needed to examine—but feeling the beautiful young woman in the black bra and stockings come under his fingers, he had no intention of counting the cost, just at the moment.

  Chapter Eleven

  Helen, too, remembered her defloration at that moment. As the last of the orgasms Mr. Lindgren’s caressing fingers forced on her began to release her limbs, somehow the sensation pulled up from the depths of her mind the memory of that first time—her first fucking, her first time with a man like Mr. Serteau, or like Mr. Lindgren.

  She had not then known the ways of men like the ones who assembled to enjoy girls on Friday afternoons at fine restaurants. The middle-aged man who had come to the little bedroom at the indenture center had seemed at first very kind. He had sat next to her on the little bed and held her hand.

  “You may call me sir,” he had said, but he had said it in a gentle voice.

  “Yes, sir,” Helen had said timidly, looking into his tanned face.

  “Do you know why I am here, honey?” he had asked, stroking her hand.

  “Yes, sir,” Helen had answered. They would have sex now, the counselor had said. Helen had signed the contract. She must do exactly as this man said. She must not worry; her defloration would be monitored and recorded. If the man who came to have sex with her did anything prohibited, the center staff would intervene.

  But she must remember that he had a right to expect her compliance, and he was allowed to punish her if she disobeyed. Did Helen want a sore bottom in addition to the sore vagina she would have, after he entered her and enjoyed her between her legs for the first time?

  She m
ust remember that she would not be there in that room if the center had the slightest doubt of her need to serve a man’s lusts. She must be a good girl for the man who had paid good money to have his way with a beautiful young woman—some of which would go into Helen’s indenture fund.

  Yes, Helen had known why the man she must call sir was there.

  “Alright,” the man had said. “Let’s get you undressed, then. I want to see your pretty pussy.”

  He had stood her up in front of him, and he had pulled her halter top over her head to free her little breasts. He had held them, and played with the nipples for some time, thumbing them to make them tingle and grow erect. It had seemed very clear to Helen that he did this not to give her pleasure, but to enjoy the feeling of possessing this intimate part of her body, of making it respond to his rather rough touch.

  At that moment, paradoxically, she had understood in a way she had not done during the tests or even the inspection, why they had chosen her for this shameful duty that would one day give her, and her family, a future. Just as the counselor had said, when preparing her, Helen needed to serve a man’s lusts. The very idea that this man didn’t care about her pleasure had sent the heat rushing to her loins, so that when he had stripped down her white briefs he had tsked at how wet Helen had gotten them.

  As he had bent her over the little bed, and made her arch her back to push out her bottom and furnish her newly bare pussy more readily; as he had put the head of his cock inside her until it pushed up against her virginity and made her give a sharp cry of mingled alarm and helpless need; as he took firm hold of her slim hips and drove through the barrier of her innocence; as he praised her tightness while Helen whimpered in discomfort under his pounding hardness…

  As she sucked Mr. Serteau’s cock in his office…

  As she received her first spanking with Mrs. Foley’s wooden spoon, for being slow to kiss the housekeeper between her legs…

  As she put on the anal training harness for the first time; as Mr. Serteau’s cock took her anal virginity; as his cane flashed down upon her bottom for minor misbehavior…

  As she had served her owner’s five friends in the private dining room, and had been taken afterward to this honeymoon suite; as she had been made to bend over the blue velvet ottoman and had felt Mr. Lindgren’s fingers demanding that the unquenchable need inside her come forth once again…

  At every turn, Helen had found again that need to serve a man’s lust. The counselor had made no attempt to explain to her why Helen needed that—she rather thought that with all the data now at the fingertips of the corporate government they must still be unable to decipher such mysteries.

  The man who had deflowered her, once he had climaxed inside her once from behind, and then turned her over to enjoy her again with her knees against her breasts, had said something that had helped her come to terms with her new life, at least. He was not a kind man, when it came to fucking, at least, for he had seemed to enjoy Helen’s cries of passionate discomfort as he possessed her sore vagina for the second time, at much greater length. But he had given her, perhaps inadvertently, a bit of wisdom that floated into her mind as Mr. Lindgren stroked her back in the honeymoon suite, helping her come down from the clouds into which his hands had propelled her.

  Perhaps the man had more kindness when his cock was soft, Helen suddenly reflected—perhaps he did mean his words to help her. “It’s a strange system,” he had said, just after spurting his seed inside Helen for the second time, “but at least it gives you a future.”

  Now Mr. Lindgren had promised to be hard on her, but his gentle fingers stroked her back, and his gentle voice said, “I’m going to get undressed now, Helen, and then I’m going to fuck you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Helen whispered, and something about those very words of acquiescence, and the way they chimed with the thick lust in Mr. Lindgren’s voice, reawakened her down there in an instant. She thought of his enormous cock, which she still had only seen and not really felt, and the wetness seemed to gush between her thighs even as a hot blush came to her cheeks.

  From the moment she had met his eyes with her own gaze for the first time, at the restaurant, she had suddenly realized, she had seen two men: the gentle one and the hard one. Sometimes they had seemed to take turns inside his body, and sometimes they had seemed to agree on what Mr. Lindgren had done: taking her panties, for example, as his trophy of Helen’s gangbang—she could see that as an affectionate gesture or as a dominant, possessive one. Mr. Serteau—or any of the other four men who had used her in the private dining room—might have taken a girl’s underwear as a souvenir. Only Mr. Lindgren, Helen thought, could mean what he meant by it.

  What he meant now, as she heard his clothes drop to the floor, and knew he looked down at her, laid over the ottoman for his pleasure. She couldn’t even see him, desperate as she felt to look behind her, but somehow Helen could feel that having her here in this honeymoon suite, all to himself, had an emphatic, but also a divisive, effect. The questions about her past, the urgent forcing of the shattering climaxes upon her prostrate body… together they made her think that Mr. Lindgren’s masterful lust for her—his urgent need to be very hard on her—vied with a tenderness he couldn’t deny though he seemed at times to want to rid himself of it.

  His hands held her hips now, caressed her bottom, parted her thighs and fondled her between them, preparing her and drawing a long moan from her chest. The orgasms had left her very wet, and when she felt the head of the hard penis lodge itself inside her Helen thought that having his enormous cock in her pussy would be easy, even after the others had left her a little sore.

  She fought a strange moment of disappointment at the same moment as she couldn’t help wriggling her bottom a little with the pleasure of the lovely sensation of having a man take her between her legs. Helen liked fucking, though as an indentured concubine she didn’t even have to admit to that rather shameful truth—in fact, she could enjoy pretending otherwise for her own pleasure and that of her owner.

  The disappointment disappeared in an instant, though, when Mr. Lindgren took her slim hips firmly in his hands and thrust in at full length. Helen had never felt anything like it: his cock seemed to reach up into her tummy. She gave a cry of startled discomfort, her head rearing back, but just as soon as the huge shaft had filled her it was receding—only to press in again, even harder, making her wail with its force.

  She writhed over the ottoman as Mr. Lindgren fucked her, one hand on her left hip and the other on her right shoulder now, to hold her in place despite her wayward motion. He twisted his hand in her long hair and held her head back as his enormous penis pounded into her pussy, driving her down hard against the ottoman with every stroke.

  She cried out over and over now, remembering what her owner’s other friends—and indeed, Mr. Serteau—had promised about how sore Helen would be after sex with Mr. Lindgren. She knew it was true, and she knew she would have much more of it tonight, and that he would fuck her bottom, too, with his huge cock. Though it made her cry out in passionate discomfort she felt strangely proud, too—and even fortunate, to have earned the attention of a man who could fulfill the terrible fantasies that visited a girl like her, of being fucked by men whose prodigious cocks displayed the wild, animal nature inside them.

  Helen struggled in Mr. Lindgren’s grip, but with the intent not of escaping but of showing him, and her, that his manhood put her to a terrible ordeal, a kind of trial by penis, that a good girl should do her best to shun. He held her fast, left hand now lightly around her throat and right hand in her hair, and kept fucking.

  “Good girl,” he said in a growl, as if reading her mind. “Just a little… while… more. Oh, so nice and tight. Such a sweet cunt.”

  Helen moaned at those words, and she felt Mr. Lindgren start to come and to her surprise, it made her come again, in a small, mastered way. She arched her back still more, the tension in her limbs making her orgasm seem to radiate into his much mightier one.
Mr. Lindgren cried out, in the manful way of a warrior, or a hunter, and his huge cock pulsed out his warm seed inside her.

  “Oh, good girl,” he grunted. “Take it. Take it now.”

  Helen gave a final whimpery cry as her climax departed from her body, and the jerking of Mr. Lindgren’s hips stilled until he held himself motionless behind her, above her, inside her, keeping her still immobile also in his huge hands. She felt his cock begin to soften in her pussy, and though it lessened the discomfort it seemed a sad thing, too, and that also made her whimper.

  At last, Mr. Lindgren withdrew, and stood up over her. Helen thought for a moment that he would leave her there like a debased piece of refuse—she saw it in her mind, and she felt the degrading idea warm her again, terribly, between her thighs.

  But instead he was suddenly picking her up off the ottoman, lifting her completely into the air, carrying her over to the couch, sitting there and seating her in his lap, so that his softening cock felt tickly against her bottom. Kissing her tenderly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in her ear. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Serteau, in the study of his suburban mansion, decided to watch some of the video footage his monitoring system in the city apartment had captured of Helen’s training.

  He was at ‘home’ (though he considered his city residence his real home) for no good reason other than to maintain the illusion of his marriage to a woman he had married twenty years before without thought on either side of anything but appearances. They had called those appearances ‘love’ at the time, he thought, but he and Beth had admitted to one another ten years in that they didn’t love each other in any romantic sense. They had stayed together for their two children, of course, now flown from the nest, one to the opposite coast and the other to England.